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mastermindmiko · 1 year ago

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Potions Partners (Part 20)

Pairing: Draco Malfoy + Fem!reader

Word count: 2349

Warnings: fire, dying, death, battle of hogwarts

Hey! If you think this didn't completely suck, feel free to check out my masterlist.

The final part

Requests are open

“That’s my girlfriend, dumb bitch!” Ron runs after Draco, Blaise and Goyle. Y/N bursts into the Room of Requirement and she looks for her brother. She finds him climbing a group of chairs, and she sees the diadem on top of the hill of objects. She climbs it from the other side, hoping to help her brother.

The mountain of items is unstable and she can hear Harry knock down a few things while she manoeuvres through them. Hermione starts climbing too. A group of Pixies storm the place, disorienting her a bit, but she manages to hold onto one of the chairs. “I’ve got it!”

After Harry’s shout, she climbs back down and spins around till she’s next to Harry and Hermione. She hears Ron start screaming and she waits for him to appear. A large, bright orange colour appears from behind him as Ron runs. He grabs Hermione’s hand and they start running in the opposite direction, he screams, “Goyle set the bloody place on fire!”

Harry grabs Y/N’s hand and starts running after Ron and Hermione. A large fiery snape moves after them, surrounding them from every direction. They run as fast as they could, but the fire catches on to them. Harry knocks down a large mountain of items and they stop the fire for a second before it starts again.

The fire engulfs the room from all directions, leading them to all meet at the centre of it. All pathways were blocked and the fire was nearing them. Y/N’s grip on Harry’s hand tightened. A block of flame gets shot at them and Y/N blocks the spell with a shielding field.

The field knocks Ron down and he hits three broomsticks. He throws one to each of them and Hermione rides behind Ron. They climb them quickly and they take to the sky. Y/N hears a scream, and she shouts, “Who else is here?”

“No one, just Malfoy and his gits.” Harry answers, not understanding the implications of his words. Y/N perks up at the mention of his name and she says, “Draco’s here?”

She turns around on her broom quickly and she looks around the room trying to find them. She can hear Ron shout from behind her, telling her that she’s insane. She sees Blaise and Draco on a mountain of stuff that is getting engulfed by the fire by the second.

Blaise’s grip on the chair he’s holding onto is loosened and he starts to fall. Y/N moves quicker and grabs his hand before he can get killed by the fire. Blaise sits down behind her and Draco was about to fall before Harry got to him and he saved him.

They turn around to exit the room and the flames are getting closer and closer to the ceiling. If any of them lowered their legs a bit more, their feet would get burned by the flames. They turn around and quickly start moving. Ron shouts at her, “If we die for them Y/N, I’m going to kill you!”

“I’ll be dead anyway, so you can do whatever you like!” she shouts back at him, and she leans down, making her broom move faster. They dodge the falling objects and the flames, expertly. The perks of having three members of the Gryffindor Quidditch teams, flying the brooms.

The doors of the room are open wide and they all move out. The strength of the flames pushes them all off their brooms and onto the ground. While falling Blaise falls on top of her and it takes them a moment to regain their focus. He lifts himself a tiny bit up and says, “thank you for saving me.”

“It was nothing really.” she says, while he’s still on top of her. Blaise shots her a smile, and someone clears their throat from beside them. She looks to find Harry, Ron and Draco lined up next to each other shooting daggers at Blaise. He quickly climbs off of her and he runs away.

Draco’s the first one to help her up. He pulls her up by her arms, using enough strength to pull her straight to his chest when she’s on her feet. He wraps one arm around her waist and the other cups her face. He whispers, “Are you okay?”

“I should be asking you that.” she says, and he gets an odd sense of deja-vu. She smiles as she looks at him, but the moment gets interrupted by Harry falling to the ground. She runs to her brother and she feels a sting herself.

Harry’s eyes turn red then he starts withering on the ground. His eyes turn green again and she waits for him to regain his scenes. He starts gasping and he looks at her and says, “It’s the snake, the last horcrux is the snake.”

She nods her head in understanding. Harry stands up and she says, “I’ll go kill it.”

“No, you can’t.” Draco blurts out quickly and Harry looks at him disgustedly with his top lip quirked up from behind his sister. Draco flushes at the unwanted attention and rubs the back of his neck. He explains, “If she’s within a close distance of Nagini, she’ll die.”

They all look at him questioningly at this new piece of information. He lifts his hand and points at himself. He chuckles nervously, “That was my fault.”

“I’ll find out more about this later.” Y/N tells him sternly and he gives her a nervous smile. Hermione takes a step forwards and Ron mirrors her actions, holding her hand. Shooting her a smile. Hermione says, “We’ll go.”

Harry nods his head and motions for Malfoy to follow him. Draco looks back at Y/N scared, and she pushes him towards her brother. Harry lifts one finger to motion that he’ll be borrowing Draco for a minute. They move a few steps away from Y/N and until Harry’s sure she can’t hear them.

“You love my sister, right?” Harry says, and he gives Draco a glare. Draco nods his head and Harry continues, “There’s something I have to do, but she can’t know because she’ll stop me and get herself killed when she doesn’t need to. If you even care about her, you’ll occupy her, and stop her from finding out.”

Harry doesn’t wait for Draco’s answer and he walks back towards Hermione and Ron. Draco walks to Y/N’s side and she gives him a weak smile that he doesn’t return. He grabs her hand, and squeezes it tightly. Harry whispers something to Ron and Hermione, and she shouts, “Hey! Aren’t I going to be told about what’s going on there?”

Harry lifts his head from the huddle he’s in with Hermione and Ron. He gives Draco a pointed look and Draco realises. He stutters for a moment before he tugs on her hand. Draco says, “Come on, we have to go do something.”

“I can’t leave, Harry.” She says, planting her feet firmly to the ground and she looks back at her brother and friends with a frown. Draco tugs her hand another time and he says the words he’s sure will convince her, “Your brother’s the one that asked me to do this.”

“Okay…” she says, and she lets herself get taken away by him. He leads her to the Great Hall, and when she enters, she sees the groups of bodies laying down on the floor. Her breath hitches in her throat as she sees a group of people with red hair, surrounding something.

She stops walking and grips his hand tighter. If any people were opposed to Draco Malfoy entering the Great Hall, they didn’t show it, noticing her hand wrapped in his. Mrs Weasley lifts her head and notices her. She can see Mrs Weasley tap on George’s shoulder. George lifts his head up and Mrs Weasley points to her.

George sees her and he rushes to meet her. He wraps his arms around her body and her hand falls away from Draco. Draco takes a step back, giving them space. She embraces her friend in a hug, and she can feel his body shaking.

She looks at the Weasleys to find Molly, Arthur, Bill, Charlie, Percy and Ginny. Ron’s outside with Harry which means…Tears prick her eyes at the revelation and she grips her friend tighter, “Oh, George.”

“He’s gone, he’s gone.” George repeats, he couldn’t believe it himself. He lifts his head from her shoulder and she walks to the Weasleys. Tears stream down her face when she recognises Fred’s body, eyes closed. She grips George’s hand tighter.

He sits down on the floor and she sinks next to him. He grips her hand like it’s his life line. He keeps on crying again and again until his eyes dry out. Y/N tries to keep her tears at bay, trying to be strong enough for the both of them. Despite that, a few stray tears fall from time to time.

After some time, the doors of the Great Hall open to reveal two corpses being carried. Y/N turned to see who it was, but George grabbed her shoulder, bringing her attention to him. George said, “Don’t.”

She pushes her hand away and stands up to move to where they set the corpses, and she brings a hand to her mouth as soon as she sees who it is. She starts sobbing as she falls to her knees. In a second, Draco falls beside her, holding her to his chest.

She continues sobbing as she looks at the familiar sight of her god-father on the ground beside his wife, their hands reaching out for each other. All she could think about was poor Teddy, suffering from the same fate she had faced when she was young. Parents killed by Voldemort.

She makes her decision right then and there. Draco moves her gaze away from Remus Lupin’s body and hides her face in his chest. She sobs into his chest and he smooths his hand over head. She holds his shirt and tugs it down.

It all happened so quickly after that. Her body falls limp and her eyes turn red. She falls to the ground and she starts withering in Draco’s arms. She could faintly hear Draco’s distant voice, distressed, calling out for help.

The memories flashed through her brain. She sees Remus, Sirius, her mom and dad. She sees Harry talking to them all, and then she sees herself walking to Woldemort and she hears Voldemort’s snake-like voice say, “Harry Potter, the boy who lived come to die.”

Panic courses through her veins before she sees a flash of green and then her vision gets cut off. She gasps and her chest heaves as she regains her senses. Madame Pomfrey standing above her with Draco and the rest of the Weasleys. She sits up quickly and she screams, “Harry!”

She doesn’t waste a second before standing up. She recognised the place as the forbidden forest, if she got there in time she could stop whatever was happening from happening. Draco stands up just as fast as she does, but she becomes disoriented. Draco holds her up as she feels more dizzy. Draco says, “You should sit down.”

“No, no…I need to get to Harry.” she says, weakly fighting against his grip that’s trying to set her down on the floor, making sure her dizziness doesn’t make her fall herself. A flash of white covers her vision and she sees Dumbledore from afar, and when she regains her senses again, she sobs.

It is unmistakable, Harry’s dead. Voldemort’s words, the flash of green. The white and then finally Dumbledore. She sobs and Draco asks her, “What’s wrong?”

She looks around to find several people looking around. They were still in the middle of a war. They needed to defeat Voldemort for everyone that died, and for Harry. She couldn’t tell them, it would demolish all hopes of a victory. She leans down and whispers in his ear, “Harry’s dead.”

His eyes widen and she starts crying again. He holds her tightly against his chest, and Mrs Weasley starts to pat her head, sympathetically, assuming she was crying over the death of Remus. She shuts her eyes and hears the voice of Narcissa. Narcissa wasn’t dead, Voldemort wouldn’t kill her, unless…unless Harry’s alive.

She stands up once again, and this time she doesn’t feel dizzy. She sees Hagrid walking along with Voldemort, heading towards the castle. She moves out of the Great Hall and a group of people follow her outside. She goes to the courtyard and surely enough, Voldemort and what’s left of his army are coming towards them while Hagrid is carrying Harry in his large arms.

“Harry Potter is dead!” Voldemort shouts and Ginny screams as she rushes towards him, but Mr Weasley holds her back. Y/N holds Draco’s hand, and he pushes her back behind him a bit when he notices Nagini staring at her, slithering around Voldemort. The Death Eaters laughed.

“From this day forth, you put your faith in me. Now is the time to declare yourself, come forth and join us…or die.” Voldemort says as he looks around at the Hogwarts students all looking beaten and broken. Lucius and Narcissa, standing near Voldemort, urge him to come forward.

Y/N squeezes his hand and he looks at her then at his parents. They start calling his name, but his feet stay firmly planted. Voldemort watches the interaction with interest, and he looks at Draco, then says, “Draco?”

He doesn’t move and he squeezes her hand tightly. Voldemort sighs, disappointed and he looks at Dolhov to his right and he orders, “Kill him.”

Dolhov raises his wand, taking Draco’s wand out of his own. Then he fires the killing spell, and Narcissa protests, but the spell was already shot. Draco’s eyes widened, and he was quickly pushed out of the way. Draco screams, “No!”

Y/N falls to the ground, the spell hitting her right in her chest. The last thing she heard was Ginny shouting out her brother’s name and some cheers.

@urbansaint @love-me-satoru @callsignwidow @angelofasgard16

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realbigpodcastslut · 6 months ago

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Lee's Podcast Master List (Current)

This is def incomplete and not all caught up anymore and I lost all the podcasts I have listened to. Do with that what you will. Bolded are podcasts I talk about the most.

Currently Listening To

The Silt Verses

Welcome to Night Vale (relisten)

Listened

Audio Dramas:

2298

36 Questions

A Scottish Podcast

Aftershocks

Alba Salix

The Alexandria Archives

Alice Isn't Dead

The Amelia Podcast

The Angel of the Vine

Archive 81

Arden

ars PARADOXICA

Attention Hellmart shoppers!

The Black Tapes

Blackwood

The Blood Crow Stories

The Bridge

The Bright Sessions

The Bubble

Brimstone Valley Mall

Charlie’s Mailbox

Dead Serious

Death by Dying

The Deep Vault

The Directive

Dreamboy

Drywater

The Elysium Project

Empty

EOS 10

The Far Meridian

Girl in Space

Greater Boston

Hadron Gospel Hour

Herbarium Podcast

Here be Dragons

Heroics

Hosts of Eden

I Am in Eskew

Inkwyrm

It Makes a Sound

Jim Robbie and the Wanders

Kakos Industries

Kevin’s Cryptids

King Falls AM

Lake Clarity

The Last Movie

Lesser Gods

Liberty

lif-e.af/ter / The Message

Limetown

The Lost Cat Podcast

LUCYD

Mable

Malevolent

The Magnus Archives

The Magnus Protocol

The Meat Blockade

Misadventure By Death

OAKPODCAST

Old Gods of Appalachia

Olive Hill

The Orbiting Human Circus

Organism

Orphans

The Penumbra Podcast

Point Mystic

Qwerpline

RABBITS

Return Home

Rex Rivetter: Private Eye

Rose Drive

Rover Red

SAYER

Scotch

Small Town Horror

Space Log

Spines

Star Tripper

Station to Station

Steal the Stars

The Strange Case of Starship Iris

Subject: Found

SubverCity Transmit

TANIS

Tales of THATTOWN

Testing Connection

Tides

Time:Bombs

Tribulation

Tunnels

Uncanny County

Under Pressure

Unwell

Video Palace

We Fix Space Junk

Welcome to Night Vale

What’s the Frequency

The White Vault

Within the Wires

Wolf 359

Wooden Overcoats

Zero Hours

Improv/Dnd:

Hello from the Magic Tavern (On ep 300-something I think?)

The Adventure Zone (Balance, Amnesty, Graduation)

Other:

The Folktale Project

Heme Review

Lore

My Brother My Brother and Me

This Podcast Will Kill You

The Topical (Onion)

To Listen To

Camp Here and there

Red Valley

WOE.BEGONE

Hello From the Hallowoods

Midnight Burger

Midnight Radio

Moonbase Theta, Out

The Godshead Incidental

Janus Decending

The Petrol Station

Cthulhu and Friends

The Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity and Mortality

Kakos (relisten)

Mabel (relisten)

Old Gods of Appalachia (relisten)

Palimpsest

Second Star to the Left

The Sheridan Tapes

Who Watches the Birdwatchers?

The Vesta Clinic

Spirit Box Radio

The Dead Letter Office of Somewhere, Ohio

Dead Man’s Notes

Life With Althaar

Middle:Below

The Pale

The Secret of St Kilda

Last updated: 6/25/2024

#i've listened to way more but whatever #i don't have time anymore to consume podcasts in such massive amounts so sad #gen #slut.txt #about the blog

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ryahisbored · 2 months ago

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Hello strange people. So, I thought I’d use mine (and @taline13's) stories in whumptober 2024 because i like it : D

only issue is, we have so far posted 9/112 chapters, SO I’ll be listing off which chapters apply to each day, and you guys will have to wait until it’s posted to read it :)

You get the chapter, and a small excerpt or two just so you really wanna read it when It comes out B)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55662469

Here it is and here are the prompts (so far)

1. Race against the clock: search party / panic attack / "if only we could hold on"

This one is unfinished (I think?) and untitled as of right now, but basically, Div is kidnapped for being a witch and Ari and friends have to rush to get her back. Excerpt: (Div's POV) "She had no voice left with which to scream; instead, she tasted blood. Nothing made sense anymore, and she so desperately wished for blissful unconsciousness."

2. Trust issues: Alternative prompt: Communication Barrier

A very new chapter entitled "Divine Forest and Good Food" :D - fully written by T, it is about an enderman and his brother coming to the tavern to hang out and find food, i suppose, after being rescued from captivity. Divs name in sign language is a mix of the words 'divine' and 'forest' so thats what she uses. Excerpt: (Dria's perspective)

"They waited patiently until the short brown thing finished helping another person then came to Kinel. Dria noticed their purple eyes as they inspected Kinel’s leg. They made the same strange noises everyone else did. Kinel was silent as his leg was pulled on a few times, then the purple light appeared again, and Dria felt his brother’s pain disappear. The brown thing stood up slowly and left. Kinel got to his feet, and Dria could see his joy in the way his fingers and tail stretched just a little. Together, they walked off the floating house, up the hill, and into the forest."

3. Set up for failure: Alternative prompt: Finding old messages

Ouch. uh, "Home again". Well, this is the chapter in which Ari returns home after getting very close to dying. She doesn't want to explain much of how she feels, so lets Div read the letter she wrote to her as her last words. ow. (Excerpt: Div's perspective)

"She looked up to Athaven. “Do you still have the letters?” He nodded. “I don’t want to explain it again.” Athaven took them out of his pocket and sorted through them. He set it in front of Divina. -

- By the time she was halfway through, Div was struggling for a different reason: she could hardly see through her tears. She scrubbed at her face and forced herself to read the rest. It broke her heart to have even this glimpse of what her friend must’ve felt, and still might be feeling. Div sat back when she was finished and took a deep breath. Then she turned and hugged Ari, not waiting for permission."

4. Hallucinations: hypnosis / sensory deprivation / "you're still alive in my head"

Closest to hallucinations we have (so far ;) ) is flashbacks and nightmares - so I'll go with "Div's mistake". In the middle of a whole bunch of chaos, Ari has a flashback to what happened to her in the bastion (yes, directly from JRWI). of course I can't give you the whole thing... (Excerpt: Div's perspective)

"“If you’re going to say you burnt the tavern down, which you didn’t, then I’m going to say that I almost got you killed in the Bastion.”

“Ar— Ari, is — are you — is that what happened? In the Bastion?”

“Yes, but, listen to my point. This wasn’t your fault, it was a bunch of things that happened one after another starting with you. It’s… it’s…” She looked down at her hands.

“Hey. Hey, are you okay?” Div asked.

“I — I didn’t… you were there and… no, you can’t have been there — I couldn’t…” Ari breathed faster.

“Woah, hey, look at me. Look at me.” Div cupped Ari’s face in her hands and rested her forehead against the triton’s. “It’s okay. I’m here with you. Ev— everything’s okay.”"

5. Sunburn: Healing salve / heatstroke / "If my pain will stretch that far"

hahahahha! Easy! Chapter "Well-cooked fish"! Pretty self explanatory, deserts and fish-people don't mix well. (Excerpt: Ari's perspective)

"After an hour or so, Ari started feeling weird. Occasionally, she got this weird light-headedness that felt like someone stole her consciousness for just a split second. Her lungs felt hot with the warm air she breathed, and she wished she could go back to being half-freezing under the sea. With a sinking feeling, her eyes started to unfocus, and Div’s voice started to sound farther away…"

Alright 5 is enough for today, see you all tomorrow!

(also, @taline13, respond with thoughts or edits / ideas!)

#whumptober2024 #my wips #jrwi riptide

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tacticalhimbo · 14 days ago

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2024 game awards recap and thoughts from your local loser queer with bad gaming takes (re: being normal about things and not a pre-order shill or overtly critical basement dweller)

ALL NEW GAME ANNOUNCEMENTS

ninja gaiden (didn't catch the full title)

one move away

slay the spire 2

some match 3 mobile game that preached about environmentalism (couldn't catch the name)

dave the diver: in the jungle

thick as thieves

shadow labyrinth

steel paws

tales of the shire

stalcraft operations

midnight murder club (crossplay beta announced)

kyora

rematch: online football action

solasta 2

witcher 4

elden ring: night reign

catly

untitled next project (made by shadows of colossus people)

civilization 7

outer worlds 2

split fiction

fragpunk

tripwire

killing floor 3

steel hunters

blackfrost: the long dark 2

borderlands 4

splitgate 2

mecha break

project century

turok origins

onimusha: way of the sword

the first beserker: khazan

arad: dungeon & fighter

dying light: the beast

squid game unleashed: a neflix game

stage fright

game of thrones: kings road

double dragon revive

solo leveling: arise

screamer

den of wolves

zenless zone zero

sonic racing crossworlds

dispatch

okami sequel

intergalactic: the heretic prophet

WHAT CAUGHT MY EYE...

one move away; i love games like a little to the left and unpacking

thick as thieves; i love stealth games and this looked like a multiplayer game

rematch; we need more indie sports games and seeing something that isn't fifa made me happy

witcher 4; … witcher 4

catly; cute cat game! no longer excited; this game is (allegedly) made using generative ai and shows signs of being a rugpull based on background information

outer worlds 2; i screamed. i cried. i am so excited for this given my love for the first one even though it glitches trying to sync data on my xbox

borderlands 4; i need to finish the games but the lore slaps

stage fright; loved overcooked even tho i crash out over it <3

sonic racing crossworlds; YESSSSS

dispatch; aaron paul and laura bailey my beloveds… also made by the creators of wolf among us???

okami sequel; …. okami sequel

intergalactic: the heretic prophet; this just looks like it slaps it made me think of the alien games

also forget which one it was but the pacman dungeon crawler... slayed. i want it <3

AND THE UNTITLED ONE BEING MADE BY THE SHADOWS OF COLOSSUS CREATORS... i started bouncing with excitement.

think the one i'm most hyped for is genuinely outer worlds 2. witcher 4 is a close second but trumped by the fact i haven't actually played entirely through the witcher games :pensive:

other notes:

congrats to batman arkham shadow for winning best vr/ar game

how the FUCK did silent hill 2 not win a single award

how the FUCK did fallout win the best adaptation (saying this as a fallout tv show fan...)

learned mouthwashing was nominated for the indie awards on the 19th and if they don't win i'm [redacted]

dragon age only being nominated for accessibility and losing... i fear we are cooked (still haven't played it; hoping to get it for xmas and trying to remain neutral on it despite the fact showing any neutrality seems to piss people off (not referring to being neutral to bioware's bigotry btw; fuck those racist losers))

helldivers earning awards and having a whole little performance thing... slay. for super earth.

squid game netflix game... yawn. if it were a standalone it could be cool (even though i feel some of the marketing is antithetical to the show) but it's a netflix platform game so. yawn.

CASEOH CONTENT CREATOR OF THE YEAR RAHHHHHHHHH

“I want to thank the fans of Fallout: New Vegas for not burning my house down” ... we've shown ceos are untouchable, someone needs to do it. i fucking despise todd.

and there were lots of funny moments with the bro and the besties <3 we were all ragging on each other and i got shot with a nerf gun at some point LMKDSJAFLJDSLF

#txt #the game awards #tga 2024 #tagging everyone who was there teehee:#bro tag 💕#hev 💕#delia 💕#vendetta 💕#michael 💕

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witchywriterlythings · 2 months ago

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Something This Way Comes

Chapter Fifteen: All My Choices Are Horrible

I knew it was going to be a big deal for us to come back successful, but with everything else happening I forgot that we would be the first questers to return alive to Half-Blood Hill since Luke. Despite Annabeth and Grover returning before me, it wasn’t until I got there that the party really started.

According to camp tradition, we wore laurel wreaths to a big feast prepared in our honor, then led a procession down to the bonfire, where we got to burn the burial shrouds our cabins had made for us in our absence.

Annabeth's shroud was so beautiful—gray silk with embroidered owls. Her siblings had made it themselves, even the fabric had been woven by her oldest sister still at camp.

“It’s a same you won’t get burned in it,” I told her, worried she wouldn’t understand.

“Shut up, Seaweed Brain.” She punched my arm, but her grin told me she got it. When she caught sight of my shroud on the other hand, she wrinkled her nose. “I’m glad we aren’t burning you in that, it would be a waste of good wood.”

I really couldn’t disagree. Being the son of Poseidon, I didn't have any cabin mates, so the Ares cabin had volunteered to make my shroud. I wasn’t really sure what I was looking at since it seemed like the War God’s cabin couldn’t agree if they were mad at me or not. The color scheme was on point, with a sort of tie dyed mix of blues and greens, but it was on an old fitted sheet and someone had written LOSER in bubble letters.

It was fun to burn.

Then it was normal camp activities, like the Apollo cabin sing-along with smores. The entire Hermes cabin surrounded me as if nothing had happened, as if they didn’t abandon me the second my “parentage” came to light. But some of Annabeth’s siblings and Grover’s satyr buddies came over to hang out with us as well.

Grover was beaming as the center of attention, the rest of the satyr’s were admiring the brand-new searcher's license he'd received from the Council of Cloven Elders. “They called me brave, can you believe it? I was just keeping those two alive, that was terrifying!”

“OI! Who hit Medusa in the face with a club? I’d say that’s pretty brave.” No one was allowed to discount my satyr, not even Grover himself.

All his sputtering protests did was draw Annabeth’s attention, as she budged in with her own retellings of how Grover had been amazing and brave on our quest. And tghen I started telling her siblings about how she got us “maximum lift” in Waterland and almost splattered us over the waterpark, which made her blush and steal my s’more.

The only ones not in the party mood were Clarisse and a few of her cabinmates, whose poisonous

looks told me they'd never forgive me for beating their dad in a fight.

While having people hate me always sucked, it wasn’t like it was anything new. What was new though, was having friends. Like, more than just Grover. I moved back into cabin three, but it didn't feel so lonely anymore. I had Annabeth and some of the other campers to train with during the day. At night, I lay awake and listened to the sea, knowing it would welcome me when I was ready.

I missed my cousins though, and it always hit me at night when I was laying there in the dark that I didn’t know what happened to them. None of my Iris-Messages were going through and now that I had returned to camp, I wasn’t allowed to leave again unless I was headed back to my mom.

As for my mother, she had a chance at a new life. Her letter arrived a week after I got back to camp. Using the gift I had left her, she removed Gabe from her apartment and made sure he wouldn’t be coming back. Though it appears he’s gone missing, so she gave a statement to the police. Her letters might be flown to us by Hermes express, but I figured she wanted to be more safe than sorry. “Your Uncle and Sister have been more than kind enough to take in that stray we found. They’ll make sure he gets what he deserves.”

On an unrelated note, she'd sold her first life-size concrete sculpture, entitled The Poker Player, to a collector, through an art gallery in Soho. She'd gotten so much money for it, she'd put a deposit down on a new apartment and made a payment on her first semester's tuition at NYU. The Soho gallery was clamoring for more of her work, which they called "a huge step forward in super-ugly neorealism." I don’t think I will be making any more statues, she wrote, but it’s always smart to keep tools on hand. I’ve given them to a Friend for safe keeping if I ever need them again.

She told me she would understand if I chose to live at camp year round, considering who your father is, but that there was always a place for me with her.

I folded the note carefully and set it on my bedside table. Every night before I went to sleep, I read it again, and I tried to decide how to answer her. Did I stay here where I could train? Did I return home to one of the few people I would burn the world for? Could I leave Annabeth and Grover like that?

Did I choose blood over whatever these invisible strings pulling me towards my new people were?

It was easier to think about staying when I was in the training arena with Annabeth, her knife against Riptide, or her showing me wrestling moves in case I ever slipped up and got too close to Clarisse. The more we practiced, the more I started being even with her. I was nowhere close to her skill level, but I was starting to learn her tells and I could sometimes use them to my advantage.

She never let me use the same move twice though.

It was easier to accept staying inside the barriers of camp when she was shoving me off the dock when we said we were going to go swimming, when I could reach out and pull her in with me and I could hear Grover laughing from shore. He got wet in the ensuing splash war, but then again we were all out of breath at that point and grinning so I don’t think he was too upset about it.

It was easier to connect with my new home when I was on the sand with Grover as he helped me learn some basic weavng with the Neireds, or when we helped clean up the forest with the dryads.

But I still couldn’t choose.

On the Fourth of July, the whole camp gathered at the beach for a fireworks display by cabin nine. Being Hephaestus's kids, they weren't going to settle for a few lame red-white-and-blue explosions. They'd anchored a barge offshore and loaded it with rockets the size of Patriot missiles. According to Annabeth, who'd seen the show before, the blasts would be sequenced so tightly they'd look like frames of animation across the sky. The finale was supposed to be a couple of hundred-foot-tall Spartan warriors who would crackle to life above the ocean, fight a battle, then explode into a million colors.

I had seen over the past few weeks a lot of the older gets get all blushy and gross over who they were going to watch them with, but Luke had told me most people just went with their friends. I didn’t even have to ask Annabeth, she just told me to carry the picnic blanket while she got the snacks.

Grover was starting to smell of the Wild, of something animalistic and older. The Cloven Council were like a stale version of all the younger Satyrs, the ones who were searching. Some came back to help with half-bloods, taking breaks from the dangers. Others gave up, and they were the worst. But he made something inside me ache for an old friend I knew nothing about.

"I'm off," he said. "I just came to say ... well, you know." He shuffled awkwardly in the sand.

Annabeth gave him a hug. “Keep your feet on, you don’t want any mortals getting in your way.” She kept asking him questions about if he had everything, what his plan was, until she finally stopped when he put his hands on her shoulders.

“You are an old mama goat in disguise,” he teased. But he didn't really sound annoyed. He gripped his walking stick and slung a backpack over his shoulder. He looked like any hitchhiker you might see on an American highway—nothing like the little runty boy I used to defend from bullies at Yancy Academy. He looked…almost like an adult. "Well," he said, "wish me luck."

He gave Annabeth another hug. He clapped me on the shoulder, then headed back through the dunes.

Fireworks exploded to life overhead: Hercules killing the Nemean lion, Artemis chasing the boar, George Washington (who, by the way, was a son of Athena) crossing the Delaware.

"Hey, Grover," I called, as my fingers itched and my gums felt sore.

He turned at the edge of the woods.

"Be careful of traps. You’ve got a good nose, trust it.” I paused, knowing I didn’t want those to be the last words I said to him so I smiled broadly. “And wherever you're going—I hope they make good enchiladas."

Grover grinned, and then he was gone, the trees closing around him.

"We'll see him again," Annabeth said.

“Yeah,” I agreed.

We have to, went unsaid.

I spent my days devising new strategies for capture-the-flag and making alliances with the other cabins to keep the banner out of the War Children's hands. I got to the top of the climbing wall for the first time without getting scorched by lava.

At one point I woke up to a stuffed animal in my arms that I definitely hadn't owned before, Gabe wasn't big on toys and most boys I had roomed with before would have torn apart anything “kiddy” I brought with me to school anyway.

It took me a minute of blinking at it to realize that it was a dog, a three headed dog to be exact, and it smelled like dark soil and pomegranates. I decided to make an executive decision that Cabin Three would skip Arts and Crafts that morning for a lie in, and I pressed my face into it as I drifted back to sleep.

From time to time, I'd walk past the Big House, glance up at the attic windows, and think about the Oracle. I tried to convince myself that it's prophecy had come to completion.

You shall go west, and face the god who has turned.

Been there, done that—even though it came from a manipulated God of War instead of my Uncle as everyone feared.

You shall find what was stolen, and see it safely returned.

Check. One master bolt delivered. One helm of darkness returned to its rightful owner.

You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend.

This line was what truly bothered me about the whole thing. I could understand the last line just fine. And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end, meaning my family. I was forced thrice over to leave them behind, once each when I only had three pearls. And then the third time when I walked away from Gabe without his throat in my teeth.

But no one who called me a friend had betrayed me. He Who Bears Arms didn’t claim my friendship, though He did manipulate me. But He was manipulated in turn.

Did it still count?

The last night of the summer session came all too quickly.

The campers had one last meal together, siblings saying goodbye while I sat alone. Would this be what it was like if I stayed? Or would it be better because there would be so few of us?

At the bonfire, the senior counselors awarded the end-of-summer beads. I got my own leather necklace, and when I saw the bead for my first summer, I was glad the firelight covered my bared teeth, or at least turned it into a smile. The design was pitch black, with a sea-green trident shimmering in the center.

"The choice was unanimous," Luke announced. "This bead commemorates the first Son of the Sea God at this camp, and the quest he undertook into the darkest part of the Underworld to stop a war!”

“But what about Annabeth and Grover? Where’s their part?” I go unheard over the cheering of the other campers, and I move to step forward, frustration building in my gut. I wouldn’t have survived without them, where is their recognition?

A hand on my arm stopped me and I relaxed into Annabeth’s hold even if it was light.

“It’s okay, you know, that we aren’t on the bead. We’ve already received our laurels.” She used her free hand to findle with her new bead. “It was your quest, Percy, and you led us home. You deserve the credit for this one.” She looks up to smile at me and I grin back, everything about her telling me she’s not lying or hiding. “Good work, hero.”

I was about to say something, I don’t know what though because she reached over and hugged me. A solid hug, with no life thrteatening dangers to be safe from.

I think my brain short circuited a little.

The next morning, I found a form letter on my bedside table. I knew Dionysus must've filled it out, because he stubbornly insisted on getting my name wrong:

Dear Peter Johnson,

If you intend to stay at CampHalf-Blood year-round, you must inform the Big House by noon today. If you do not announce your intentions, we will assume you have vacated your cabin or died a horrible death. Cleaning harpies will begin work at sundown. They will be authorized to eat any unregistered campers. All personal articles left behind will be incinerated in the lava pit.

Have a nice day!

Mr. D (Dionysus)

Camp Director, Olympian Council #12

That's another thing about ADHD. Deadlines just aren't real to me until I'm staring one in the face. Summer was over, and I still hadn't answered my mother, or the camp, about whether I'd be staying. Now I had only a few hours to decide.

Nine months of private school away from my mother, only coming home on holidays or free weekends if it was close enough, maybe looking for Nico and Bianca with my mom…or nine months of hero training with Annabeth, learning different dialects of Greek, swimming in the lake and not having to worry about anyone calling the cops on the weird kid swimming in December. I could make more friends, find some kids who might be like me and just are waiting in the shadows for the right moment.

I swear one of the Fruitbearer’s children withered the grass with her anger over one of the Stoll brother's pranks, turning it pitch black.

But I had to think so I decided I'd go down to the arena and do some sword practice. Maybe that would clear my head.

The campgrounds were mostly deserted, shimmering in the August heat. All the campers were in their cabins packing up, or running around with brooms and mops, getting ready for final inspection. Argus was helping some of the campers bfring their bags down to the camp shuttle, which would take them to the airport or station of their choosing.

Don't think about leaving yet, I told myself. Just train.

I got to the sword-fighters arena and immediately wanted to step away. My skin itched in the same way it did after a long day at the beach and sand had entered places it shouldn’t, the kind that you needed a hot shower to remove.

Whatever was in that arena, it was wrong.

And then I saw Luke. He was working solo, whaling on battle dummies with a sword I'd never seen before. It must've been a regular steel blade, because he was slashing the dummies' heads right off, stabbing through their straw-stuffed guts. Typically, the celestial bronze of our weapons took longer to affect mortal objects. The armor would clang, sure, but the first hundred or so swipies would pass right through the dummies.

They were only dummies, but I still couldn't help being a bit uneasy. Luke always seemed so calm and brotherly, at least on the outside. This side of him was…

He saw me, and stopped mid-swing. "Percy."

"Um, sorry," I said, embarrassed at being caught. "I just—"

"It's okay," he said, lowering his sword. "Just doing some last-minute practice." Now that his sword wasn't swirling around, I could see that there was something wrong with it. The blade was two different types of metal—one edge bronze, the other steel.

Being near it just made my skin itch worse.

Luke noticed me looking at it, and I hoped my expression was schooled enough that he didn’t realie I knew anything was wrong. "Oh, this? New toy. This is Backbiter."

"Why?"

Luke turned the blade in the light, not really seeming to hear me. "One side is celestial bronze. The other is tempered steel. Works on mortals and immortals both."

"I didn't know they would make weapons like that." As far as I knew, Chiron’s policy was non-violence against mortals. Even if a few of them deserved to be punched in the face.

"They probably can't," Luke agreed, his smile shifting away from his eyes and more into his teeth. I tensed at the threat. "It's one of a kind."He slid the sword into its scabbard and suddenly it was like the old Luke was back. He was still . "Listen, I was going to come looking for you. What do you say we go down to the woods one last time, look for something to fight?"

I don’t know why I wanted to go. Luke had always been one of Annabeth’s people, someone she’d try to get me to be friendly with and that I only really tolerated for her sake. And yet something was pushing me to go. "You think it's a good idea?" I asked, still hesitating.

"Aw, come on." He rummaged in his gym bag and pulled out a six-pack of Cokes. "Drinks are on me."

I stared at the Cokes, wondering where the heck he'd gotten them. I was not heavy into soda like a lot of other kids my age, but if there was one thing I couldn't resist it was a Coke. Cherry Coke and I might have actually drooled, but the regular stuff was enough to break the last of my resolve as is.

Maybe he just wanted to connect for Annabeth's sake, so when he came back next summer it wasn't as awkward. I could work with that.

"Sure," I decided. "Why not?"

We walked down to the woods and kicked around for some kind of monster to fight, but it was too hot. All the monsters with any sense must've been taking siestas in their nice cool caves. I could smell faint traces of them on some of the trails, but they hadn't been through for a long time.

We found a shady spot by the creek and sat on a big rock, drank our Cokes, and watched the sunlight in the woods.

It was actually sort of nice, sitting with someone in silence. I was curious where the naiads were, usually they liked quiet moments like this and would come say hi.

After a while Luke said, "You miss being on a quest?"

“With almost dying every ten minutes to a new kind of monster?” Without everyone judging me and faking being my friend? “Parts of it. At least now I know my mom's alive.”

A shadow passed over his face and I was forcefully reminded of the sandy feeling that I had been ignoring since the arena. I was tempted to look down at my arms, check to see if the skin was as rubbed raw as it felt.

"I've lived at Half-Blood Hill year-round since I was fourteen," he told me. And for a moment what he was saying reminded me of Annabeth wanting a quest so badly, to prove herself. Did camp not welcome him back? Did he not receive his laurels? And what about his questmates?

He crumpled his Coke can and threw it into the creek, rolling his eyes when I immediately reached down to grab it. “Don’t bother, Percy. The nymphs won’t be able to take their petty revenge on me.”

“You’re leaving.”

Luke gave me a twisted smile to which I bared my teeth. "Oh, I'm leaving, all right, Percy. I brought you down here to say good-bye."

He snapped his fingers. A small fire burned a hole in the ground at my feet. Out crawled something glistening black, about the size of my hand. A scorpion. "I wouldn't," Luke cautioned. "Pit scorpions can jump up to fifteen feet. Its stinger can pierce right through your clothes. You'll be dead in sixty seconds."

It hit me then what Luke had been trying to do all summer, what place he was trying to make for himself in my life. You will be betrayed by one who calls you a friend. Not who I call a friend, who called me one.

“Time to show your true colors then?”

He stood calmly and brushed off his jeans.

The scorpion paid him no attention. It kept its beady black eyes on me, clamping its pincers as it crawled onto my shoe.

"I saw a lot out there in the world, Percy," Luke said. "Didn't you feel it—the darkness gathering, the monsters growing stronger? I thought that you might have already been touched by it, you always were a bit different to the rest of us."

I snarled and let my facade drop, pleasure rolling through my shoulders as he actually took a step back away from me. The scorpion paused on my ankle. “You know nothing about me.”

“I might not, but my master does. He’s very interested in you, Percy, but I don’t think you’ll listen. You’ve never really been fooled, have you? I thought I was making progress but your face when you saw Backbiter…”

“The Crooked One got you in your dreams, is that it? He got you to steal the master bolt. Did he tell you to steal the helm too or did you come up with that on your own?”

Luke's eye twitched. "He spoke to you, too, Percy. You should've listened." And like any Disney Villan, he began his monolouge. Of his plans, of his ‘rightceous’ anger. How it was worth throwing away Thalia’s sacrifice to get him and Annabeth here safely, how it was worth abandoning Annabeth. Just like her dad. Like her mom.

The creek churned with my rage, though Luke was too involved in his own head to notice. "The flying shoes were cursed," I said. "They were supposed to drag me and the backpack into the Pit. But you almost sent Grover in instead, your old protector."

"He wasn’t my protector, all he cared about was Thalia! I was a tagalong! And you, you gave the shoes to the satyr, which wasn't part of the plan. Grover messes up everything he touches. He even confused the curse." Luke looked down at the scorpion, which was now sitting on my thigh. "You should have died in Tartarus, Percy. But don't worry, I'll leave you with my little friend to set things right."

"Thalia gave her life to save you," I said, gritting my teeth. "And this is how you repay her?"

"Don't speak of Thalia!" he shouted. "The gods let her die! That's one of the many things they will pay for." He looked like he was going to say something else, but then his face closed off. "Good-bye, Percy. There is a new Golden Age coming. You won't be part of it."

He slashed his sword in an arc and disappeared in a ripple of darkness.

The scorpion lunged.

I reached out to swat it.

Something lunged from the darkness and sliced threw the scorpion, a whir of black. When the world focused enough for me to see the shape of the being holding the sword, I could feel a feral grin spread across my face to match his own.

I lunged.

Nico had apparently been training as much as I had, because he immediately moved to trip me and moved his body out of the way instead of running. I was still bigger than him by a bit, he was only ten after all, but his excitement reminded me of a puppy and so I let him eventually get me on the ground.

“I did it!” he exclaimed proudly while Bianca laughed from the shadows, and I was sure he was looking at her for approval. This is how you do siblings, right? You let them win sometimes?

I growled playfully and rolled out from under him while he was distracted. “How did you get out? I…we were in front of your dad and we didn't have time to get to you.” I rubbed the back of my neck, and I had to force myself not to pick at my scales. “I only had enough pearls for the three of us.”

Bianca skipped over and gave me a hug, her scent oddly covered by something faintly pomegranate. “It's okay, we were never going to get out. Our Father came for us as soon as you disappeared, or at least he directed us towards somewhere safe while he dealt with you. He wanted to send us back to the hotel. Wipe our memories.”

I growled lowly at the thought and reached out to grab Nico. He was very happy to stand there while I nuzzled his hair and Bianca just put a hand up when I went to do the same to her.

“Our Step-Mother is Queen and She holds the right to oversee any decisions about Underworld citizens. Our Father might have the realm, but She is the one who controls its people.” Bianca dropped to sit on the ground, beaming. “She said we could keep our memories and be trained in the Underworld until we're ready to rejoin society.” She giggled. “Apparently she also believes in field trips. She quite likes the term.”

Nico nodded enthusiastically and plopped right next to her. She reached out to pet his hair, making him rumble gently.

“Is She watching us?” Not that I minded that much if She was going to let them see me, but I didn't like the thought of someone watching me without my knowledge.

“No,” Bianca said. “Camp is the only place She'll leave us without her and She's been Called.”

I flinched as I looked back to where the scorpion had been, now just a puddle of tar. “Do they know…?”

“About you? I don't think so. The Charioteer announced that the prophecy would be coming to fruition soon, so they wanted to be prepared when it did.”

I huffed. “How am I supposed to convince everyone that Luke was the thief? Yeah he's a son of Hermes, but stereotypes aside there is no evidence. You kind of killed all I had.”

“Did you want to die?” Bianca raised an eyebrow at me.

I growled in frustration. “No, but at least I could have proved it!”

“How? You would have been dead!”

“You don't know that!”

Nico sat up glaring at us. “You two need to stop fighting. Here.” He pulled out his sword and before we could question what he was doing, he sliced a decent sized hash in my calf.

It took a second for the pain to hit, but when it did I had to bite through my tongue to keep from swearing. As it was, I was sure I was making a lot of noise.

Nico didn't seem phased in the slightest and just put his sword back in the shadows. “You should get help. We’ll make sure you don’t die before you get to camp.”

“What did you do?” Bianca reached over to my wound, her hands lighting on fire to quickly cauterize it. Mostly what she did was make it hurt more and almost make me pass out. “Sorry, sorry. I’m not very good at this yet.”

“Now he has evidence he got attacked! As far as they're aware, Luke was the only one out here!”

I growled lowly as I started losing the ability to talk through the pain. The wound itself felt like that one time we lost power in the winter and I ended up with frostbite, while where Bianca had tried to help was on fire. Still smoldering. I tried standing to head to Camp, but my body just felt so heavy.

“I’m sorry,” Bianca whispered as she pulled her brother into the shadows.

I finally screamed.

I think I blacked out at one point. All I can remember is flashes of green hair and panicked eyes.

There was Kiron, his arms reaching for me.

I managed to whisper the traitors name before I was back in the darkness.

I woke up with bees buzzing in my brain and a drinking straw in my mouth.

Nectar.

I really didn’t want to open my eyes but I knew I wasn’t alone, their scents spreading throughout the room from their worry. I groaned as I forced myself to look around. I was propped up in bed in the sickroom of the Big House, my leg completely wrapped like I had broken it.

Argus stood guard in the corner. Annabeth sat next to me, holding my nectar glass and dabbing a washcloth on my forehead.

"I didn’t take you for the nursing type.”

"You idiot," Annabeth said, which is how I knew she was overjoyed to see me conscious. "I had to make sure you didn’t die! That cut on your leg…"

“Now, now,” Chiron’s voice said. “Percy is safe, child.” He was sitting near the foot of my bed in human form, which was weird. His scent was muted like that, maybe that's why I didn't realize what he was? Back at Yancy? He smiled, but his face looked weary and pale, the way it did when he'd been up all night grading Latin papers. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a Popsicle."

"Apt, considering that was Stygian Iron that you were cut with. Now you must tell me, if you can, exactly what happened."

Between sips of nectar, I told them everything that happened with Luke, up until the part with the Scorpion. I changed it to him summoning something that cut me, but I was too out of it to see what it was.

The room was quiet for a long time but clearly something else was going on. Chiron eventually had to go, leaving me with a steaming Annabeth who looked like she could melt the ice in my drink with her glare.

“Um…I didn’t exactly tell the whole truth.”

And then her glare was on me. I hated how her eyes narrowed like she already knew what I was going to say before I said it. “So Nico and Bianca decided to stop by… think their stepmom is meeting with Chiron right now.”

Annabeth seemed like she would be the kind of girl to hate swearing but the words that came out of her mouth in ancient Greek were so filthy I was tempted to cover my ears. She finally settled on huffing and sitting on the bed with a pout. “So Nico did this.”

“How do you know it wasn’t Bianca?”

“Did you do something stupid?”

“No.”

“Then it wasn’t Bianca, she seems smart enough not to hurt someone unless she’s really pissed.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “You just think that because she’s a girl.”

Annabeth stuck her tongue out at me and we both grinned, before it slipped off her face with the clock announcing the hour.

"What's wrong?" I asked her.

"Nothing." She set the glass on the table. "I … just took your advice about something. You … um … need anything?"

"Yeah. Help me up. I want to go outside."

It probably wasn’t the best idea, especially because it just showed off the few inches Annabeth had on me. I was also completely useless at walking as my leg refused to cooperate with me, basically dragging next to me as dead weight.

Annabeth didn’t seem to mind carrying my extra weight; she had far more training than me after all and her arms showed it. I had heard some of the older kids talking about how girls with muscles were weird and I kind of wanted them to meet Annabeth so she could knock them on their asses.

Eventually we got to the porch railing, allowing me to lean on it instead of her.

“What are you going to do?”

I shrugged. “I think Chiron wants me to stay here year-round, thinks the world out there is too dangerous for me or something. Plus all that time training? No one would get the better of me again.” I nudged her shoulder with mine and she purposefully ignored me. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe I should, but I don’t think I could stay. You’ll just have to survive the school year without me I’m afraid.”

Annabeth pursed her lips, then said quietly, "I'm going home for the year, Percy."

I stared at her. "You mean, to your dad's?"

She pointed toward the crest of Half-Blood Hill. Next to Thalia's pine tree, at the very edge of the camp's magical boundaries, a family stood silhouetted—two little children, a woman, and a tall man with blond hair. They seemed to be waiting. The man was holding a backpack that looked like the one Annabeth had gotten from Waterland in Denver.

She explained how she had sent a letter when we got back and they’d been writing, since she wasn’t sure if she was ready for a phone call. They’d decided it was time for a second chance, and her dad had promised that this time things would be better. She wrung her hands as she looked at me, before throwing her arms over my shoulders and pulling me into a hug. “We’ll go on a quest next summer, okay? Go after Luke, even if we have to sneak out to do it.”

I hugged her back as tightly as she did me. “Deal.”

She pulled away with a cheeky smile. "Take care, Seaweed Brain," Annabeth told me. "Keep your eyes open."

"You too, Wise Girl." And like that, I knew I was headed home to my mom.

#percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #unhinged series #feral percy jackson #feral demigods #something this way comes #feral percy

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monstersinthecosmos · 9 months ago

Note

stealing your question as promised: what authors do you think shaped your writing the most when you were first starting?

-mothmage

sdjkgas in middle school my favorite authors were Anne Rice and Francesca Lia Block and I think they have SENSUALITY in common even though their writing styles are SO opposite. As a teen when I was first writing I think I learned so much from both of them, like the seriousness and drama of AR but at the same time, FLB is so concise and punchy and sometimes her books are like these waterfalls of adjectives and I tried to think in that way too! Like I'm a very visual person so FLB books were like fucking crack for me, just heaps and heaps of descriptions of color and glittery and starry night skies and flowers growing where they shouldn't and it feels like poetry!

(I opened a random FLB book off my shelf and this is what I mean: We walked up and down the hills until our legs ached, then rode the trolley car to feel rushes of salty, misty air. We had picnics and fed the swans on the lake under the flowering terra-cotta arches, drank tea and ate pastries in rooms with cupids and rosebuds painted on the walls, strolled through the park, green-dazzled, fragrance-drunk, gasped at treasures gleaming gold in the half-lit glass cases of the museum. Then we'd return with spices, fruits and vegetables from Chinatown, seafood and baguettes from the wharf.

Her writing is so simple but it's just like heaps and heaps of sensory details !! And it's an interesting spectrum between her & AR to see how much you can say and like what type of efficiency you can find, because both of them give me that same feeling and feel so sensuous to me. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT EVERYTHING LOOKS LIKE AND SMELLS LIKE AND SOUNDS LIKE, TAKE ME THERE!

So as a teen I think I was learning a lot from them both and like I remember a fic I wrote with someone at a mall and it was like my FLB moment, I was like OMG I MUST MENTION THE TACO SMELL IN THE FOOD COURT AND THE PERFUME KIOSK AND THE HOUSE MUSIC BLASTING FROM A HAT SHOP AND THE CRUNCHY SUGAR ON A PRETZEL! And that's something that's stuck with me a lot, I think. I always want to tell you how things feel and smell like we're going on a journey, okay!

They both also have a way of treating cities/locations like characters--FLB actually does this quite literally by describing cities as if they're women (like LA is a blonde woman with big sunglasses and NYC has dyed black hair with severe red lipstick that stains on her cigarette butts, etc something like that) and it feels really specific and made me think a lot about locations and settings and how they affect the characters and story! They were also both the first books I ever read with queer people! FLB's short story Dragons in Manhattan was the first story I ever read with a trans person back when I was like 12 or 13.

AND THEN as a final nail in the coffin LOL I read I Know This Much is True by Wally Lamb when I was in 9th or 10th grade and it just really like !! IDK broke my head open for character voice. I don't think I'd read it so well done before, or maybe not noticed before. LIKE I MEAN this entire concept is like asking what did WE discover as kids or whatever, like so much of it is happenstance and if it hadn't been these authors it would've been someone else, and it's not like I stopped reading LOL like I still learn things from reading all the time! But Wally Lamb really brought this home for me. Like the way he writes Dominick's narration is just so like cynical and rugged and full of hurt and it made me think a lot about like how to profile a character with the language we use. I don't think FLB does this too much bc her writing is so breezy anyway and AR is so wordy that I don't think I could pick up on it as a teenager. I get more nuance now and see it better but it's there's a base level of like fanciness and purple prose that can be hard to see through on the first try, at least for me as a teen.

ANYWAY SORRY THAT WAS A REALLY LONG RESPONSE I JUST GOT REALLY EXCITED but Anne Rice + FLB + Wally Lamb wombo combo for emotionally torturous sensory overload cynical guttermouth style.

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meroppi · 1 year ago

Text

My honest opinion on the FNaF movie

(I'm sorry if anything is wrong, It's 2 a.m. rn but I need to get this off my chest)

BEFORE WE START: I will admit that I'm 100% biased, I grew up with FNaF and never thought I'd ever see this movie for multiple reasons, so actually sitting in the theater and watching this beautiful disaster unfold was a truly magical experience. I cried during the credits so yeah. With that being said:

1. The spoiler-free part

Ok there are some things we need to lay out right from the getgo

1) This movie caters to:

a) fans who want to see a somewhat new yet familiar story in the FNaF universe

b) casuals who aren't immediately dismissive of everything that's happening and actually TRY to give this shit a chance

2) It's no secret that they changed many things in the story and if you genuinely thought they would adapt the games 1 by 1 you are just delulu I'm sorry

Overall, I personally really liked the movie and I would recommend it. It had many little easter eggs for hardcore fans and a story that pretty much anyone can understand

2. The spoiler-heavy part

(aka pretty much everything important)

Alright, let's talk about the most controversial part:

The Afton children aren't the Afton children anymore.

So Mike Schmidt, who we know is Michael Afton under a fake name in the games, is in the movie literally just Mike Schmidt. Some guy.

Garett, this movie's version of the crying child, is Williams' first victim, not his child who was killed by accident.

Abby, who would technically speaking be the movie equivalent of Elizabeth, has also no connection to Afton.

AND VANESSA, who we met in AR, Help Wanted, and Security Breach, is Williams' only child??

Yeah it's kinda fucked.

HOWEVER, I do think that this is an amazing way to include all the important characters in some way.

If we had told the actual story of the Afton children, eg. the crying child and Elizabeth dying, this would have pretty much meant that everything else in the story had to be adapted too for everything to make sense which is simply impossible. Like straight up.

So writing a new story including all the past protagonists is a very logical decision (+ I'm pretty sure that there was a theory that Vanessa is some sort of Elizabeth reincarnation even though I think that it was disproven very quickly but yeah, there's that)

BUT this story change leaves one big plot hole:

Why the fuck is William Afton a murderer??

He went insane in the game after his son died which led to him killing Charlie (daughter of Henry) out of spite in a drunken rage afterward.

In this movie, he's just a little goofy and funny and kills children for fun, whatever ig

And yes, the fort scene might have been a teeny tiny bit cringe but I mean, these are dead 10 year-olds so their request is pretty legit tbh. "Why don't these kids grow up 🙄" IDK MAYBE CAUSE THEY ARE DEAD?? BFFR

And everything, I mean fucking everything, is better than a "Let's go Fazgang!!!"-scene

BUT WHY ON EARTH DOES THE CUPCAKE HAVE SO MUCH SCREENTIME?? What the fuck 😭

OH I FORGOT the opening scene in the arcade-minigame style was magnificent 💞

I also would've liked that Williams' death would've been a little bit more violent, it was a little too soft. And I also don't get why he was "killed by the cupcake" and not through a malfunction caused by water like it was in the game?? It would've worked just fine. However, since the movie is rated pg13 in some countries (16 here) it's understandable that it isn't too brutal

And, let's be honest: the movie was carried by Matt, TLT, and Cory

But I love the little easter eggs?? Dream theory, the FNaF World Rainbow, it's so cool I loved it

I absolutely loved it, I knew that I would see something very not canon and something new and probably kinda stupid but I still thought it was beautiful and enjoyable and I would die on this hill if I had to

#Alright I'm done #This is very not organized but I'm just tired lol #fnaf movie #five nights at freddy's

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rjalker · 4 months ago

Text

Duel on Syrtis by Poul Anderson

published in Planet Stories March 1951

published during the civil rights movement and it's not subtle at all

Download from Project Gutenberg.

I'll put the art here when I have a working keyboard again to write the image description.

The night whispered the message. Over the many miles of loneliness it was borne, carried on the wind, rustled by the half-sentient lichens and the dwarfed trees, murmured from one to another of the little creatures that huddled under crags, in caves, by shadowy dunes. In no words, but in a dim pulsing of dread which echoed through Kreega's brain, the warning ran—

-They are hunting again.-

Kreega shuddered in a sudden blast of wind. The night was enormous around him, above him, from the iron bitterness of the hills to the wheeling, glittering constellations light-years over his head. He reached out with his trembling perceptions, tuning himself to the brush and the wind and the small burrowing things underfoot, letting the night speak to him.

Alone, alone. There was not another Martian for a hundred miles of emptiness. There were only the tiny animals and the shivering brush and the thin, sad blowing of the wind.

The voiceless scream of dying traveled through the brush, from plant to plant, echoed by the fear-pulses of the animals and the ringingly reflecting cliffs. They were curling, shriveling and blackening as the rocket poured the glowing death down on them, and the withering veins and nerves cried to the stars.

Kreega huddled against a tall gaunt crag. His eyes were like yellow moons in the darkness, cold with terror and hate and a slowly gathering resolution. Grimly, he estimated that the death was being sprayed in a circle some ten miles across. And he was trapped in it, and soon the hunter would come after him.

He looked up to the indifferent glitter of stars, and a shudder went along his body. Then he sat down and began to think.

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It had started a few days before, in the private office of the trader Wisby.

"I came to Mars," said Riordan, "to get me an owlie."

Wisby had learned the value of a poker face. He peered across the rim of his glass at the other man, estimating him.

Even in God-forsaken holes like Port Armstrong one had heard of Riordan. Heir to a million-dollar shipping firm which he himself had pyramided into a System-wide monster, he was equally well known as a big game hunter. From the firedrakes of Mercury to the ice crawlers of Pluto, he'd bagged them all. Except, of course, a Martian. That particular game was forbidden now.

He sprawled in his chair, big and strong and ruthless, still a young man. He dwarfed the unkempt room with his size and the hard-held dynamo strength in him, and his cold green gaze dominated the trader.

"It's illegal, you know," said Wisby. "It's a twenty-year sentence if you're caught at it."

"Bah! The Martian Commissioner is at Ares, halfway round the planet. If we go at it right, who's ever to know?" Riordan gulped at his drink. "I'm well aware that in another year or so they'll have tightened up enough to make it impossible. This is the last chance for any man to get an owlie. That's why I'm here."

Wisby hesitated, looking out the window. Port Armstrong was no more than a dusty huddle of domes, interconnected by tunnels, in a red waste of sand stretching to the near horizon. An Earthman in airsuit and transparent helmet was walking down the street and a couple of Martians were lounging against a wall. Otherwise nothing—a silent, deadly monotony brooding under the shrunken sun. Life on Mars was not especially pleasant for a human.

"You're not falling into this owlie-loving that's corrupted all Earth?" demanded Riordan contemptuously.

"Oh, no," said Wisby. "I keep them in their place around my post. But times are changing. It can't be helped."

"There was a time when they were slaves," said Riordan. "Now those old women on Earth want to give 'em the vote." He snorted.

"Well, times are changing," repeated Wisby mildly. "When the first humans landed on Mars a hundred years ago, Earth had just gone through the Hemispheric Wars. The worst wars man had ever known. They damned near wrecked the old ideas of liberty and equality. People were suspicious and tough—they'd had to be, to survive. They weren't able to—to empathize the Martians, or whatever you call it. Not able to think of them as anything but intelligent animals. And Martians made such useful slaves—they need so little food or heat or oxygen, they can even live fifteen minutes or so without breathing at all. And the wild Martians made fine sport—intelligent game, that could get away as often as not, or even manage to kill the hunter."

"I know," said Riordan. "That's why I want to hunt one. It's no fun if the game doesn't have a chance."

"It's different now," went on Wisby. "Earth has been at peace for a long time. The liberals have gotten the upper hand. Naturally, one of their first reforms was to end Martian slavery."

Riordan swore. The forced repatriation of Martians working on his spaceships had cost him plenty. "I haven't time for your philosophizing," he said. "If you can arrange for me to get a Martian, I'll make it worth your while."

"How much worth it?" asked Wisby.

They haggled for a while before settling on a figure. Riordan had brought guns and a small rocketboat, but Wisby would have to supply radioactive material, a "hawk," and a rockhound. Then he had to be paid for the risk of legal action, though that was small. The final price came high.

"Now, where do I get my Martian?" inquired Riordan. He gestured at the two in the street. "Catch one of them and release him in the desert?"

It was Wisby's turn to be contemptuous. "One of them? Hah! Town loungers! A city dweller from Earth would give you a better fight."

The Martians didn't look impressive. They stood only some four feet high on skinny, claw-footed legs, and the arms, ending in bony four-fingered hands, were stringy. The chests were broad and deep, but the waists were ridiculously narrow. They were viviparous, warm-blooded, and suckled their young, but gray feathers covered their hides. The round, hook-beaked heads, with huge amber eyes and tufted feather ears, showed the origin of the name "owlie." They wore only pouched belts and carried sheath knives; even the liberals of Earth weren't ready to allow the natives modern tools and weapons. There were too many old grudges.

"The Martians always were good fighters," said Riordan. "They wiped out quite a few Earth settlements in the old days."

"The wild ones," agreed Wisby. "But not these. They're just stupid laborers, as dependent on our civilization as we are. You want a real old timer, and I know where one's to be found."

He spread a map on the desk. "See, here in the Hraefnian Hills, about a hundred miles from here. These Martians live a long time, maybe two centuries, and this fellow Kreega has been around since the first Earthmen came. He led a lot of Martian raids in the early days, but since the general amnesty and peace he's lived all alone up there, in one of the old ruined towers. A real old-time warrior who hates Earthmen's guts. He comes here once in a while with furs and minerals to trade, so I know a little about him." Wisby's eyes gleamed savagely. "You'll be doing us all a favor by shooting the arrogant bastard. He struts around here as if the place belonged to him. And he'll give you a run for your money."

Riordan's massive dark head nodded in satisfaction.

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The man had a bird and a rockhound. That was bad. Without them, Kreega could lose himself in the labyrinth of caves and canyons and scrubby thickets—but the hound could follow his scent and the bird could spot him from above.

To make matters worse, the man had landed near Kreega's tower. The weapons were all there—now he was cut off, unarmed and alone save for what feeble help the desert life could give. Unless he could double back to the place somehow—but meanwhile he had to survive.

He sat in a cave, looking down past a tortured wilderness of sand and bush and wind-carved rock, miles in the thin clear air to the glitter of metal where the rocket lay. The man was a tiny speck in the huge barren landscape, a lonely insect crawling under the deep-blue sky. Even by day, the stars glistened in the tenuous atmosphere. Weak pallid sunlight spilled over rocks tawny and ocherous and rust-red, over the low dusty thorn-bushes and the gnarled little trees and the sand that blew faintly between them. Equatorial Mars!

Lonely or not, the man had a gun that could spang death clear to the horizon, and he had his beasts, and there would be a radio in the rocketboat for calling his fellows. And the glowing death ringed them in, a charmed circle which Kreega could not cross without bringing a worse death on himself than the rifle would give—

Or was there a worse death than that—to be shot by a monster and have his stuffed hide carried back as a trophy for fools to gape at? The old iron pride of his race rose in Kreega, hard and bitter and unrelenting. He didn't ask much of life these days—solitude in his tower to think the long thoughts of a Martian and create the small exquisite artworks which he loved; the company of his kind at the Gathering Season, grave ancient ceremony and acrid merriment and the chance to beget and rear sons; an occasional trip to the Earthling settling for the metal goods and the wine which were the only valuable things they had brought to Mars; a vague dream of raising his folk to a place where they could stand as equals before all the universe. No more. And now they would take even this from him!

He rasped a curse on the human and resumed his patient work, chipping a spearhead for what puny help it could give him. The brush rustled dryly in alarm, tiny hidden animals squeaked their terror, the desert shouted to him of the monster that strode toward his cave. But he didn't have to flee right away.

[line break for new section]

Riordan sprayed the heavy-metal isotope in a ten-mile circle around the old tower. He did that by night, just in case patrol craft might be snooping around. But once he had landed, he was safe—he could always claim to be peacefully exploring, hunting leapers or some such thing.

The radioactive had a half-life of about four days, which meant that it would be unsafe to approach for some three weeks—two at the minimum. That was time enough, when the Martian was boxed in so small an area.

There was no danger that he would try to cross it. The owlies had learned what radioactivity meant, back when they fought the humans. And their vision, extending well into the ultra-violet, made it directly visible to them through its fluorescence—to say nothing of the wholly unhuman extra senses they had. No, Kreega would try to hide, and perhaps to fight, and eventually he'd be cornered.

Still, there was no use taking chances. Riordan set a timer on the boat's radio. If he didn't come back within two weeks to turn it off, it would emit a signal which Wisby would hear, and he'd be rescued.

He checked his other equipment. He had an airsuit designed for Martian conditions, with a small pump operated by a power-beam from the boat to compress the atmosphere sufficiently for him to breathe it. The same unit recovered enough water from his breath so that the weight of supplies for several days was, in Martian gravity, not too great for him to bear. He had a .45 rifle built to shoot in Martian air, that was heavy enough for his purposes. And, of course, compass and binoculars and sleeping bag. Pretty light equipment, but he preferred a minimum anyway.

For ultimate emergencies there was the little tank of suspensine. By turning a valve, he could release it into his air system. The gas didn't exactly induce suspended animation, but it paralyzed efferent nerves and slowed the overall metabolism to a point where a man could live for weeks on one lungful of air. It was useful in surgery, and had saved the life of more than one interplanetary explorer whose oxygen system went awry. But Riordan didn't expect to have to use it. He certainly hoped he wouldn't. It would be tedious to lie fully conscious for days waiting for the automatic signal to call Wisby.

He stepped out of the boat and locked it. No danger that the owlie would break in if he should double back; it would take tordenite to crack that hull.

He whistled to his animals. They were native beasts, long ago domesticated by the Martians and later by man. The rockhound was like a gaunt wolf, but huge-breasted and feathered, a tracker as good as any Terrestrial bloodhound. The "hawk" had less resemblance to its counterpart of Earth: it was a bird of prey, but in the tenuous atmosphere it needed a six-foot wingspread to lift its small body. Riordan was pleased with their training.

The hound bayed, a low quavering note which would have been muffled almost to inaudibility by the thin air and the man's plastic helmet had the suit not included microphones and amplifiers. It circled, sniffing, while the hawk rose into the alien sky.

Riordan did not look closely at the tower. It was a crumbling stump atop a rusty hill, unhuman and grotesque. Once, perhaps ten thousand years ago, the Martians had had a civilization of sorts, cities and agriculture and a neolithic technology. But according to their own traditions they had achieved a union or symbiosis with the wild life of the planet and had abandoned such mechanical aids as unnecessary. Riordan snorted.

The hound bayed again. The noise seemed to hang eerily in the still, cold air; to shiver from cliff and crag and die reluctantly under the enormous silence. But it was a bugle call, a haughty challenge to a world grown old—stand aside, make way, here comes the conqueror!

The animal suddenly loped forward. He had a scent. Riordan swung into a long, easy low-gravity stride. His eyes gleamed like green ice. The hunt was begun!

[line break for new section]

Breath sobbed in Kreega's lungs, hard and quick and raw. His legs felt weak and heavy, and the thudding of his heart seemed to shake his whole body.

Still he ran, while the frightful clamor rose behind him and the padding of feet grew ever nearer. Leaping, twisting, bounding from crag to crag, sliding down shaly ravines and slipping through clumps of trees, Kreega fled.

The hound was behind him and the hawk soaring overhead. In a day and a night they had driven him to this, running like a crazed leaper with death baying at his heels—he had not imagined a human could move so fast or with such endurance.

The desert fought for him; the plants with their queer blind life that no Earthling would ever understand were on his side. Their thorny branches twisted away as he darted through and then came back to rake the flanks of the hound, slow him—but they could not stop his brutal rush. He ripped past their strengthless clutching fingers and yammered on the trail of the Martian.

The human was toiling a good mile behind, but showed no sign of tiring. Still Kreega ran. He had to reach the cliff edge before the hunter saw him through his rifle sights—had to, had to, and the hound was snarling a yard behind now.

Up the long slope he went. The hawk fluttered, striking at him, seeking to lay beak and talons in his head. He batted at the creature with his spear and dodged around a tree. The tree snaked out a branch from which the hound rebounded, yelling till the rocks rang.

The Martian burst onto the edge of the cliff. It fell sheer to the canyon floor, five hundred feet of iron-streaked rock tumbling into windy depths. Beyond, the lowering sun glared in his eyes. He paused only an instant, etched black against the sky, a perfect shot if the human should come into view, and then he sprang over the edge.

He had hoped the rockhound would go shooting past, but the animal braked itself barely in time. Kreega went down the cliff face, clawing into every tiny crevice, shuddering as the age-worn rock crumbled under his fingers. The hawk swept close, hacking at him and screaming for its master. He couldn't fight it, not with every finger and toe needed to hang against shattering death, but—

He slid along the face of the precipice into a gray-green clump of vines, and his nerves thrilled forth the appeal of the ancient symbiosis. The hawk swooped again and he lay unmoving, rigid as if dead, until it cried in shrill triumph and settled on his shoulder to pluck out his eyes.

Then the vines stirred. They weren't strong, but their thorns sank into the flesh and it couldn't pull loose. Kreega toiled on down into the canyon while the vines pulled the hawk apart.

Riordan loomed hugely against the darkening sky. He fired, once, twice, the bullets humming wickedly close, but as shadows swept up from the depths the Martian was covered.

The man turned up his speech amplifier and his voice rolled and boomed monstrously through the gathering night, thunder such as dry Mars had not heard for millennia: "Score one for you! But it isn't enough! I'll find you!"

The sun slipped below the horizon and night came down like a falling curtain. Through the darkness Kreega heard the man laughing. The old rocks trembled with his laughter.

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Riordan was tired with the long chase and the niggling insufficiency of his oxygen supply. He wanted a smoke and hot food, and neither was to be had. Oh, well, he'd appreciate the luxuries of life all the more when he got home—with the Martian's skin.

He grinned as he made camp. The little fellow was a worthwhile quarry, that was for damn sure. He'd held out for two days now, in a little ten-mile circle of ground, and he'd even killed the hawk. But Riordan was close enough to him now so that the hound could follow his spoor, for Mars had no watercourses to break a trail. So it didn't matter.

He lay watching the splendid night of stars. It would get cold before long, unmercifully cold, but his sleeping bag was a good-enough insulator to keep him warm with the help of solar energy stored during the day by its Gergen cells. Mars was dark at night, its moons of little help—Phobos a hurtling speck, Deimos merely a bright star. Dark and cold and empty. The rockhound had burrowed into the loose sand nearby, but it would raise the alarm if the Martian should come sneaking near the camp. Not that that was likely—he'd have to find shelter somewhere too, if he didn't want to freeze.

-The bushes and the trees and the little furtive animals whispered a word he could not hear, chattered and gossiped on the wind about the Martian who kept himself warm with work. But he didn't understand that language which was no language.-

Drowsily, Riordan thought of past hunts. The big game of Earth, lion and tiger and elephant and buffalo and sheep on the high sun-blazing peaks of the Rockies. Rain forests of Venus and the coughing roar of a many-legged swamp monster crashing through the trees to the place where he stood waiting. Primitive throb of drums in a hot wet night, chant of beaters dancing around a fire—scramble along the hell-plains of Mercury with a swollen sun licking against his puny insulating suit—the grandeur and desolation of Neptune's liquid-gas swamps and the huge blind thing that screamed and blundered after him—

But this was the loneliest and strangest and perhaps most dangerous hunt of all, and on that account the best. He had no malice toward the Martian; he respected the little being's courage as he respected the bravery of the other animals he had fought. Whatever trophy he brought home from this chase would be well earned.

The fact that his success would have to be treated discreetly didn't matter. He hunted less for the glory of it—though he had to admit he didn't mind the publicity—than for love. His ancestors had fought under one name or another—viking, Crusader, mercenary, rebel, patriot, whatever was fashionable at the moment. Struggle was in his blood, and in these degenerate days there was little to struggle against save what he hunted.

Well—tomorrow—he drifted off to sleep.

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He woke in the short gray dawn, made a quick breakfast, and whistled his hound to heel. His nostrils dilated with excitement, a high keen drunkenness that sang wonderfully within him. Today—maybe today!

They had to take a roundabout way down into the canyon and the hound cast about for an hour before he picked up the scent. Then the deep-voiced cry rose again and they were off—more slowly now, for it was a cruel stony trail.

The sun climbed high as they worked along the ancient river-bed. Its pale chill light washed needle-sharp crags and fantastically painted cliffs, shale and sand and the wreck of geological ages. The low harsh brush crunched under the man's feet, writhing and crackling its impotent protest. Otherwise it was still, a deep and taut and somehow waiting stillness.

The hound shattered the quiet with an eager yelp and plunged forward. Hot scent! Riordan dashed after him, trampling through dense bush, panting and swearing and grinning with excitement.

Suddenly the brush opened underfoot. With a howl of dismay, the hound slid down the sloping wall of the pit it had covered. Riordan flung himself forward with tigerish swiftness, flat down on his belly with one hand barely catching the animal's tail. The shock almost pulled him into the hole too. He wrapped one arm around a bush that clawed at his helmet and pulled the hound back.

Shaking, he peered into the trap. It had been well made—about twenty feet deep, with walls as straight and narrow as the sand would allow, and skillfully covered with brush. Planted in the bottom were three wicked-looking flint spears. Had he been a shade less quick in his reactions, he would have lost the hound and perhaps himself.

He skinned his teeth in a wolf-grin and looked around. The owlie must have worked all night on it. Then he couldn't be far away—and he'd be very tired—

As if to answer his thoughts, a boulder crashed down from the nearer cliff wall. It was a monster, but a falling object on Mars has less than half the acceleration it does on Earth. Riordan scrambled aside as it boomed onto the place where he had been lying.

"Come on!" he yelled, and plunged toward the cliff.

For an instant a gray form loomed over the edge, hurled a spear at him. Riordan snapped a shot at it, and it vanished. The spear glanced off the tough fabric of his suit and he scrambled up a narrow ledge to the top of the precipice.

The Martian was nowhere in sight, but a faint red trail led into the rugged hill country. -Winged him, by God!- The hound was slower in negotiating the shale-covered trail; his own feet were bleeding when he came up. Riordan cursed him and they set out again.

They followed the trail for a mile or two and then it ended. Riordan looked around the wilderness of trees and needles which blocked view in any direction. Obviously the owlie had backtracked and climbed up one of those rocks, from which he could take a flying leap to some other point. But which one?

Sweat which he couldn't wipe off ran down the man's face and body. He itched intolerably, and his lungs were raw from gasping at his dole of air. But still he laughed in gusty delight. What a chase! What a chase!

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Kreega lay in the shadow of a tall rock and shuddered with weariness. Beyond the shade, the sunlight danced in what to him was a blinding, intolerable dazzle, hot and cruel and life-hungry, hard and bright as the metal of the conquerors.

It had been a mistake to spend priceless hours when he might have been resting working on that trap. It hadn't worked, and he might have known that it wouldn't. And now he was hungry, and thirst was like a wild beast in his mouth and throat, and still they followed him.

They weren't far behind now. All this day they had been dogging him; he had never been more than half an hour ahead. No rest, no rest, a devil's hunt through a tormented wilderness of stone and sand, and now he could only wait for the battle with an iron burden of exhaustion laid on him.

The wound in his side burned. It wasn't deep, but it had cost him blood and pain and the few minutes of catnapping he might have snatched.

For a moment, the warrior Kreega was gone and a lonely, frightened infant sobbed in the desert silence. -Why can't they let me alone?-

A low, dusty-green bush rustled. A sandrunner piped in one of the ravines. They were getting close.

Wearily, Kreega scrambled up on top of the rock and crouched low. He had backtracked to it; they should by rights go past him toward his tower.

He could see it from here, a low yellow ruin worn by the winds of millennia. There had only been time to dart in, snatch a bow and a few arrows and an axe. Pitiful weapons—the arrows could not penetrate the Earthman's suit when there was only a Martian's thin grasp to draw the bow, and even with a steel head the axe was a small and feeble thing. But it was all he had, he and his few little allies of a desert which fought only to keep its solitude.

Repatriated slaves had told him of the Earthlings' power. Their roaring machines filled the silence of their own deserts, gouged the quiet face of their own moon, shook the planets with a senseless fury of meaningless energy. They were the conquerors, and it never occurred to them that an ancient peace and stillness could be worth preserving.

Well—he fitted an arrow to the string and crouched in the silent, flimmering sunlight, waiting.

The hound came first, yelping and howling. Kreega drew the bow as far as he could. But the human had to come near first—

There he came, running and bounding over the rocks, rifle in hand and restless eyes shining with taut green light, closing in for the death. Kreega swung softly around. The beast was beyond the rock now, the Earthman almost below it.

The bow twanged. With a savage thrill, Kreega saw the arrow go through the hound, saw the creature leap in the air and then roll over and over, howling and biting at the thing in its breast.

Like a gray thunderbolt, the Martian launched himself off the rock, down at the human. If his axe could shatter that helmet—

He struck the man and they went down together. Wildly, the Martian hewed. The axe glanced off the plastic—he hadn't had room for a swing. Riordan roared and lashed out with a fist. Retching, Kreega rolled backward.

Riordan snapped a shot at him. Kreega turned and fled. The man got to one knee, sighting carefully on the gray form that streaked up the nearest slope.

A little sandsnake darted up the man's leg and wrapped about his wrist. Its small strength was just enough to pull the gun aside. The bullet screamed past Kreega's ear as he vanished into a cleft.

He felt the thin death-agony of the snake as the man pulled it loose and crushed it underfoot. Somewhat later, he heard a dull boom echoing between the hills. The man had gotten explosives from his boat and blown up the tower.

He had lost axe and bow. Now he was utterly weaponless, without even a place to retire for a last stand. And the hunter would not give up. Even without his animals, he would follow, more slowly but as relentlessly as before.

Kreega collapsed on a shelf of rock. Dry sobbing racked his thin body, and the sunset wind cried with him.

Presently he looked up, across a red and yellow immensity to the low sun. Long shadows were creeping over the land, peace and stillness for a brief moment before the iron cold of night closed down. Somewhere the soft trill of a sandrunner echoed between low wind-worn cliffs, and the brush began to speak, whispering back and forth in its ancient wordless tongue.

The desert, the planet and its wind and sand under the high cold stars, the clean open land of silence and loneliness and a destiny which was not man's, spoke to him. The enormous oneness of life on Mars, drawn together against the cruel environment, stirred in his blood. As the sun went down and the stars blossomed forth in awesome frosty glory, Kreega began to think again.

He did not hate his persecutor, but the grimness of Mars was in him. He fought the war of all which was old and primitive and lost in its own dreams against the alien and the desecrator. It was as ancient and pitiless as life, that war, and each battle won or lost meant something even if no one ever heard of it.

-You do not fight alone,- whispered the desert. -You fight for all Mars, and we are with you.-

Something moved in the darkness, a tiny warm form running across his hand, a little feathered mouse-like thing that burrowed under the sand and lived its small fugitive life and was glad in its own way of living. But it was a part of a world, and Mars has no pity in its voice.

Still, a tenderness was within Kreega's heart, and he whispered gently in the language that was not a language, -You will do this for us? You will do it, little brother?-

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Riordan was too tired to sleep well. He had lain awake for a long time, thinking, and that is not good for a man alone in the Martian hills.

So now the rockhound was dead too. It didn't matter, the owlie wouldn't escape. But somehow the incident brought home to him the immensity and the age and the loneliness of the desert.

It whispered to him. The brush rustled and something wailed in darkness and the wind blew with a wild mournful sound over faintly starlit cliffs, and it was as if they all somehow had voice, as if the whole world muttered and threatened him in the night. Dimly, he wondered if man would ever subdue Mars, if the human race had not finally run across something bigger than itself.

But that was nonsense. Mars was old and worn-out and barren, dreaming itself into slow death. The tramp of human feet, shouts of men and roar of sky-storming rockets, were waking it, but to a new destiny, to man's. When Ares lifted its hard spires above the hills of Syrtis, where then were the ancient gods of Mars?

It was cold, and the cold deepened as the night wore on. The stars were fire and ice, glittering diamonds in the deep crystal dark. Now and then he could hear a faint snapping borne through the earth as rock or tree split open. The wind laid itself to rest, sound froze to death, there was only the hard clear starlight falling through space to shatter on the ground.

Once something stirred. He woke from a restless sleep and saw a small thing skittering toward him. He groped for the rifle beside his sleeping bag, then laughed harshly. It was only a sandmouse. But it proved that the Martian had no chance of sneaking up on him while he rested.

He didn't laugh again. The sound had echoed too hollowly in his helmet.

With the clear bitter dawn he was up. He wanted to get the hunt over with. He was dirty and unshaven inside the unit, sick of iron rations pushed through the airlock, stiff and sore with exertion. Lacking the hound, which he'd had to shoot, tracking would be slow, but he didn't want to go back to Port Armstrong for another. No, hell take that Martian, he'd have the devil's skin soon!

Breakfast and a little moving made him feel better. He looked with a practiced eye for the Martian's trail. There was sand and brush over everything, even the rocks had a thin coating of their own erosion. The owlie couldn't cover his tracks perfectly—if he tried, it would slow him too much. Riordan fell into a steady jog.

Noon found him on higher ground, rough hills with gaunt needles of rock reaching yards into the sky. He kept going, confident of his own ability to wear down the quarry. He'd run deer to earth back home, day after day until the animal's heart broke and it waited quivering for him to come.

The trail looked clear and fresh now. He tensed with the knowledge that the Martian couldn't be far away.

Too clear! Could this be bait for another trap? He hefted the rifle and proceeded more warily. But no, there wouldn't have been time—

He mounted a high ridge and looked over the grim, fantastic landscape. Near the horizon he saw a blackened strip, the border of his radioactive barrier. The Martian couldn't go further, and if he doubled back Riordan would have an excellent chance of spotting him.

He tuned up his speaker and let his voice roar into the stillness: "Come out, owlie! I'm going to get you, you might as well come out now and be done with it!"

The echoes took it up, flying back and forth between the naked crags, trembling and shivering under the brassy arch of sky. -Come out, come out, come out— -

The Martian seemed to appear from thin air, a gray ghost rising out of the jumbled stones and standing poised not twenty feet away. For an instant, the shock of it was too much; Riordan gaped in disbelief. Kreega waited, quivering ever so faintly as if he were a mirage.

Then the man shouted and lifted his rifle. Still the Martian stood there as if carved in gray stone, and with a shock of disappointment Riordan thought that he had, after all, decided to give himself to an inevitable death.

Well, it had been a good hunt. "So long," whispered Riordan, and squeezed the trigger.

Since the sandmouse had crawled into the barrel, the gun exploded.

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Riordan heard the roar and saw the barrel peel open like a rotten banana. He wasn't hurt, but as he staggered back from the shock Kreega lunged at him.

The Martian was four feet tall, and skinny and weaponless, but he hit the Earthling like a small tornado. His legs wrapped around the man's waist and his hands got to work on the airhose.

Riordan went down under the impact. He snarled, tigerishly, and fastened his hands on the Martian's narrow throat. Kreega snapped futilely at him with his beak. They rolled over in a cloud of dust. The brush began to chatter excitedly.

Riordan tried to break Kreega's neck—the Martian twisted away, bored in again.

With a shock of horror, the man heard the hiss of escaping air as Kreega's beak and fingers finally worried the airhose loose. An automatic valve clamped shut, but there was no connection with the pump now—

Riordan cursed, and got his hands about the Martian's throat again. Then he simply lay there, squeezing, and not all Kreega's writhing and twistings could break that grip.

Riordan smiled sleepily and held his hands in place. After five minutes or so Kreega was still. Riordan kept right on throttling him for another five minutes, just to make sure. Then he let go and fumbled at his back, trying to reach the pump.

The air in his suit was hot and foul. He couldn't quite reach around to connect the hose to the pump—

Poor design, he thought vaguely. -But then, these airsuits weren't meant for battle armor.-

He looked at the slight, silent form of the Martian. A faint breeze ruffled the gray feathers. What a fighter the little guy had been! He'd be the pride of the trophy room, back on Earth.

Let's see now—He unrolled his sleeping bag and spread it carefully out. He'd never make it to the rocket with what air he had, so it was necessary to let the suspensine into his suit. But he'd have to get inside the bag, lest the nights freeze his blood solid.

He crawled in, fastening the flaps carefully, and opened the valve on the suspensine tank. Lucky he had it—but then, a good hunter thinks of everything. He'd get awfully bored, lying here till Wisby caught the signal in ten days or so and came to find him, but he'd last. It would be an experience to remember. In this dry air, the Martian's skin would keep perfectly well.

He felt the paralysis creep up on him, the waning of heartbeat and lung action. His senses and mind were still alive, and he grew aware that complete relaxation has its unpleasant aspects. Oh, well—he'd won. He'd killed the wiliest game with his own hands.

Presently Kreega sat up. He felt himself gingerly. There seemed to be a rib broken—well, that could be fixed. He was still alive. He'd been choked for a good ten minutes, but a Martian can last fifteen without air.

He opened the sleeping bag and got Riordan's keys. Then he limped slowly back to the rocket. A day or two of experimentation taught him how to fly it. He'd go to his kinsmen near Syrtis. Now that they had an Earthly machine, and Earthly weapons to copy—

But there was other business first. He didn't hate Riordan, but Mars is a hard world. He went back and dragged the Earthling into a cave and hid him beyond all possibility of human search parties finding him.

For a while he looked into the man's eyes. Horror stared dumbly back at him. He spoke slowly, in halting English: "For those you killed, and for being a stranger on a world that does not want you, and against the day when Mars is free, I leave you."

Before departing, he got several oxygen tanks from the boat and hooked them into the man's air supply. That was quite a bit of air for one in suspended animation. Enough to keep him alive for a thousand years.

#free books #scifi #science fiction #political commentary #Mars #Martians

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faebriel · 1 year ago

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hmm pjo au

i haven't actually read pjo so i consulted my brother wam @smallchaoscryptid for this one!! here are some screenshots of our discussion

so erm... well i'm still dying on the niki demeter hill. wilbur apollo and techno athena gets extra points for being the most distant cousins ever. i'm still attached to fully mortal tommy ngl.

we didn't really discuss anyone outside of that circle (it was a 4am flight check-in if you were wondering) but hmm i'm spinning quackity around in my head and trying to figure out if he'll land on someone like ares or aphrodite for shits and gigs? there are definitely more interesting combos here but i don't know enough about pjo or greek gods for that matter to assign them.

oh and they go to summer camp. actually can techno be a counsellor where none of the kids know if he's 17 or 29 i think that would be funny

#also when sending that first message i forgot all the greek gods were related anyway. pls do not send me corrections bc i dont care #asks #aunonnies #thank u for the ask nonnie!! even if i know sweet FA abt pjo i appreciated it

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eamonorus-blog · 3 years ago

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Eowyn and Faramir.

After having heard one too many times about how the romance between Eowyn and Faramir came out of nowhere, or how it was a betrayal of Eowyn’s feminist actions, I decided to write down why their relationship works so well for me, both thematically in terms of the wider story lord of the rings is telling, and in terms of their two personalities coming together.

To start with, we must cover something which many people, most notably Tom Shippey, author of the book author of the century have talked about before regarding Tolkiens work, what Tolkien called the “Northern theory of courage”.

In the famous Anglo-Saxon poem, The Battle of Maldon the Earl of Essex, Byrhtnoth, overcome by pride, allows his Viking enemies to cross and fight him on even footing. The Vikings end up killing him in the battle, but as he lies dead one of his men stands by his body to defend it to the last and exhorts others to do the same, saying:

“Will shall be the sterner, Heart the bolder, Spirit the greater as our strength lessens.”

By this point in the battle, defeat is certain, and there is no material benefit to fighting on, running away or surrendering might offer at least some chance of surviving, but the virtue extolled here is one of conduct not outcome. It doesn’t matter whether you die, and are defeated, so long as you conduct yourself well, that is what matters.

Indeed, in Norse mythology, the Valkyrie take away the greatest mortal warriors from the battles on Midgard so that they might fight at Odin’s side during Ragnorak, a battle which Odin and the Aesir are destined to lose, defeated by the Giants and other forces of evil. And to a mind purely thinking in terms of outcome, it would seem pointless to fight a battle which one was destined to lose from the start, and yet ancient Scandinavians wouldn’t have thought so.

For defeat does not mean refutation, and no battle bravely and honourably fought is fought in vain. This was clearly something Tolkien clearly thought was a valuable thing, and he thought about it deeply. I will talk about the way the Rohirrim embody this spirit at length, but Tolkien was not above “giving the devil his due” and giving even antagonistic forces this quality to show they were capable of goodness too.

Hard fighting and long labour they had still; for the Southrons were bold men and grim, and fierce in despair, and the Easterlings were strong and war-hardened and asked for no quarter. And so in this place and that, by burned homestead or barn, upon hillock or mound, under wall or on field, still they gathered and rallied and fought until the day wore away.

Then the Sun went at last behind Mindolluin and filled all the sky with a great burning, so that the hills and the mountains were dyed as with blood; fire glowed in the River, and the grass of the Pelennor lay red in the nightfall. And in that hour the great Battle of the field of Gondor was over; and not one living foe was left within the circuit of the Rammas. All were slain save those who fled to die, or to drown in the red foam of the River. Few ever came eastward to Morgul or Mordor; and to the land of the Haradrim came only a tale from far off: a rumour of the wrath and terror of Gondor.

This is not dissimilar to the way Tolkien wrote such classic fruitless last stands as Hurin and Fingolfin’s in the Silmarillion. As death nears, victory or defeat cease to be important, and doing your duty and dying well and with dignity so that you can be remembered with honour becomes what matters. Characters in Lord of the Rings are constantly talking about dying in a way that will be worthy of song. When Theoden faces defeat and death trapped inside the Hornburg he says;

‘I fret in this prison,’ said Theoden. ‘If I could have set a spear in rest, riding before my men upon the field, maybe I could have felt again the joy of battle, and so ended. But I serve little purpose here.’

‘Here at least you are guarded in the strongest fastness of the Mark,’ said Aragorn. ‘More hope we have to defend you in the Hornburg than in Edoras, or even at Dunharrow in the mountains.’

Aragorn is looking at what the best tactical decision is, but Theoden is thinking of what would have him rest easiest after he is dead. He speaks in this way many times, and so does Eomer at various points. Dying heroically is vitally important to the Rohirrim, even though they do not explicitly have a concept such as having to die gloriously to go to Valhalla, they still act as if they do, which is summed up by Theodens dying words.

‘Farewell, Master Holbytla!’ he said. ‘My body is broken. I go to my fathers. And even in their mighty company I shall not now be ashamed. I felled the black serpent. A grim morn, and a glad day, and a golden sunset!’

Theoden doesn’t know whether the good guys will win out or not, but he has died a valiant death having done mighty deeds, and he is happy with that. Let’s contrast this with Faramir and Denethor’s attitude towards war. Everyone knows about Faramirs famous line about war, where he talks about the fact he does not love war for its own sake, but people often forget the full context for that line.

‘For myself,’ said Faramir, ‘I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Anor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens: not a mistress of many slaves, nay, not even a kind mistress of willing slaves. War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Numenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise.’

Take note of the stark contrast (which Faramir himself explicitly draws) between the rude northern glory seeking of the Rohirrim, and the ancient, civilised virtues and wisdom of Numenor which Gondor represents.

Another thing people forget though, is that Faramir and Denethor are explicitly said to be very similar, both of them are, like Aragorn, rare examples of the ancient power and wisdom of Numenor strangely shining forth late in Gondors civilisational cycle. (Unlike Boromir, who Eomer says reminds him of his own people, and who is a glory hound) and they are both in fact very alike, cunning and well read men who do what they think is right regardless of what others say, something which frustrates Denethor.

Denethor doesn’t take to the field to fight his own battles, but it is not out of any cowardice or weakness, he wears armour constantly even when he doesn’t have to, in order to keep himself fit, he uses the Palantir and is able to wrest it to his own use in defiance of Sauron. These are smart decisions, but not glory seeking ones, Denethor is well respected by his people, but not well liked, and he sees no need to engage in the kind of personal heroics that might change that, the more quiet, cunning, and considered actions and sacrifices which no one else knows of are more his speed.

He sends Faramir out to hold the western bank of the river, and Faramir does so for as long as he can, attempting to retreat in good order after he can hold on no longer, not trying to die in a fruitless last stand, but get as many men back to the city safely as possible.

Eventually though, his retreat ends up turning into a full rout. But Denethor had planned for this eventuality and unleashes his hidden cavalry reserve, setting upon those who are pursuing Faramir, and turning them to flight instead. After that is done though, the cavalry is called back to the city before they can become victims of the same kind of trap of overextension.

No fruitless glorious charge for Denethor, all the weapons of war, and of sorcery, and his own flesh and blood are all just tools to be used to their utmost ability in defence of the city and civilisation he loves more than anything else. And Faramir is almost the exact same as his father, but not quite, as we will see.

Now that I have established the cultural differences between the Rohirrim and Gondorians, I will point out how they drive Eowyns motivations, which are often simplified as being merely a feminist rebellion against the patriarchy.

This is what Aragorn says to her, and how she replies.

‘A time may come soon,’ said he, ‘when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.’

And she answered: ‘All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield a blade, and I do no fear either pain or death.’

Lets take careful note of what Eowyn ISN’T saying here. She isn’t saying that her society is wrong because it is refusing to give her a position of prominence of responsibility, the way a typical feminist critique would be, because her main complaint is in fact that she hates being saddled with RULING the kingdom while her uncle and brother go off to fight. If all she cared about was being a girlboss with authority, then she wouldn’t have to do anything, as that was literally what everyone else wanted her to be doing.

She also isn’t making a systemic criticism of Rohirric culture. For one, she argues that because she is high class she should have more freedom, unlike a lower-class person, who obviously such restrictions would apply to. (not very intersectional Eowyn!) and for another, and more importantly, her whole point of view is shaped by wanting to live up to Rohirric ideals about what a good life, and specifically a good death look like.

According to Denethor, and Faramir, and Aragorn even, the point of war is to defend the society that you love, and that is its purpose, it doesn’t have one beyond that. Obviously there are exceptions, and we see Gondorians like Boromir and Earnur act foolhardy, and we see the Rohirrim fight with a definite purpose of defending their lands and people, but I am talking about how they prioritize things.

And Eowyns situation, one where she felt trapped and humiliated by the declining state of Rohan, Grima’s lecherous looks, Theodens frailty, the strength of Mordor and Isengard, and her own inability to do anything to stop it, has led to her yearning for the glorious death her society taught her to value above anything else as a way of redemption and escape.

When Aragorn tries to mollify her by pointing out how important it is to fight for the safety of the people, she has no time for it. Indeed, she abandons her duty to rule over Edoras in Theodens stead when she uses a disguise to ride away with the army.

This is what the film got wrong about Eowyn. Book!Eowyn would have had no need to whisper to Merry, ‘courage, courage for our friends!’ This is wrong on two levels, for one, she isn’t going to war primarily for the sake of helping others, she isn’t mad that Theoden won’t let her help in the war effort, according to him, she would be doing the most help for that by ruling on his behalf at home, she is made he won’t let her ride to her death. She is driven by a selfish desire which drives her to disobey orders and abandon her responsibilities.

And on the next level, she has no need to try and keep her courage up, she does not fear pain or death, only a cage, and that great deeds go beyond her recall or desire. That is why when the horses and men of Theodens Guard flee in panic, she does not. She has fully exemplified the Northern theory of courage. Theoden is probably dead, even if he isn’t his body is crushed in such a way that he won’t be able to participate in the battle any further, from a purely logical Denethorian perspective facing down the witch king to save him isn’t a smart move. But she does it anyway.

To fully explore this, lets contrast Eowyn with Denethor. With ruthlessly efficient calculation, Denethor makes every possible step he can take throughout the long decades to ensure Gondor is faced with the best chance of survival. And yet finally he is hit by the hammer blows of several devastating losses at once. He loses both his sons, ensuring the line of stewards is over, he sees vast armies gathering in the east beyond counting, and finally he sees the black ships coming up the Anduin to ensure the city will fall.

Tolkien specifically uses two words for hope in his excellent short story/essay ATHRABETH the first is Amdir, which means a kind of optimistic guess that things will materially improve in the direction you might like them to. Whereas the other form of hope, Estel, is more complicated, and means something like faith, a human belief that things are intended to turn out in some ultimate cosmic sense, that derives from our natures as created beings under God, and not from logically parsing out the truth of what will happen based on experience.

Denethor holds on to Amdir as long as he can, fighting on to save Gondor no matter the odds right up until the odds seem totally beyond any possible redress, and then he despairs. And whereas Eowyn channels her despair into a masculine attempt at suicide by battle, Denethor channels his despair into the kind of death a valiant woman might take when faced with capture by an enemy army and chooses suicide.

In this way, Denethor proves himself lesser than Eowyn. Because his lack of Northern Courage means that when faced with certain defeat he sees no point in fighting on, or even in running away, but instead chooses self-annihilation, burning in the house that he has no more need for, the fate that Eowyn was trying to avoid when she refused to stay behind and rule while others fought, which is arguably the smart move, and why Denethor was doing it.

Eowyn may have chosen better than Denethor in that sense, but when we see her in the houses of healing after killing the Witch King, she is still miserable. Why? Because like Denethor she still sees defeat as inevitable, and she see is now trapped in the very situation she despised, being left behind while the rest ride off to a glorious certain death. And that is why she is so upset. Faramir’s attempts to cheer her up and get her to focus on self-care are naturally ineffective.

At the moment of Saurons downfall, Eowyn and Faramir are standing upon the wall when they feel it as a dark presence, and see the shadow of Sauron looming up in the distance.

‘Then you think that the Darkness is coming?’ said Eowyn. ‘Darkness Unescapable?” And suddenly she drew close to him. ‘No,’ said Faramir, looking into her face. ‘It was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Eowyn, Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!’ And he stooped and kissed her brow.

Denethor had hope founded on evidence that he could understand, until he lost that evidence that it was possible for darkness to be conquered, and then he despaired and killed himself, Eowyn never had hope, and therefore tried to kill herself in battle. Faramir however, is able to have hope from a faith that fate does not have an ultimately cruel end, and that God is destined to triumph over evil in an ultimate sense.

In other words, philosophically, Faramir “converts” Eowyn from her doom seeking Heathen ways to a hopeful Christian way. Living a life as nobility, with a loving spouse and children, in days of peace, these are things which it isn’t shameful to enjoy, and are what many people want above anything else, but lacking hope Eowyn saw them as something without any value, despising them. It is only by learning to accept hope into her heart, and rejecting the worst excesses of foolhardy courage, that she is finally able to be healed and be happy. Faramir does not chide her for killing the Witch King, only the desire to continue to fight until she dies without a good cause, in an attempt to escape shame.

But there is another barrier to Eowyn and Faramir falling in love, one which many people miss. In the rush of feminists to find issue with Eowyn settling down with a MAN, people totally miss how Faramir falling in love with Eowyn, on a surface level, appears equally out of character. Let’s return to Faramirs comment about not loving war for its own sake, with especial focus on the later part ‘ I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Numenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise.’

Faramir loves the past past glory of Numenor, and of Gondor after it. He sees the bloodline, culture, language and virtues of Numenorean civilisation as incredibly important, frankly he sees the Numenoreans as being greater than other humans. Not always morally, but definitely in potential and heritage.

Lets see what he has to say about the Rohirrim as a people, something very relevant for us to know if we are to figure out what his first impressions of Eowyn might be.

‘And we love them: tall men and fair women, valiant both alike, golden-haired, bright eyed, and strong; they remind us of the youth of Men, as they were in the Elder Days.’ Ok, seems like Faramir thinks pretty positively of the Rohirrim, indeed it might be that we can discern that he has a type! But not so fast, lets read a little further on. ‘Yet now, if the Rohirrim are grown in some ways more like to us, enhanced in arts and gentleness, we too have become more like to them, and can scarce claim any longer the title of High. We are become Middle Men, of the Twilight, but with memory of other things. For as the Rohirrim, do, we now love war and valour as things good in themselves, both a sport and an end; and though we still hold that a warrior should have more skills and knowledge than only the craft of weapons and slaying, we esteem a warrior, nonetheless, above men of other crafts. Such is the need of our days.’

We already know that Faramir does not approve of glory seeking, and that he regrets the decline of the ancient splendour and virtue of Numenor. And the Rohirrim having cultural contact with Gondor is causing both of these things to accelerate, he clearly doesn’t hate the Rohirrim, but he also sees their influence as bringing an end to something he clearly cares about incredibly deeply. So when he falls in love with Eowyn should we take this as him simply shrugging his shoulders and throwing aside his duty to preserve Numenorean blood and prevent further dilution of what made Numenor great just because he finds Eowyn hot?

Absolutely not! Faramir is a guy who doesn’t like fighting who nonetheless fights with courage in terrible circumstances for decades because he has to defend his people, he is someone who refuses to allow the ring to tempt him because he believes so strongly in holding to the best traditions of the faithful in their resistance to evil.

He is someone who takes duty and doing the right thing incredibly seriously. I think anyone who thinks that he would throw away his strongly held convictions just because he found a girl attractive has misread his character. In fact, the point is so clearly a potential issue in the way of the relationship that Eowyn brings it up.

‘Then must I leave my own people, man of Gondor? she said. ‘And would you have your proud folk say of you: ‘There goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North! Was there no woman of the race of Numenor to choose?’

‘I would,’ said Faramir.

Why is Faramir seeming to act out of character here? It is because Faramir, along with Gandalf (Who Faramir is mentored by if you recall) is one of the characters who most acts as a mouthpiece for Tolkiens own views, as Tolkien said that of all lotr characters Faramir was the one who most resembles him, and he espouses much of Tolkiens worldview. By marrying Eowyn, Faramir is embodying a central principle of Tolkiens works, treasuring what was great about the past without becoming enslaved to it. Celebrimbor and the Smiths of Eregion longed for the glorious past of what had been, both in Beleriand and in Valinor, both of which they had lost, and yet in their attempts to preserve the past, they created the Rings of Power, and ended up giving Sauron his deadliest weapons.

They should have accepted their lessened and dwindling status in Middle Earth, or else returned to Valinor, but they wanted to have both the beauty and bliss of the blessed realm, and the freedom and superiority over others that being in Middle Earth gave them. They were entrapped by their past greatness and fought vainly against the decay of time which would inevitably lessen them.

Faramir, despite being what would in modern parlance be termed a Numenorean supremacist, is keenly aware of this flaw.

‘Death was ever present, because the Numenoreans still, as they had in their old kingdom, and so lost it, hungered after endless life unchanging. Kings made tombs more splendid than houses of the living, and counted old names in the rolls of their descent dearer than the names of sons. Childless lords sat in aged halls musing on heraldry; in secret chambers withered men compounded strong elixirs, or in high cold towers asked questions of the stars.’

These unnamed Numenorean nobles, like Faramir, and like Tolkien in fact, had a reverence and respect for the past. But they let this consume them, and wished for things to go an as they had forever, (which is exactly the power that the elven rings bestow, an unchanging eternity of preserved venerable splendour) and forgot that having plenty of new children, whether they be as great as their ancestors or not, was more important than ruminating endlessly over how good things used to be.

Arwen is Middle Earth royalty, in her is blood from the royalty of the three Elven clans, and the three houses of the Edain. She is one of the greatest living representations of the past beauty and enchantment of the Elves. If Elrond had the mindset of Celebrimbor and the Kings of Gondor, he would have tried to ensure she married another Elf, and continue to carry on the old Elven lineage and civilisation in Middle Earth, but he doesn’t, he allows her to marry Aragorn, a man. Just as Isildur carried away a sapling from the tree in Numenor, Arwen represents a precious piece of the glorious past, carrying over to what comes after, giving the next civilisation a memory of what came before, and ennobling the none the less inevitably lesser next stage of the world. For to hold on too tight to the past because you fear it changing isn’t healthy, change is inevitable, you should honour the past while not being afraid to let things change. This is what the Elves do throughout the early years of the fourth age, they leave Middle Earth graciously, before their presence there becomes unsightly, as they have changed and diminished so much, desperately holding onto a crumbling past.

This is exactly what the Kings of Numenor did before the fall, when they grew old, they would relinquish the throne, instead of waiting until they died of old age, embarrassing themselves by ruling in their last years as feeble old men, and when they did die, they had the ability to do so gracefully, of their own free will, before they lost their minds, which is what Aragorn does.

In this willingness to accept this decline and change, Faramir is different from Denethor, and indeed, this is their main difference in character, since they are so alike in almost every other way. Faramir can let the Ring go, even if would “save” Minas Tirith, because he believes that to unnaturally save Minas Tirith using such a means would only make its inevitable end all the more awful and stained with desperate dishonour.

Because he believes that it is inevitable that Gondor will fall with the passage of time, and something else good will come after it, so using evil means to prolong Numenorean civilisation beyond its proper limits is wrong, just as it is wrong to seek foul and unnatural means to prolong the life of an individual man (Another power that the Rings of Power have) Everything in the material world has a lifespan that will some day come to an end, there is virtue in accepting that end gracefully and allowing what comes next to take its place.

Earlier I said that Denethor feel into despair at the military situation, at seeing the corsair ships, and perhaps even seeing Frodo in Cirith Ungol captured by Sauron, but it was actually a deeper sense of despair that Denethor felt.

‘So! With the left hand thou wouldst use me for a little while as a shield against Mordor, and with the right bring up this Ranger of the North to supplant me. ‘But I say to thee, Gandalf Mithrandir, I will no be thy tool! I am Steward of the House of Anarion. I will not step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart. Even were his claim proved to me, still he comes but of the line of Isildur. I will not bow to such a one, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity.’ ‘What then would you have,’ said Gandalf, ‘if your will could have its way?

‘I would have things as they were in all the days of my life,’ answered Denethor, ‘and in the days of my longfathers before me: to be the Lord of this City in peace, and leave my chair to a son after me, who would be his own master and no wizard’s pupil. But if doom denies this to me, then I will have naught: neither life diminished, nor love halved, nor honour abated.’

Sure, Denethor despairs because he no longer sees a practical way to defeat Sauron, but he also despairs, because he sees that even if with a victory for the free peoples, Aragorn would become King, and Gondor would undergo a drastic change. The Numenoreans have been ruling as an elite minority in Gondor for a long time, and their race has been fading for some time. Look at what Denethor says when he believes Faramir is dead (emphasis mine) ‘I sent my son forth unthanked, unblessed, out into needless peril, and here he lies with poison in his veins. Nay, nay, WHATEVER MAY NOW HAPPEN IN WAR, my line too is ending, even the House of the Stewards has failed. Mean folk shall rule the last remnant of the Kings of Men, lurking in the hills until all are hounded out.’ Men came to the door crying for the Lord of the City. ‘Nay, I will not come down,’ he said. I must stay beside my son. He might still speak before the end. But that is near. Follow whom you will, even the Grey Fool, though his hope has failed. Here I stay.’

It is these twin despairs, first at Saurons inability to be defeated, and secondly at the inevitable transformation or destruction of Gondor as it was, that drives Denethor to commit suicide. When faced with the fact that the past greatness will be replaced with an uncertain future he cannot stand it and kills himself in defiance of both Sauron and Gandalf, and their two fold attacks on the traditional Gondorian state. Faramir is different however. He is willing to act with the grace of Elrond, who gave Arwen to Aragorn, with the grace of a Numenorean King giving up the throne, or of Galadriel leaving Middle Earth, and finally renouncing her old selfish desires for authority over others. He steps down as Steward, accepting honour abated, and marries Eowyn, accepting the life of Numenor diminished. When he sees Eowyn, he doesn’t let a clinging allegiance to the past blind him to what good can come in the present. An old Gondorian King might have counted the pure numenorean ancestry of his descendants more precious than that of his sons, and his sons sons, if they were not, but not Faramir. He grieves over the fact that contact with the Rohirrim is changing Gondor, but he also accepts it, and finds the good in it as well. He doesn’t let his love for what is good about Gondorian society blind him to what is good about the Rohirrim, and by extension Eowyn herself.

The Romance of Eowyn and Faramir, is about two people, one who does not wish to live in happiness and peace because she fears that defeat is inevitable, and another who is fearful of change and the fading that comes with time, who are able to overcome these fears and doubts to find happiness and completeness in each other for the remainder of their mortal lives, and in this they both surpass Denethor, who they both strongly resemble in innumerable ways, who in pride and despair slew himself, and robbed himself of seeing his grandchildren and the glory of Gondor restored, despite being changed beyond what he wished it to be.

Their story is one of hope and love, and the acceptance of the sorrow in life, and despite it holding on to the things that do matter, and finding happiness in marriage, children, and peace; some of the most precious and wonderful things in the world.

#eowyn x faramir #eowyn #faramir #denethor #lotr #tolkien

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