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hollywoodx4 · 5 years ago

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Thanksgiving-Modern AU

Hi I’m finally here! I’m Danielle, and I’m the coparent to this modern college AU-So this one of the moments @dilforpheus and I have talked about over and over again and it is one of my most favorites, so I had to write it. I’ve been sitting on this for a long time but I’m excited for this AU to find air other than us screaming at each other all hours of the day even though I love screaming about it. I am so happy that ten years later we’re still on our bullshit. It is SO special to me. - The only thing you need to know is that Orpheus and Eurydice go to college together-she studies in a coffee shop on campus and he notices her there. They both end up going there just to see each other but not saying anything, until Persephone invites her favorite student with nowhere to go for the holiday over to her family Thanksgiving. This is the result. -

The doorbell rings and Orpheus looks up from the mashed potatoes with curiosity, scanning the room. It seems as though they’re all here; Hades stirring one pot and monitoring another, Hermes sitting on the island stool transferring roasted carrots to a different plate. Orpheus has been mashing the potatoes for a while now, the back-and-forth motion making him feel useful in a kitchen commanded heavily by his culinarily anal uncle. He can hear the soft click of Persephone’s footsteps moving across the floor of the entryway, then the slight squeaking of the front door and a bright greeting. The voice that responds is familiar, but in a distant sort of way; Orpheus stops his mashing in hopes of hearing the conversation better-there’s slight laughter, distant but sure, like a music that pulls him.

Persephone enters the kitchen first, reaching an arm out and pulling a girl in beside her. The girl, small in stature, smiles slightly and waves at Hades, who gives the first greeting. Orpheus is frozen; the cropped haircut, bangs just above her eyebrows-the sound of her laughter and the soft, lilted timbre of her voice…this is the girl from the coffee shop. She orders dark coffee with extra espresso, always has her nose in a book or her feet hurrying her somewhere. This is the reason he’d started playing more in that coffee shop, lugging his guitar halfway across campus to somewhere with poorer acoustics and more chatter. This is the girl he’d been thinking about since the beginning of the semester, always a song on the tip of his tongue. When she turns her gaze to him and flashes him that friendly smile, Orpheus lurches at the feeling of his heart skipping in his chest.

“I’m Eurydice,” She steps toward him, leans slightly on the counter in front of him. Eurydice-he can feel the way her name would roll from his lips, four syllables in absolute melodic harmony, a sigh of thanks straight from his soul. He realizes that it’s been too long after everyone else has introduced themselves and his hand shoots away from the bowl of mashed potatoes and reaches to hers. In a flurry he realizes the residue on his hands and quickly wipes them down the old kitchen apron he’d put on. A quick heat rises to his cheeks as he attempts again, and she takes his hand and shakes it.

“I’m Orpheus.” It’s about all he can manage to get out through the near magical feeling of her hand touching hers, even in something as cordial and demure as a handshake. Her dark eyes meet his and he almost forgets to let go-that this is just a handshake and nothing more. It’s a tiny voice that interrupts them, Junie’s light figure bumping against his leg and breaking their eye contact. He takes in a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Junie’s gaze is fixated on Eurydice, who bends down to her level and introduces herself again. The toddler, in all her amazement, lunges forward to hug her. Eurydice laughs-the sound of music and light-and hugs her back before asking her name.

“I’m Junie, are you a princess?” Eurydice can’t help but feel herself warm to the question; she’s dressed simply, a thrifted shirt slightly too big for her small frame with ornate detailing tucked into a pair of dark skinny jeans. She’d taken her boots off at the door, and was left with a pair of mismatched socks thrown on when she realized she’d be late if she didn’t leave her apartment soon enough. The back of the hand she’d shaken with everybody still had remnants of a list written with ballpoint pan; things to do, a new work schedule. She felt like Eurydice, with the arms of the toddler of the mysterious, beautiful musician from the coffee shop wrapped around her.

“No, I’m not a princess,” She brushes the girl’s hair back instinctively, gently. “I bet you are, though.”

The little girl claps, clearly satisfied with that notion, and begins to skip around the kitchen. She holds the hem of her big dress with two hands, lets her soft ringlet curls bounce up and down as she parades. Persephone calls her name, warns her about running in the kitchen as she weaves between Hades carving the turkey and Hermes with a stack of dishes in his hands. Junie then calls for Orpheus, pulling on his hand, and he follows dutifully behind. Persephone shakes her head, sipping from a glass of deep red wine.

“Our daughter-man she’s a firecracker. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. We waited eighteen years for her and it was worth every heartbreak.”

There’s something tiny, indescribable that shifts through the air at this notion; Persephone’s daughter, not his. They race across the edge of the kitchen singing some kind of princess song, Junie’s tiny, powerful voice and his softer one, laughing and playing. Eurydice bites at the corner of her lip, shifting on her feet as she watches them skip by, finally looking away to flash a smile at Persephone.

“She’s beautiful,” They’ve gone into the adjoining room and so Eurydice turns back to the three adults standing around the kitchen island, accepting the offer of a wine bottle and a glass wordlessly held up by Persephone.

When dinner is served Eurydice ends up on one side of Orpheus, who pulls out the chair next to her with the slight turn of his lip and a nod. She nods back, turning her focus to Junie climbing her way into the empty spot on his other side, fitted with a booster seat in the big chair. Her big dress settles around her like a cupcake, all tulle and frill, but she settles her cloth napkin in her lap as if its second nature.

Persephone begins the dinner with a speech-something about being together “just like Sunday dinners,” thanking a quiet, grinning Hades for orchestrating the entire dinner.

“You might’ve made too much, but you’ve been up for a month planning and researching this menu so I can’t say that.” The family laughs, and Eurydice does too-this man with his white-grey hair and large presence is feigning offense, gesturing to the table full of elaborately plated dishes with pride. Once Persephone gives the go-ahead the meal is served, plates passed back and forth around the table. More than once she bumps hands with Orpheus, who hands her dishes of food after serving both Junie and himself. More than once she feels color rise to her cheeks, dismisses it with the warmth of the room and the wine just beginning to hit her system. But the electric feeling lingers between them all night, bumping elbows and making jokes, and she barely remembers the meal she’s eaten when everyone gets up from the table.

She moves to the kitchen but Persephone stops her, shaking her head vehemently.

“You’re our guest, you’re not washing dishes.” She shoos her away and Eurydice finds herself in the living room, where Junie has settled herself with a large bin of dolls. She sets her wine on the coffee table and sits cross-legged on the floor next to her. Junie immediately pushes a group of dolls her way and gives her instruction, babbling on in her tiny voice as she scoots herself closer to Eurydice.

In the kitchen there is a hum of activity, instantaneous and simple from years of practice. Persephone washes and Hades wraps up the leftovers. Hermes dries and Orpheus puts the dishes away, stacking them neatly back in the wide expanse of cabinets the gourmet kitchen is filled with. The dried dishes begin to stack next to the counter, however, and when Hades is done wrapping his eyes catch the pile. Orpheus is leaning against the kitchen island, one finger tracing mindless patterns on the granite countertop. He calls for his nephew but receives no response. Hermes and Persephone turn around-the water is shut off, the dishes done, and the adults watch the boy they raised stand idly, uninterrupted.

“Are you even listening?” Hades raises his voice a bit, prodding his nephew with one giant hand on his shoulder. Orpheus’s lean frame lightly sways in response, but he does not turn to face his uncle. Persephone chuckles from beside him, bringing her glass of wine to her lips.

“It’s the girl,” she points to the pile of toys on the floor, a trail of them leading up to the ornate Victorian-style dollhouse in the corner of the living room. Eurydice is lit by the glow of the fire, her voice changed to match the doll in hand, putting herself in the elaborate story they’ve created. Junie leans up against her, her body nestled in the crook of Eurydice’s elbow. Their backs are turned to the kitchen but he catches glimpses of her turning her head, leaning down to speak to Junie. There is something more to the way she cradles Junie’s sitting frame close to her, the way her voice changes to match the characters she’s set out to play from the endless expanse of dolls. Her full attention is focused on the girl, who’d just met her only hours before. He finds himself transfixed by the scene, by the girl he’d only admired from afar until she’d walked through the door. He wonders briefly what kind of strange magic had brought her to this Thanksgiving, and then remembers Persephone’s brief wording days before.

“She doesn’t have family-she doesn’t have anybody. She’s my favorite student-brilliant, quick as a whip. I invited her over for dinner. She’ll have us.”

“Go talk to her.” Hermes finally pulls him from his daydream, her voice startling him and causing him to jump slightly. Persephone laughs, moving to stand alongside him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Go.”

“She’s the girl I’ve been telling you about-the one from the coffee shop.” It’s almost breathless, the disbelief in his voice as he looks into the living room at her small frame and warm smile. Of all of the people on their college campus-of all of the students Persephone teaches-he can’t believe that she is sitting in his aunt’s house, playing with his niece. He can’t believe the luck-the coincidence that feels more like fate to his poetic translation. But as much as he feels the pull toward her he cannot seem to move his body, rooted to this place in the kitchen by an unrecognizable force.

“Here,” Persephone pours him a hefty glass of wine, much to Hermes’s warning glance-their boy is a lightweight, but the woman with beautiful rolling curls and a coy smile does not take his overly-cautious caveats; this is typical of Hermes, who’d always been the more serious in raising their boy. “Take a little sip of liquid courage and just go over there. Speak your truth.”

“No,” Hermes interrupts with his slow, careful wording in the most delicate and intelligent of voices. He narrows his eyes at Persephone, turning to Orpheus with a caution in the back of his eyes. “Go on and talk to her, but don’t come on too strong.”

He looks then to Hades, who’s polishing off the pieces of the gas stove, reading glasses perched neatly on the tip of his nose. He chuckles, shaking his head.

“Just talk to her, boy. It’s as simple as that.”

Orpheus, taking a long sip of red wine, finds the confidence to saunter into the living room. At least, it feels like a saunter. His long limbs perform the action with less grace and poise, certainly. Junie turns to him first, hearing him coming, and reaches his arms out to him. He sits on her other side, nodding again at Eurydice, who grins back. She’s completely illuminated by the warm glow of the fire and his heart nearly stops there, the words he’d practiced on the short walk completely forgotten. All he can muster is another hi, spoken through a gentle tenor knocked over by her presence. The words he wants to say get mixed up, and he’s not sure where to begin; I feel like I’ve known you forever-I’ve seen you at the coffee shop before-I’m the one who bought you coffee and sent it your way last Monday-I haven’t been able to find the words to say to you-I

Persephone calls Junie’s name, appearing in the doorway. The toddler pouts, crossing her arms-she knows what’s coming before Persephone can tell her.

“No bed.” She shakes her head, looking between Orpheus and Eurydice. She doesn’t want to miss the fun; she’s sure her uncle has come to join their play. But Persephone gives her a pointed look and she groans, little yet sure, then tugs at Orpheus’s arm.

“Ophie put me to bed.”

“No, sweetheart, let me do it.”

“No, Ophie.” All Junie has to do is look up at him with big, adoring eyes and a refusal is out of the question; he shrugs at Eurydie, an apology more to himself, and picks his niece up, cradling her in his arms.

“Queen Buggy has spoken,” He coos, kissing her forehead and hugging her close. “I’ll be back. Say goodnight.”

Junie lays her head on Orpheus’s chest and waves, then he turns and moves to bring her upstairs while speaking to her in a silent, slightly singing voice. Eurydice watches them go, still clutching both barbies in her hands, until Persephone begins to pick up the mess around her.

“She’s a good girl,” Eurydice offers, tossing her dolls into the large toy chest against the wall. Persephone merely grins, with a hidden sort of prodding within the mask of outward happiness that causes Eurydice to blush in immediate understanding. Persephone gestures to the couch and she sits, hanging Eurydice her glass before taking a drink from her own. The older woman sits on the coffee table, one leg crossed over the other.

“I’m glad you could come,” Persephone softens upon looking at the girl-really looking at her. With her soft, rounded features and fringed bangs over tired eyes, she is a thing of beauty. Exhausted, intelligent, hard-working beauty; she is effortless in her posture, humble in the way she thanks Persephone for giving her somewhere to go. She has to work later-the Black Friday rush-and Persephone wonders briefly if this is the first Thanksgiving she’s spent with the company of a family and warm food. It seems so; her frame is tiny, and she’s debated heavily on the topics of humanity and the reality of family ties in class before. Her papers have been moving, completely compelling. She wonders now, with the girl sitting with her body toward the front of the couch, if her arguments had been born from experience.

Orpheus returns then, standing awkwardly in the doorway, and Persephone jumps from her place on the coffee table and pats the couch.

“Here, Orpheus,” She prods, with a pointed look so natural to the blatant nature of her personality. “I don’t think you’ve had a chance to talk much yet-keep her company while I settle some things with Hades?” She’s nodding, not giving Orpheus a chance to give in to the bustling anxieties living underneath the pull in his heart. She bustles quickly from the room then, moves to stand behind the kitchen island, just barely out of sight. She watches as her nephew sits, Eurydice laughing at whatever introduction they’d given themselves. She pulls Hades and Hermes to stand next to her, watching the younger adults talk.

“I have a good feeling about this-look at him, he’s gone.”

Orpheus leans back on the couch, taking practiced breaths as he attempts light chatter. She volleys answers back to him-she’s a communications major, spends most of her time in Persephone’s classes. He’s a music major, a year older. The more she talks the more he’s hinged on her words, the tonality of her voice and the warmth of the room-the crackling of the fire, the soft music coming from the speakers in the dining room-wrap Orpheus in a consuming serenity. She’s just finished telling him about a final paper when he loses it, that restraint he’d been so surprised with having for so long.

“I’ve notice you before-in the coffee shop.” He stammers over the words that spill themselves involuntarily from his lips, and he immediately feels the overwhelming heat that reaches his cheeks. Eurydice lets a soft smile reach her lips, her head tilting slightly.

“I’ve noticed you too-you always have your guitar. Working on something important?”

“A few things-I haven’t finished anything yet, though. The coffee shop is always busy-the acoustics aren’t the best. I used to work more in one of the practice rooms, but you have to stay where your inspiration is.”

“Oh,” It’s all she can muster-she isn’t sure what to make of Orpheus’s words, the meaning she thinks she deciphers behind them. He looks at her with a gentle nature unfamiliar to her, speaks in a voice so light she feels as though it could carry her away at any moment. She thinks of him with his guitar, settled in the corner of the coffee shop with a notebook balanced on the arm of an old chair. She thinks of her abandoned notes, the time spent watching his careful concentration as he plugged away at combinations of chords that felt like otherworldly symphonies. Her intention of drinking dark coffee with extra espresso had been laced with the promise of the possibility of seeing him again, hearing more of his musings, and now he sat next to her on the couch talking of inspirations and bad acoustics. There’s a flood of pictures in her head-him and his guitar, him chasing his niece around the kitchen earlier in the night, him chasing other children with her dark hair and his light eyes. She blinks the vision away, frightened at the strange intensity that draws her to him. Instead of drawing back, however, she feels herself pull closer toward him. Setting her glass on the table beside them, she shifts her weight on the couch, turning her body to face his. Her request is wordless-she’s not sure she can speak at this point, so enraptured by his soft eyes and the visions in her head. When she puts a hand on his jawline he meets her lips, eager yet slow. She moves against him instantly, pushing herself against him as the immediate spark flies to the forefront of her mind. He holds her then, hands gentle and soft, encompassing her in warmth as she moves her hands to the hair on the back of his neck. There is nothing else-just Orpheus, the name she breathes as she lowers his body to the couch. Her musician has a name and it is beautiful just as he is, with his hands holding her hips and his lips brushing her neck.

He isn’t sure what’s come over himself but once her lips meet his, Orpheus feels impulse kick in. He wants to hold her; hear her voice sighing his name, feel the hitch in her breath as he kisses her neck. He wants to lose himself in the song of her action, her body, her soul. It’s as if he’s known her for years, but is kissing her for the first time, familiar yet so new, and something he wants to do until his lips turn blue and his lungs give out.

“Come home with me,” He whispers the words as she presses his forehead against his, feels the strength and rapidity of her heart beating in her chest. She nods, wordless, and takes pause to catch her breath. They’re interrupted by the clearing of a throat from the kitchen, voices speaking louder than need be, and as they sit up Persephone appears in the doorway.

“We were just going to take out some cards-want to play?”

“No-uh-no thank you, Seph. We-we’re going to get going now.” Eurydice nods, biting her lower lip and clearing her throat and trailing Orpheus to the coat rack by the front door. He holds out her coat to her first, helping her slip it on before finding his own.

“Thank you so much for inviting me-it was a beautiful dinner, and it was so nice to meet everyone.” She’s still near breathlessness, a slight giddiness in her voice as she and Orpheus move to hug everyone goodbye. He wraps a hand around her waist then, and she falters as they make their way for the door, waving one last time before the cold air of the night hits them as brisk as their impatience.

#hadestown #modern au #orpheus #eurydice #the entire family

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nobreadforturtles · 5 years ago

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aesthetics

White people don’t understand the importance of our aesthetics. They make an aesthetic issue into a (white) moral issue because it separates the issue from its cultural context and makes it an academic object, something that you’re better equipped to talk about the more you ‘know about it’ from a philosophical standpoint or ‘are interested in’ the topic. I say ‘white moral issue’ because I’m talking about morality/ethics/virtue the way it has been developed within white academic structures. In this way, white people desperate to feel smart, knowledgeable, and ‘ahead of the game’ can build authority according to their own rules. It also allows people to make broad generalizations, like “X is wrong,” with context as an afterthought (like “Okay wait, maybe in special circumstances it’s good”). Note that this is different from “I don’t like X” or “We don’t like X,” which is an aesthetic response, not an attempt at a moral one. But note also(!) that depending on the societal authority of the speaker, even a seemingly morals-free statement like this can become a moral judgement.

Well-meaning people might view aesthetic issues through a white moral lens because they want to be creators of knowledge rather than just receivers. Maybe they’re impatient, or have taken the concept of ‘not demanding emotional labor from POC’ to mean they have to take knowledge creation into their own hands (rather than, maybe, starting with internet resources or books).

When I talk about issues as ‘aesthetic,’ I am not trying to downplay the importance of the issue. I think aesthetics is crucial, and is not the same thing as performativity. I am also not trying to say that the issue should be defined as entirely aesthetic. What I am trying to say, at the least, is that there is a crucial aesthetic component of the issue that is consistently ignored by white systems, and that this dismissal undermines cultural agency.

Here is what I mean when I talk about aesthetic issues: When you have experience in a culture or community, whether because you belong to it or because you lived alongside it for a while, you know what ‘we don’t do that here’ means. It could be because something has bad connotations, or maybe because it has a history that an outsider wouldn’t necessarily be aware of. But you don’t have to be able to pin down exactly why it feels wrong to know that it’s not ‘right.’ That doesn’t mean it’s morally wrong (according to white morality). It’s just wrong for the community (which might even be worse!). That’s why I think there’s an aesthetic component at play.

It might be something like linguistic acceptance, which linguists study to measure the grammaticality and semantic well-formedness of a sentence or phrase. The authority to decide whether a sentence is ‘good’ or ‘bad’ lies in the minds of the speakers of the language, not in the minds of the linguists. This ‘goodness’ or ‘badness’ is not generalizable to other languages (though it might have some implications for related languages), and its value is contained within its own linguistic community. It would be pointless to deprive this judgement of its context (e.g. to ignore what language it came from) or to argue against it using a different language’s judgements.

I want to note here that I am not aligning myself or my theory with the kind of ‘linguistic aesthetics’ research that has been attempted in the past. These other theories often take aesthetics to be a generalized thing (like “this phrase is objectively beautiful to humans”), which I don’t really like or believe in.

I think it’s a sign of progress that linguists recognize (though there is more to be done) that the true authority for these acceptability judgements belongs to the speakers of the language, whatever level of education they have received. Maybe now, we can use that as a model for other fields. White people understand their own aesthetics, but they take it to be everyone’s aesthetic, or even objective truth! I don’t think the hurdle is to get white people to understand the importance of aesthetics, but to understand that white aesthetics is NOT ‘human aesthetics.’ White aesthetics might often align with mainstream aesthetics (maybe even by definition? due to the gatekeeping aspects of white power), but it should not be taken as more legitimate that, for example, Korean-American aesthetics, or Black aesthetics.

As an example from ableism, where instead of whiteness we are looking at non-disabled hegemony, let’s consider the R-word. Usage of the R-word as an insult is something that has, over the past decade or so, gone from somewhat acceptable to largely unacceptable in mainstream abled culture. Many non-disabled people have no problem understanding that it’s ‘not cool (anymore)’ to say the R-word. Big-name celebrities have made statements about this. When we see someone using this word, we might see them as outdated or wonder whether why they’re so out of the loop. Non-disabled people these days understand where the R-word fits within their own aesthetic; many see the word as ‘wrong’ and as a word that shouldn’t be used. However, the R-word was aesthetically wrong long before this was mainstream—not according to the hegemonic aesthetic, but a disabled aesthetic. People who suffered from the use of the R-word as an insult, as well as people close to them, understood that ‘we don’t do that here.’ At the time, non-disabled people who challenged this aesthetic judgement might have used moral or philosophical arguments. They might have asked questions like, “But if it only hurts a certain group, then what if I only use the word when I’m speaking to non-disabled friends? Maybe it would be okay then, since I’m not hurting anyone...?” Those questions are moot now, since the R-word has a new place within the mainstream aesthetic. Non-disabled people understand now that it would be weird to use that word even with non-disabled friends, because ‘no one likes/uses that word (anymore).’ That is, they understand the hegemonic aesthetic. If, when the R-word was more in use, non-disabled people had understood that their aesthetic—sometimes disguised as ‘the truth’ or some kind of philosophical judgement—had no business trying to override a disabled aesthetic, they might have understood the situation more clearly. (...in a similar way that, if a phrase is acceptable in one dialect and unacceptable in another, it makes no sense in the field of linguistics to try to argue who is right...and also in a similar way that, outside of the field of linguistics, whichever dialect has more societal power and authority might try to argue that they are objectively right anyway.)

As an example of something like this, I’ll tell a story of my frustration when a white friend defended his comment that a certain culture’s food was “more interesting” than another’s. Both cultures were non-white. When pressed, he gave other examples of culinarily interesting and uninteresting cultures. He defended himself by explaining that he likes cooking, and that some cultures have more variety in their ingredients or cooking styles than others. He used an example of a culinarily “boring” white culture (English, lol) to show that he wasn’t just passing judgement on non-white cultures. What I tried—and failed—to get him to understand was that his aesthetic was an aesthetic, not objective truth, and that it was his own (or maybe part of some hegemonic aesthetic, like mainstream white aesthetic). If something was interesting, it was interesting to him, an outsider with very little cultural authority. It was certainly not generalizable, and not objective (though hegemonic structures within the culinary world might give someone the confidence to think so). Who was he to decide what was and wasn’t interesting? White people don’t understand why non-white people feel disrespected by these kind of judgments (even positive judgements)!

Though it has become pretty agreed-upon to not use the R-word, people who don’t use the R-word do risk being labelled as proponents of PC culture. People who continue to use the word might see themselves as ‘defenders of free speech.’ So we can see that when elements of an oppressed community’s aesthetic are adopted by the hegemonic aesthetic, it might not be a clean transference. It can happen that the ‘whole’ shrinks—that is, the concept is differentially adopted (some people within the hegemonic community are, for whatever reason, more eager to adopt the concept than others), and in this process, the entire aesthetic is folded into a subgroup of the hegemonic aesthetic. In this way, a diverse disabled community can, in the hegemonic consciousness, be shrunken down into the subgroup of “PC culture,” which is positioned against “free speech culture.”

Here is another, small example of what I mean by the ‘whole’ shrinking: One time, I was clicking through a home goods online shop, and I saw that they were selling kimonos. (The picture was of a white model relaxing at home, if that gives you a sense of the situation). The kimonos were in the ‘women’s’ section of the website. Kimonos are for women, obviously! Even though the culture kimonos came from has more genders than one, and everyone really did wear something. White culture took a whole other culture, and made it a ‘women’s’ thing.

I also want to note that I don’t agree with the race-neutrality-promoting concept that racism is an aesthetic choice or personality type. Rather, my theory would say that it can be a choice to try to understand a non-hegemonic culture’s aesthetics as legitimate. But that just helps you understand; that doesn’t make a person ‘more’ or ‘less’ participatory in white supremacist racial power. I’ll write more on the differences between my concept of aesthetics and this 'race-neutral’ concept of aesthetics soon.

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recentanimenews · 5 years ago

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A Barrage of Buffy

Because I am a great big geek, one of my personal goals is to read all of the novels inspired by Buffy the Vampire Slayer. This is the second in a series of posts collecting relatively short reviews of these books. All of the following are set during the show’s third season.

Obsidian Fate by Diana G. Gallagher In 1520, a Spaniard conveying stolen Aztec treasure to a secret hiding place was killed by a mudslide while holding a particular obsidian mirror. Now, his remains have been found in an archaeological dig in Sunnydale. It turns out that the mirror contains the essence of the Aztec god of night, Tezcatlipoca, who quickly makes a graduate student working on the dig his High Priestess and adopts a jaguar form to prowl around and do some chomps. The gang must prevent his brainwashed followers from offering enough human sacrifices to empower Tezcatlipoca to banish the sun forever.

There were definitely things I liked about Obsidian Fate. I liked that Buffy is worrying about her friends leaving for distant universities and colleges and trying to figure out what she herself is going to do. I liked that Angel has begun to think about moving away to let Buffy live her life. I liked that Giles is still grieving Jenny. A lot of the characterization and dialogue was good—especially Oz, which is pretty difficult to do. Surprisingly, Kendra and Faith both get a mention, though the latter is nowhere to be seen (and this is all set before she goes bad). No Wesley at all. It’s also really neat that the Mayor and Mr. Trick are facilitating Tezcatlipoca’s rise!

But oh man, so many descriptions of temples and stones and boulders and pillars. It’s very tedious. Also, one of their fellow students has become temporary host to part of Tezcatlipoca’s essence and plans to sexually assault Willow prior to sacrificing her. Nobody, besides Oz, seems to be quite as pissed off about this as they should be. Lastly, a subplot about how one of Buffy’s prophetic dreams showed Angel’s demise offers zero suspense. Still, their reunion on the final page does produce a genuinely cute moment.

Is this one worth a read? Eh, it could be worse.

Power of Persuasion by Elizabeth Massie This was a bit of a clunker, I’m afraid. The awkward teen daughter of a culinarily disinclined restaurant owner grows fed up with catering to her incompetent father’s whims and, by chanting supplications whilst surrounded by random items from the restaurant’s pantry, somehow successfully summons a Greek goddess and her two muse daughters to help her change things. They proceed to compel a lot of female students (including Willow) to join their “womyn power” crusade, which mostly involves campaigning for girls to have the right to try out for the vacancies on boys’ teams that arise when male athletes keep turning up dead.

Many of these Buffy media tie-in novels have similarly mediocre plots, but are usually made more tolerable by the author having the ability to capture how characters speak and interact. Not so much here, unfortunately. I appreciated that with Willow, Giles, and Xander falling under the sway of the villains and Angel out of town, Buffy had to rely on Cordelia and Oz to help her. But, while Cordelia’s scenes were fine, much of Oz’s dialogue and demeanor seemed wrong to me. Also, some weird abilities are ascribed to vampires, like one scene where a struggling vamp leaves scorch marks where her heels have dug into the earth.

I suppose the best praise I can muster is, “It’s pretty lame, but at least it’s short.”

Prime Evil by Diana G. Gallagher Seldom have I read a book so starkly divided between enjoyable parts and excruciating parts!

Set after “Doppelgangland,” the plot of Prime Evil involves a witch attuned to “primal magick” who was first born 19,000 years ago and who keeps being reincarnated and gathering sacrificial followers in an attempt to access “the source.” Her current identity is Crystal Gordon, a new history teacher at Sunnydale High, and her latest crop of doomed devotees is composed entirely of students. Obviously, it’s the Scooby Gang’s job to stop her.

First, the good. Most of the scenes with the main characters are fun, with dialogue that I could easily hear in the actors’ voices. Anya and Joyce have significant roles, and there was notable awkwardness between the latter and Giles. Although this was presumably the result of their dalliance in “Band Candy,” I liked that the explanation wasn’t explicitly stated. I thought it was interesting that Crystal tempts Willow to join her disciples by promising a cure for Oz, and I did have to snicker at a scene in which Angel, for the sake of expedience in getting to safety, has to sling Xander over his shoulder.

The bad, however, cannot be denied. There are many tedious flashbacks to Crystal’s past incarnations and these quickly became literally groan-inducing. In addition, the theoretically climactic magical battle at the end is full of prose like “The great source-river of wild magick coursed in violent abandon through the orbits of comets so ancient and distant they had never been warmed by the sun” and succeeded only in making me profoundly sleepy.

In summation… zzz.

Resurrecting Ravana by Ray Garton A rash of cattle mutilations has the Scooby Gang suspecting hellhound activity, but when several people turn up eaten, after each has spontaneously killed their dearest friend, it’s clear something else is up. There’s more of a mystery here than these books generally offer, with a plot that features Hindu gods, an elderly collector of magical artifacts, his lonely granddaughter, and a certain statue that can resurrect a deity who will reward one richly for this service (and whose minions will kill everyone else).

Along the way, a new guidance counselor of Indian descent is introduced (replacing the guy who got killed in “Beauty and the Beasts”). At first, I thought this was going to be another one of those “Willow falls under the sway of a new female staff/faculty member who is secretly evil” storylines, but, refreshingly, that did not turn out to be the case. Willow just talks to her about problems with her relationship with Buffy, which come to a head in a couple of full-on brawls in the library. It takes a really long time for anyone to put together that their situation parallels the murders/devourings happening elsewhere in town, but it does lead to a nice final moment for the book.

Characterization is spotty. Pretty much each character has a moment that feels especially right as well as one that feels especially wrong. Xander and Cordelia’s bickering is even nastier than usual, and it’s never outright said that they’re being affected by the same creatures who manipulated Buffy and Willow. That said, I did enjoy all of Buffy’s interactions with her mother, particularly a late-night trip to Denny’s. All in all, Resurrecting Ravana wasn’t bad!

Return to Chaos by Craig Shaw Gardner Return to Chaos is a bit different from most of the other Buffy tie-in books I’ve read. Instead of a new big villain coming to town, the plot is mostly about some new allies coming to town. A quartet of Druids, specifically, consisting of an older guy named George and his three nephews, one of whom develops feelings for Buffy. George wants to enlists the Slayer’s help in performing a spell on the Hellmouth that will supposedly prevent bad things from crossing over, but he’s really vague about his plans, and it soon becomes evident that he isn’t in his right mind. The nephews genuinely are allies, though, which is kind of refreshing.

This book was written in 1998, and it seems that the author was not privy to much that was going to happen in season three. A couple of vague references are made to Angel coming back, and about Buffy trying to move on romantically, but Xander and Cordelia are still very much together as a couple. That would put this somewhere between “Beauty and the Beasts” (episode four) and “Lover’s Walk” (episode eight), except that it is very clearly spring and we know that “Amends” (episode ten) is Christmas. Oopsies. There are a couple of other small errors, too, concerning Buffy’s eye color and Giles’ glasses.

This is another book in which there’s more of Oz than I’d been expecting. Some of his scenes and thoughts are okay, and I appreciated that the author wrote a teensy bit about Oz’s family, but at other times he just seems far too verbose. (This, combined with the errors mentioned above, makes me wonder just how familiar the author was with these characters.) Cordelia has a subplot of her own, as well, in which she falls under the thrall of a former rival turned vampire. The Druids recognize that the vampire is using a “mastery” spell, which is likened to the power Drusilla exhibited when she was able to kill Kendra so easily. I thought that was kind of neat.

In the end, despite some flaws, it turned out to be pretty decent.

Revenant by Mel Odom In 1853, 35 Chinese laborers were killed in a mine cave-in on a site owned by some of Sunnydale’s forefathers. The incident was covered up and families were unable to provide their loved ones with a proper burial. Now, the unquiet spirits of those men want vengeance on the owners’ descendants and have managed to communicate with the troubled brother of one of Willow’s friends, who enlists her help. Honestly, this plot doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but there’s a rich importer involved (who’s receiving help from the mayor) and chanting and statues and dragons and warehouses what go boom and demons that turn into goop.

Sometimes, Odom has a bit of trouble with characterization—Oz’s dialogue often doesn’t feel quite right, and sometimes Buffy comes off as vapid, like an early scene where she’s worried about her hair while Willow is running for her life—but other scenes are spot-on. I particularly liked a moment where Giles is forced to hotwire a truck (“I was not always a good boy”) and the final scene wherein Xander attempts to parlay his latest romantic disappointment into Buffy’s half of a Twinkie they’re sharing. Odom also incorporates and elaborates on some of the issues characters are worrying about at this point in the show: Buffy ponders her future with Angel, Xander dreads being left behind after graduation, and Cordelia seeks to avoid trouble at home by helping with research. The action scenes are easy to envision, as well.

Unlike most other books set during this season, the brief Xander/Willow fling and its fallout are acknowledged. Like the others, neither Faith nor Wesley is mentioned, and the former’s absence is particularly glaring, given the evident difficulty of the big battle. Still, Revenant ended up being a pleasant surprise.

By: Michelle Smith

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