#because of your own selfish desire to make a creature that is compelled to love you

[gibbearish]

reddit refuses to stop recommending me the antinatalist sub and i just saw a post from there saying "women who breastfeed in public or on streams are just doing it for male attention" like dude that's literally just Regular Old Misogyny. this isn't an antinatalist thing you're just misogynistic is all

[i-did-not-mean-to]

A Queen - Part 2

So, after many distractions...here's the second part to this as well...

Thank you for the lovely request, @lathalea!

This time as well with a small cameo from @laurfilijames the OG horsegirl haha (love you, babe)

-> Part 1

Words: 3,2 k

Warnings: Heartbreak

Characters: Thorin x OC, Fíli x @laurfilijames

She didn’t cry, she didn’t yell, she simply turned away.

Fíli felt his shoulders cramp, the muscles bunching into knots of discomfort, as he tried to explain yet again that he felt nothing for that dam his uncle had taken such a liking to. While he could not have cared less for the Lady Íth – beyond benevolent propriety – he minded the king’s happiness greatly and felt compelled to prove himself grateful and worthy of the deep love and bitter sacrifices of his mother’s brother.

“I understand that this is what you have to do.”

It was a cold answer – dismissive and cutting – that made his blood freeze in his veins; he wanted her so much, not least because she truly did understand, and he hated that his duty might cost him the one selfish desire he harboured in his generous heart.

“We are having dinner tomorrow,” he went on, even though he was not sure why he wanted her to know about that, “and they will all be hovering around.”

His hand slid into her long, heavy, dark hair and wrapped around her slender neck.

“I wish I was here instead, with you, alone.”

“We cannot always get what we want,” she replied calmly, “and you should return to your quarters now, Your Majesty, I wouldn’t want to damage your reputation or marriage prospects by letting you be seen associating with your inferiors.”

“Don’t talk like that,” he roared, “you are not beneath me! If anything, I – a disloyal subject and a dishonest son and nephew – am unworthy of one so righteous and noble as you.”

She tensed under his palm, and he let go despite it being the hardest thing he had done since getting up from his sickbed to meet the world head-on once more; he didn’t want to lose her, but he wouldn’t promise her things he was not sure he’d be able to keep either.

“Wait for me tomorrow,” he begged, “I’ll be down as soon as dessert is served.”

She did not believe that he’d be allowed to simply desert his own courting dinner, but – weak and enamoured as she was – she would be lingering in the stables, nonetheless.

Íth had never wanted to go to this charade in the first place, but her mother – old and frail – had implored her to at least go present herself to further the hopes of her sisters; she could not deny that by going to court, she might just strike up an acquaintance that may – in time – lead to an advantageous match for them.

Hence why she had run all the way from her father’s house to the royal inspection of nubile dams and had arrived – dishevelled and disgraceful – to perform the role of the demure lady.

In truth, Íth was thoroughly uninterested in prancing like an adorned and bejewelled pony under the bored gaze of a prince much too young for her; Fíli was undeniably handsome and charming, but she thought of him with indulgent worry more than burning passion. Like any other living creature under the Mountain, she had been eagerly awaiting news of his recovery, but she had never imagined herself in the role of his young queen.

Too many things had happened, too many people had been lost, and her heart was a graveyard in which the dead reigned supreme; there would not be enough space left to nurture the seeds of a whole life – pebbles and plans – within that barren bosom of hers.

When a golden ray fell onto her shoulder only to shiver and die, she realised that she would be late again if she did not make haste; time management had never been her strongest suit but – if one was invited to have dinner with the royal household – such intimate weaknesses were barely acceptable excuses.

Rushing through the necessary motions – and despite being interrupted several times by her siblings – she made it to the heavy, intricately carved doors of the royal dining hall with but two heartbeats to spare.

She was announced and guided in by a taciturn guard who glowered at her under bushy brows.

Íth was painfully aware then of how simple and charmless her appearance must have seemed to him – and thus to the royal family – compared to the lavish silk and silver the other dams had sported when submitted to the critical gaze of their rulers.

Íth was not a vain creature though and whatever adornments she had inherited or bought over the years had been handed down to starry-eyed sisters without reticence; hence, she wore her hair three simple braids – interwoven into a knot at the back of her head – that bore but the customary runes stating her marriage status and her alliance to her family.

As a noble lady – whatever that meant in these times – she was devoid of any exceptional skills other than being a good sister and daughter, and she’d feel foolish wearing an ornament that claimed such inconsequential achievements.

The king looked up and nodded in greeting; his manner was grave and dignified which made her stomach clench around a shadow of hunger that would never be sated by the appetising feast laid out on the heavy stone table. Ashamed of her own girlish weakness, she pushed away the fluttering excitement that overcame her every time she was near that ponderous, awe-inspiring dwarf who had led his people through misery and heartbreak to a brighter future.

Still, those azure eyes – hard and beautiful as precious stones – rested on her countenance like a tiara of unspeakable worth.

Prince Fíli – on the other hand – did barely look at her, a moue of bored annoyance making his moustache droop quite unflatteringly, and Íth felt almost relieved. She knew that she would not reject the prince if he made her an offer – she knew her duties too well – so she could only hope that it would never come to that.

“Pay the lady a compliment about her sensible choice of dress,” Thorin hissed into Fíli’s ear, “and – when you find an opportune moment – invite her to join us for a picnic tomorrow.”

His nephew looked up in confusion; in thought, he had been down at the stables, eating a light supper with his beloved on a bale of hay, and he resented being interrupted in his daydreams by the king.

“Her dress?” he whispered back after throwing a cursory glance at the plain dark green dress his guest was arrayed in; he had to admit that she wore it well – she had the aura of quiet elegance that needed no garish frills and laces – but, as far as simple raiment and natural beauty went, he much preferred the wild, joyous rejection of artifice he had found in his own chosen one.

“This is a nice dress,” he complimented Íth nonetheless, “it is well selected and suits you admirably.”

Íth had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from rolling her eyes; they had not exchanged more than a perfunctory greeting in the past and she highly doubted that the prince would be able to tell what suited her – in complexion or nature – in the least.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she replied with a polite smile that was as bland and tepid as her own cooking.

Remembering his uncle’s exhortation – and the extensive list of poems, compliments, and gestures to weave into the conversation he had been given – Fíli went on with a little more enthusiasm: “Would it please you to accompany us to a picnic tomorrow? We could take out the horses!”

The idea had come to him in a flash; it was a risky gamble, but the mere hope of being able to abscond for but a few stolen moments with his love, while Thorin would sing his praises to his intended, made his heart race with excitement.

“Horses?” Íth cocked her head; picnics were a common enough courting device, but usually, the assembled company would walk leisurely to the elected spot rather than risk tarnishing their clothes and ruining their braids by trekking through rough terrain on horseback.

“Very well, Your Majesty,” she agreed nonetheless with effortless grace and inclined her head in his direction, catching the king’s intense gaze that had been resting on her moving features – witnessing confusion being replaced by acquiescence – all this time.

As the hours went by, the king’s hawk-eyed attention started to seep into her bones, sparking fires of nervous anticipation; she knew not what he hoped to find in her expression, but – despite her better knowledge – she caught herself basking in that radiant gaze that felt like a spray of stardust on her burning skin.

They went on the picnic – Íth was still convinced that the young prince was nowhere near ready to hand over his freedom and youth to the crown – and for rides; strangely enough, the king himself seemed to always find the time to accompany his heir on those courting missions, for really, their outings felt like a chore to anyone involved.

Within her heart, Íth also suspected that the prince might have set his eye – and potentially even his heart – on a young dam who tended to the horses a good deal and who had been an awkward addition to their riding picnic that second day; the way he looked at her spoke of intimacy and longing while his eyes expressed mere polite patience whenever they fell on her. She was not hurt or vexed by that as – even after numerous encounters – she still felt not attracted in the least to his handsome face and pretty manners.

He would be a good king, she didn’t doubt that, for he managed to lavish generous smiles upon a woman he decidedly did not personally enjoy, but she could not see herself being married to anyone who cared so very little for her interests and sorrows.

Already, she had sacrificed a large part of her life to the satisfaction and safety of others and – truth be told – she yearned to experience something that would make her heart shiver and her soul sing; the prince – kind and lovely as he was – would never manage to evoke such strong sensations and emotions in her though. It was time to end this charade, even if that meant putting an end to the quiet complicity she had hitherto established and shared with their chaperone: the very ruler of Erebor whom she had come to appreciate for his dry humour and his slightly gruff kindness.

“Milady,” a voice suddenly tore her out of her daydreaming as she walked through a small courtyard after another heavy dinner, “has my nephew forsaken you? Have you enjoyed the feast? It seemed to me – to Fíli, I mean – that you’ve expressed a fondness for those berries.”

The king made a face; Íth knew that he had to order the referenced fruits from his neighbours in Mirkwood and that he preferred not to owe them any favours, hence why she had been pleasantly surprised to find them on the menu once more after having, indeed, expressed her favourable opinion a few days prior.

“Thank you so much,” she replied softly, “I see how much you care about this engagement, but…”

She turned around and – in a moment of brazen courage – she grabbed his hand and held it in her own gingerly. “My king, you must see that I am not the woman for your nephew; I appreciate all your efforts…” “You are wonderful,” he interrupted her, “you are kind and generous, you are smart and cultured, you are hardy and brave. Fíli would be the luckiest bastard – forgive the unseemly use of crude language – if he could but win the heart of such an excellent dam. You’d make a great queen.”

Íth inclined her head and nodded pensively.

“Indeed,” she agreed, “I might make an acceptable queen during the time of the reconstruction; I am frugal and patient because I’ve known suffering and loss, but, my liege, I am also too tired and beaten down to help birth and nurture a new generation of prosperity in Erebor. Please, accept my sincerest apologies, but your nephew and I are incompatible in heart, mind, and purpose.”

When his face closed into an expression of stern misery, she sighed: “I am truly so sorry for I know that you’ve done your best to support this match. From the very start, I’ve seen your hand in every gesture and I’ve heard your voice in every word of your nephew’s. It is known that it was you who has chosen the venues, the menus, the activities, even the poetry read to me in an impatient and yet bored voice.”

In Erebor, even the walls had ears and she had felt more than actually been informed in so many words that everyone was aware of how desperately Thorin II had wanted his heir’s wooing to succeed; it felt terrible to have to admit that all his efforts had been in vain for there was no way she and Prince Fíli could ever see eye to eye.

She would not have believed this possible, but the king’s expression grew sourer yet as she went on digging her own grave, struggling against the quicksand of shame and despair engulfing her at an alarming pace now; with another heartfelt sigh, Íth then tried to make him understand that she did not resent or dislike Fíli in any shape or form.

“He has clearly not heeded my advice,” Thorin grunted, disappointment bleak and glaring on his features, “and I admit that I am disheartened to hear that he merely transmitted the pieces of advice entrusted to him rather than adapt and personalise them.”

“Oh,” she answered fervently, “there was absolutely nothing wrong with the things he’s said and done, everything was beyond perfect, but his heart was not in it. Would you wish such misery upon your own nephew and heir? Would you see him betrothed to a dam he deems agreeable but devoid of real charm?”

“He would come to his senses, I am sure,” the king barked, “how could he not?” “You flatter me, my king,” she smiled warmly; to her astonishment and shock, she also realised at that moment that she was still holding his hand – broad and calloused – in her own as if it was the most precious of gifts.

His fingers tightened around her palms and – fool woman that she was – the veil of confused incomprehension was lifted in a single instant; suddenly, she could fully appreciate the man behind all the good parts of her failed dates, and her smile softened further.

“You liked the gifts? The poems? The outings?” he asked almost shyly.

“I did, my king, they were expertly planned and beautifully set up. Someone has gone to great trouble to ensure I was having a good time; I surmise that someone was you?”

“Indeed,” he cleared his throat sheepishly at this confession, “indeed, it was I. It was important to me that you’d feel welcome.”

“Why?” she asked urgently, desperate to hear why he would go to such lengths for a dam who was only one of many eligible candidates as far as he was concerned. He had been watching her so intently all this time and – now that the final moment of painful goodbyes had come – she needed to know what had inspired such intense scrutiny.

"Because," Thorin sighed heavily, “because you seemed the perfect candidate for a queen. Funny, charming, serious, lovely, wise…”

“Serious? Lovely? Wise? Is that the woman you’d bind a young dwarf to?” she laughed, giving his hand a fond squeeze, “You make me sound like a crone, my liege.”

“Not at all,” he protested, but then rubbed his free hand over his face tiredly before admitting that he just might have been blinded in his selection by the things he himself would have cherished in a queen.

“It’s been too long since I’ve been a hopeful, promising prince myself,” he confessed, “and it is possible that my experience made me seek out a match Fíli will hopefully not need for many a year to come.”

Íth thought that this was the end of the conversation, but the king’s hold on her hand did not relent.

“Do you object to the idea of being queen?” he asked her soberly, evidently trying to sort through all the things she had so callously thrown at him without considering that he would have to pick up the broken pieces of his hopes and endeavours on his own.

“No,” she replied honestly, “I just don’t want to be married to someone who does neither love nor truly need me.”

“Would you…” Thorin pulled her closer by the wrist, “would you then consider being wooed by someone who thinks – who has always thought – that you’d make a wonderful queen? Someone who sees everything you are and cherishes it?”

Íth pondered his words for a long time; she had owned up to the fact that she had enjoyed all the little things he had arranged for her and the mere idea of spending time with the person who had gone through so much trouble to ensure that every encounter between them had been enjoyable made her heart quake.

“What are you saying?” she asked calmly, afraid that her hopeful heart misgave her.

“Clearly, my nephew has not won you over with his boyish and slightly careless charm,” Thorin explained ponderously, hiding his own nervousness behind formality, "but I think you are a valuable addition to this court.”

Her face grew cold and he realised that he was about to commit the same mistake his nephew might have made – consciously or unconsciously – so he corrected himself quickly: “And I enjoy your company immensely; you strike me as very sensible in your choices and tastes – most of which I genuinely share – and so, as you have formally rejected Prince Fíli, I would humbly ask you to consider accepting my suit.”

“Is that possible? Is that appropriate?” Íth inquired cautiously; it was hardly proper or dignified for the reigning king to pick up the leavings of his heir.

“I don’t care,” Thorin barked, “I should have been less of a coward from the start and said that you had caught my eye at the presentation. Maybe it was because my sister had told me that she’s given up on me and maybe, it was due to the fact that I had most probably resigned myself to a life of celibacy as well. Either way, I did not dare hope to win a young, charming dam such as you for my own heart. I shall not reign for a very long time, there is no promise of great glory I can lure you with.”

“Can you love me truly? Give me home to rest my bones and a project to work on? Can you offer me hope? We both know that we won’t get back those years lost to misery and strife, but could there be peace and steady productivity to fill the ones left to us?”

“Yes,” Thorin breathed, “yes, all of this and more, that I can vow to you.”

“That is all I asked for,” Íth replied, cupping his bearded cheek tenderly in an overly familiar and shockingly intimate gesture of solace.

“Erebor for a time,” Thorin whispered, pressing his lips against her fair brow, “and my undying love forever.”

So...a happy end for everyone!!! (Well, maybe not yet for Fí, but soon at least)

Yayyyyy!

Lots of love from me 💖💖💖

Taglist:

@laurfilijames, @fizzyxcustard, @linasofia, @myselfandfantasy, @legolasbadass, @midearthwritings, @guardianofrivendell, @mismaeve, @middleearthpixie

[sepublic]

Luz and the Winds of Change

            For Season 2, I’d LOVE to see Luz find a Wind/Air Glyph, because... The thing I’ve noticed with Luz Noceda is that she is very much an active force of change; That she brings about the winds of change to people’s lives! Obviously part of the reason for this is Plot, but at the same time… People like Eda make a point about how their lives felt stagnant, meaningless even, until Luz arrived. Emperor Belos himself even acknowledges this, saying that Eda’s life to him was meaningless, until Luz showed up…

           Without Luz’s appearance, a lot of characters were set on a certain trajectory; Eda was going to keep being a loner and an outcast and eventually succumb to her curse. Lilith would’ve been more desperate for Belos’ approval, King would be both lonely and a bit selfish, Willow would’ve succumbed to self-loathing and shyness… Amity would become even colder and more miserable, the Twins wouldn’t bother self-reflecting, Boscha would continue to be a bully without ever considering her relationship with her friends, etc.

           But then comes Luz; Like the winds of change, she changes the trajectory and paths of these characters. She’s like a sudden gust that allows a ship to change course, or a ball to change its path mid-flight. Her mere presence alone inspires people to be better, and not from a preachy and judgmental “I think I can do better and tell you why” sort of way like Belos is, a way that tells people there’s something inherently wrong with them. No, Luz is someone who respects boundaries and wants to see others be the best they can be… That she’ll let others approach her instead of forcing herself onto them, do things at their own pace!

           I think part of what makes Luz so compelling is that her kindness and giving nature is so unconditional; That it’s not out of a sense of obligation like she HAS to take care of people, but simply because it makes her happy to see other people happy! That nobody asked Luz or implied she needed to do things for them, she was just allowed to be herself (which is what the Boiling Isles does in general for her), and that means Luz can self-actualize as a person who wants to help OTHERS self-actualize as well!

           It’s about learning to be yourself, and to Luz, this is something that means a lot to her considering she never got that chance for so long! And obviously, it isn’t like helping people is the only thing she can do, nor does she place all of her self-worth into this concept as a role/duty she’s bound to… Luz is still allowed to be a kid, still allowed to have her own desires and wants, such as wanting to learn magic, be a powerful Witch like Azura, etc.! She’s in an environment where she can flourish!

           Not to mention, Luz has some personal stake in a lot of people’s issues as well; Like with Viney and the Detention Kids, fixing their problems is also fixing HER issues with the school system as well! Or in Understanding Willow, how helping Willow and Amity be better friends also helps Luz, because those are her friends and them being happy makes her happy as well!

           Obviously episodes like Wing it like Witches also remind Luz not to vicariously live out her fantasies and issues, nor project them, through her friends, and to set a fine line between that and helping people… But it’s not a draining relationship. Contrary to what some characters believe, they’re not takers and they don’t need to provide more, nor compensate and justify their friendship; That what they’re already doing and got going on… is pretty good.

           In general, Luz is someone who inspires others to make a change. That her illuminating Light allows those such as Principal Bump to make an active choice on what road they’re going down, now that they can see what’s ahead… And to choose differently. Luz is somebody who reinvigorates, who re-instills passion into existence as someone who is VERY passionate over things as part of her ADHD hyperfixations, which is also another beautiful thing to see for a neurodivergent viewer…

           It’s funny, really; Many characters were set down paths that could’ve easily led to a LOT more misery, or at the very least towards them not truly feeling fulfilled like they are now. But Luz changedthat, she makes a difference because she’s different as a foreigner and an outsider, but not an invader the way Belos possibly is…

          And I also love how it’s such a different take on the White Savior trope in that our Dominican, dark-skinned protagonist is the one who helps enlighten the European-inspired culture… In a way that is VERY respective of others’ boundaries while still allowing her to have her own personal desires and be her own person, and NOT be defined by what she does for others in a co-dependent sense.

          Like the show makes it clear Luz isnotresponsible for these people, tying into the idea that many characters also still have their own personal guilt in wrong actions and how they DO acknowledge this and make a change… That Luz offers help but it’s also on people to take personal initiative and accept this help as well, that she’s not a bad person if she doesn’t fix EVERY person she comes across!

          She isn’t your personal caretaker, she’s a kid and the show focuses on how adults are responsible for the impact they have on children and ensuring the best for them, hence the emphasis on Eda as a motherly figure and what she does for Luz, it’s why Luz chooses to stay in the first place! Like a lot of adults are compelled to be better at their responsibility to care for the young generation, like the Bat Queen not projecting her trauma onto Owlbert, or Principal Bump letting kids study in multiple tracks! But at the same time Luz doesn’t feel entitled either, like the world or people owe her something…

          Luz being an outsider means that she’s another perspective, and THAT makes people ask themselves; What does my situation, and/or the way I treat others, look like to an outsider? Is this who I am, is this who I’ll be? Reflections are made of Light, and Luz can provide a mirror, without that being her only identity of course; She’s a FUNKY mirror all right!

          But, yeah… Luz really DOES represent the Winds of Change! She’s a new opportunity not just for people but for the Boiling Isles, and in a darker sense she’s a new opportunity for someone like Belos given the implications of her arrival and how she got there… But regardless. Luz is someone who is antithetical to the idea of stagnation, she helps flourish and inspire growth in characters like plant-motif Willow, while changing the destructive and hurting Fire of Amity into one that provides warmth and nourishment!

          She is energy, which relates well to her ADHD-coding, as well as movement… And THAT all feeds back into the idea of Luz being Wind as well as Light, as someone who compels others to move but not in a forceful way, simply giving them a well-needed push to change their current course and trajectory. Belos’ reign is recent, and not solid… But up until now it was on a trajectory towards becoming more powerful, more dictatorial, and more controlling. But then comes Luz, and she helps people realize that NO, this system is messed up, that we CAN make a change…

          And this ties back into how the moral is not, “I can fix this,” nor “You can fix this,” it’s “We can fix this together!” Luz brings people together, just as the winds bring things together! And honestly, an Air-motif makes sense, given Luz’s own relation to Owls, and how those are creatures who are very sensitive and dependent on the air currents, in the paths of the wind, and use it to propel themselves! While at the same time teaching others –usually their own children- how to use that wind to fly, soar, and find a different place and home… A way to leave an unpleasant situation and go somewhere safer.

          Obviously Luz isn’t perfect, and she’s not meant to be the fix-all solution for others to rely on. She’s got her past issues that she’s worked upon, and I think she can be overly-critical of herself when it comes to hurting people, as someone who’s been hurt; Which makes Luz’s relationship with Amity, who is ALSO self-critical, very fascinating! But in the end, Luz is still a fundamentally good person.

          Luz helps reinvigorate others, giving them a ‘Second Wind’ which also ties back to Wing it like Witches and its Sports tropes… And THAT episode also involved Amity, who has a flashback of being overly-critical of herself for hurting others, telling Luz not to do the same; That she doesn’t have to single-handedly shoulder the burden of the forfeit, even if Luz DID mess up by hurting Willow and Gus by accident, that she shouldn’t over-compensate for her failings and feel like she has to! Not when Luz taught Amity the same…!

          Wind is the antithesis to stagnation in that it’s defined as something that moves, and Luz is SUCH a dynamic character in the way she interacts with others! Wind can only be seen by how it moves others… Clearly there’s more to Luz than just that, she has more emphasis on a Light motif for a reason. But the way Luz changes others and compels them to take a different path is VERY obvious and visible, and one can best notice Luz’s bright personality through her effects on people; That, and because Luz is just such an utter goober as well! Like, even the audience is affected towards and endeared by her!

          Wind is not something you hold onto, and it’s not something that is itself when it’s in a box. It’s meant to be free, flying, soaring… Which represents how Luz is a character not to be stifled by a system nor conformity, that her Light is meant to shine and be seen by others, and help illuminate the path… But mainly so SHE can shine for herself, and be her own person! Air is associated with Freedom, which given this show’s themes of anti-authority, is VERY appropriate too…!

[sacredvein]

What are your thoughts on Daniel Molloy?

Laurent makes a noise; a breathy, venomous laugh. “Armand’s lost child, his only. Precious thing that he made. I do not understand how he might have moved him so thoroughly to commit the greatest sin that we can do; which is to bring another over into the blood. For all other ways that Armand betrayed us, destroyed us, I respected him, still, for this. But that he succumbed to temptation, I should not be surprised.”

Laurent’s voice lowers to a tenebrous hiss, dripping with malice. “He has lost all structure. The scaffolding of the Children he tore down around him and sought to bury us in it, but he has only destroyed that which gave meaning and guidance. He clung distantly to the theatre, but he was far away by then. He learned nothing but to grasp at brighter sparks than his to keep himself from his own pyre. Lestat. Louis. Daniel Molloy. And you see what has happened when they all denied him?” Laurent leans back, and makes the shape of a smile, but it is only the grim interpretation of one. It drops, and his zealous intensity strikes a severe, straight line to his mouth.

“Molloy must have been a fool, but a clever fool, and he has gained now that which he so desired, and it broke him for it. He is not the first to be ruined. He is only Armand’s great tragedy, his blunder. He loved this boy and still he shattered him. He loved him in the way that he did not love Nicolas. Not as he had this boy. And there is no question that the mortal child suffered. I know how he must have suffered. But one of them lives and the other went as all the mad ones did, into the fire, though both had been mad in their times. Molloy should not have been given the blood. Under the old ways, he would never have been made, never have been permitted to continue upon learning of our existence, and you can see how it drove him into dissolution before the blood had ever touched his lips. And then when it had, even in drops, it overwhelmed him. It destroyed him before it ever transfigured him, and Armand could not conceptualise of this thing that he had done. He had played too carelessly with his pet, and in his fracturing, consumptive love subsumed him, and could not conceive of it in his childish understanding.” The words issue unbroken, low and fast and searing, his eyes wide, staring with cold fire. 

“Nicolas resisted this world and could not continue in it, and Armand gave him the means by which to see him undone. It was selfishness and desperation only that separated him from Daniel Molloy; Armand’s refusal to accept this thing he had done to him and could not let see pass from his pain, because Armand needed him. And Molloy I cannot say was entirely guileless. He was victim, yes, and yet he could inflict such wounds to Armand, I wonder if he knew the power that he had. Somehow he compeled Armand to work that great evil to save him, and still he fell apart. You cannot brush against Armand as a mortal and be untouched. He will fracture you and try to put you back together but you will not be the same, and like a child, he cannot understand why.”

“The boy is such a strange creature. We have seen him mostly in the silhouettes of the company he keeps, in the impressions of him. He is the shadow that dissolves when you turn your light upon it. Would he have taken the first blood that was given to him, if another offered it when Armand would not? I do not know. I do not think of him. If not for the attentions of his keepers, I do not think he will long survive this life. Few are given the luxuries he has been.”

[twentiethcenturymoviesandtv]

Frankenstein: The Characters

Frankenstein is a movie with a small cast, and huge performances.

Of the five main players, only two are at the story’s central conflict: Henry Frankenstein and the monster.  Other characters, like Fritz, Elizabeth, and Dr. Waldman, are important, but not necessary to the main thrust of the story.  As such, although the rest of the characters do quite a bit in terms of story-driving, in the end, the plot rests on the shoulders of the mad scientist and his creation.

This, as it turns out, is very important.

See, every film, no matter the size and scope, needs characters.  More importantly, it needs good characters.  A movie can have an incredible budget for amazing visual effects, a stunning score, and a thrilling plot, but it all falls flat without interesting, dynamic characters to hold your audience’s attention and make them care about what’s going on.

While horror as a genre is not especially well known for creating compelling characters (some modern iterations of horror spend more time setting up stock characters to get brutally axed), examples of truly interesting horror characters do exist, characters like Ellen Ripley, (Alien) R.J. MacReady (The Thing), Laurie Strode (Halloween) and Ash Williams (The Evil Dead).  What is so important to horror as a genre is that the audience is not invested in the scares if they don’t care who it is that’s being scared.

Thankfully, Frankenstein avoids this dilemma of later horror franchises, and very intelligently focuses its scares and story on what it should be focused on: genuinely moving and dynamic characters.  

And it worked out pretty well for them.

After all, there’s a reason that some of these characters are some of the most memorable in the history of film.   Without any further ado, let’s take a look at the characters of Frankenstein, starting, of course, with our resident mad-scientist: Henry Frankenstein.  (Spoilers below!)

From the moment we first meet him, we know that Henry Frankenstein is Bad News.  He’s the quintessential original mad-scientist, complete with howling-mad cackle and grave-robbing.  He’s a man with delusions of grandeur, possessing the ambition to ‘create life’, throwing ethics out the nearest window in his single-minded pursuit of the creation of life out of death.  He abandons his fiance, Elizabeth, in order to pursue said goals, and locks himself up in a creepy tower in his creepy lab with his creepy assistant, sewing together dead bodies.

Yeah, he’s not exactly a prize.

Frankenstein is not a fantastic person to have as a protagonist.  He’s selfish, he’s unscrupulous, and he’s totally full of himself, convinced of his own genius, a megalomaniac in the making.

He’d be pretty awful on the whole, if it wasn’t for one thing: his change of heart.

Whether for better or for worse, (although certainly late) Henry does regret what he’s done after his creation kills Fritz.  Although he didn’t seem to care much for his lab assistant before, he does feel badly, and his exhaustion and mental breakdown sends him into a downward spiral.  Not only that, he remembers who he used to be.

Henry does return to Elizabeth, and realizes that he’s made a terrible mistake in cutting her out of his life for his experiments.  He also realizes that he’s made a terrible mistake in conducting those experiments in the first place.  Once he recuperates and gets away from his lab, the iconic ‘mad scientist’ persona melts away to a large degree, leaving a man who is determined to focus on what’s important: his wedding.

When things go wrong, again, Henry doesn’t approach the situation like a mad-scientist.  

Although he doesn’t ‘fix things’, although this whole situation is his fault, and although he never truly tried to cultivate his creation once he made it, he does endeavor to save the day, to fix the situation.  He goes after the monster after it attacks Elizabeth, leading a group of villagers to confront his creation, and in the end, facing him alone.

Unlike a few other examples of megalomaniac mad-scientists, Henry knows he screwed up, and deeply regrets it, actively trying to stop his creation before it does any more harm.  Even though by the end, he’s not exactly ‘hero’ material, he’s a lot closer than he was at the start of the film.

Like I’ve mentioned before, Henry Frankenstein is definitely the ‘protagonist’ of the story.  He grows and changes, and he is definitely at the forefront of the story, pushing events forward.  Everything that happens in this story can be traced back to him, and while we may not like him, we understand him.  We as viewers don’t want him to be doing what he’s doing, but we know why he’s doing it, and he presents a compelling and interesting character, if one that’s incredibly flawed.

But we love flawed heroes.  That’s probably a huge reason that Henry Frankenstein remains as interesting as he is so many years later.  Like I said, he’s a tragic figure, one that we relate to, and one that we want to see make it to the end.

Oddly enough, very similarly to his creation.

The Monster remains one of the most iconic movie characters, not just of horror, but of film in general, and for very good reason.  He’s the antagonist of the picture, but we as an audience can’t quite see him as a villain, either.  Like Henry, he’s a tragic figure, pushing the plot forward in his own way, but unlike Henry, he can’t even express his goals and desires.  In fact, he can’t speak at all.

Unlike the original novel, the monster in James Whale’s film is mute, able to utter growls and noises, but not words.  (Until Bride of Frankenstein.)

To some, even to characters within the film, the creature’s inability to communicate may come as confirmation to what some already suspect: that he’s a dumb beast, an animal, a monster.  The characters within the film have no qualms about killing him, because to them, he isn’t human.  He’s a monster.

But the audience doesn’t wholly buy that.

The saddest thing about the monster is that he’s a newborn.  A baby.  He’s an infant in the world, abandoned by his creator, and mistreated, tossed to humans who want to harm him.  And the audience feels for him.

The creature displays more emotion than most of the other characters in the film.  We as an audience know that he’s learning, that he’s trying to understand.  This is never clearer than in the scene where Frankenstein first brings the monster into the light.  

Once the monster first looks at the light and is first exposed to anything other than darkness, he has a reaction that the audience instantly understands: he reaches for it.  He’s curious.  He’s happy.  He likes it.

It’s a small moment, but it speaks volumes to the audience: this is not a mindless animal.  It is a child first learning about the world.

This is even more firmly established later.  After the monster has killed twice, arguably in self-defense, he runs across Maria, a little girl.  She doesn’t scream, doesn’t wave fire in his face, or run away.  She approaches him, holds out her hand, and asks if he wants to play with her.  And he does, until he gets confused, not understanding that humans aren’t terribly buoyant, and throws her in as well, leading to her accidental death.

This tells the audience even more.  We see him play.  The monster is learning, picking up rules.  Maria throws a flower in, the monster follows.  He even smiles.  In this moment, this site of a tragic accident, the audience is trapped between the horror of what happens to Maria, and the investment in what’s happening with the monster.  

Because we learn at that moment that the monster is not stupid.

The only reason he can’t talk is because no one has taught him how.  The reason he kills is that nobody has told him why he shouldn’t.  The story of the creature is a tragic one, very similarly to Frankenstein’s, as while Frankenstein becomes more of a man, the creature seemingly becomes more of a monster.

But it’s hard to blame him for it.

Like I’ve said, the fact that the creature turned out the way he did is largely Henry’s fault due to a lack of teaching on his part.  Once he created this being, Henry abandoned him, and didn’t bother to teach him language, or right from wrong, or the rules of the world.  He showed him light, and that, unfortunately, is all.

The creature is an antagonist, simply because he’s up against Henry, at odds with him, but we’re hard pressed to call him a villain, just as it’s difficult to call Henry a hero.

The story of the monster is all the sadder because we never get to see him live up to his potential, to grow and mature.  He is destroyed, ignorant, untrained, and unloved. ��Despite the fact that he is an antagonist, it is very difficult to look at the creature as he dies, trapped by fire, and feel any sense of victory or justification for this creature, a monster, maybe, but not a villain.

As a matter of fact, the title of ‘villain’ of this story might best be applied to the unsuspecting hunchback lab-assistant that Henry keeps around.

Fritz is a mean-spirited bully, far from the shrinking, grovelling ‘yes master’-Igor-types from later incarnations of the story.  He’s an underling, an assistant, a henchman at best that Henry keeps around to do the dirty work, helping him rob graves, forcing him to climb up and cut down bodies, and go to steal brains.  Henry’s a bit of a bully to him, as well, and Fritz, at the bottom of the chain, takes out his frustration and cruel tendencies on the newly-created monster.

Weirdly enough, Henry doesn’t seem to much care how he, or anyone else, treats his creation, and lets Fritz do whatever he wants for a while.  He allows Fritz to watch the monster, not bothering to do it himself, and turns a blind eye to the beatings and fire.

When the creature finally lashes out and kills Fritz, the audience is hard-pressed to be sympathetic, even if Henry is.  Henry even admits:

“He hated Fritz. Fritz always tormented him.”

Henry was aware of what was going on, but did nothing, and as a result, it is Fritz that, while not by any means a protagonist, or even a main antagonist, is certainly a villain.  It is mostly thanks to his handiwork that the monster is the way he is: the first person to truly pay him any attention does nothing but torment him.

He’s a victim in that he dies, sure, another death chalked up to Henry’s irresponsibility and delusions of grandeur.  He’s also an attacker, warping the creature for no reason, and dying the way he lived: causing misery.

Good riddance.

But he’s not the only main-character death in the story.

Dr. Waldman is a human voice of reason.  He’s friendly, concerned, warm…and cold, at the same time.

Waldman was Henry’s mentor, his professor at medical school, who started getting nervous when Henry jumped off the deep end and started demanding corpses for his experiments.  He’s a scientist, but he’s not mad.  He sees the danger in Henry’s goals, and, the fountain of common sense that he is, is truly not pleased about his grave-robbing.  Or his monster-making.  He’s got his head on the right way, looks at the world realistically, and seems to be the moral compass between the two scientists, the right to Henry’s wrong.

Until the creature comes to life.

After Henry’s experiment, Waldman remains a cautious and reasonable figure, at least, from the ‘human’ perspective.  It is Waldman who recommends the course of action of killing the monster, ending the whole problem right away.  Even Henry protests this, saying that it’s murder.  

Which, it is.

After Henry has a breakdown and leaves his experiment in the hands of Waldman, his mentor tries to dissect the creature while he’s still alive, albeit possibly without realizing that he was still alive.  Still, it’s interesting that not only the mad scientist, but also the careful one, via pride and miscalculation, lead the story, and the monster, into destruction.

But there is at least one character who doesn’t do anything wrong.  In fact, she doesn’t really do much at all.

Elizabeth is Henry’s fiance, a kind, pretty woman who is devoted to Henry, and is quite concerned for him.  Understandably, she’s a little shaken by having a fiance who reanimates the dead and ends up ruining their wedding day.

Unfortunately, there’s not a whole lot else to her.

Elizabeth’s dialogue mostly consists of worrying about Frankenstein and talking about how much she wants to get married to him, taking a break to scream and faint when the monster comes after her in her room on her wedding day.  She’s traditional Hollywood damsel fare of the era, you’ll find ‘Elizabeths’ in The Invisible Man, (Also directed by James Whale) and plenty of other Hollywood horror flicks of the time.  Long before the tough horror-survivalists like Laurie Strode or Ellen Ripley, the Elizabeths worried about their boyfriends or fiancees, and fainted when the monster came after them.

But still, that’s being a little unfair to Elizabeth.  After all, a weak woman doesn’t march up to their fiance’s creepy lab and watch them create a monster.  She does go to confront Henry, attempting to do something about his problematic behavior.  Unfortunately, she doesn’t get to do a whole lot else.  But then again, neither do most characters.

Elizabeth actually survives the film, unlike Fritz or Waldman, and after all, it’s not really her fault that she doesn’t do a whole lot.  Like I said before, the story isn’t about Elizabeth, or Waldman, or Fritz.  It’s about Henry and the monster.

There are other characters, like Henry’s father (Who has little personality outside of being cantankerous), or Henry’s friend, Victor, (who has very little personality at all but who existed to take care of Elizabeth, since in an earlier script, Henry was killed at the end), or the Burgomaster (who’s not really there for long at all), but for the most part, the characters audiences remember boil down to Henry Frankenstein, the original mad scientist, and his creation.

With good reason.

Even just those two characters make Frankenstein iconic.  It is these two people who are so memorable, nearly ninety years later.  While not necessarily feeling ‘realistic’, (because they don’t) they are compelling, and the audience understands and feels for Henry and the monster.

The brilliance of Frankenstein is in these larger-than-life caricatures: the mad-scientist and his monster.  We cannot believe that they are real, but we do get to know them and care about them.  It feels bare bones, stark and open, showing the audience one man’s horrible mistake, and the tragedy that came from it, surrounding people that we like.  It asks you to consider Frankenstein’s arrogance, and the impact it had on so many.  It finishes with a sad ending, but a good ending, an ending with closure, and we as an audience care, not just about Frankenstein, but his monster as well.  Their ending, their lives, matter to us in the way that all characters are meant to.

In short?  There’s a reason Dr. Frankenstein and his monster are so beloved and so iconic years later.  Their spot in Hollywood’s hall of fame and history is well-earned, and they remain legendary to this day.

Thank you guys so much for reading!  If you enjoyed it, stick around for more, as we discuss Frankenstein’s place in the culture of 1931 next time!  Don’t forget that the ask box is always open for questions, suggestions, discussions, or just saying hi.  I hope to see you all in the next article.

[sleepingfancies]

We Need to Talk About SJM

I was recently anonymously asked what exactly my issue with Sarah Jane Maas is, and ended up writing what was essentially a thesis paper about it. Unfortunately, Tumblr pulled a Shitty Website move and deleted everything I wrote under the ‘read more’ tab, so I’m compiling my reasons here on a masterpost, for your reading leisure.

EDIT: Read more tab continues to not work for me, so I apologize to all of you who have to suffer through this. I’ll tag is as a long post accordingly.

Let’s get started

                                                        ***********

Reason 1: She preaches messages that no young girl needs to (or should) hear.

Granted, I know the a lot of the YA genre are adults who are no strangers to smut and aren’t phased by toxic behavior in characters. But on the same token, a lot of the YA genre is fueled by young girls age 12-20. Now I’m not going to sit here and pretend like girls in that age range aren’t reading/writing smutty fanfiction or dating. I know they do, I did, most of my friends did. But at that age, young girls are still trying to figure out who they are and who they want to be, including in terms of relationships. That’s where my problem with Maas comes in.

Maas writes, almost exclusively, toxic relationships - at best. Straight up abusive at worst. At one point in ACOTAR, I had to put the book down because I was so disgusted by what happened. Rhysand assaulted Feyre. I’m not kidding. He kissed and groped her against her will, telepathically asked whether she was wet about it, and wondered aloud what she looked like naked. The entire goal of doing this was to piss Feyre’s then-boyfriend off, and for Rhysand to assert his dominance as a Fae lord or whatever the fuck (y’know, like rapists do). Feyre was left shaking, nauseated, and scared for her life. But the worst part? It was written like this was something sexy and desirable. Literal penetration was all that stopped this from being a horrifying rape scene, and I couldn’t believe Maas wrote about it like some hot erotica. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t cute. It was disgusting, violating, and I was furious when I read it (especially given Feyre actually ends up with Rhysand eventually. What the fuck).

In Throne of Glass - and subsequent sequels - there are couples (namely Rowan and Aelin) who quite literally spit on each other, punch each other, and bite each other. No, not “love nip” bite, I mean “I’m trying to tear your skin off” bite. But we’re meant to believe they’re endgame, meant to be, and a totally healthy relationship. Let’s not even get into emotional abuse and manipulation, because holy fuck does every single character in these books act like a goddamn villain if we were to go over that in detail. All you need to know is that “if you don’t do xyz then I’ll leave and never come back” “what made you think I cared about you? You’re nothing to me. Just kidding, I love you” and similar sentiments are rampant in these series.

While we’re here, what is up with this “mates” nonsense? Every character pairing we see by the end of the ToG series has a “mate,” and swears off everyone they’ve had before, claiming them to be “false mates.” This whole “mates” business sounds a lot like somebody desperately trying to reassure their insanely jealous partner that they don’t still have feelings for their ex. That’s not healthy! That’s not okay! Your exes helped you narrow down your search. They helped you understand yourself more and what you want (or don’t want). And y’know what? It’s okay to have happy memories with an ex. It’s okay to not hate your ex. Telling young girls that all that matters is their future husband (which erases LGBT+ girls, as well as straight women who don’t want to get married) is harmful as hell, and contributes to the idea that a girl is only “complete” when she finds her “soulmate.”

Girls 12-20 really do not need to be given the message that it’s normal - nay, romantic - for their partners to hit them, humiliate them, or assault them. You may be saying, “Clara, come on, girls know fiction isn’t reality and no girl is actually going to stand for that kind of thing in real life.” But I can’t tell you how horribly my own view of relationships was corrupted for several years after all the books I read as a tween where the protagonist had to defend her flirty boyfriend from the advances of other girls. I didn’t trust boys not to cheat on me. I didn’t trust my girl friends not to try and steal a boyfriend. I thought girls who dressed up and wore makeup and dated a lot were sluts. It took me years of conscious effort to unlearn those ideas. Fiction can and does influence the reader. So again I say: teaching girls that it’s “hot and sexy” when men literally abuse you is not a message a 12-20 year old should be hearing. Ever.

                                                     ***************

Reason 2: What exactly does Maas want her readers to be?

Y’know, Maas thinks Caelena/Aelin is a role model for young girls. But here’s a brief list of things Celery/Alien has done throughout the Throne of Glass series:

1. Tried to smash a flower pot over a girl’s head for showing interest in courting Prince Dorian. Despite said girl literally being present at the castle for that purpose and Caelena was not.

2. Very nearly murdered Dorian for absolutely fuckall reason, and then she got mad at Chaol for trying to stop her (keep in mind: Chaol and Dorian are supposed to be best friends. So like... yeah, he’s gonna come to Dorian’s defense).

3. Straight up said, “if I get bored being queen I’ll just go and conquer more lands for my kingdom.” Imperialist there much, Aelin?

This is Maas’ role model material? Half the shit she does from Heir of Fire onward could be described as “war crime” and the other half could be described as “selfish.” Maas seems to think that a shit ton of half-baked “witty” lines and a few “badass” fight scenes completely makes up for having an amoral character as the protagonist you want to flaunt around as an icon for young girls.

It would be one thing if Maas said, “I don’t want anyone to be like Celery/Alien. She’s not a good person and I want my readers to be able to identify how and why she isn’t a good person. The moral is what not to be like.” But she does the opposite and claims time and time again that Celery/Alien is some kind of feminist warrior, when in fact Celery/Alien is the very epitome of white feminism and false feminism. She’ll be all kinds of gung-ho for herself, but as soon as another woman mentions her own unique problems or lifestyles, Celery/Alien thinks she’s a “whiny bitch,” “dumb slut,” or something similar. Celery/Alien ends up looking down her nose at basically every other female character. The lack of female friendships in Maas’ books is frankly astounding.

No girl needs to be Celery/Alien. Celery/Alien is not a role model, she is not a feminist, she is not a figurehead of a well developed female character or even a compelling antihero. She’s sexist, she’s misogynistic, she has serious anger issues, she’s manipulative, she’s abusive. This is not who young girls should be looking up to.

                                                       ************

Reason 3: Maas has no place in the YA genre.

I’m not really sure I need to elaborate much on this. Let me give you a scenario:

Imagine you’re at a book signing for your fans. They’re mostly girls 15-20, so you kind of just sign their copies without thinking much about it. But then a smaller girl comes up to the table, you ask her age, and she says “I’m ten.” A 10 year old girl is standing in front of you, clutching her copy of your book where you wrote and published the scene, “he buried in to the hilt and roared. Over and over he spilled inside of her, the lightning outside flashing soft and lovely long after he stilled.”

Look me in the eye and tell me that shit is appropriate in the YA genre. At all. Ever.

You wanna write romance? Go for it. It can be cute! It can be healthy! It can be intriguing! But this? This? This is just... erotica. If you’re publishing stuff like this in the YA genre, in a book that isn’t even on the ‘tween/teen romance’ shelves, then you better be ready to take full responsibility for teaching 10 year olds what a blowjob is, what an orgasm is, what BDSM is, what a fucking foot fetish is.

I know JK Rowling isn’t the most popular right now, but even she did better than this. The first 3 Harry Potter books you can generally find on the children’s/middle grade shelves. They were cute, fun little adventures about wizards and magic and fantastic creatures. Books 4-7? Those are on the YA shelves. People are dying, magic is dangerous, fascist organizations are on the rise -- it isn’t fun for Harry anymore. It isn’t about the wonders of magic. It’s about life or death, war, and fear. So yeah, of course those book aren’t going to be on the children’s/middle grade shelves! They’re dark! They’re scary! That kind of material shouldn’t be advertised as appropriate for younger kids!

Maas never extended that courtesy. Maas took her books full of badly written erotica and plopped them down right where all the rest of the completely tame YA books went, because she wanted the sales. She didn’t care if she was exposing kids who were too young to explicit sex scenes. She never posted a disclaimer, she never posted any kind of warning on social media when the books came out. Nope. She just silently took advantage of the market knowing she’d get more sales in YA. But it has no place in YA. It’s not YA. And I don’t think I’m ever gonna be okay with that.

                                                          ***********

Reason 4: Diversity? Never heard of it!

Maas’ books are so incredibly white and straight that it’s painful. Rowan and Aelin? White and straight. Feyre? Rhysand? Chaol? Dorian? Manon? Hey, you guessed it! They’re all white and straight (despite Chaol, Dorian, and Manon being heavily LGBT+ coded for like, the entire series till the last book)!

“He looked at his friend, perhaps for the last time, and said what he had always known, from the moment they met, ‘I love you.’” (Queen of Shadows)

Hello? Sarah Jane? I’m all for male friendships, but there’s male friendships and then there’s actual romance. Chaol and Dorian are about as gay-coded as they could fucking get. And this isn’t even the only time this happens! Check this out:

“Dorian surged from his chair and dropped to his knees beside the bed. He grabbed Chaol’s hand, squeezing it as he pressed his brow against his. ‘You were dead,’ the prince said, his voice breaking. ‘I thought you were dead.’” (Queen of Shadows)

But wait, there’s more!

“‘I’m not leaving you. Not again.’

Dorian’s mouth tightened. ‘You didn’t leave, Chaol.’ He shook his head once, sending tears slipping down his cheeks. ‘You never left me.’” (Queen of Shadows)

I mean come on, Sarah!

Also, Manon. My girl Manon hated men, pretty explicitly, for the entire series. In case you don’t believe me:

“There were few sounds Manon enjoyed more than the groans of dying men.” (Heir of Fire)

Oh, and other characters even imply Manon has never had a heterosexual relationship in her fucking life. See:

“‘That golden-haired witch, Asterin...’ Aelin said. ‘She screamed Manon’s name the way I screamed yours. How can I take away somebody who means the world to someone else? Even if she is my enemy.’” (Queen of Shadows)

Tell me that’s not gay as fuck. I dare you.

Manon had a whole lot of love to give women! She was always affectionate towards other women. Particularly Elide. This is a woman who was about as lesbian as you could get. Had no interest in men, every interest in women, rejected typically expected roles for women (getting married and having kids, etc.) but guess what happened? Guess what fucking happened?

This warrior who was friends with and rode on a big fuckoff wyvern completely and totally submits to Dorian as her lover. I don’t mean that metaphorically. They literally do some BDSM shit where he’s her “master” and she “kneels to him” or whatever the fucking fuck. This entire thing pissed me off more than Chaol and Dorian being all “no homo bro,” because Maas used every possible symbol and subtext for Manon being gay, and then said “just kidding!” Her relationship with Dorian came out of nowhere. All of a sudden she was just as thirsty for mediocre dick as Aelin.

At this point I honestly have to wonder if Maas is really this ignorant or if she’s - dare I say it? - taunting her readers who have complained about the lack of LGBT+ representation. Maas has, historically, not reacted well to people criticizing her work. I would not put it beyond her at all to intentionally queer-code characters only to turn around and rip the rug out from under her readers by pairing them up in heterosexual relationships. And not only is that shitty writing, but it’s... really malicious and rude.

Of course then there’s the issues with racial representation. Again, Maas doesn’t even try. She includes 13 characters of color only to immediately kill off all of them in a suicide pact. So there’s that. Not sure I need to say more than that.

Maas knows what diversity is, but as per her famous quote, “I just don’t want to force diversity into my books.” So. Y’know. Writing a black or gay character (or!! God forbid, both black and gay!!) is asking a little too much of her, apparently. She doesn’t want to force anything as unbelievable as someone who isn’t white or straight, don’tcha know? In these books about fae people and dragons and gods fighting mortals and explicit erotica, an LGBT+ character or a character of color is high fantasy, not YA. *Sarcasm*

                                                        ************

Reason 5: The woman can’t write.

This is pretty straightforward. She cannot write. My proof? She plagiarizes the living fuck out of everything she can to avoid actually writing her own original work.

1. “You’re gonna rattle the stars.” - from Disney’s Treasure Planet

2. “The Queen Who Was Promised” - from GRRM’s ASOIAF, where Dany Targaryen is often toted as the exact same thing. Oh, and The Prince Who Was Promised prophecy in ASOIAF also mentions Azor Ahai being “the Heir of Fire” so, uh.... yeah.

3. Aelin basically being Aragorn. Lost royalty spends years as an outcast, denies their claim, teams up with elves (fae in Aelin’s case) to defeat a greater evil, becomes known as the people’s champion, falls in love with an elf (fae) and makes them their consort, crowned by the people, ends their coronation scene with a “you bow to no one” (I’m not kidding).

4. Nehemia dying for Aelin and it later being revealed that Nehemia was “grooming” Aelin to face great evil, and potentially give her life to stop it. How much you wanna bet Maas tried to give Aelin a name as close to “Harry Potter” as she could get?

5. Manon lighting a series of beacons across a mountain range to call for aid during war. I mean seriously? This is one of the most iconic scenes in Peter Jackson’s rendition of Lord of the Rings. It’s moving, it’s powerful, it’s awe-inspiring. And Maas knew it. So she just... took it. I don’t have a lot of respect for writers who can’t write their own moving scenes.

6. Kingsflame blossoms, which only bloom when the rightful monarch is on the throne. So... the White Tree of Gondor. Got it.

7. The Hand of the King being a royal court position. Like... jesus. GRRM, come get ya world-building, SJ stole it again.

8. A paralyzed Chaol has a specialized saddle made for him, because he wants more than anything to ride a horse again. GRRM! Please! She’s taking Bran Stark’s story now!

And besides all of these horribly plagiarized points, there’s nothing even slightly compelling about these books. There’s literally zero substance, and the last few books in both the ACOTAR and ToG series have been nothing but a smut-fest. Plot who? We don’t know her.

Trauma, both physical and mental, is erased at the drop of a dime (Aelin lost physical scars, Chaol’s paralysis was basically cured, series of events that should’ve left characters absolutely fucked just... didn’t phase them). The battles are rushed and sloppily written, and Maas has a particularly nasty habit of focusing on exactly the wrong people in the middle of what should be an action packed scene. Instead of showing alliances forging and plots being made behind people’s backs, instead of showing us people gearing up for battle by saying tearful goodbyes to their infants and spouses, Maas shows us Rowan and Aelin banging on a beach, or a tree, or a ship, or wherever the fuck they happen to be at that moment.

None of these characters lose jack shit. There is no sense of urgency or stakes, because we knew since Heir of Fire that Aelin and her precious uwu fae “mate” would be just fine. Why? Because nobody shipped Rowaelin as hard as Sarah Jane Maas did. Consistently the only people who suffer in these books are background characters (who, coincidentally, are almost always the characters of color and LGBT+ characters). By the end of Kingdom of Ash, literally everyone is fine. And paired off to be married, too! Because a happy ending isn’t a true happy ending if it doesn’t end with Babies Ever After and everyone in a heterosexual relationship, of course, right?

                                                        ***********

Reason 6: World-building doesn’t even go here! Sorry, she just wanted to be a part of something.

Maas’ world-building is... how do you say... shitty. New lore pops up in every book, having never been mentioned before, and is for some reason of utmost importance (but only for this book. It’ll be forgotten again as soon as it isn’t relevant). Religions who? Culture where? History what? None of these things exist in Maas’ world. None.

Now before anyone jumps down my throat with “but The World of Throne of Glass is coming out this year!!!1!1!!” let me gently establish something. Speaking as a fantasy author: if you do not have your most basic world-building - that being religion, culture, language, and history - already established, then you have no business making a “world of” book to cover all the bases your ass never bothered with in the original series.

I said what I said.

Tolkien and GRRM are masters of world-building because they spent decades working to forge their worlds before they ever put a pen to paper and wrote their stories. Not to toot my own horn, but my own fantasy series has been developing for almost 7 years now. What am I doing with it? I’m outlining governments in different societies, why people came to worship what they do, and I’m making a fucking world map on my bedroom floor (that now has cat paw prints on it, so it’s not exactly final product material anyway).

I give not a single hoot for Maas’ “The World of Throne of Glass.” She could be saying anything she wanted to and it would all just have to be canon, because she’s establishing what this world is after already finishing her series. Yes, it does piss me off, because it’s pretty obvious she didn’t have a clue what her world was, or who was who, or why things were the way they were. She made shit up as she went along, nothing more. There was no grand scheme. There was no planning, and it shows.

                                                       ***********

TL;DR: I have a lot of issues with Sarah J Maas’ writing, including her world-building and handling of diversity. But most of all I despise the potential impact she has on the YA genre and on the young girls reading her work. They deserve better than this. They deserve better than Sarah Jane Maas.

[chaos-of-the-abyss]

I love Tolkien too!! Who’s your favorite character?

Anon, how dare you make me choose my favorite character when there are so many beautiful characters to pick from? 

In all honestly, I find that I can’t answer that question. I hope you're okay with reading a much, much longer response than you probably imagined originally. I’ll go over my top characters and why they’re so high on my personal list, because many of the reasons are different from character to character. These aren’t in any particular order.

This also isn’t even all of my top favorites, but the answer became so long that I had to limit it to a few. Basically, I wrote whole character analyses gushing about why I love the characters I mentioned - Sauron, Melkor, Manwë, and Varda. Enjoy :’)

Sauron

I loved reading about just because of how evil he is; it makes him very entertaining (and horrifying, more often than not) to read anything he’s involved in. He’s the worst. Literally the worst. I love how cunning and deceptive he is because I’ve always had a penchant for conniving characters. 

“Now the Elves made many rings; but secretly Sauron made One Ring to rule all the others, and their power was bound up with it, to be subject wholly to it and to last only so long as it too should last. And much of the strength and will of Sauron passed into that One Ring; for the power of the Elven-rings was very great, and that which should govern them must be a thing of surpassing potency; and Sauron forged it in the Mountain of Fire in the Land of Shadow. And while he wore the One Ring he could perceive all the things that were done by means of the lesser rings, and he could see and govern the very thoughts of those that wore them.”

But I also find Sauron interesting because it looks like he began as an anti-hero, a Byronic hero, even someone who had good intentions but coupled them with extreme measures and moral greyness. And instead of being your stereotypical angsty brooder who eventually finds “the light”, is redeemed, and finds happiness, Sauron plunged deeper and deeper into malice, ill intentions, and a desire to dominate.

“In my story Sauron represents as near an approach to the wholly evil will as is possible. He had gone the way of all tyrants: beginning well, at least on the level that while desiring to order all things according to his own wisdom he still at first considered the (economic) well-being of other inhabitants of the Earth. But he went further than human tyrants in pride and the lust for domination, being in origin an immortal (angelic) spirit. Sauron desired to be a God-King, and was held to be this by his servants, by a triple treachery: 1. Because of his admiration of Strength he had become a follower of Morgoth and fell with him down into the depths of evil, becoming his chief agent in Middle-earth. 2. when Morgoth was defeated by the Valar finally he forsook his allegiance; but out of fear only; he did not present himself to the Valar or sue for pardon, and remained in Middle-earth. 3. When he found how greatly his knowledge was admired by all other rational creatures and how easy it was to influence them, his pride became boundless.”

Tolkien himself says that Sauron “began well”, and because of his admiration for Morgoth’s immense power, was corrupted alongside him as well. It was also the fault of his arrogance; when he discovered that other beings admired and were amazed by him due to his status as a (former) angelic being, the praise basically got to his head. While I love redemption stories, it’s refreshing to read about a character who had his chance and let it go. And Sauron’s evil is absolutely unquestionable. It’s not up for debate; he is malevolent, selfish, and duplicitous, and through his desire for order, perfection, and control, actually seems to represent what Tolkien considers a very absolute form of evil.

“The most improper job of any man, even saints, is bossing other men.”

And what I find so gripping about Sauron is that he doesn’t carry out his cruelty with professionalism and a sense of necessity; he absolutely relishes it.

“Then straightaway they brought him into the dreadful presence of Sauron; and Sauron said: ‘I hear now that thou wouldst barter with me. What is thy price?’

And Gorlim answered that he should find Eilinel again, and with her be set free; for he thought Eilinel also had been made captive. Then Sauron smiled, saying: ‘That is a small price for so great a treachery. So shall it surely be. Say on!’

Now Gorlim would have drawn back, but daunted by the eyes of Sauron he told at last all that he would know. Then Sauron laughed; and he mocked Gorlim, and revealed to him that he had only seen a phantom devised by wizardry to entrap him; for Eilinel was dead. ‘Nonetheless I will grant thy prayer,’ said Sauron; 'and thou shalt go to Eilinel, and be set free of my service.’ Then he put him cruelly to death.”

Melkor

My initial reason for liking Melkor seems very similar to my reasons for liking Sauron: He’s a stellar villain, and, like Sauron, a complete and utter monster. And he’s intense. He’s terrifying; Tolkien’s descriptions of him are great, and just reading it on a page is captivating.

“… And he descended upon Arda in power and majesty greater than any other of the Valar, as a mountain that wades in the sea and has its head above the clouds and is clad in ice and crowned with smoke and fire; and the light of the eyes of Melkor was like a flame that withers with heat and pierces with a deadly cold.”

Yet he’s also quite different from his lieutenant, in my opinion. Melkor seems to be much more motivated by personal envy than Sauron is: 

‘As a shadow Melkor did not then conceive himself. For in his beginning he loves and desired light, and the form that he took was exceedingly bright; and he said in his heart: 'On such brightness as I am the Children shall hardly endure to look; therefore to know of aught else or beyond or even to strain their small minds to conceive of it would not be for their good.’ But a lesser brightness that stands before the greater becomes darkness. And Melkor was jealous, therefore, of all other brightness, and wished to take all light unto himself.’

He has a very interesting desire for light (tying into the envious aspect of his nature) that does nothing to redeem him in the slightest.

“He began with the desire of Light, but when he could not possess it for himself alone, he descended through fire and wrath into a great burning, down into Darkness. And darkness he used most in his evil works upon Arda, and filled it with fear for all living things.”

‘With Manwë dwells Varda, Lady of the Stars, who knows all the regions of Eä. Too great is her beauty to be declared in the words of Men or of Elves; for the light of Ilúvatar lives still in her face. In light is her power and her joy. Out of the deeps of Eä she came to the aid of Manwë; for Melkor she knew from before the making of the Music and rejected him, and he hated her, and feared her more than all others whom Eru made.’ 

A very interesting quote that has sparked a lot of discussion. Whatever this “rejection” means (I have my own thoughts in this, but I’m trying to keep this objective for this post), Melkor sought spirits of light to recruit to his side, and it seems that Varda embodies light, purity, holiness, etc. Her titles reflect this, as does this statement about the light of Ilúvatar. 

Now this embodiment of light, this spirit of brilliance, rejected to join Melkor’s side, and Melkor ‘hated her’. It’s quite obvious that Melkor is, for lack of a better word, salty, that Varda, whose face shines with Eru’s light, “rejected” him. He cannot have Eru’s light (the Flame Imperishable), and Varda is perhaps the closest he can get to this. But she declines to ally herself to him, and he despises her for it. He’s not just peeved at losing a powerful ally, he loathes her on a personal level because she represents light that he can never have, no matter how much he desires it. (Take that as you will.)

Melkor is compelling, to me, because of how contradictory he seems. He’s absolutely monstrous and evil, no doubt about that, and his malice, like Sauron’s, is unquestionable. But he’s also a very convoluted character; clearly, much of his evil is borne out of personal insecurities. If you think about it, his duality makes perfect sense and is not contradictory. I like that: a character that’s undoubtedly evil embodied, yet is still layered in a natural, human way, and not one-dimensional. 

Manwë

Manwë is a character I adore for entirely different reasons than the first two above. As a person, he’s probably one of the characters I adore most out of any fictional universe. I love how he’s described as majestic and kingly - and he is!

But Manwë Súlimo, highest and holiest of the Valar, sat upon the borders of the West, forsaking not in his thought the Outer Lands. For his throne was set in majesty upon the pinnacle of Taniquetil, which was the highest of the mountains of the world, standing upon the margin of the Seas. Spirits in the shape of hawks and eagles flew ever to and from his halls; and their eyes could see to the depths of the sea and could pierce the hidden caverns under the world, and their wings could bear them through the three regions of the firmament beyond the lights of heaven to the edge of Darkness. Thus they brought word to him of well nigh all that passed in Aman: yet some things were hidden even from the eyes of Manwë and the servants of Manwë, for where Melkor sat in his dark thought impenetrable shadows lay. [...] Elves and Men revere Manwë most of all the Valar, for he has no thought for his own honour, and is not jealous of his power, but ruleth all to peace. The Vanyar he loved most of all the Elves, and of him they received song and poesy. For poesy is the delight of Manwë, and the song of words is his music. Behold, the raiment of Manwë is blue, and blue is the fire of his eyes, and his sceptre is of sapphire which the Noldor wrought for him; and he is King of the world of gods and elves and men, the vicegerent of Ilúvatar, and the chief defence against the evil of Melkor.

I apologize for the sudden subjectivity, but in my eyes, you will never read a more badass description of a character. Period. 

Anyway . . . despite his magnificence and power, Manwë is very well-intentioned, very noble, not at all corrupted by his authority, although he is quite literally the ruler of the entire world (Arda). 

Elves and Men revere Manwë most of all the Valar, for he has no thought for his own honour, and is not jealous of his power, but ruleth all to peace. 

As explicitly stated by Tolkien, Manwë is good. And personally, I think he’s one of the strongest characters in Tolkien’s universe. In power, yes - I mean, I believe he’s stated to be the second most powerful of the Ainur, right after Melkor. But in strength of character, Manwë far surpasses his brother and a good amount of the other characters. He shows it several times; for one thing, not being corrupted by the amount of power that he has is impressive in itself, but I also think this is noteworthy. It’s a decision he is often criticized for, but as Tolkien himself insinuated, Manwë choosing to release Melkor and offer him a second chance was a good thing.

“Who then can say with assurance that if Melkor had been held in bond less evil would have followed? Even in his diminishment the power of Melkor is beyond our calculation. Yet some ruinous outburst of his despair is not the worst that might have befallen. The release was according to the promise of Manwë. If Manwë had broken this promise for his own purposes, even though still intending ‘good’, he would have taken a step upon the paths of Melkor. That is a perilous step. In that hour and act he would have ceased to be the vice-regent of the One, becoming but a king who takes advantage over a rival whom he has conquered by force. Would we then have the sorrows that indeed befell; or would we have the Elder King lose his honour, and so pass, maybe, to a world rent between two proud lords striving for the throne?

Of this we may be sure, we children of small strength: any one of the Valar might have taken the paths of Melkor and become like him: one was enough.”

Rather than doing what Melkor would have done - going back on his words out of fear and refusing to extend a helping hand to a defeated enemy - Manwë chose to do what he believed was right, what was according to his morals. He didn’t waver or back away in the face of peril and stayed true to who he was. And to me, that’s the ultimate act showing strength of character.

Varda

Ah, the OG queen I stan. I always loved Varda, truthfully, but @marta-elentari ‘s metas made me love her even more. 

Varda is that character that makes me scream “Yes queen” from the very start. I love the feeling of power and brilliance I get when I read descriptions of her:

‘With Manwë dwelt Varda the most beautiful, whom we Noldor name Elbereth, Queen of the Valar; she it was who wrought the Great Stars; and with them were a great host of fair spirits in great blessedness.’

‘With Manwë dwells Varda, Lady of the Stars, who knows all the regions of Eä. Too great is her beauty to be declared in the words of Men or of Elves; for the light of Ilúvatar lives still in her face. In light is her power and her joy. Out of the deeps of Eä she came to the aid of Manwë; for Melkor she knew from before the making of the Music and rejected him, and he hated her, and feared her more than all others whom Eru made.’

My first impression of her was that she was a very intelligent woman and a very keen judge of character, considering she was the first to sense the darkness in Melkor. I also admired her for rejecting him, because Melkor coerced multiple powerful Maiar to his side, even those with good intentions (*cough* Sauron *cough*), and I don’t imagine his powers of persuasion were any less potent or any less on display when he attempted to cajole Varda to join him. Yet she declined. 

But then, courtesy of @marta-elentari , I found these quotes:

‘And Manwë and Ulmo and Aulë were as Kings; but Varda was the Queen of the Valar, and the spouse of Manwë, and her beauty was high and terrible and of great reverence.’

I find this “high and terrible” description to be very interesting. Insofar I had only known Varda is this Virgin Mary-type figure, but I think that quote added some less ‘holy’ aspects to her personality. And I loved that. We see the word ‘beauty’ juxtaposed with ‘terrible’ in LOTR, when Galadriel is tempted by the Ring:

“Instead of a Dark Lord, you would have a queen, not dark but beautiful and terrible as the dawn! Tempestuous as the sea, and stronger than the foundations of the earth! All shall love me and despair!”

This quote is an external manifestation of Galadriel’s buried desire for more power, a change from the wise and kind Lady of Lothlórien that Galadriel was initially characterized as. Of course, learning more of Galadriel’s history and her younger days’ desire to come to Middle Earth and rule her own kingdom - another form of power - it makes sense and is not at all odd. 

But the similarity in word choice makes me wonder if Varda was ambitious and desired power and a position of rulership, just as Galadriel did. Because I’m a sucker for ambitious female characters, I latch on to this theory, and it makes me love Varda very much: a Holy Mary figure who is mighty and pure, but also more complex than the surface level seems to indicate, and a woman who isn’t punished for her ambition. 

[seasaltmemories]

You Say You Wanna Go to Heaven, But You’re Human Tonight

Rating: T

Summary: And so, Alm added idolatry to the list of his sins.

~

The morning after Duma was slayed, Celica rose at dawn to pray.

The first time, Alm saw this, he had wondered if in her half-awaken haze she had somehow forgotten the events of yesterday.  Such a theory might sound crazy at first glance, but some mornings he imagined himself back in Ram Village.  Memories took a long time to die, so rather than inflict her any pain, he had faked slumber and let her go along her day, before “properly” waking up himself.

In time, he thought, they would both learn to accept the present.  Morning lies always faded away in the afternoon’s bright light.

But as the days turned into weeks and then months, still she continued to pray.  Ignorance nor denial could explain her actions.  She spoke of Mila’s and Duma’s demise with as much certainty as anyone else. Yet as busy as they were with rebuilding Valentia, she continued to find time to converse with those who would never answer her.

It would have been easy to write it off as madness, a quirk she had picked up to survive.  Most of them had strange habits of their own--like how Mathilda always carried a knife up her sleeve, even when the battlefield was far away and she was decked in her court finery, or how Valbar refused to be placed anywhere besides the front-lines, even when he looked ready to pass out from so much marching in his heavy army.  Everyone found their own way to cope, and the polite thing to do was turn away and pretend you didn’t notice anything.

But then Alm’s own idiosyncrasies made that difficult to do.  Like a voyeur, stealing away a moment of intimacy, he woke early to spy on her prayers.  He never let on that he was awake, rather he silently studied her closed eyes and clasped hands, searching for the method to it all.

It seemed faith had little to do with the gods themselves.

It wasn’t as if Alm had ever disliked religion.  Growing up, he had done everything expected of him: attended every religious holiday with a proper tribute of wool in tow, said his prayers to thank Mila for the year’s harvest, even as they dwindled with each famine.  But unlike Faye, whose eyes had sparkled with purpose when she had donned the clock and pledged herself to be Mila’s personal tool, Alm had never been able to understand such devotion.  He couldn’t give himself up for a being he had never even seen before.

The hypocrisy didn’t escape him.  It was because of Duma’s blessing, Valentia had deemed him their Saint-King.  Without Mila’s mercy, he would have been powerless to save Celica, forced to kill her by his own hand.  However it was those very boons that caused him to chafe against the concept.  Because if Duma had cursed him with his dying breath, if Mila had deemed Celica a proper sacrifice that must be made, was he supposed to have just step aside and bend to their will?  Was he supposed bleed himself dry for creatures whose talons had shed so much blood in the first place?

Even if the gods hadn’t been mad, hadn’t deserved to finally have some peace, he knew he would have slaughtered them still if it meant saving the life of one of his loved ones.  He couldn’t understand Celica having done the near opposite.  When they had discussed such matters in the dead of night, huddled together and whispering secrets against the other’s skin, her words might as well have been spoken in another language.

“Of course I rather live a long and happy life, but Valentia is much bigger than just you and me.”  Her red curls had tickled the crook of his neck and she settled in.  “It’s our birthright to take care of it.  My one life was hardly a price if it had really meant peace would return.”

There was no point in arguing with her when the matter was all said and done, but despite their physical closeness she seemed so far away in that moment--so virtuous and good that she was untouchable.  And later on it seemed as if he wasn’t the only one to feel this way.  Already many former clergy members had taken to preaching her as Mila incarnated as a human.  While most days he was glad for her, during lonely, selfish nights the devil inside would want to cut her wings, pin her to the earth, and never let her go.

“She promised herself to me, and me alone!  I’m sorry, world, but you can’t have her!”

Each time such a thought came to him, he followed the same routine.  He imagined himself picking up the thought, examining it thoroughly, and then locking it inside a black chest, never to be considered again.  Such a route was dangerous to travel, placing his love for his own desires over his love of Celica. Still whenever the box rattled and screamed, he cracked it open just one inch.  He allowed him to steal that one moment of privacy with what remained of the gods.

In the last week or so, Celica had finally scheduled a meeting with her new acolytes.  It was useful to have such loyal allies during a change in power, but it was tricky business to keep such a following from getting distorted into an actual cult.  Still it was the first time they had been separated from the war.  Despite knowing she was safe and doing important work, it was difficult to calm his nerves.

She was due to return in the early morning, so he tried to get some sleep.  Still he tossed and turned throughout the night, getting little rest.  He must have dozed at one point, because he ended up waking with a start when he heard the door to his quarters open.

“Hello, darling,” Celica whispered as she entered.  “I’m home.”

“Celica...what are you wearing?”  It was a pitiful response, bu  the outside light haloed her body provided just enough illumination for him to make out that she was wearing a saint’s garb.  Such a choice perplexed him so, he lost any greetings he might have offered up.

“It’s a long story, but the Church of the One Kingdom offered me a promotion,”  She padded across the room to sit at her dresser.  “Even though technically priestesses can’t qualify as saints...I must look ridiculous, don’t I?”

Ridiculous was far from the truth.  She looked radiant, holy, every bit of the heavenly angel they believed her to be.  It made his heart ache like nothing else.

“It’s late, so feel free to go back to sleep.  I’ll tell you about my day in the morning proper.”

“I’m not that tired, I don’t mind staying up longer.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t miss a thing.  I”ll make sure it’s the first thing I do.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Silence seized the two of them.  Shame compelled Alm to turn away.  He didn’t deserve to look at her after such a blasphemous slight, but there was some enthralling about the sight of her staring at him like that.  Celica had removed her makeup yet still remained gowned.  It was if she was caught between the divine and the earthly.

Slowly, she removed the pins from her hair.  It fell like a curtain across her shoulders.  “You’re right.  I guess I’ve gotten used to white lies in my time away.  The things they expect of me...”

“You’ve earned your stunning reputation though.”  Alm insisted.  “No matter how difficult it is, you’ll always choose the right choice.”

“I guess, absence truly makes the heart grow fonder.”  She undid the tassels flowing from her sleeves before taking off her gloves.  It was strange how much beauty seemed to linger in such a simple motion.  “Although we must be living proof of it.”

“There’s something tantalizing about what you can’t have.” He was trying not to concentrate on the heat pooling in his belly, but he couldn’t stop his breath from hitching as she unfastened her breastplate.  Still he could not look away.

“Where did you get the idea that I am not yours?”  Celica laughed. She made a show of sliding her hands down the curves of her body as she removed her skirts.  “You usually wear green with more grace.”

How odd.  He felt more like a heretic to be called out for his jealousy of the gods than he did after slaying them with his own hands.  “I’m just a fool chasing after a girl too important for his little dreams.  Didn’t stop to consider my competition until it was too late.”

“You of all people shouldn’t put me on a pedestal.”  She shucked the last of her clothes until only her small-clothes remained. “I’m too flawed to survive up there.”

“You don’t think you’ll resent me for dragging you down?”  You didn’t tame envy by fanning its flames, but oh if he could be allowed this moment of weakness.  She had already shed so much of her celestial exterior for him.  He didn’t want to be her world forever, only for this night.

Instead of responding, she slide off the last of her modesty.  From the foot of their bed, she crawled on all fours until she was perched in his lap.  Faintly her tongue traced the shell of his ear.  “As long as you know how to worship me properly.”

And so, Alm added idolatry to the list of his sins.

A.N. Religion is fascinating to me, especially in the context of Celica’s arc where her devotion remains yet she kills a god (and later gets imagined as one in her ending), I also for a dreamwidth event got challenged to write a story with a striptease in it, and this Bastille song has been in my head, so as usual I set about trying to weave together differing elements 

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, JEM! You’ve been accepted for the role of IAGO. Admin Rosey: Jem, you have no idea how much I flailed and screamed and went buckwild while reading this application. The quotes that you picked for the plot points set the stage for an absolutely exceptional application. I think that, with Iago, a difficult task can be capturing his core without humanizing him so that others can understand him. But you gave us insight into his being without us feeling a shred of sympathy for him. Most know that I enjoy the exploration of these sort of characters but it can be so difficult to trust someone with them. There is no one I trust more than you with our duplicitous Iago. Everyone, read this application from beginning to end and weep with me. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Jem.

Age | 25.

Preferred Pronouns | She/her.

Activity Level | I’d say my activity level is about a 6/10! My work schedule is pretty demanding, but I always try to carve out some space in my life for writing, and I’m usually able to plot and crank out replies consistently throughout the week.

Timezone | EST.

Current/Past RP Accounts | Here, here, and here.

IN CHARACTER

Character | Iago/Ivan Rahal.

What drew you to this character? | I’ve been drawn to (re: obsessed with) Ivan since literally the day his biography was posted, but I initially shied away from applying for him because I was, admittedly, a little intimidated by how unrelenting his darkness is, and I wasn’t quite sure I could do justice to a character with so many layers and so many complexities, all of them wrapped in varying shades of evil. But I found that once I began unraveling Ivan layer by layer, that intimidation gave way to fascination, and I became so completely wed to the idea of immersing myself wholly in all of Ivan’s inner workings, in dissecting his person and his psyche as thoroughly as he dissects those around him. Ivan errs on the side of evil, yes, unquestionably so, but his lack of morals is deeply rooted in discipline, and that discipline has bred a methodical, calculative process of destruction that, though morally bankrupt, is unique to Ivan Rahal and Ivan Rahal alone. He’s a villain unlike any other one villain, a monster unlike any other one monster. To delve into the motives of a man who wants for nothing and feels for no one was challenging, yes, but also vastly compelling. Initially, I wasn’t quite sure how to approach a character who’s so definitively dark, but even darkness is painted in different shades and shapes, and Ivan is no exception. He’s cruel, yes, but he metes out his cruelty subtly, and in increments, and only to those he deems worthy of his attention (usually those virtue-bound apostates). He’s rotten, yes, but his rot is tempered some by his self-control, and that leash alone makes him considerably less prone to apocalypse than he might’ve been had been born absent restraint. He’s treacherous, yes, but there is beauty to be found even his treachery: the way he transforms, the way he sheds his snakeskin and shifts it to match the changing colors of the political current. To simply brand him a “monster” is to do a disservice to his many layers, for he’s a creature far more nightmarish than monsters could ever hope to be—and he swathes those nightmares in stardust, tricking the masses into thinking him angel-born, haloed, hallowed by the heavens. He’s cruel, and selfish, and he has a severe deficit of conscience, but he’s also smart, and tenacious, and adaptive, and in this game, in this war, those qualities are invaluable—and that makes him a valuable player here in Verona. Ivan is a villain, to be sure, and one of the worst, but even the most wretched devils in the most wretched circles of hell have their limits, their lines to cross or not cross. And isn’t that what Verona’s about? Flirting with the spectrum of monstrosity; forging lines, and deigning to cross or not cross them; wading in the gray sea of morality. Ivan is a villain, to be sure—and so the question remains: what kind of villain will he be, and what kind of lines will he cross?

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

“A wolf will never be a pet.” —Kamilla Tolnoe He’s a Capulet, to be sure, but make no mistake: Ivan would just as soon slit Cosimo Capulet’s throat as he would Damiano Montague’s if it meant getting his way. The Capulets were little more than convenient to his plans upon his arrival to Verona: he needed to remain close to Odin, and he found the Capulets’ methods of war far more preferable to those of the Montagues. But Ivan’s self-interest remains paramount, and should the Capulets ever become inconvenient to his agenda, his eye might yet wander elsewhere.

“When strong, avoid them. If of high morale, depress them. Seem humble to fill them with conceit. If at ease, exhaust them. If united, separate them. Attack their weaknesses. Emerge to their surprise.” — Sun Tzu, The Art of War He’s avoided Delilah, and depressed her, and exhausted her, and separated her from Odin, and from the Capulets, and from the Veronesi. And yet still she remains. A broken shell of the woman she once was, to be sure, but Ivan was certain she’d have fled Verona by now, driven from her home by shame and gossip, found to be guilty of adultery by a jury of vipers. And yet still she remains. Curious. Dangerous. Ivan was so certain he’d well and truly broken any love Odin felt for Delilah, but he sees remnants of it in the way he looks at her, in the way he reminisces about her, in the way he shows kindness as an ode to her memory. And that simply won’t do. Not for Ivan, who would not do well to be found out; not for Odin, who would be the first survivor of Ivan’s games; not for Delilah, who would be the first winner of Ivan’s games. It’s the first time Ivan has felt—not quite panic, no, but a sort of unnerving itch, like the chessboard upon which he’s been playing has suddenly been turned around, and he’s disoriented by it. He’s more determined now than he’s ever been to expel Delilah, and all of her suspicions and wiles, from Verona.

“You have played, I think, and broke the toys you were fondest of, and are a little tired now; tired of things that break, and—just tired.” — E.E. Cummings For all of Ivan’s love of games, he’s bound to get bored eventually, no? What happens when he’s made his way through the masses of Verona, when he’s grown tired of his games with Odin, and Delilah, and Chiko, and Pandora? What will happen when he’s broken all of his toys so thoroughly that there’s nothing left to play with? What will he turn his attentions to next? Who will he turn his attentions to next? Will ever there come a time when he finds he can no longer sustain this sort of gameplay, when even his dead, wintry soul grows weary of such cardinal sin?

“What are you? A chaos.” — Anaïs Nin, Fire: From a Journal of Love He’s motivated by power, yet, but not inasmuch as he’s motivated by his passion for destruction. His life’s greatest joy is ruination: his blood sings for it, his heart thrums for it, his bones rattle for it. It’s ingrained in his very being, this endless want for destruction, this mad desire to desecrate all things holy. He’s proven time and again his value to the Capulet mob, but for all of Halcyon’s efforts to leash him, Ivan yet remains feral, untamed, and that could prove problematic, surely, for an organization based on mutual trust and collaboration. How will Ivan’s own motives intersect with those of the mob’s? What will happen when those two sets of motives are no longer compatible? What will happen when Halcyon’s leash breaks?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | If the admins felt strongly about using Ivan’s death as a plot device, I’d certainly be open to it!

IN DEPTH

“You’re terrible at this,” Ivan groaned to Odin from across the table, eyes flicking from the book in his hand to his companion. Odin, whose face was scrunched with concentration as he stared at the chessboard between them, shot Ivan a dark look. “Must you read while we play?” he groused. “It’s distracting.” Ivan snorted. He very much doubted his reading mid-play had any sway in Odin’s chess skills. In all of their matches, Odin had never once won, had never even come close to beating Ivan—not in the game of chess, and not in the other games Ivan played with him, either. “What else am I supposed to do during the hours you spend deliberating how, exactly, you’re going to lose to me?” Ivan drawled, eyes returning to the book in his hands as he kicked his feet up onto the corner of the table and rocked his chair onto its back legs, his limbs sprawling out—ever the picture of a lazy, contented cat. Odin glared at him and outstretched his palm as if to move a chess piece to make a point. In the end, he decided against it, and returned to his ruminations. Ivan blew out a loud sigh of frustration, and Odin, irked, growled, “What are you reading, anyway?” Ivan didn’t look up as he raised the book in his hands for Odin’s purveyance. “The Art of War?” Odin read the title aloud, brows knitting together. Ivan nodded in confirmation, purring, “Perhaps if you read it, you might stand a chance at winning one of these matches one day.” Odin grunted his disapproval. “What could I possibly learn about chess from a book on war?” “All life is war, Odin,” Ivan said, and the response was so immediate, so instinctive, that Odin raised a brow at him. “Look,” he said, and turned the pages of the book towards Odin, pointing to the chapter’s title: “‘There are five dangerous faults which may affect a general.’ Who’s to say you couldn’t use these faults to outmatch me in chess?” Ivan placed the book on the table, reaching over to Odin’s side of the chessboard, moving one of his rooks forward one space. “Firstly,” he explained, “there is recklessness, which leads to destruction.”

Funerals weren’t so terrible, Ivan supposed. A bit redundant, maybe—how many times in the past hour alone had family and friends alike, red-nosed and puffy-eyed, groveled to Ivan about how wonderful his father was, how kind and true and good. (It had been a concentrated effort for Ivan not to ask each of them, amidst their weeping soliloquies, if they were at the right funeral, or if they had the right Samir Rahal, or if they were deaf or drunk or dumb, because by no stretch of the imagination was Samir Rahal wonderful, or kind, or true, or good.) So—redundant, yes—but not so terrible. If nothing else, the black dress code suited Ivan well—suited Ivan almost as well as the veil of death that lingered overhead, muzzling the gathered crowd with a heavy blanket of despair. It was a hunting ground for his ilk: a garden of eden nouveau, abound with trees sprouting apples ripe for the picking. And he was the black-and-silver-scaled garden snake, weaving about their ankles, hissing nightmares into their ears, all at once at the helm and bow of their ruin. Ivan had a way about him that was nearly reptilian in nature (an ode to his true essence, he supposed)—the way he moved, the way he spoke, it was all very…snakelike. Eyes slitted with alert focus; a lean, muscled body that seemed to swagger and sway with an ease that was far too predatory; a tongue poised with venom, and a sharp set of teeth to match. And those eyes, more animal than human, turned to the crowd before him, picking through the masses with a cool, hooded gaze that eventually zeroed in on his younger brother, who stood just beyond the stained glass doors of the church house, trying in vain to light a cigarette with a now-empty lighter. Turning on his heel, Ivan slinked through the crowd and sidled up next to his brother, a matte black lighter already in his outstretched palm as he approached. (Ivan himself didn’t smoke, but he made a habit of keeping a lighter on his person—all worthwhile negotiations were made over shared cigarettes, after all.) “Why the long face, Joseph?” he deadpanned, lighting the end of his brother’s cigarette in one fluid, graceful motion. His brother gave him an incredulous look before drawing a sharp inhale, hands shaking as he took the cigarette from between his lips and flicked its bud, ash catching on a gust of wind and scattering between them both. Ivan clicked his tongue with admonishment as he swatted a fleck of ash off of the lapel of his jacket. “What did Armani ever do to you?” he drawled, face lax with cool indifference. Joseph’s only response was a vulgar gesture and a mean scowl. “So sensitive, brother,” Ivan chuckled—and he was. Of all three Rahal children, Joseph had always been the most tempestuous, too easily steered this way and that by the unpredictable tide of emotion. Messy—Joseph was always so messy, and that sort of disposition made for easy prey. “You look well for the son of a dead man,” Joseph noted, glancing sidelong at Ivan. “You don’t,” Ivan countered, eyebrows raised as he looked pointedly at his brother’s trembling hands, at his pallid face, at the way his eyes glazed over blankly. Joseph shrugged, and Ivan noted with no small delight the defeated sag of his brother’s shoulders. He was prime for ruin, riper now in all his sorrow than he’d ever been before. “Nicotine isn’t quite doing the trick today, I see,” Ivan said. “Perhaps whiskey will.” He jerked his chin at the tumbler in his brother’s shaking hand. “What, Ivan?” Joseph hissed. “Are you going to tell me what you used to tell Baba?” Joseph screwed up his voice and deepened his voice a few octaves, mimicking Ivan’s rich timbre. “Alcohol isn’t the solution, now, is it?” “Technically,” Ivan pointed out matter-of-factly, “alcohol is a solution—of the chemical sort, of course.” He expected another vulgar gesture from Joseph, a growl or grunt at the very least, but he instead looked to Ivan with round, pleading eyes, seeking salvation from the very source of his damnation. Stupid boy, Ivan almost wanted to chide him. So reckless in his trust. It was too easy with Joseph—boring, almost, to feast on a thing so bent and broken. Joseph looked at Ivan as if he were the salve to all of his wounds, not knowing that he was plague that fostered pitfalls of pestilence beneath those very wounds, nourishing his hurts with black tar and rot, siphoning the life from him without a trace. And this was perhaps Joseph’s greatest fault of all: he wanted, and he wanted recklessly. He wanted to heal the wound without first dressing it; he wanted to feel, but to feel only the good, never the bad; he wanted stability, but plunged headlong into life’s greatest uncertainties: love, drugs, death. He wanted, wanted, wanted, Joseph, and he was reckless in his wants, desperate enough to procure them that he would’ve placed his trust in anyone who claimed they could deliver him those wants, even Lucifer himself. And, well, here he was: Lucifer himself, Ivan Rahal, tongue coated with the poison of promises unkept, poised to deliver Joseph the salvation he so recklessly pursued. “Brother,” he entreated, outstretching his hand for his brother’s taking. “Come.” Joseph obeyed without question and reached his arm outward, and when his fingers clasped around Ivan’s and met with the cool, hard steel of a needle concealed in the palm of his brother’s hand, the clouds in his eyes cleared, replaced by the mad glint of a reckless man who’d just discovered a new want.

“Then,” Ivan said, “there’s cowardice, which leads to capture.” He reached across the chessboard to move Odin’s rook back one space—a fearful retreat.

“Mama,” he crooned from his place at the kitchen’s entryway, one shoulder propped against the doorframe. “You look tired.” The effort he used to layer his voice with varying shades of concern was minimal (his charades, even in his young adulthood, had long since become instinctual—more second nature than conscious effort). He pushed off the doorway and moved to her side, eyes round with feigned concern. She turned to him, face weathered, drawn, bruises of purplish blue blooming beneath her eyes from sleeplessness. She smiled at him, and if he had any heart at all, it might’ve broken at the sight: a sad, sorry widow, joyous at the sight of her imagined savior, blind to the life he leeched from her, ignorant of the poison he injected into the very marrow of her being. Yes, if he had any heart at all, it might have broken, but the foul, writhing beast that inhabited the arctic wasteland of his ribcage didn’t break: it preened at the spectacle of heartache, like a desert rose blooming in the midst of high summer. So fragile, the human spirit; so easily broken. “Nothing to trouble yourself over, sweet son,” she said, reaching out a hand to place over his own. Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled up at him, and he noted with some small dismay the veins of gray that began to creep into the edges of her thick sable hair. Her age in spirit had taxed her age in body, made older by his father’s shortcomings than she might have been had she married a good, kind man. Her eyes seemed ever round with fear these past years, murky and unclear, as though she were constantly treading the tide of cowardice, fighting to stay afloat, grasping with slippery hands at the anchor of courage. He pitied her, but it was a cruel pity, not a kind one; the sort of pity that might belong to a wolf who’s just come across wounded game. Pitiful, but still hungry; pitiful, but still hunting. Ivan’s gaze slid from her hunched form to a pile of envelopes laid out before his mother: bills, he imagined, all left unpaid by his father. In one sweeping gesture, he reached out, gathered the bills in one hand, and stuffed them into the pocket of his overcoat, leaning down to press a tender kiss to his mother’s temple. “I’ll take care of it,” he murmured—and he meant it. He’d pay the bills, every last dollar, every last cent. But he wouldn’t do it for love, or for pity—he’d do it for the game. The game of giving and taking, of building and breaking; of nursing his mother with riches of love and wealth only to watch her wither at their gradual extinction. When she looked to him, her eyes were watery with gratitude, but there was a sort of murkiness there, too—a kind of cowardice; a fear of unknowing, of a mother unable to care for her brood. And he fed it, that fear—nourished it in his mother so tenderly, so subtly, that she would already have succumbed to it by the time she realized fear’s talons had burrowed into the essence of her. And perhaps it was because of that fear that she smiled when Ivan pulled a small bottle of pills from his coat pocket and placed it on the table before her. “For the exhaustion, Mama,” he said. “It’ll help you sleep.” She didn’t hesitate in taking the bottle and tucking it between the folds of her dress. Because she was fearful, and because Ivan had trapped her in that fear—a cage made by his own masterful hand, carved from the shadows of nightmares and the rot of death, stitched together with naught but the fine web of her own unbecoming, her deepest dreads and terrors. “Ivan,” she sighed, and his name on her tongue sounded like a hymn, a prayer. “What ever did I do in this life to deserve a son like you?” He didn’t have an answer for her.

“Thirdly,” Ivan said, “there’s a hasty temper, which can be provoked by insults.” He moved one of his own rooks forward three spaces. Odin raised his hand to move his own rook forward, eager to capture Ivan’s rook, but Ivan held up one of his hands, gesturing for him to wait, to temper himself.

“Son!” his father grunted from his study, the single syllable slurred with what Ivan could only assume was brandy, if he was lucky—whiskey, if he was not (Samir Rahal was not half as cruel drunk on brandy as he was drunk on whiskey.) Eyebrows raised, he exchanged a knowing look with his brother, who sat in the chair opposite him. “It’s your turn,” Ivan said matter-of-factly, returning his attention to the book in his hands (some old, weathered text about European trade stratagem). “Please, brother,” Joseph groaned, voice strained. He was only two years younger than Ivan, a young seventeen now, but when he was like this, begging, he looked much younger. Ivan flicked his gaze back to his brother to find wide, pleading eyes round with fear. Ivan heaved a sigh, exasperated. So dramatic, he was.“What’ll you give me for it?” Ivan asked, one eyebrow cocked. “Anything,” Joseph said quickly, sounding far too desperate for a man attempting negotiation. Ivan made a noise of disgust and moved with swift grace as leaned forward in his chair to smack the side of Joseph’s head with his book. “Never promise anyone anything,” he hissed. “God above, Joseph, have I taught you nothing?” His brother muttered a curse and made a show of rubbing the back of his head, but he said nothing more. “Here,” Ivan said, tossing the book in Joseph’s lap as he stood to his full height. “Read it. It might do you some good.” And so he went, off to his father’s study, straight to the fat, drunk lion’s den. But was of no favor to Joseph that he went, no (Ivan’s actions were not—not ever—motivated by anything but self-interest). He went to his father not to spare Joseph his wrath, but to incur it. It was part of their game—his father, drunk and foolish and full of ego, thinking himself a god, a Zeus of old age; and Ivan preying on his foolishness, and his drunkenness, and his ego, a Hades of new age come to usurp the gods of old and claim his kingdom come. “You rang, Baba?” Ivan said as he entered his father’s study, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He was greeted with an empty bottle of Jack catapulted by his father’s own hand that crashed into the wall just a few centimeters to the left of Ivan’s head. Whiskey it was, then. Pity—for his father. Ivan schooled his face into a mask of boredom as he brushed a mist of shattered glass from the sleeve of his shirt. “You’ll mind your aim next time,” he said cooly, turning to the round mirror hung on the wall and inspecting his face for embedded shards of glass. His skin remained unscathed, save for a few small scratches on his cheeks and chin. “The Versace,” he said, gesturing to the fabric of his shirt, “can be replaced. The face cannot.” Ivan’s indifference had always irked Samir well, and already he was incensed, outraged by his son’s insolence. “You’ll mind your mouth next time, boy,” his father growled, and he moved to take a step towards Ivan, but the motion made him sway, and he thought better of it, instead planting his feet firmly in the ground and anchoring his hands on his hips to save face. But the misstep did not go unnoticed by Ivan, and he practically purred at the advantage his father had just handed him. The game had only just begun, and already he’d won. “Sealegs aren’t working well today?” Ivan asked, one corner of his lips hitching upward cruelly. His father, with that fickle ego so easily provoked, began to unravel before Ivan’s very eyes. It was the unbecoming combination of fury and pride, Ivan was sure, that drove Samir forward a step, and Ivan raised an eyebrow pointedly at the way his father grabbed the back of his leather armchair to steady himself. “Was there a reason you called for me, Father? Or did you only want an audience to spectate your balancing act?” Rage, untethered and undiluted, eclipsed the clarity in Samir’s eyes. “I called for you,” he snarled, vicious now, “because I wanted to look into the eyes of my thieving son”—he pointed a finger at his ransacked liquor cabinet, which now housed only two lone bottles of Jack—“and hear his defense before I beat him bloody and throw him out of my house and onto the street for the wolves to devour.” Ivan flicked his gaze to the near-empty liquor cabinet, drawling, “I only drink top-shelf, I’m afraid”—a denial, a half-truth, and a half-lie all in one. He did, indeed, only drink top-shelf liquor, but he did also, indeed, pour most of his father’s liquor stock down the kitchen sink for no reason in particular other than game-playing. “I don’t think Mama would be terribly pleased with you exiling her eldest from your house, do you, Baba?” Ivan mused, ambling over to the liquor cart at the center of the room and pouring an amber-colored liquid out of the decanter and into a tumbler. “Your house,” he repeated, turning the words over on his tongue in slow, dripping syllables. “Is it, though?” he asked, raising the glass in his hand and swirling it about. “When’s the last time you paid one of those bills?” he asked, nodding to the pile of envelopes that lay on his desk—no doubt electric bills and property taxes and mortgage notices, all of which Ivan had paid and righted in the year prior. And he’d paid them not for kindness, or for decency, or for love of family, but for power—for this moment right here. He’d been steadily gaining the upper hand in this very war for just over a year now, a general priming himself for victory: fashioning his mother and brother and sister into an army of loyal allies eager to defend his honor; sharpening his tongue into a weapon of mass destruction, arming himself against his father with an arsenal of information; drawing up blueprints of Samir’s weakest points, testing for faults in his defenses and marking them down in detail. Yes, he’d been preparing for this war for a long, long time now, fighting and winning small battles all the while, and Samir, the poor fool, had only just now realized war had been waged. It was almost unfair—to go to war with a foe so disadvantaged. Samir made a gruff noise of outrage, face red with fury. “Can you remember the last time you paid a bill for this house, Father?” he asked, and he layered the question with enough innuendo that it sounded more like, “Can you remember anything at all, you miserable, wretched drunk?” Ivan moved towards the desk and began rifling about the already opened envelopes, reading their contents aloud one by one. “Electric bill—account balance paid in the name of Ivan Rahal. Water bill—account balance paid in the name Ivan Rahal. Home insurance—account balance paid in the name of Ivan Rahal.” He flipped through the envelopes unceremoniously, and each time he spoke his own name may as well have been a knife to his father’s gut. “Ivan Rahal, Ivan Rahal, Ivan Rahal,” he crooned, dropping the stack of envelopes back onto the desk with a loud thud. “It would seem, then, that this is my house after all. Perhaps I ought to exile you, Baba, and see how well you fare with the street wolves.” Samir sputtered like a fish, so consumed by his outrage that he didn’t know which vein of fury to latch onto, which battle to fight first. It was no matter, though, for whichever battle he might’ve chosen, he would’ve lost—he already had. “Don’t fret, Father—I’m not an unreasonable man,” he said, again swirling the tumbler of liquor in his hand. “You may remain here, in my house.” And then, making a show of it, he brought the tumbler to his nose, sniffed once, grimaced in distaste, and poured the amber liquid out into the dimly lit fire, which roared to life with a grand whoosh. “But I’ll not have whiskey under my roof,” he said, scowling. “Certainly not bottom-shelf whiskey.” And that was it: his final blow—placed well and delivered even better. It landed perfectly, beautifully, the way a symphony’s sonata ends on one grand crescendo, and his father, mad with rage, lunged at Ivan. He made it one, two, three steps before stumbling over his own feet, thrown off balance by the heavy weight of whiskey. He fell at Ivan’s feet, groaning something awful and spitting half-intelligible curses at his son, a god bending a knee to his usurper. Zeus falls, Hades rises. Ivan sneered down at Samir, his face cold as he crouched down beside him. “Need a hand?” he asked, only the way he said it—darkly, and imbued with shades of malignant rot—sounded more like a threat than an offer of aid. His father, cheeks, eyes, and nose all bright with redness, looked up at him, and when Samir Rahal did, indeed, take his son’s hand, Ivan knew he’d won this war after all.

“And then, lastly,” Ivan said, “there’s a delicacy of honor, which is sensitive to shame.” Ivan moved forward one of his pawn’s.

The soft, clinking ring of the pawn shop’s doorbell drew Ivan’s attention, and he watched through cool, narrowed eyes as a woman with dark skin and dark hair that tumbled down her back in messy curls strode through the front door. Ivan studied her as she weaved in and out of treasure troves scattered about the small shop, her eyes catching most often on paintings. She seemed wild, feverish, full to the brim with a kaleidoscope of life’s greatest joys: love, beauty, freedom, passion, honor. Unbent and unbroken, she enchanted Ivan, and that, he supposed, was unfortunate for her, for the epicenter Ivan Rahal’s attention was not a pleasant place to be. With quiet, slinking steps, he slithered up to her side, where she was admiring a Syrian fresco of moderate value he’d extorted from an old friend. “What’s the going price?” she asked, not bothering to break eye contact with the painting. “There is none,” he replied smoothly, to which she furrowed her brow and canted her head in silent question, her gaze darting from the painting to Ivan. “I don’t trade in the currency of coin here.” A half-truth. He did, on occasion, accept monetary payments, but most often, his preferred currency came in the form of secrets and owed favors. “What do you want for it, then?” she asked. “A name seems a fair starting point,” he said, propping his shoulder against an old, mammoth grandfather clock adjacent to the painting she was studying. She smiled then, and it was a brilliant, dazzling thing—a vision of beauty that Ivan admired not only for its capacity to be ruined, but for its loveliness, too. “Sirena De Angelis,” she said. “Sirena De Angelis,” he repeated, each syllable rich and heady on his tongue. “You’re a painter, then, Sirena De Angelis?” More an observation than a question, and when she shot him another quizzical look, he slowly reached out one hand to curl a stray tendril of hair coated in dried blue paint around his pointer finger, holding it within her scope of vision for her purveyance. Matching splotches of blue streaked other places in her hair, and speckles of it peeked through the neckline of her blouse. “You’re either a painter, or a girl with some rather…messy proclivities in the bedroom,” he purred, hooded eyes falling first to the paint in her hair, and then downward, to the low-cut vee of her shirt. She blushed furiously, and for a moment, he wondered if she might surrender right there and storm out in a fury. But his initial assessment of her rang true, and her eyes lit with a fire untethered, a passion unmatched. “Can’t I be both?” she challenged, and he smiled at that—a real, rare sort of smile, one that met his dead eyes. “You’d have to tell me, I imagine.” “And then will I have earned the painting?” she shot back. Ah, smart girl. She was learning how to play his game, and he was excited, endlessly, to have found a partner that could match him—if only for a little while; if only until he well and truly broke her. “This painting,” he said, sweeping one arm outward towards the fresco, “was recovered from the remains of the Royal Palace in Mari during a French archaeologist’s excavation in 1935.” Leisurely, he pushed off of the grandfather clock and neared Sirena in slow, lazy steps. “It’ll cost you more than a confession, signora.” He paused, one corner of his lips quirking. “Even one so delicious.” She cocked her head, considering. “What’ll it cost me, then?” He studied her, eyes fixed on hers with feverish intent, daring her to falter, to misstep. But she met his gaze with equal intensity, eyes of green smoldering with the same amber fire that seemed to emblazon the very core of her spirit. “A kiss will suffice,” he said plainly, casually. That seemed to throw her off balance, and for a moment, her full lips floundered open and closed, searching for a response. She eventually settled on: “I’m married, signor!”—which she emphasized by flourishing her left hand, showcasing the unimpressive diamond ring on her fourth finger. He’d guessed as much (he catalogued each person he met, and the wedding band she wore had not gone unnoticed during his initial assessment of her). “So am I,” he countered. That gave her pause, and some of her anger gave way to confusion, and perhaps a bit of outrage. “You’re—married?” “No,” he admitted, chuckling, and she looked positively irate at being toyed with so cruelly. “But if I were, would it matter?” “Of course it would matter!” she exclaimed, insistent. “Why?” he asked. “Because,” she huffed, “it’s—it’s—dishonorable!” He barked a laugh, the sound rich with amusement. “Ya haram,” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Is that it, then? Honor?” He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “I didn’t think such a thing existed in Verona.” “Well—it does,” she said stubbornly, mimicking the action of crossing her arms over her chest: a true competitor through and through. They stared at each other for long seconds, perhaps even minutes, and it was Ivan who finally broke the silence. “Honor, like art, is subjective,” he said, and moved to stand beside her, facing the painting. She opened her mouth to argue, but he continued on before she could voice her opposition. “Here”—he pointed to the top of the painting: a sky painted in a flurry of dreamy hues, dappled with shades of pinks, oranges, and creams—“I see the beginnings of a sunset, but you may see the beginnings of a sunrise.” She didn’t argue that (she mightn’t have had a counterpoint to argue with at all). He turned to her, closer now than he’d been before, head bowed to meet her at eye level. “You think it’s dishonorable to kiss me, but I think it’s dishonorable to waste a pair of willing lips.” She held his gaze, her face taut with the busy inner workings of her mind. “We’re at an impasse, then,” she breathed, ragged, and they were so close now that the soft whoosh of air she expelled fanned his face. “So it would seem.” He studied her a moment longer, and when their lips were naught but an inch apart, he abruptly straightened to his full height, turned to the painting, removed it from its easel, and handed it to Sirena. Dazed, she took the painting, eyes round with confusion as she looked from the fresco to Ivan, then back to the fresco, then back to Ivan. “Take it,” he said, turning on his heel to retreat to his back office. “It’s worth much, Signora De Angelis,” he called over his shoulder, pausing at his office door to turn to look at her one last time. “But it’s not worth your honor.” He delivered the lie so well, he almost believed himself. She returned to the shop the next night and proved to him two things: firstly, that the painting was, after all, worth her honor, and secondly, that yes, she was indeed a painter and she did indeed have some rather messy proclivities in the bedroom—or, well, in the back office of a pawn shop, on top of a desk that was littered with various containers of paints and inks Ivan used for forgery. And so began their tryst: a mad, wild, tempestuous affair, imbued with all things rotten: deceit, infidelity, lust. They fucked viciously, desperately, grasping at each other for air, for life, for passions long denied. Each joining was more frenzied than the last, an unholy union lush with labored breathing and tangled limbs, writhing bodies and sweat-slicked skin, pleas and groans and moans, scratch marks and bite marks. And yet, in spite of its malignancy, their affair bloomed with beauty abound: he’d bring her Egyptian paints of the richest hues, and she’d paint him, and after, or during, they’d make love; he’d pull her into alleyways in broad daylight to do wretched, wonderful things to her, and she’d slip away from her sleeping husband in the dead of night and sneak into Ivan’s apartment to do wretched, wonderful things to him; she’d collect little treasures—pendants or rings or books—for him to sell in his pawn shop, and for each treasure she gave him, he returned the favor, showering her with gifts galore: a sapphire-stoned choker dating back to the 20s, a sundress embroidered with spun gold, a vintage Versace scarf. Ivan took great care to wean her on him, to immerse her in his person, in his essence. He kissed her well, loved her well, romanced her well, fucked her well. He fashioned himself the axis upon which her world spun, bent himself to her will to fool her into thinking she’d brought a god to knees. Everything she was, her world in its grand scope, became deeply rooted in him, and only once she was well and truly infatuated, once he’d pulled the wool over her eyes and led her astray from all the other sheep, did he unsheathe those big, wolfish teeth. His extracted himself from her life in increments—slow, poisonous increments. He began with small things: gone were the terms of endearment, the thorough, passion-filled sex, the thoughtful gifts, the affection. In their stead, he sewed seeds of doubt and uncertainty: screening her calls, letting his gaze drift pointedly to other women, coming when dusk settled and leaving before dawn broke. And when the early dregs of madness began to cloud her once-clear eyes, he exited her life altogether, severing himself from her so cleanly that there were times she wondered if it had happened at all, or if Ivan Rahal had been the making of a nightmare dressed in dreams. And then, when he’d stripped her of nearly everything, her love and her hope and her joy, he took what remained: her honor. Early on in their tryst, she’d gifted him one of her paintings: a watercolor vision of Ivan sprawled half-naked in her bed at dawn, hair mussed, eyes heavy-lidded and face soft from sleep. One morning, that very painting arrived at her husband’s workplace, and when Sirena returned home that evening, he cast her out of his house and his heart as thoroughly as Ivan had, and in the following weeks, Verona’s hotbed of gossip devoured what remained of her ill repute. Months later, Ivan was reading the paper when he saw it: Sirena De Angelis, 27, found drowned in the Adige on Sunday. And he felt—nothing, really. Surprise, perhaps, and maybe even a bit of nostalgia, but not sorrow, and certainly not guilt. Honor would have driven him to guilt, but he had none. Sirena had honor, and it drove her into the Adige.

There was a beauty in this tête-à-tête between he an Odin—a perverse irony in the way he laid out precisely how he would set out to bring down the lionhearted fool. He would take his time with Odin—would destroy him thoroughly, slowly. The muse that whet his appetite for apocalypse. He would desecrate all that was holy about Odin, would ransack his temple of virtue and leave that cavern hollow and wanting, a new habitat for his demons to occupy. He would water Odin’s small seed of recklessness with brandy and whiskey, with long, late nights spent at The Dark Lady, with the occasional hit of this drug or that drug. And then, he would feed his fears with whispers of his beloved’s adultery: creating imagined visions of Delilah’s eye straying a touch too far at that gala the week prior; waxing poetic about her beauty, a beauty unmatched even by the seraphs carved by Michelangelo’s own hand. And only once Odin was well and truly rooted in the trenches of his own cowardice would Ivan start poking at the weak spots of his temper, needling them, hollowing them out until he was naught but a bundle of raw nerves, easily provoked into fits of rage that Ivan would be sure to redirect in Delilah’s direction. And then he would prey on Odin’s honor, which Ivan imagined would prove the most challenging stage of Odin’s destruction, for his honor was deeply ingrained in his core, the foundation upon which his person was built. But Ivan would warp it, he was sure—would poison Odin’s honor until it was too delicate to battle his ego, until his reputation and its perseverance became his sole focus, and there was little he would not do to keep it intact (little he would not do to spurn his wife and outcast her as the villainess of the story to paint himself the hero-victim). Swiftly, Ivan reached across the chessboard to move forward Odin’s queen, which then checked Ivan’s king, left exposed without the protection of pawns and rooks. “Checkmate.”

EXTRAS

You can find a Pinterest board for Ivan here, a playlist here, and an instrumental playlist here!

MBTI: ENTJ. Astrology: Scorpio (November 2nd). Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil. Enneagram Type: Type 8. Headcanons:

OCCUPATION: His uncanny knack for weaning people on poison has long made him one of the Capulets most able dealers, and Odin has since restricted the majority of his duties to networking clients and peddling weaponry, dealing heavily in the black market trade of firearms. His silver tongue and military experience make him an extraordinary dealer of illegal weapons, and he’s cemented his place amongst the Capulet ranks as one of their best merchants, so to speak. In addition to his role as a Capulet soldier, Ivan owns and runs a small pawn shop in Verona called Handkerchief (an apropos ode to the Shakespearean tragedy from which he inherited his codename). Ivan is, and has always been, a procurer of things not easily procured: weapons, liquor, jewels, drugs, blackmail, information. And so it seemed natural, really, for him to set up shop and capitalize on his trade of black market products—a front to trade treasures for information, to curry owed favors and debt among those foolish enough to make a deal with Verona’s snake-skinned devil. By the looks of it, Handkerchief is little more than a small, homespun pawn shop in the heart of Verona, rife with trinkets, antiques, and paintings of great value. But in the back of the shop, dealings of a far more sordid nature take place, and it’s behind the shop’s plain front that you’ll find a variety of illegal goods ranging from firearms, to poisons, to drugs, and all matter of unseemly things. The pawn shop works partly as an outlet through which Ivan can peddle black market weaponry on behalf of the Capulets, but his business is equally rooted in more selfish interests, and it’s not uncommon for Ivan to trade away items of great value for information or I-owe-you favors to be cashed in on a rainy day. Whether or not he chooses to share the information and servitude he grosses from personal ventures is his own prerogative—one he handles on a case-by-case basis.

WEAPONS: His military service in the Middle East was a study in all sorts of weaponry, but Ivan’s found he’s partial to knives, old-fashioned though they may be. There’s something exquisite about robbing life with something pretty, something luxurious. It makes a dirty business something elegant, dresses murder up in glitter and gold—or sparkles and silver,as circumstance would have it. He quite likes the feel of a blade’s hilt, silver and etched with the Capulet crest, fitted against his palm like a babe burrowed against the nook of her mother’s neck. Seldom does he travel without knives—karambits, butterfly knives, combat knives—hidden beneath his jackets, in his boots, up his sleeves, and you can count on each blade in his possession to be coated in some variation of poison, be it monkshood or henbane, nightshade or yew (he’s a connoisseur of poisons, and is well-versed in those natural toxins that kill cleanly, sleekly, with no trace of his person). Veronesi at first made the mistake of thinking Ivan less skilled in physical combat than his Capulet companions, too reliant on fighting of the intellectual sort. But he schooled them all in his capacity for ruin of any kind, and he has since developed some repute as one of the Capulets most notorious assassins, skilled well in weaponry and even better in discipline and strategy (a product of his time spent fighting wars overseas). But perhaps Ivan’s greatest weapon in his arsenal is his tongue, and oh, does he use it well. Perhaps never in the history of the modern world has one man’s mouth been so capable of ruin. It’s with words that he’s laid waste to whole cities, imbuing his chosen victims with the sort of fear that rattles bones and teeth alike. He can talk most anyone into most anything with that tongue of his: he can talk enemies into lovers, can talk lovers into spies, can talk spies into allies, can talk allies into enemies—and so on. His wish is will where his knack for persuasion is concerned, and it is for this reason and this reason alone that Cosimo Capulet welcomed Ivan Rahal, a wild card without conscience or loyalty, into his ranks with open arms—because that sort of tongue could turn the tides of war.

FAMILY: The eldest of three children, Ivan was born to Samir and Esmeralda Rahal, neither of whom were well-suited to raise children. Esme, even before Ivan poisoned her against herself, seemed not of this Earth, perhaps forged from the clouds, untethered to the world and its realities. She was untethered, manic with faraway dreams and giggly lunacy (a byproduct of marriage to his father, from whom she was desperate to escape, even by means of imagination). She was horribly ill-equipped to raise a brood of three unruly children, and Samir was no better off. He was unhinged, dependent on whiskey to see him through his days and scotch to see him through his nights. Gruff and cruel and violent, Samir was no better able to raise his children than Esme, and the only bit of parenting he ever contributed to his lot came in the form of raised voices and raised hands (fists, if he was running low on Jack) when they misbehaved. No, Samir and Esme were not well-suited to raise a family, and so the Rahal children raised themselves. The oldest of three, much of what Ivan learned as a boy was self-taught. He taught himself how to read, how to play chess, how to tie his shoes, how to speak English, how to write Arabic. Then, when he was two, Joseph came, and four years after that, Yara came, and he taught them these things, too, because playing chess with someone who doesn’t know how to play chess is no fun at all. And then, when he was older, he taught himself how to drive, how to light a cigarette, how to negotiate, how to court lovers, how to hold a gun. These learned trades, though, he kept to himself, because playing chess with someone who knows all your tricks is no fun at all, either. Joseph was tempestuous—hypersensitive to his emotional keep and prone to chronic mood swings. Yara was gentle—a soft bloom of a girl too sweet to be sustained by the cold winter of the life the stars had designed for her. And their parents, one a madwoman full of sorrow and the other a catatonic drunk, did nothing to correct their children’s ills. Ivan’s love of catastrophe began here, with his father, who grew less and less alive with each gulp of amber liquor, a gradual deconstruction of man that fascinated Ivan endlessly. And it was not just deconstruction of man, but self-deconstruction of man, for what did Ivan do but place the bottles into his father’s own hand? And then, once he was weaned, what did Ivan do but take the bottles away? What did Ivan do but press needles discretely into his brother’s palm? What did Ivan do but bring his mother bottles of pills big and small, blue and pink? What did Ivan do but whisper doubt and misery into his sister’s ear? Ivan didn’t force his father into a depressive withdrawal so intense that he died of a heart attack. Ivan didn’t press the needle into the crease of Joseph’s elbow. Ivan didn’t force his sister into developing a habit of whoring around just to feel whole, alive. Ivan didn’t shove those pills down his mother’s throat. Was it not Ivan who arranged his father’s funeral and thereafter (and for some time before) looked after the family’s finances? Was it not Ivan who paid for all three of Joseph’s rehabilitation stints? Was it not Ivan who came to pick up his weeping sister whensoever she beckoned him, despairing outside of clubs or alleyways or her lovers’ apartments, seeking comfort and safety? Was it not Ivan who, when Esme was too lethargic to get out of bed, brought her groceries and fresh flowers from the market? What did Ivan do but hand his family their own instruments of destruction and let them have at it, swooping in at the end of it all to save them from themselves. What guilt did he bear in their ruination when all he ever did was give them the choice between ascent and descent. Was it his fault that they chose Hell over Heaven? Was it his fault that they suckled from Eden’s ripe apple tree like famished pests? Was it his fault that they never learned to play chess well?

APPEARANCE: He’s always belonged to the shadows, Ivan, and he dresses in their colors like a ship flying its kingdom’s sails. Black, black, black. He wears slacks and shirts of varying shades of black and grey, all embroidered with veins of Capulet silver. Jewelry gets in the way of his unique lifestyle, and so he doesn’t wear much of it, but he often dons rings, on most every finger. Rings thieved from his victims, his lovers, his foes. They’re trophies of wars waged and won, and they make the bite of a mean right hook even meaner. The only other piece of jewelry he wears is a silver cuff around his wrist fashioned to resemble a serpent with eyes of embedded emerald. It was a gift from a freshly heartbroken Odin—a trinket crafted from the melted remains of his silver wedding band and forged into a band of brotherhood—a gift to the savior who spared him his wife’s faithlessness and preserved Odin’s repute amidst a scandal tainted with shame and dishonor. Ivan wears it daily—an ode to his greatest masterpiece, his most fatal plague.

MANNERISMS & HABITS: Subtle and discrete, you must look to his body language to discern his moods: a cocked eyebrow when he’s intrigued, rigid shoulders when he’s hyper-focused, a scowl when he’s displeased, a crooked smile when he’s up to no good (and he’s never up to any good). To many, he’s an enigma, swathed in shadow and bathed in mystery, no discernible telltales to give away his moods. Ivan’s gone to great lengths to perfect the art of smiling when he wants to bite. A little faux charm goes a long way, and for none is this truer than Ivan Rahal. A master of transfiguration, he sheds his snakeskin like an art. A dance of duality, he straddles worlds with exquisite ease: the noble son, the dutiful wardog, the loving brother, the loyal soldier, the steadfast companion, the devoted lover. A purveyor of worlds, he knows well how to appeal to the masses, how to mold his person to suit his audience. Some know him to be sweet-eyed and sweet-tongued, and other knows him to be devil-eyed and devil-tongued; it all depends on what game he’s playing, what role best suits his interests. And that’s what it’s all about, really: his games. He fights dirty, kills dirty, fucks dirty. His father taught him young that honorable men are remembered for naught but dying young and dying easy. And so he lives without honor: thieving indiscriminately, killing indiscriminately, screwing indiscriminately. And this is how he gets away with it: smiles. Darkness, to Ivan, is an art, and he’s gone to great lengths to refine it. The whole of Verona knows him to be lethal, the Capulet mob’s grim reaper raised feral and trained wicked. But so easily do they forget that he’s a killer, a beast untethered by the human weight of a moral compass. He’s dark in the way he smiles sweetly with the same lips that have sneered down at the corpses of his victims; he’s dark in the way his hands curl around his lovers’ throats one night and around his foes’ throats the next (darker yet in the ease with which he demotes lover to foe). How many of his once-lovers and once-friends have suffered the winter of his cool indifference once he’s used them all up and thieved their greatest joys, their greatest loves? How many people—children, mothers, fathers, wives—have fallen pray to his foul games and tricks? With his lazy grins, a chin raised a fraction too high, hooded, cool eyes, and a masterful combination of archaic elegance, indifference, and a silver tongue always poised with lies and half-truths, it’s easy to be bewitched by Ivan’s bacchanalian beauty, to forget that he’s a killer (a good one, too)—and by the time they remember, it’s far too late.

LANGUAGES: Born in Syria, Ivan’s native tongue is Arabic, but he’s since mastered a handful of languages across the globe. He fancied himself the weapon of conversation at a young age, and he knew early on that what makes a weapon powerful is, above all, its versatility—its ability to be wielded against all manner of friend and foe. And so he immersed himself in cultures and languages across the world, diversifying his greatest weapon as well as he was able. During his early travels, he familiarized himself with German and Russian, and then, during his military tour, he picked up the Romantic languages (Spanish, French, Italian—a very small bit of Romanian). Since joining the Capulets, he’s become near-fluent in Italian and Spanish, and he’s made an effort to school himself in Zulu for the sake of his South African contacts. His versatile tongue and wide-ranging cultural scope has made him anoutstanding negotiator and conversationalist among the Capulets, and he is known well for his diplomacy by Capulet contacts in Spain and South Africa.

[mittensmorgul]

The tnt loop is attempting to kill me with 4.20 and 4.21 today. So right after Cas was about to give the Critical Information to Dean until Heaven snatched him back for a good brainscrubbing, Dean’s dealing with what they think is the way to STOP the apocalypse, while Cas knows the apocalypse is imminent. So Dean and Sam are arguing over who is “strong enough” to kill Lilith, while the angels are just sitting back and waiting for them to get on with it, knowing they’ve secured Dean’s oath of loyalty, assuming he’ll just say yes to Michael when they tell him to.

But the Major Plot Twist of s4 is coming up in the next episode-- the goal was never to stop the apocalypse, but to ensure all the steps to start it happened in the precise way necessary to free Lucifer and have his and Michael’s vessels broken enough to give them an instant yes, game over, the end.

I’m thinking this is going to come around again, this Oh Shit Moment, where everything they’ve been working toward is gonna turn around and bite them hard, especially now that on the surface everything finally looks safe again. Well, aside from whatever Jack has become, and the deal with the Empty that nobody but Cas and Jack know about yet.

Sam’s hallucinations are just so horrific. I’ve written about this so many times, and it’s not the focus of this post, but it at least merits a mention for context. His “young self” is disappointed in him for failing to escape the life and be “normal,” his hallucination of Mary assures him he’s strong and by contrast Dean is weak (paralleling Ruby’s poisoned words that secured Sam’s dependence on her and her influence over him), and his hallucination of Dean shows us exactly how Sam feels about his older brother... and it’s really not flattering, despite being a toxic hallucination brought on by demon blood...

But back to the point of this post:

BOBBY: Well, I don't like this any more than you do, but Sam can kill demons. He's got a shot at stopping Armageddon. DEAN: So what? Sacrifice Sam's life, his soul, for the greater good? Is that what you're saying? Times are bad, so let's use Sam as a nuclear warhead? BOBBY: Look, I know you hate me for suggesting it. I hate me for suggesting it. I love that boy like a son. All I'm saying is maybe he's here right now instead of on the battlefield because we love him too much.

Isn’t this exactly the path that Jack has been on for a good long while now. Not just his soul-consuming need to use his powers to help his loved ones in 14.14, but this goes back to before he ever lost his grace in the first place. Before he was even born. He has always believed he was born for a reason. He may not always have understood what that was, and he’s struggled to understand himself and his powers and purpose, but Lucifer conceived him to be a tool for power, and Kelly’s influence inspired him to be a force for good, without placing any other expectations or limitations on him.

Which makes me think back to Jack’s “visions of the future” he used to manipulate Cas way back in 12.19, and the literal blind spots we know this sort of prophecy and foresight entail. Because wasn’t that the whole entire kicker of s4? In s4, it worked in Heaven’s favor, but in s5, Free Will won out over all the prophecies.

Knowing the “future,” getting any sort of glimpse at a potential possible future reality, is inherently manipulative. Either it becomes a fait accompli, or else it inspires actively working against the undesirable future. The question then becomes which actions unwittingly drive them closer to that undesirable future, and which actively steer them away from it, inevitably altering the potential outcomes. Because s4 proved that the harder they tried to work against destiny, the closer they came to bringing it to fruition, mostly because they were working from a forged playbook filled with alternative facts. The entire plan they were told would stop the apocalypse was actually what would bring it on. Like Dean says in 5.01, who knew killing Lilith was a BAD thing?

Is it any wonder why I trust exactly ZERO prophecies made on this show? Exactly. Like Dean, I’m always looking for the loophole, the manipulation, the lie inherently built in to any revelation of “destiny” or “prophecy.”

But back to 4.21. While Sam was having visions of Mary begging him to make her death “mean something,” by using his demon blood powers, and convincing him that Dean is weak and could never do this himself, Dean’s outside being manipulated into a different, yet still just as irrelevantly misleading path:

DEAN: Can he do it? Kill Lilith, stop the apocalypse? CASTIEL: Possibly, yes. But as you know, he'd have to take certain steps. DEAN: Crank up the hell-blood regimen. CASTIEL: Consuming the amount of blood it would take to kill Lilith would change your brother forever. Most likely, he would become the next creature that you would feel compelled to kill. There's no reason this would have to come to pass, Dean. We believe it's you, Dean, not your brother. The only question for us is whether you're willing to accept it. Stand up and accept your role. You are the one who will stop it. DEAN: If I do this, Sammy doesn't have to? CASTIEL: If it gives you comfort to see it that way.

It’s all still entirely misleading, not giving Dean enough information to suss out the truth for himself. While Sam’s down chained to his cot hallucinating a version of Dean “putting him in his place,” and rejecting him because he’s turned himself into a monster, for the sake of a selfish power grab, as if Sam’s motives were to elevate himself to this place of power, we see Dean upstairs and how he REALLY feels-- not how Sam’s darkest thoughts perceive Dean’s feelings to be...

Which closely parallels Jack’s own darkest thoughts about himself. His entire struggle over whether he was good or evil, his fears over the fact that no matter how much good he might try to do, there’s always the chance that he could fall short or fail entirely, the fear that his own power could betray his best intentions. And after 14.14, with his soul potentially compromised, there’s every real possibility that his power would overwhelm his intentions without that buffer of humanity to stop him, much like Donatello exposing himself to the demon tablet did.

And again, back to 4.21:

BOBBY: I'm sorry. I can't bite my tongue any longer. We're killing him. Keeping him locked up down there. This cold-turkey thing isn't working. If—if he doesn't get what he needs, soon, Sam's not gonna last much longer. DEAN: No. I'm not giving him demon blood. I won't do it. BOBBY: And if he dies? DEAN: Then at least he dies human!

Dean’s concern was almost entirely for the state of Sam’s humanity. And we already know the lengths Dean has been willing to go to protect Sam from becoming a “monster.” Just look at early s6, and the bargain Dean made with Death in 6.11, and then everything that sprung from that. And this all obviously goes back to the “job” John gave Dean in 2.01-- to save Sam from becoming that monster, or else to kill him if Dean fails and Sam becomes that monster.

Jack’s been exerting his will over others since before he was born, and he continues to do that in s14. He hid his illness, his weakness, and when he discovered the new source of power he could use to achieve his goal of killing Michael, he seized it with both hands. Literally! Look!:

But like Sam in 4.21 and 4.22, is this really going to achieve what he believed was his desired outcome?

Because Michael’s taunt to Jack sounds so much like what Sam believed were Dean’s motivations in wanting him to stop what he was doing in 4.21. Michael called Jack a child, belittling him. And in 4.21, Sam believed that’s what Dean was suggesting-- that he wasn’t strong enough, or that he was somehow corrupted or even just didn’t understand...

SAM: Stop bossing me around, Dean. Look. My whole life, you take the wheel, you call the shots, and I trust you because you are my brother. Now I'm asking you, for once, trust me. DEAN: No. You don't know what you're doing, Sam. SAM: Yes, I do. DEAN: Then that's worse.

Because Sam really DIDN’T know what he was doing, as blinded as he was by Ruby’s lies and manipulations, not to mention the addiction to demon blood and the power it gave him.

Sam did have his doubts, even as he and Ruby were driving to his destiny. He wondered if Dean had been right, but again was manipulated via the forged voicemail from Dean. We learn the entire year, or perhaps even longer from the moment Ruby first entered his life, had been one long con leading to this moment, the ultimate betrayal leading him directly to his meticulously orchestrated “destiny.”

Hello, Lucifer.

So what does this mean for Jack going forward? That is certainly the question.

[sulietsexual]

Having read your tags, I'm curious! Will you tell us more about Katherine and Elena being opposites, particularly in their respective relationships with the Salvatores? (Or even other characters, like Isobel and Matt).

*Rubs hands together* Hoo boy, let’s start unpacking, shall we?

I absolutely love the mirror inverses of Katherine and Elena, their respective relationships with the Salvatores and the effects both women had on the brothers. The two women share some similarities; they are both strong-willed and stubborn, they don’t give up when they put their minds to something, they both suffer through the loss of their families at young ages and they are both targeted by the same person (Klaus). But they have far more differences than they do similarities, to the point where they are inverses of each other, their traits being in pretty much complete opposition of one another.

Katherine is selfish. This is one of her most prominent traits. She will always look out for Number One and put her own needs above the needs and lives of others. Elena is selfless to a fault. If someone she loves is in danger she will not hesitate to throw herself in front of the bus for them and she always places more importance on the lives of those she loves than on her own. Katherine is a planner, meticulous and dangerous, always two steps ahead. Elena is smart but she tends to rush into things more than Katherine does and works on impulse, rather than thought-out planning. Katherine is terrified of death, I’d say dying is honestly one of her biggest fears, whereas Elena has no fear of death, to the point where one might even consider her a bit of a death-seeker. Katherine uses and manipulates people and doesn’t like to form close bonds unless they benefit her, whereas Elena pretty much only forms genuine bonds. Katherine chose to become a vampire and live an immortal and doomed life because she genuinely believed it was the better option, whereas Elena was turned against her will and hated being a vampire, always longing for a normal, human life with all the choices which came with it. The two are foils for one another, showing how each could have given in to their opposite desires and traits but instead made completely different choices in life.

As mentioned, the two women do share similarities, and the biggest one they share is that they both love the Salvatore brothers, but even their love for the brothers (and the effect they have on the brothers and their brotherly bond) are inverses of one another.

I’ve said this in a previous meta but I genuinely believe that Stefan’s initial draw to Elena was the fact that she looked exactly like Katherine but was the complete opposite of her. Katherine’s love for Stefan was extremely damaging to Stefan, as she compelled, raped and manipulated him and was responsible for him becoming a vampire. While Stefan did initially genuinely love Katherine without compulsion, she twisted that love and took away Stefan’s free will and, like many abuse victims, Stefan feels shame and self-loathing over this. When he fell for Elena, he fell for her because she was so different to Katherine. Stefan always had rights and free will with Elena and she always considered him and his feelings. She was kind and compassionate and caring and her love for him was selfless and healing and Stefan needed that. He needed to know that someone as good and selfless as Elena could love someone like him because Katherine’s selfishness damaged him so badly and made him hate himself so much.

Damon’s love for both Katherine and Elena is different to Stefan’s and the inverse of Katherine and Elena for Damon isn’t about Katherine being selfish and evil and Elena being selfless and good. The inverse with Damon comes from him getting the girl, from Elena choosing him over Stefan where Katherine always chose Stefan, and this is healing for Damon because he lost himself to Katherine to such an extent that her rejection of him brought out some of the ugliest and most violent responses in him.

Damon almost loved Katherine too much, an obsessive and deep love which allowed him to see her true nature and still desire her. One gets the impression that Damon would have done anything and everything to be with Katherine and would have crossed anyone who tried to stand in the way of that. He loves Elena to the same degree, but whereas Katherine was turned off by this dark and deep love and used it to manipulate and pull Damon’s strings, Elena is attracted to this love, and because she is such a good person, she unknowingly forces Damon’s good side to the surface and his obsessive and passionate love becomes good under Elena’s influence whereas Katherine brought out the worst in him and his obsession with her. When Katherine chose Stefan over Damon (time and again) it made Damon feel inferior to his brother, which made him turn on Stefan and hate himself (notice a theme with Katherine making the Salvatores hate themselves whereas Elena makes them feel better about themselves?). Elena ultimately choosing Damon made him realise that he is worthy of love, that someone could choose him over Stefan and that he is deserving of such love.

Elena and Katherine both affect the relationship between the brothers and, once again, the way they affect the relationship is an inverse.

Both brothers love both women. Katherine was well aware of this fact and used it to her advantage, sowing quiet discord between the two and keeping them both away from one another, in order to maintain control over them. Elena was also aware that both brothers loved her, but unlike Katherine, she never tries to manipulate these feelings to her own advantage. She does sometimes use Damon’s feelings to force him to do the right thing, but she never tries to separate the brothers from one another and her love is actually what brings them back together, again as an inverse of how Katherine tore them apart.

By turning the brothers into vampires, Katherine brought Stefan’s worst qualities to the surface. As a vampire, Stefan was initially selfish and reckless and entirely too comfortable with the violent and bloodthirsty nature of being such a creature. Stefan manipulated Damon into becoming a vampire (when Damon wanted to die in order to be with Katherine) and then his Ripper persona horrified Damon so much that Damon ran from him. Seeing Stefan at his worst is what fractured the brothers and tore them apart and then Damon becoming his worst self later kept them apart.

The inverse which allowed the brothers to reconcile is that Elena’s love brought out the best in Damon and let Stefan see that he hadn’t completely ruined his brother with his actions, therefore allowing him to forgive himself. While Damon seeing the worst come out in Stefan tore them apart, Stefan seeing the best in Damon brought them back together and Stefan wouldn’t have seen this best part of Damon without Elena’s love to bring it out. It’s a beautiful mirror, the woman who tore them apart and the woman who brought them back together, seeing the worst vs seeing the best.

These four separate relationships are so mirrored and intertwined, and I just seriously cannot get enough of them. They’re probably my favourite aspect of the series and the one I think the show explores best.

[diguerra-moved]

❣

SEND IN A ❣ FOR A RANDOM KISS.

9. a bleeding / bloody kiss.

Loving soft creatures was easy. What wasn’t there to love about kindness? Where was the hardship in loving that which was gentle in nature? When sweetness dripped from one’s lips, when their warmth was soothing rather than scorching, there was naught of difficult in dedicating to one another. Those who were docile and tender were simpler to love, for there was nothing in them of hurtful, dangerous, demanding. Delicate souls were easy to care for, so concerned they were with not being burdensome, even at cost of themselves. 

Loving harsh creatures was harder. Too often there would be sharp claws digging into one’s skin, albeit without intention to hurt. Too often sharpness was all they had ever known, cutting and inherently part of them, self-defense to keep away all harm. How could one love that which could be hurtful? What was there to love in rough nature? Naught of simple in caring for the deadly ones, for the aggressive ones, for those who had been broken and rebuilt but whose pieces would forever retain cutting edge. 

They had hardly ever been gentle creatures, truth be told.  There were moments, of course — brief and quiet and intimate, moments that belonged to the two of them alone, now — in which they would allow themselves to melt, soften in the loving embrace of the other’s arms. Yet to them, both hardened by life and conflict, both naturally prone to wildness that ofttimes bruised those around them, the suavity of such moments was but a rare and fleeting gift, a balm that was never meant to last. 

More often than not, they would be ruthless, even in their love. Greedy now as they had been before, when foolishness of youth kept them from one another; their desires boundless, as if even having one another entirely would not be enough if forever did not await of them, necessary to living as air their lungs breathed. Reciprocal feelings and the future that laid ahead of them, centuries to be shared, did not diminish their want (if anything, the lack of former hesitance, borne of fear of rejection and dawns that would break them apart, only causes them to be more eager). There is no fear of heartbreak, of abandonment; they belong to each other now, in every way they can belong to one another.

They belong together. 

There is neither fear in their approach nor hesitance; they are neither danger to one another nor fragile breakable things that warrant delicate touch. They are not gentle, and perhaps in it lies the answer to previous questioning: there is no love for them like what they have for each other, sole beings capable of devoting their hearts even to what the other had of worse, because they knew harshness and roughness and aggressiveness — it was part of themselves, too. 

They belong together and they always have, if own choices placed literal worlds between them before they would ever admit such truth. It is a sensation so very new, to be entirely loved; Alleria doesn’t quite know how to deal with it when Willa showers her in passion unlike she has ever received. Sometimes there is such immense devotion in Willa’s touch that it feels as if her heart would burst, fragile as it was after being so thoroughly damaged. Love was a conditional thing, a fickle thing; bound to meet a line it could not cross, to dwindle and fade, to die a slow death that permanently harmed the heart in which it had existed. Love hurt. It had never done anything other than cause her pain, to leave her bruised and broken, to make her feel undeserving. 

Inadequate. Unlovable. Wrong. There would always be something she needed to change to be deserving of it, something that was so intrinsic part of her and yet made her impossible to love; she remembered voicing such to Willa when their feelings had come to surface, as well as she recalled the answer received. In part, Alleria could not help the fears still lurking deep within her heart that this too would end; yet she had received nothing but adoration, yearning even towards her darkest sides. Cling to such belief as her more damaged parts did, the belief begun to fade. There would always be a scar where once was a wound so profound, yet Willa’s unrelenting devotion forcibly mended cuts Alleria had believed would never be healed.

Thus she hesitated to name it love. Love hurt. What they had did not break her, no matter how rough they were, no matter how difficult. Surely it could not be love when it healed instead of hurting, when it soothed age old pains, when it demanded no change, when it knew no bounds. Unable to give it a name, Alleria did her best to answer in kind; to show how fiercely she felt towards Willa in standing by her no matter what, in adoring even her least lovable parts, in worshiping every inch of skin, in giving herself completely in each kiss they shared. 

This one was no exception. 

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It hardly ever was, between the two of them. Yet there was something of undeniably passionate in it, eager and hungry and devout, fervent in its affection. Plush lips pressed together were hardly sole source of contact, Willa’s arms firmly encircling her waist, Alleria’s own loosely around the other ranger’s neck as she straddled her lap. Bodies pressed together only made it all the more urgent, even as the Windrunner lost herself in the moment, utterly consumed with the woman in front of her. And if for a couple minutes, there was peace to be had, nothing in the world but them.

Alleria did not concern herself with not being demanding. Pulling back, she made the effort to break the kiss (unwilling, though it was evident in Willa’s groaned protest she was not the only one unhappy to be apart even for a second). Soft lips wander from mouth to jaw to neck, a trail of open-mouthed kisses left behind, coming to a stop at the base of her neck —— there, warm wetness of kisses gives place to the sharp pain of puncturing teeth, breaking skin unceremoniously. It is not the same spot she had marked before, but Alleria finds she cannot wait for clothing to be removed and hips exposed; a near physical pain compelling the blonde to sink teeth in her lover’s skin, to renew their promise of belonging to one another. Tradition broken without even previous permission is a terribly selfish act; one that isn’t met with outrage or disgust or anger or hurt, one as welcome as anything Alleria has ever done, anything she had to offer. Blood stains her lips when she presses them against the mark her teeth left behind; the coppery taste still on her tongue as it meets Willa’s own in a brief ardent kiss.

Light blue eyes near blazes with intensity as their gazes meet, contrasting with hand that runs through ashen brown strands of hair with utmost tenderness. “My sun and soul. You have me, now and forever. For as long as you would have me, I’m yours.”

[bluephoenixdruidicprincess]

Legacies 1x12, There's a Mummy on Main Street -- Review

I bring you another episode of Lega-Trash. And considering how this episode says it in the title -- it's all about mummies -- you would think I would like this episode since the Brendan Frasier Mummy films are my favorite films of all time (excluding 3, I refuse to acknowledge that film's existence) but this episode, real shocker, was beyond boring. This episode just kept dragging on and on. It brings shame to the Mummy genre.

This is going to be an honest review of my thoughts and feelings regarding Legacies, the spin-off of a spin-off that should never have come to pass, but here we are. I'm not a fan of this show, have never pretended to be one, so if you're looking for Legacies positivity, this is not the place for you. Move along, this is not meant for you. I'm very critical about this show. Keep in mind these are my thoughts and feelings about this mess of a show. Opinions are never right or wrong. I'm not telling you how to think and feel. You don't have to agree with my opinions but I would ask that you respect them, please. Also, spoilers for the episode. So if you haven't seen the episode yet, watch the episode and then come back...otherwise, read at your own risk. But let's be real here. I'm sure my followers who end up reading this have no desire to watch this show and use my ramblings in these reviews as a substitute for actually watching the show...those selfish jerks...just kidding, I love all my followers and please, only watch the show if you really want to. I'm making a sacrifice watching the show so you don't have to.

I honestly don't know what to say about this episode that I haven't said before. It's not even so much that Legacies is a "bad" show (well, I mean it is) but the real grievance I have with this show is just how damn boring it is. 10 minutes go by and you feel like it's been 30 minutes. Everytime I watch an episode, it's the longest 42 minutes of my life. Beyond all the rampant misogyny disguised as feminism, beyond all the lack of understanding pertaining to mental illness, beyond all the cringey dialogue, this is just a boring show to watch. The episodes are badly structured, it barely has a plot, and most of the characters are either dull and bland or just super annoying and unlikable (and in Hope's case, both). Really, these episodes should not be 42 minutes long. There's not enough story to the "monsters of the week" to warrant 42 minutes and the character drama occurring isn't interesting enough to hold my attention for the remainder of the time. I think what really bothers me about this show's formula is that the monsters have very little to do with the internal character struggles within the narrative. A good Motw show incorporates the monster as a tool to explore certain themes within the characters' development, plus also adding onto the show's seasonal mytharc and plot. But that isn't the case with the show. The monster and the character drama are always kept self-contained and separate from each other. And that's not a good formula for a MotW show and I think that's why the episodes feel stilted and badly structured. The episodes are missing a sense of cohesion that would make you enjoy an episode all the way through. And then you tack on the show's other problems and it just becomes a mess.

But anyway, enough with the rambling. What happened in this episode? Alaric feels guilty about letting a slug infect him and causing him to throw the urn into the river so he's on a mission to get the urn back. He realizes, somehow, that the urn is stuck in a dam near this small town so Alaric takes Dorian (the therapist's boyfriend), Emma (the therapist), Hope (because why wouldn't he) Kaleb (the teenage vampire who loves feeding on humans) and Josie and Lizzie. Don't ask me why Alaric thinks it's a good idea to bring teenagers along with him on this very dangerous mission, we all know he's a horrible headmaster. But anyway, the group ends up in this small town, Dorian goes scuba diving for the urn and there's a mummy on the loose going after the urn and bringing lots of African hornets to help it out on this venture. After this town gets attacked by hornets, some government operation shows up to give aid but it turns out these are the people in charge of Malivore. They ask for Alaric's assistance in dealing with the mummy (that's where the Charmed Ones come in) and compelling the townsfolk into forgetting everything (that's where Kaleb comes in). The mummy gets taken care of, it pops up for round two, it gets taken care of again. The government organization makes a vague threat about paying a visit to the school and Alaric and the teenagers leave. But not before getting the urn back as Kaleb compelled one of the government peeps to steal the urn and give it back to them. But unfortunately, they end up giving the urn back to the shady government organization as said organization is holding Dorian and Emma hostage. So this entire episode was a waste of time.

Now let's get into the drama of this episode because this show being a MotW show is a farce, this show is a soap opera, plain and simple.

So there's drama between the Charmed Ones and we're finally starting to see some sort of female something build between them but it's still pretty weak and pretty bland. And yes, I'm calling them the Charmed Ones because that what they are. JP doesn't have a single original thought in her head, we all know this. But basically Lizzie is angry with Hope for being on this trip with them because once again, Hope is infringing upon her time with her father, there's that abandonment trigger again we all know Lizzie has. Lizzie accuses Hope of setting a fire in Hope's room on purpose a few years back that lead to Lizzie losing father-daughter time with Alaric because Alaric then had to deal with the fallout on that. Hope is adamant that she did not set that fire, why would she because she also lost half of her belongings including the only drawing she ever made with her father. And Lizzie also accuses Hope of being responsible for spreading a horrible rumor about Lizzie's bipolar disorder as this fire incident was what lead to Lizzie's first manic episode. Hope swears up and down she did not set that fire and she certainly would never spread horrible rumors about Lizzie's disorder as she also hails from a crazy family and she could just as easily have these kinds of issues. And here's what I don't like about how the show approaches mental illness. Having a family who have displayed psychotic behavior causes you to be crazy. I don't like that. And I don't like that Hope feels she can compare her situation to Lizzie's. They're completely different situations. All the horrible things that the Mikaelsons did, that all came from vampirism. Being a vampire wasn't what made them horrible people who needed redemption. That was a product of specific situations, and really there's very little proof beyond Hope's self-entitled narcissistic personality that she's likely ever to display. Before the Mikaelsons became vampires, they were relatively stable. Hope is relatively stable. She's bland and irritating but stable. The things that the Mikaelsons did that were bad were a result of specific situations leading them to make those decisions, if Hope doesn't have those kinds of situations, it's entirely possible she won't display their kind of behavior. Basically, if Hope ever goes dark, it's most likely less of a trait she inherited through blood and more of a learned trait. What's going on with Lizzie is something that's completely different, this is something that's manifesting within her own body. This is a chemical imbalance inside of her brain (which is a popular theory among the medical community on what causes bipolar disorder) that causes her to make the decisions she does or lose control. I certainly don't excuse Lizzie for any of the things she does as a result of her disorder but what's going on with Hope and what's going on with Lizzie are two completely different things and should not be compared on the same level. Plus, I don't like the insinuation that because you have a crazy family, that means you're privy to bad behavior or a mental illness or on the flipside, if you don't have a crazy family and you have a mental illness, then you're just crazy.

But it's eventually revealed that Josie was the one who started the fire in Hope's room. Josie had left a love note in Hope's room basically saying she had a crush on Hope. Josie immediately regretted it and was ashamed for doing such a stupid thing but couldn't get back into Hope's room to get the note back so she used a fire spell to get rid of the note but the spell overshot and caused a massive fire. I don't understand why Josie had a hard time getting the note back considering all the insane things we've seen magic do in this franchise but I guess teleporting an object is just too much for this world's magic system, that's where the line is drawn. But wait, there's more to this drama. Josie felt so ashamed and didn't want Lizzie to find out that Josie actually spread the rumor about Lizzie's disorder and told Lizzie it was Hope. Her reasoning is that she was worried that if Lizzie ever found out about the note, Lizzie would try and destroy Hope because that's what Lizzie always does whenever Josie forms a connection with anyone else. So once again, we're making Hope and Josie these pure and innocent creatures and painting Lizzie in a horrible light. I just, I don't even know where to start. First off, Hope is super intrigued to learn that Josie had a crush on her and Josie's response was, "well, who wouldn't." Considering Hope has no friends and indeed in the previous episode, it was remarked on how weird it was to see her socializing and gasp! being friendly with other people -- I find this really hard to believe. And also, why is it necessary for everyone to love Hope? If you needed further proof that Hope is Elena 2.0, here it is. Everyone loves her for no apparent reason and it's remarked on as, "who wouldn't love Hope?". Well me, for starters, but that's beside the point. So moving on, while all this kind of sort of tracks and kind of sort of works even though it's at Lizzie's expense, it's not how I would've done it. Because Josie is continually becoming so one-note on how pure and perfect and innocent she is with her only flaw being her co-dependency, I would capitalize on her co-dependency flaw here. Here's how I would approach it. Josie was noticing that maybe Lizzie and Hope were starting to aknowledge eachother and starting to become friends and she got jealous. I actually could kind of see a potential playful teasing kind of frienship between Hope and Lizzie if cultivated. Josie has spent her entire life being so co-dependant on Lizzie that the prospect of Lizzie moving on and not needing her help anymore was a frightening thought for her. Josie exists, at least to her, to be there for Lizzie and Lizzie suddenly not being there and taking away Josie's sense of importance caused her to lash out a little. Maybe instead of a love letter, she sends a hate note or something saying to stay away from Lizzie but after she left the note, she immediately regretted it and was ashamed about it and but couldn't get into the room to get it back so she tries to use a spell to insinerate it but an actual fire starts, the fallout happens, Lizzie is angry they lost time with their father and out of Josie's own anger she makes a comment to Hope about Lizzie's disorder and it all goes from there, thus eternally making Lizzie despise Hope and Josie got what she wanted, Lizzie's continued dependance on her. Basically, I want to see Josie in more of a selfish light. I want to see that not only can she be selfish but it can also be petty and childish and vindictive much like Lizzie's behavior can be. While it makes sense that Lizzie's narcissism can play into jealousy, it also makes sense that Josie's co-dependancy can play into jealousy. Josie is selfish in the sense that she needs Lizzie to be dependent on her dependence and if Hope were to endanger that, Josie may have a difficult time being faced with the prospect if finding her own worth. Thsrd are selfless ramifications in co-dependency behavior but there are also selfish ramifications in co-dependent behavior.

We also get treated to this line said by Dorian while he and Emma are on a date. "You wouldn't have worn those shoes if you didn't like me a little." I don't speak for all women here but I don't choose to wear high heels for anyone else but me. I like the way they look on me, I like the way they make me feel, I don't do it for anyone else's gain but myself. You, good sir, can take your misogyny and shove it where the sun don't shine. And then it gets worse at the end of the episode where Emma comes clean about kissing Alaric while being infected with the slug. And this leads to Dorian punching Alaric and quitting. Good riddance, he won't be missed. But I'm sure he'll be back to rain more misogyny on this show. And the whole escalation to the punch is really weird. The slug doesn't possess you. It lowers your inhibitions which means there was a part of Emma that wanted to kiss Alaric. And I don't think Alaric even knew about Dorian. It was just two people getting caught up in the moment, I'm certainly not defending Alaric or Emma here but hey, sometimes it happens. Plus, I get the feeling Emma and Dorian haven't been together very long so was all that really necessary? Did we need to go all caveman and be all, "How dare you touch my woman, I must defend her honor and also prove she has no agency in her decisions". JP's feminism at her finest.

I'm also confused on the plot of this show. I don't really understand what Malivore will do if it's opened. It'll unleash all the monsters locked inside and somehow that brings an end to all supernatural creatures?

I'd give this episode a C. It's more of the same. A blah episode in a blah show.

[sueboohscorner]

The 100 Ep 510 Recap "The Warriors Will" #The100

This episode was thrilling, and I didn't see the twists coming at all, but like any good twist, everything that happened made perfect sense and derived from the characters. I went into the episode expecting to see Gaia fall in the arena and probably Indra too, just hoping desperately that something would happen to save Indra at the last minute. I could never have seen it coming that Monty would be the hero Wonkru deserved. I also didn't see it coming that Octavia would go full Roman emperor and decide that it's okay to become the villain if your people no longer treat you as a hero!

And no lie, I miss Octavia. Blodreina is a nightmare of a person, and I loved Octavia, for all her faults, for four+ seasons (her ascent to Blodreina was the last we saw of her). I see a lot of fans bitching online, and I suspect that what it comes down to is that they loved Octavia too much to accept this version of her, so they're angry at the show. I've been there, where a direction the creators took a character made them so fundamentally different from the person I thought they were, I disconnected from the overall experience. The 100 is beyond that for me; I am fully invested in the world of the show, and I believe the changes they make have always been explicable and internally consistent. 

Just as you could see the seeds of Finn's instability long before he gunned down a village, and the clues that Bellamy didn't trust Grounders as much as his loved ones did long before he joined forces with Pike, and the signs of Jasper's fragility long before he started acting overtly suicidal, Octavia's rage, insecurity, and need for unconditional approval have been laid in as fundamental character traits from the beginning. What we're seeing now is the end result of someone whose worst instincts and basest needs were not merely indulged but encouraged for a very long time, and now suddenly. The same people who eagerly followed her are turning their backs, triggering all the fears of abandonment and rejection she has nurtured throughout her life, and her reaction is proportional to how long and how fully her needs had been met till now.

So with the reaction out of the way, let's cover the action! 

Clarke and Madi have gotten well away from Polis while Madi continued to sleep off her post-Ascension hangover. When Madi awakens, she's royally pissed that Clarke has spirited her away from her people, because the spirit of the Commander has increasingly taken hold--that will continue throughout the episode, and it's good to watch Clarke lose her confident certainty that she's in charge here, much as we watched Abby experience in Season 2. Madi is also experiencing the memories of past Commanders in her dreams, and the revelation that Becca was burned at the stake possibly tells us why the chip is called the Flame in the first place, as it was presumably all that remained of her after.

Clarke also dumps out the worm eggs from the Rover, for some reason leaving them in a wriggling pile rather than setting them on fire or something...seriously, I would have found some way to destroy them rather than leaving them there to grow into nightmare creatures, but Clarke isn't great on long-term planning these days. 

The closer Clarke and Madi get to the valley, the more heated their discord becomes over what to do with the Flame. Clarke keeps making moves to take it out in Madi's sleep, and Madi ultimately promises Clarke that in order to keep her from ascending all over again, Clarke would have to destroy the Flame. Because that means killing what's left of Lexa, that's a no-go for Clarke...but I fully believe that if she didn't have a personal connection to an element of the Flame. She wouldn't hesitate, any more than Abby hesitated when demolishing the radiation test chamber or interfering in Clarke's attempt at ascending, because Clarke is an overbearing mother from hell. It's a coincidence of competing for self-interest that stands in the way of her maternal instinct to stand in the way of her "daughter's" growth and power. 

When they reach the valley, Madi gets another demonstration of Clarke's limited range of concern: McCreary and his goons are killing a bunch of Wonkru defectors, and Madi feels the Commander's impulse to rush in and save her people, but Clarke holds her back. Madi knowingly reminds Clarke that Abby is a defector, too.

Major badassery points to Madi for slitting the throat of a McCreary underling rather than letting him talk or possibly find a way to escape while promising to be useful. 

They sneak further into the village and find Abby passed out on the floor by her pill bottle. But how she got these pills? That's a fantastic scene!

This season's MVP guest star, Mike Dopud, delivers another stunningly creepy performance this week, as Abby summons him via neck collar shock (his underlying tone of menace as he implicitly threatens her never to do that again is chilling) to beg him for help getting a fix. McCreary cut her off, and she's in such withdrawal that she insists she will literally die without more pills...who knows how true that is, but her need is evident regardless. 

Vinson returns later with a plentiful supply, and he brightly says he knows what's it like to need things as he indulges his own need--the desire to rip a couple of dudes' throats out with his damn teeth! 

Abby's subsequent overdose may be partially a result of taking too much after waiting so long to have any, partially the response of emotional horror after what she's just witnessed.

But that's it for the valley, so let's move on to Polis! We came into the week with the knowledge that one or even two major characters would die in the area. The deadpool greatly favored Bellamy to be last man standing, but no one was ready to lose Indra. No one except Octavia, who chooses Bellamy.

Octavia first goes to Indra, begging for help to find a solution that will allow her to maintain absolute control over Wonkru without carrying out the sentence according to Wonkru tradition. Indra points out there's no other way, it's Octavia's own fault, and by the way, I'm going to kill your brother first, so my daughter is certain to survive, so the hell with you.

So Octavia goes to Monty and asks him to convey a message to Bellamy about Indra's weaknesses, and he's like, Nope, this is your fault and your problem, and anyway, you can choose to change your entire plan because of my dope botany skills that will save Wonkru without having to go to war!

Then Octavia gives in and talks to Bellamy herself, and it's one of the greatest scenes of the series. She reminisces about one of the many times he put her safety above all other concerns back on the Ark, and she begs him to kill Indra and Gaia so he can survive. The emotional weight of their relationship is so powerful, so beautifully carried by these two brilliant actors who have built their connection over the past five years. 

Rebuffed by Bellamy, the final rejection, Octavia goes away, slices open her arm in the exact place Bellamy once cut himself to protect her and uses the blood as her warpaint.

It's arena time, and Bellamy holds out as long as he can, trying to be a conscientious objector, but survival instinct kicks in, compelling him to fight back. The battle is intense, and Indra is getting a number of good slashes in, but Gaia changes the game! 

Gaia picks up a spear and prays to the spirit of the Commander as she hurls it straight at Octavia! Bellamy's instinct to protect his sister is ever-powerful, and he knocks Gaia off balance, causing her aim to go foul.

In this moment, Octavia has the opportunity to end the fight, execute Gaia for attempted regicide, and pardon Bellamy for his act of saving her life, then exile Indra because she'd definitely never forgive Gaia's death...but of course, that's not what happens. Octavia just pretends not to be rattled by this near-death moment, tosses the spear back into the arena, and commands the fight to continue.

But here comes Monty, the hero we needed, the hero we deserve! He bursts into the arena with proof of his success growing new plants, and he announces to Wonkru that Octavia is lying to them! They don't have to go to war--it's not their only chance at survival, and she knows it because he's shown her how he's revived the hydrofarm! They could stay and survive and use the same technique to recultivate the land outside over time. 

This revelation is all Wonkru needed to turn against their Red Queen (many of them were at the tipping point anyway, because they wanted their new true Commander to take her place!). Monty and Bellamy are heady with the joy of stopping this nightmare, but they quickly grow worried when no one knows where Octavia has disappeared to.

Their search is short-lived because a fire alarm tells them exactly where she is and what she's done. She's set the hydrofarm ablaze, destroying any hope for the future that didn't involve following her into war. Even Miller looks disillusioned with her now.

But hey, it worked...for her selfish purposes. She has deprived them of any other option besides carrying out her initial plan. The rations they have now are the last food they will ever have unless they can take the valley. 

A dispirited, morose army marches out of Polis, and there's only one thing keeping them from murdering Octavia at this point: She's an incredibly strong warrior, and they can't afford to sacrifice an asset like that. Which brings us back to the heart of the series in a neat little way--The 100 has always valued people based on one thing: Are you helping your people survive, or bringing them closer to death?

10/10 (I'd give it an 11 if I could. Can I?)

[live4thelord]

Why the Road to Hell Is Wide and Many Walk on It

In the gospels there is a warning from Jesus that too many people just brush aside:

Enter through the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the road broad that leads to destruction, and those who enter through it are many. How narrow the gate and constricted the road that leads to life. And those who find it are few (Matt 6:12-13).

I have commented at some length in the past on the serious problem of universalism (the notion that nearly everyone goes to Heaven). I will not create another post on that topic just now, but you can read one of those older posts here: Hell is for real and not rare.

To summarize, most people today have the teaching backwards. Whereas Jesus said that many are on the road to destruction and only a few travel the narrow road (of the cross) to salvation, most claim that many go to Heaven and only a few (if any) go to Hell. Don’t make that mistake. Jesus is not playing games with us. No one loves us more than Jesus does, and no one warned us more of judgment and Hell than He did. Even though He didn’t provide exact percentages for each category, do not try to make many mean few and few mean many.

An obvious question to ask is why so many walk the wide road to destruction and Hell. Is it because God is stingy or despotic? No. God wants to save us all (Ez 18:23; 1 Tim 2:4). The real answer is that we are hard to save, and we must become more sober about that. We have hard hearts, thick skulls, and innumerable other traits that make us a difficult case.

If a third of the angels fell, that ought to make us very aware of our own similar tendency to do so. This should make us humbler about our own situation. The fallen angels had intellects vastly superior to ours, and their angelic souls were not weighed down with the many bodily passions that beset us—but still, they fell!

Adam and Eve, possessing preternatural gifts and existing before all the weaknesses we inherited from sin, also fell. Are we, in our present unseemly state and vastly less gifted than the angels, really going to claim that we are not in any real danger or that we are easy to save?

We need to sober up and run to God with greater humility, admitting that we are a hard case and in desperate need of the medicines and graces that God offers. He offers us His Word, the sacraments, holy fellowship, and lots of prayer! We need not panic, but we do need to be far more urgent than most people are about themselves and those they love.

Consider some of the following things that make us difficult to save:

We have hard hearts and stubborn wills. While some of what this includes is specified in more detail below, this is a good place to begin. God, speaking to us through Isaiah the Prophet, said, I know that you are obstinate, and your neck is an iron sinew and your forehead is bronze(Is 48:4). He is talking about us!

We are obtuse in our desires. If something is forbidden, we seem to want it all the more. St. Paul laconically observed, When the commandment came, sin sprang to life (Rom 7:9). If something is harmful, we want it in abundance, but if it is helpful, we are often averse to it. We like our sweets and our salty snacks, but vegetables rot in the refrigerator. In the desert the people of Israel longed for melons, leeks, onions, and the fleshpots they enjoyed in Egypt. Never mind that they were slaves. When it came to the Bread from Heaven, the Holy Manna, they said, We are disgusted with this wretched manna (Num 21:5). We are obtuse; that is, we are turned outward toward sin instead of inward toward God in a Holy embrace. Jesus sadly remarked that judgment would go poorly for many because The light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his works should be exposed (Jn 3:19).

We don’t like to be told what to do. Even if we know we ought to do something or to stop doing something, the mere fact that someone is telling us often makes us either dig in our heels and refuse, or else comply resentfully rather than wholeheartedly.

We are not docile. When we were very young, we were fascinated with the world around us and kept asking, “Why, Mommy?” or “Why, Daddy?” As we got older, our skull thickened; we stopped asking why. We figured we knew better than anyone around us. The problem just worsens with age, unless grace intervenes. St Paul lamented, For the time will come when people will not endure sound doctrine; but wanting to have their ears tickled, they will accumulate for themselves teachers in accordance to their own desires, and will turn away their ears from the truth and will turn aside to myths (2 Tim 4:3-5).

We love distraction and don’t listen. Even when saving knowledge is offered to us, we are too often tuned out, distracted, and resistant. ADHD is nothing new in the human family. God said through Jeremiah, To whom shall I speak and give warning, that they may hear? Behold, their ears are uncircumcised, they cannot listen; behold, the word of the LORD is to them an object of scorn; they take no pleasure in it (Jeremiah 6:10). Jesus invoked Isaiah to explain why He spoke to the crowds only in parables: For this people’s heart has grown dull, and with their ears they can barely hear, and their eyes they have closed (Is 6:10).

We are opinionated. We tend to think that something is true or right merely because we think it or agree with it. There is nothing wrong with having opinions, even strong ones, about what is right and true, but if God’s Word or the Church’s formal teaching challenges your opinion, you’d better consider changing it or at least making distinctions. The last time I checked, God is just a little smarter than we are. His official teaching in the Scripture and the Doctrine of the Church is inspired; we are not. Scripture says, All we, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to our own way (Is 55:8). Can the pot say to the potter, “You know nothing”? (Is 29:16) Woe to those who quarrel with their Maker, those who are nothing but potsherds among the potsherds on the ground. Does the clay say to the potter, “What are you making?” (Is 45:9) Despite this, many go on with their own opinions and will not abide even the clear correction of God.

We have darkened intellects due to unruly and dominating passions. Our strong and unruly passions cloud our mind and seek to compel our will. Too easily, without training and practice in virtue, our baser faculties come to dominate our higher faculties, making unreasonable demands for satisfaction. We love to tell ourselves lots of lies. We suppress the truth and our senseless minds become darkened (Romans 1:21). The Catechism says, The human mind … is hampered in the attaining of … truths, not only by the impact of the senses and the imagination, but also by disordered appetites which are the consequences of original sin. So it happens that men in such matters easily persuade themselves that what they would not like to be true is false or at least doubtful (CCC #37). The Second Vatican Council, in Lumen Gentium 16, says, But very often men, deceived by the Evil One, have become vain in their reasoning and have exchanged the truth of God for a lie, serving the creature rather than the Creator.

We are lemmings. We are too easily swayed by what is popular. We prefer modern notions to ancient and tested wisdom. Tattoos, tongue bolts, and piercings are in? Quick, run out and get one! Whatever the fad or fashion, no matter how foolish, harmful, or immodest, many clamor for it. Hollywood stars get divorces and soon enough everyone is casting aside biblical teaching against it. The same goes for many other moral issues. What was once thought disgraceful is now paraded on Main Street and celebrated. Like lemmings, we run along with the crowd to celebrate what was once called sin (and is still sinful). Instead of following God, we follow human beings. We follow them and the “culture” they create, often mindlessly.

We live in a fallen world, governed by a fallen angel, and we have fallen natures. Many seem to abide all of this quite well and make a nice little home here in this world.

If all this isn’t enough, consider a “few” others: We are so easily, in a moment, obnoxious, dishonest, egotistical, undisciplined, weak, impure, arrogant, self-centered, pompous, insincere, unchaste, grasping, harsh, impatient, shallow, inconsistent, unfaithful, immoral, ungrateful, disobedient, selfish, lukewarm, slothful, unloving, uncommitted, untrusting, indifferent, hateful, lazy, cowardly, angry, greedy, jealous, vengeful, prideful, envious, contemptuous, stingy, petty, spiteful, indulgent, careless, neglectful, prejudiced, and just plain mean.

So, if the road to destruction is wide (and Jesus says it is), don’t blame God. The road is wide for reasons like these. We are a hard case; we are hard to save. It is not that God lacks power; it is that we refuse to address many of these shortcomings. God, who made us free, will not force us to change.

We ought not to kid ourselves into thinking that we can go on living resistant and opposed to the Kingdom of God and its values, yet magically at death we will suddenly want to enter His Kingdom, which we have resisted our whole life. Jesus said that many prefer the darkness. Is it really likely that their preference will suddenly shift? Will not the glorious light of Heaven seem harsh, blinding, and even repulsive to them? In such a case is not God’s “Depart from me” both a just and merciful response? Why force a person who hates the light to live in it? I suppose it grieves God to have to abide such a departure, but to force a person to endure Him must be even more difficult. I am sure it is with great sadness that God accepts a person’s final no.

Yes, the road is wide that leads to destruction. It is wide because of us. The narrow road is the way of the cross, which is a stumbling block and an absurdity to many (1 Cor 1:23), who simply will not abide its message.

So, we ought to be sober about the Lord’s lament. We ought also to be more urgent in our attempts to secure our own unruly soul and the souls of those we love for the Kingdom. The blasé attitude of most moderns is rooted in the extremely flawed notion that judgment and Hell are not real issues. That is a lie, for it contracts Jesus’ clear word.

Why is the road to destruction wide? Because we are hard cases; we are difficult to save. We ought not to be unduly fearful, but we ought to run to Jesus in humility and beg Him to save us from our worst enemy—our very self. If you don’t think you’re a hard case, read the list above and think again.

[leonvalleyarticles]

Romans Part XXV: Our Common Goal

“But I have written very boldly to you on some points so as to remind you again, because of the grace that was given me from God, to be a minister of Christ Jesus to the Gentiles, ministering as a priest the gospel of God, so that my offering of the Gentiles may become acceptable, sanctified by the Holy Spirit.” – Romans 15:15-16

Growth is never by mere chance; it is the result of forces working together, and we cannot accomplish all that we need to do without working together. Paul has at length addressed Jewish-Gentile relations in this letter, and he concludes with a final exhortation to unity and steadfastness in the Gospel.

Paul reminds us again that Jesus came to serve all people, not just the Hebrews. Though He was sent to them first (Matt. 15:24; Jn. 11:1), it was always God’s plan that all people of the world–Jew and Gentile alike–be brought into fellowship with Him through the cross (Eph. 2:14-16). Thus Paul says, “Christ has become a servant to the circumcision on behalf of the truth of God to confirm the promises given to the fathers for the Gentiles to glorify God for His mercy...” (Rom. 15:8-9). To affirm this, Paul cites five scriptures: Ps. 18:49; Deut. 32:43; Ps. 117:1; Is. 11:10. When we consider the various backgrounds from which these folks came–religiously and culturally, they were worlds apart, yet the Gospel had (and has) the power to bring all together to share “a faith of equal privilege” (2 Pet. 1:1). That is the power of Truth, and Jesus was a servant on behalf of the Truth (Rom. 15:8). He offended people from all walks of life and all backgrounds, but at the same time brought people together from all walks of life and backgrounds (tax-collectors, fisherman, religious zealots, Pharisees, and others). You see, our attitude toward the Truth is the determining factor–it will either unite us, or divide us depending on our attitude. Hence, we find the admonition not to follow those who “refused to love the truth and so be saved” (2 Thess. 2:10). Whatever my past, background, experiences, and whatever your past, background, and experiences, if we love the Truth, serve the Truth, and are satisfied with nothing less than the Truth, we will be united.

Paul’s prayer is that, “the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you will abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit” (Rom. 15:13). Our God is a God of hope and not despair or despondency. He is able to fill us with joy and peace “in believing”–mark those words well for they are condition for this joy and peace. We obtain those blessings in and through believing–which is not mere passive agreement with a set of principles, but a deep, abiding trust in the promises of God, compelling me to obey. This trust and obedience leads to the abiding peace and joy spoken of here to the end that we can abound with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit (i.e. not miraculous power, but that power which is afforded all believers through the written, inspired Word of the Holy Spirit, cf. 1 Thess 2:13). Let us maintain this hope, and quash all doubt by immersing ourselves in the Word of the God.

In so doing we will find another blessing: “concerning you, my brethren, I myself also am convinced that you yourselves are full of goodness, filled with all knowledge and able also to admonish one another” (Rom. 15:14). These brethren had arrived at a point wherein their knowledge level was sufficient to instruct and admonish one another. Notice the words “filled with all knowledge” and their ability to wield it effectively. Does this mean they had nothing left to learn? No, let’s not get carried away. No Christian ever arrives in that sense, for “grow in the grace and KNOWLEDGE of our Lord Jesus Christ” is a command for all Christians in all times and all levels of understanding (2 Pet. 3:18). The point is these brethren were competent teachers, and we must strive to be as well lest we “come to need milk again and not solid food” (Heb. 5:11-14). We should work and study to become competent in knowledge that we may be able to teach others, but we must ever remain teach-able ourselves.

Paul is confident these brethren in Rome fit the bill of teachable students, for he says, “I have written to you boldly on some points to remind you...” (Rom. 15:15). We will ever be in need of reminding in the things of God. What does that say about you and me? As you consider that question, allow Peter’s words to come into the discussion: “I will always be ready to remind you of these things, even though you already know them, and have been established in the truth which is present with you” (2 Pet. 1:12). This brings us closer to the answer–I may know Truth, yes, even be established in the Truth, but I will always need reminding. Again, why? Stay with Peter, “I consider it right, as long as I am in this earthly dwelling, to stir you up by way of reminder...” (2 Pet. 1:13). You see, I need to be stirred up (lit. aroused from sleep) by the Word of God, and my brethren who “provoke to one another to love and good deeds” (Heb. 10:25). This is why I need reminding, and this is why you need reminding–we are a fallen race; we are weak and sinful creatures who must continually strive to “lay aside the sin which so easily entangles us” (Heb. 12:1). Note the word “easily.” You and I must square with this fact: without constant nourishment from the Word of God, we will wither away and die adrift in our sin and selfishness (1 Tim. 4:6). That’s why we need to be reminded, and that’s what the need to be reminded says about you and me.

Paul desired his brethren to be sanctified in the Holy Spirit (something we should all desire), but I want to notice how he says this will be accomplished: “I have written to you...so that my offering of the Gentiles may become acceptable, sanctified by the Holy Spirit” (Rom. 15:15-16). Their sanctification would be accomplished through the Word of the Holy Spirit, and God’s people always been sanctified (set apart) for Him in this way. Jesus prayed, “Sanctify them in your Truth, your Word is Truth” (Jn. 17:17). The Word of Truth, inspired by the Holy Spirit sanctifies, and it alone sanctifies.

Paul closes with his intention to come to the brethren in Rome, that he may “enjoy their company” and find “refreshing rest” (Rom. 15:24, 32; 1:11-12). I would that all brethren would take advantage of this blessing that Paul joyfully anticipated. He makes it clear that his only reason for boasting was in “what Christ had accomplished through him,” as people all over the world were repenting and turning to God through his preaching of the Gospel (Rom. 15:18). He explains that his pursuit of uncovered ground is what delayed him coming thus far (Rom. 15:20-22), but wherever he went he “fully preached the gospel of Christ” (Rom. 15:19). May we never shrink from declaring the whole counsel of God (Acts 20:27), and give glory and credit to whom it is do–our Lord who works through us. We have a common goal as God’s people–to do all things for His glory (1 Pet. 4:11). Paul reveals here that we do so in loving and serving the Truth, adhering to it so we may be united upon it (regardless of our past). We must teach a single, unified Gospel to the world (Jn. 17:21). This we do as we instruct and admonish one another, so that we might be truly sanctified by the Holy Spirit–“a people for His own possession, zealous for good deeds” (Ti. 2:14), never boasting in our own work, but only in that which Christ accomplishes through us, delighting in one another, stirring up one another, and being refreshed by one another during our brief stay here.