#but nonetheless there is something Orpheus and Eurydice

[hephaestuscrew]

I'm still thinking about that scene in Victoriocity S3E7 where Fleet runs back towards the Beast so as to lure it into the path of the train...

Clara's exclamation of 'Teamwork, Fleet!' after Fleet says he's got a plan reflects her conviction that any plan that Fleet has will be a shared plan, something they do together.

This conviction is a kind of trust, and that trust is part of the reason Clara takes a moment to realise Fleet has headed back towards the Beast. She trusts that he's following behind her. She keeps talking to him, her words full of optimism.

When she realises Fleet isn't there, she immediately realises what that must mean he's done, and her voice sounds more small and scared than I think we've ever heard it before.

Fleet's attempt at self-sacrifice is a kind of betrayal of Clara's trust, but when he echoes her celebration of their teamwork in a more somber tone, I think it suggests that he understands the weight of that betrayal.

If Fleet's plan is that Clara won't realise he's gone until it's already too late, then he thinks "Teamwork, Clara" will be the last words he'll ever speak to her. In what he imagines will be their final conversation, Fleet affirms Clara's understanding of them as a team who work well together, even as he is making a choice that rejects the possibility of their teamwork in this scenario. It's a recognition of what their dynamic has meant. It's a goodbye and an apology, even if Clara doesn't understand it as such at first.

I don't think Fleet sounds scared as he initially faces down the train. When he shouts "Yeah, this way, you stupid machine! Come on then!", he sounds defiant and grimly determined.

In fact, I don't think he sounds afraid until Clara appears, until she might be at risk of being in the path of the Beast or the train as well. It's when he shouts "Clara, stay back for God's sake!" and "Please, get back!" that there's real fear and desperation in his voice. He can confront the idea of giving his own life, but not the idea that doing so might put Clara in danger.

Another thing about these lines is that the move from 'stay back' to 'get back' suggests that Clara didn't obey his first instruction but got closer to him (and therefore to the path of the Beast and the train) between those two lines.

Then Fleet gives what might be another attempt at his last words: "I'm sorry! I'm sorry."  A repeated apology before an attempted self-sacrifice is an implicit acknowledgement of how much losing him would hurt Clara. He regrets causing her pain.

Even so, he's accepted that he is about to die and that it'd be worth it to destroy the Beast. But Clara very much hasn't accepted either those things. She's still trying to yell over the noise of the train; she's pulling off her ring to throw at him.

I think it's a good illustration of how Clara's optimism is a kind of strength. She always believes that they can "make a new plan" and that it'll be one in which no one has to die. I think Archibald Fleet needs someone like that, someone who'll tell him to drop to the ground when his death advances from both sides, someone who - even in a dark tunnel with an murderous metal monster and a speeding train - won't stop shouting that there's hope.

[aether-bun]

Happy Birthday!

To celebrate my birthday, here's a drabble of assorted Hades characters and how they'd be on your birthday! You are in a relationship with Zagreus in this one :)

Characters: Nyx, Orpheus, Eurydice, Zagreus, Thanatos, Hypnos, Dusa, Megaera, Achilles, Patroclus, Cerberus, Asterius, Sisyphus, Bouldy

Warnings: None! Good wholesome times all around ♡

You wake up to Zagreus kissing your face!!!!

I believe in Zagreus caring deeply for physical touch and quality time your honour. Once you warm him up to it, it's his heaven in Hell. He adores it.

He's very warm, but it's never really been a problem, given the consistently nice temperature of the House

"Good morning, [Y/N]. Happy birthday~" He cooes gently, his voice is smoother than the finest ambrosia and you revel in it, snuggling into his chest.

"What would you like to do today, my dear?"

"Mmh....Is sleep an option...?" Zagreus chuckles at your drowsy response, his chest rumbles pleasantly and you find a contagious smile growing on your face.

"Birthdays only happen once a year, darling...Come on. Eurydice made you some cake."

"She did?"

"Yes! When I told her it was your birthday this week, she jumped to the opportunity."

"Then I suppose I must get up?"

Zagreus kisses your head lightly, and you melt from the tender care

"I suppose you must, yes."

You wake up and get into some nicer robes, and walk out with Zagreus to see Nyx regard you.

"Happy birthday, child. As a token of this occasion, I managed to convince Hades to give everyone a moment off, to greet you." Nyx's voice almost sends you to sleep again, but you're much more awake now, and you feel too sheepishly happy to rest.

"Lady Nyx, you really didn't need to...!" Your voice is as incredulous as you feel. "But...Thank you."

"Of course. I believe Hypnos wanted a word, so perhaps you should see to him first."

You and Zagreus walk over to Hypnos, who is currently not sleeping, which shocks you both, though he looks about ready to knock out for the next week at the minimum.

"[Y/N]!! Happy birthday! Dusa and I made you a little something, here here!" He exclaims, all tiredness wiped from his aura entirely as he hands you a small box.

Gingerly, you take off the lid, and inside you are happy to find a new laurel, woven carefully with your favourite colours and plants. You find yourself beaming at the beautiful heartfelt gift, before giving Hypnos a tight squeeze.

"Thank you so much, Hypnos. The detail is incredible!" You say as you part, and Hypnos giggles with a mischevious grin. "It was mostly Dusa, to be perfectly honest, but I helped weave it, so getting the first hug of appreciation for it feels fair."

You laugh, before Sir Achilles approaches with a calm smile of his own, before placing a hand on your arm.

"Unfortunately, I don't have any gifts for you myself, but I do wish you a happy birthday nonetheless. Do spend today well, yes?"

"Thank you, sir. I'll do my best." You smile, remarking mentally that your cheeks are starting to hurt, but also that you don't find yourself minding.

Next stop is to Meg and Dusa, who are waiting in the lounge with Thanatos. When they see you approach, Dusa is the first to float to you. The snakes that make up her hair affectionately grasp onto your arm as you hold Dusa affectionately. "Happy birthday!" She skitters, almost purring in a strange, Dusa-like way.

Meg is next, though she holds her distance as per usual. She's smiling, and her whip is stowed. "I've gotta hand it to you, [Y/N], I don't usually tend to care for birthdays, never mind my own...but you got me a morning in the lounge. So...thanks for that."

It was a strange way to go about saying happy birthday, but for you, it was more than enough. You nodded. "I can't believe Nyx pulled it off. Surely there are some wretched shades out there being overworked now, no?"

Megaera simply shrugs, but the creeping grin on her face tells you she hopes it's the case.

Thanatos clears his throat, and you realise he's held something out to you. It was a bottle of nectar. You gasp, taking the weighted spherical bottle in awe.

Zagreus squints at it, still by your side, before suddenly looking at Thanatos. "I gave you this bottle of nectar yesterday!" He says, indignant. Thanatos smiles - a rarity on its' own - and simply dismisses the Prince.

"Regardless of where you got it from...Thank you, Than, this...this means a lot." You say, your voice still awestruck by the honey gold liquid you're holding.

Zagreus of course brings you plenty, but even so, its' beauty never ceased to amaze.

You visit Sisyphus, who gives you Pebble (one of Bouldy's brothers, who has a delicately punched smiley face on one side), then you visit Orpheus and Eurydice, who gives you a kiss on the cheek and some cake, then you meet with Patroclus, who takes your hand very hesitantly and prays for you, for your good luck this year. He says he'll see you at the house, and on your way back, you find Asterius.

Zagreus prepares for a fight, but Asterius is unarmed, and he quickly realises.

"Asterius? What are you doing here, without your axe?" He asks. Asterius chuffs.

"Your father gave us a small break this morning, small one. You said something about celebrating someone's birthday last we clashed blades, and so, naturally, I assumed it would be your lover's. Was I correct?"

Zagreus stows his blade and you nod a little. "That's right, Asterius sir." You clarify. "It's good to know he gave even you and Theseus a break, too."

Asterius snorts, though it's not one of amusement or malice, simply a noise. He rifles through a pouch he has, before handing you a weighty box. Inside is a handaxe, crafted by the minotaur.

"You have no weaponry when you wander out here, I've come to notice. This is for when we meet in the stadium. For if you need more than simply the blessings of the Olympians." The bass voice of the bull rumbles, and you hold the axe firmly with a grin. Zagreus chuckles next to you.

"I appreciate this, Asterius. Thank you. Send our regards to King Theseus?"

Asterius laughs.

"I don't think he'd take it well, but I wish you a good day despite."

Asterius leaves, and you and Zagreus are amusedly quick to do the same.

Eventually, after a day of exploration, you cuddle up to Cerberus and thank Nyx on your way through, before laying down with your Zagreus.

"Today was fantastic, dearest." You say. Zagreus holds you close, playing with your hair. "I'm glad. But there's still one present you've yet to receive, my dear~"

It's 1AM right now. Use your imagination.

[moonchild-in-blue]

I need everyone to watch Kaos (from Netflix) right now, please and thank you. Quite possibly my favourite modern retelling of the Greek myths / Olympic pantheon.

The story revolves mainly around Orpheus and Eurydice (Riddy), and around Zeus and a certain not-so-great prophecy. Dionysus is one of our main stars and he's great and amazing and hot and absolutely babygirl.

Yes there are a LOT of references and myths and characters beyond the main Olympians (Zeus' famous kids don't even appear). Yes you see Prometheus having his liver pecked. Yes, we do get to see the Minotaur & Co. Hades and Persephone too, obviously. Yes, there is A TON of great poc and queer rep. Yes, there is blood and sex and violence and poignant society AND religious commentary. Yes, you do get old man yaoi. Yes, Jeff Goldblum as Zeus is incredible and no joke my new favourite portrayal of him (Zeus). Yes, they are faithful to the "doomed from the start" narrative of Orpheus and Eurydice. Yes, Hera does have her peacocks.

Please please please go watch it please it's so great and visually beautiful and amazing. Pirate that thang if you must.

My thoughts whilst watching the show - no plot spoilers but be warned for mild thematic/ character/ setting commentary. Generally safe to read if you haven't watched it yet and don't mind a little preview:

SOUNDTRACK IS WOW. Don't Fear The Reaper? On episode one?? The song I've been listening over and over because of a certain beloved band has made a cover of it???

Love how they portray the worship of gods as something that is part of their daily lives and culture without seeming too "gimmicky".

There are clear parallels to Catholicism in the way they conduct themselves (either in favour or against the gods; all the little rituals and traditions), and it's quite interesting to see how would modern society function if Hellenism (or rather the ancient practices. pls correct me if I'm wrong) were the primary (and as far as I got it only) established religion in the world.

The "Vero" declaration with the hand gesture as part of Olympian liturgy? Amazing. Interesting choice in using Latin rather than Ancient Greek, but very cool nonetheless.

A significant amount of casual mentions of horrifying violent acts by the gods, and even some healthy dose of violence/ blood. Thought it was very interesting to see Zeus discussing infanticide and natural catastrophes the way we discuss the weather or grocery prices. They really leaned heavily into the whole grandeur and arrogance of gods in regards to human life which I super appreciate. I'm tired of seeing passive, Cool and Hip and Benevolent Zeus & Co.

Also the amount of criticism by the god-haters (Blasphemes? Non-sympathisers?) feels very refreshing (and on the nose concerning irl organised religions), especially in contrast with the more devout and how they put their life in second place in lieu of worship (yes I'm thinking about the Tacitas AND the Celebration Ritual™ iykwim).

The subversion of the "doomed from the start" narrative surrounding Orpheus and Eurydice is done so beautifully it hurts. Right from the first moment they appear, you know how it'll go. And yet!!

You know what happens, of course. Their story was never meant have a happy ending. But the way they took that and put a modern spin on it it's just!!!! My heart !!!!

I was rooting for Orpheus the entire time, knowing damn well it was a lost cause. I can't blame Riddy, but my God is it painful to watch. LOVED the actor who played him, he just the right amount of earnest love and rockstar flair. Riddy is SO cool - there's not much I can say beyond that that isn't a spoiler but. Yeah. We love complex female characters.

I'm gonna be really petty and pedantic here, but for a show revolving GREEK mythology, set in Olympia / Krete, with sooo many little references to the myths, it is CRIMINAL that they insist on calling Heracles by his roman name (Hercules), and that they refer to Hades as God "Of Death" instead of God "Of The Dead" / King Of The Dead. There's a major difference there - Thanatos would like a word.

Troytown? Where the Trojan refugees (displaced war victims really) are *literally* segregated to (their exact words, segregation), and even use those nose lines/tattoos as way to identify them? Where they face scrutiny and police brutality and prejudice from the Kreteans? As a clear reference to minority poc urban areas and how they are unfairly mistreated and deemed as "others" by the same governments who put them there in the first place??? YES YES YES.

A lot of queer and poc rep. And I mean A LOT. The Fates alone are a whole vibe.

Again, it doesn't feel gimmicky at all, nor does it fall under the "okay they're definitely trying to hit all the quotas so everybody is gay and ethnic and uses neo-pronouns" trend some media are starting to follow, which really just end up falling flat rather than significant (looking at you Sex Ed 4). An actual diversity win.

If you're familiar with the story of Caeneus, you'll love how they portrayed him here.

Dionysus is everything and some more. I love him. Prometheus is incredible. Jeff Goldblum as Zeus goes above and beyond expectations - he brings that Goldblum Flair™ but with an intense violence and paranoia you could only pull off as King of the Gods. Hera is just wow, truly a queen.

Hades and Persephone have an *interesting* dynamic - have never seen him being portrayed like that before. Usually Hades and Persie are the "dom goth Mommy and Daddy" of mythology retellings, and yet here it's completely different. Certainly *A Choice*. I don't mind Hades, but would've liked to see "goddess of spring & dreaded" Persephone.

I understood the vision, but I don't think it worked *quite* as well as the other ones. She's still super cool nonetheless - that sandwich scene was incredible.

Also - VERY COOL how diverse the actors are. With the exception of Dionysus who is objectively Young and Hot, pretty much all the other gods (and adjacent) are middle-aged or up, with visible signs of aging (grey hairs, wrinkles, sagging skin, belly fat, etc), which is cool cus usually the gods are made to be a specific flavour of "hot".

The Furies, who could've been all snatched and sexy and token Femme Fatale characters, are actually older butch women with mean lesbian energy and I think that's very cool and awesome and wonderful.

Even the human cast is so diverse and interesting and REAL, rather than yet another yassified ensemble - it's great to see. Not everyone is conventionally hot and attractive, and THAT is sexy af.

All the little Easter eggs and references to the myths and general ancient Greece culture are SO nice to see. I giggled when Polyphemus first appeared. That first scene on the cereal aisle was very funny. Gagged at Cassandra.

Stylistic choice of the Underworld environment and on-camera portrayal is chef's kiss. That's all I'll say.

LABYRINTH AND DAEDALUS YES. Would smash the Minotaur, 1000%. That Scene™ was. Hmmmmm yeah.

Overall I loved it and high key might re-watch it again. What an amazing show. This was a win for all of us Greek Myth nerds, and I'll be truly devastated if Netflix doesn't renew it for a second season.

[magpie-sherlock]

Dutch is up late again. 

It’s more common when he’s “in a slump”, as Hosea calls it. The sun went down hours ago, but he’s convinced he can come up with a new way to keep his gang safe. His tent is the only one still lit, glowing from the inside like a lantern. Papers and books pile up on his desk. A map sits in the center, the focal point of his planning. 

“We can’t go anywhere near Blackwater no more, and after what happened in Strawberry…” Dutch pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. He loves the gang. Really, he does. They’re his family. But they’re also unruly, constantly in danger. They get in a scrape, it’s his job to get them out. And if he can’t get them out-

His nightly spiral is interrupted by the crunching of grass and soft humming. Hosea. As Dutch picks his head up, he sees his partner place a teacup on the corner of the desk and sit down on the bed, book in hand. He needs to get Hosea a new book; he’ll keep an eye out next time he’s in town.

“You’re up late,” Dutch mutters, turning his eyes back to the map. By now, the words and lines have started to blur together. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Hosea replies; the shrug can be practically heard in his voice. Hosea could never sleep. Countless nights had been spent with a book and a lantern right next to where Dutch was sleeping. “Try the tea.”

Dutch leans back, taking a sip; he nods in approval. His friend had always preferred coffee, but somehow was better at brewing tea than Dutch was. “Wonderful, as always.” 

Hosea’s quiet chuckle is heard to Dutch’s right. “I try.”

Dutch holds the mug in both hands. “How’s the book?”

“Good. You ever read up on Greek myths?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“I’m reading the one on Orpheus and Eurydice. Maybe you should read it next. Give your mind something else to think about.” 

Dutch pinches the bridge of his nose again. Damn rules, making things complicated. Damn bounties. “I’ll stop thinking about it once the thinking actually makes sense.” 

Hosea chuckles again. “I believe sleep also helps with that.” 

“Ha.” He tries to take another sip of tea, only to find the mug empty. “Huh.” 

The two sit in silence for a while, looking out the tent. Crickets could be heard around camp; the horses were quietly rustling the grass from where they were hitched. At some point, they could hear wolves howling. There’s a campfire going somewhere nearby. It’s a peaceful night, and for a bit, it feels like the two old friends are the only ones in the world.

Dutch yawns, suddenly feeling the fatigue from the past few days all at once. “What tea was that again?”

“Chamomile,” Hosea responds matter-of-factly. “With some honey. Why?” He asks wryly. 

“Damn you.” He chuckles nonetheless. 

Hosea moves onto the bed, his book under his arm, and sits on the half next to the tent wall. He knows Dutch can’t stay awake much longer. Dutch, knowing he’s right, sighs and flops onto the empty half, staring at the ceiling. The lamp stays on; Hosea will probably keep reading until sunrise. Dutch, however, falls asleep. He can sleep with the lantern light on; his friend taught him how. 

[raelis1]

Okay, @midnightestsun, this is for you!From longest to shortest, almost all are R/E, background Ben/Bev, sometimes Bill/Mike, Stan/his canon wife Patty.

Fix-its, Eddie (and sometimes Stan) don't die, post-Derry 2.0 get-together, canon-compliant in everything else, basically variations on 'Eddie divorces Myra, moves in with Richie (or vice versa), they figure their shit out, a sexy happily-ever-after ensues)

Now What I'm Gonna Say May Sound Indelicate by shinycopperpenny (this one is unfinished, although I hear the author's still working on it and doesn't intend to abandon it), but it's 370k of slow-burn goodness, pining and quality writing. It's really great.

Things that Happen After series by shinycopperpenny (1st story is Richie/Eddie, 2nd is Ben/Bev, but with R/E as a background pairing).

Our Perfect Secret-Keeping by cathedraltunes

After Derry by pineapplecrushface

Risk-Seeking Behavior by Dwarfankylosaur - this one is also unfinished and ends on a cliffhanger, BUT LISTEN! It's so fucking funny, and the pining is delicious, and the characterization is so on point, I cannot recommend it enough. It's one of my faves.

when everything feels like the movies by glorious_spoon

little pieces of the nothing by glorious_spoon

we were always here at the right time by fuckener

New Page, Same Old Book by Rend_Herring

it's about time that you just unwind by fuckener

Calling Cards by andloawhatsit

Fix-its, Derry townhouse smut (which involves cheating on Myra, in case that's a deal-breaker)

A Taste of Salt by bottle_of_smoke (which also doubles as post-Derry get-together)

the places you will be from by glorious_spoon

when lightning strikes by anon

out on the bevel by anon

Fix-its where Eddie does die, but is brought back from the dead somehow (sometimes with Stan!)

Angarum by andloawhatsit (lovely time-travel AU, gives a lot of thought to Eddie's life pre-Derry 2.0 and his relationship with Myra's family)

Nothing Dies in Derry by glorious_spoon (ghost!Eddie and Stan)

the sound of your feet upon the ground by glorious_spoon (insp by Orpheus and Eurydice)

Non-shippy fix-it (ships are implied, but not the focus)

the chain by younglegends (Stan-centric gen, time-loop)

hours they seemed like days by PositivelyVexed (Mike-centric gen, time-travel)

Richie and Eddie meet as adults during the 27 years gap between the movies and don't remember each other (but hook up nonetheless! Usually involves cheating on Myra)

Fingers Crossed That I'm Something You'll Keep by thefourthvine

fruit from a forbidden tree by glorious_spoon

Memories of a Stolen Place by glorious_spoon

The Lost Words by bottle_of_smoke

Sooner or Later in Life by pineapplecrushface (technically a no-Pennywise au, which I usually don't read, but can be read as canon divergence au)

Pennywise takes on Eddie's form to torture Richie (my favorite trope that should be WAY more popular 😢)

all that you wish by liesmyth

No Cash Value by fullborn

It wore all their faces by remusjohn

give that twist of grace by glorious_spoon

Richie and Eddie get together as teenagers

Euphemisms by what_alchemy

maybe when the summer ends by charactershoes

ice cold pool by orphan_account

Today is the greatest by pineapplecrushface

don't swallow the cap by scorpiod

No Makeup On, That's My Sugar by shinycopperpenn

Social media/Outsider POV/Humor/Richie's stand-up routine fic

Richie Tozier is famous and loves his boyfriend, OK by kyaticlikestea

The Exoneration of Richie Tozier by Blissymbolics

Outside, Looking In by andloawhatsit

I killed a clown. AMA! by liesmyth

What Beauty Is For by pineapplecrushface

Richie Tozier Is [Fill in the Blank] by pineapplecrushface

Richie Tozier: The Manchild Tour by hellotailor

Tragic non-fix-its (because sometimes some angst makes a happy ending even sweeter!)

soul, I hear you calling by serenityfails (ghost!Eddie and Stan, gives closure and catharsis, but they stay dead. I cried the whole night!)

Waiting for the Click by waketosleep (canon, missing scenes)

Broke Free on a Saturday Morning by PositivelyVexed (this one is post-canon Richie/Mike, but it deals a lot of their grief and guilt over Eddie and Stan's deaths)

Plus One by fuckener (ghost!Eddie again)

walk it off by liesmyth (also ghost!Eddie)

PWPs

Clowntown Kinkmeme Fills by glorious_spoon

reddie kink meme by anon

And the lone soulmate AU! (I don't usually go for them, but this one got me good. I cried and everything)

Hand On My Stupid Heart by what_alchemy

Also, you gotta keep in mind all of the fic I've read heavily draws from book canon, so if you haven't read the book, some things might be confusing.

The most important plot/characterization points from the book that aren't in the movies but are often referenced in fic are

Maturin the Turtle. Basically an omnipotent god-like creature who's Pennywise's natural enemy and a friend to the Losers, but he has some prime directive non-interfering policy, so he can't or doesn't want to off Pennywise himself and relies on the Losers to do it. He's the ultimate deus ex machina, so pretty much every fix-it fic references him in some way.

Pennywise's 'true form' (or more like, as close it can get to how it truly looks before a human goes insane from looking at it) is a giant female spider who lays eggs (which the Losers destroy)

Eddie has a supernatural sense of direction, basically a human navigator

Stan is obsessed with birds, so he's usually associated with a bird in some way. And Eddie really likes cars, trains and running

Richie constantly calls Eddie 'Eds', 'Eddie-Spaghetti' and 'cute' (usually while pinching his cheek), and Eddie pretends to dislike it

In the book, Pennywise assumes the form of a werewolf to scare Richie, and it's frequently brought up in fic. Fic writers like to use the werewolf as representation of Richie's internalized homophobia

The 'leper' Eddie sees in the movie also offers him a blowjob in the book. 'I'll blow you for a dime, I'll blow you for free' is a quote that's often used in fic (and interpreted as Eddie possibly being gay, especially given that his marriage to his wife is basically sexless and, in his own words, 'psychological incest'- also book canon)

It's only used once or twice in the movies, but the phrase 'beep-beep, Richie' is a very frequent occurence in both the book and fic (code for 'shut up', basically)

Adult Beverly has a best female friend Kay who's a passionate feminist

In the movies, Ben has an interest in Derry history, but in the book, it's entirely Mike's thing. Ben's thing is building things (he helps the Losers buld a dam at some point)

[crescencestudio]

hi there! i'm so curious about this and unsure if you've answered (but really want to know), if van is placed in a situation similar to orpheus and eurydice, him in orpheus's place, would he look back or continue walking forward?

❝ A love that transcends lifetimes... ❞

-------

“It’s a shame. His works were so good before they died.”

“I heard he went to hell and back for them. Like, literally Hell.”

“What? Don't tell me you believe that? Rumors nowadays… People just say whatever they want.”

-------

I poured over my new drawing. Black, charcoal etchings swept over the canvas, filling in the crevices left behind by my forceful strokes.

The pieces came faster now. Ironic, given my muse was...

Gone.

But this was the only way I could still feel their presence. The only way I could remember the warmth of their skin, or the safety in their caress.

If I wasn't creating art, the only thing I would feel was their absence.

"Your grief is unbearable."

Who--? The new voice tore me from my drawing, and before me stood a figure clothed in obsidian robes. The shadows lapping at their feet, the smell of ancient, untouched dust, the chill of the room. This was...

"Death."

"Hades, actually. Death is Thanatos."

They stepped forward, and with that simple movement, it was as if my bones turned to ice.

"You artists and your grief--your love that surpasses even death itself. Can't you give me a break? I'm just doing my job."

"Give you a break? What do you...?"

"I could feel your grief from the Underworld. Calling for me. Pulling at me. Nothing could be more aggravating."

"...Shall I make you an offer?"

Hades wanted to make me an offer?

"I'll let you into the Underworld, and you can retrieve your beloved. If both of you make it back to the land of the living, they can return with you. But keep in mind, you may only look forward, never back at them. Fail, and you can never be with them again, not even in Death."

"Fair warning: artists like you never succeed."

"I'll do it."

-------

"Remember. Only look towards the land of the living. Never back to the land of the dead."

"I remember."

Next to me, my love shifted in and out of vision--a mere shade of the person they once were. But it was them nonetheless, that I was sure of.

And we were going to make it out of here. That I was sure of.

When they were ready, I walked forward. I focused on nothing but the light of our realm to guide me.

The journey was longer this time, more strenuous. Was it because Hades wasn't here to guide us?

We passed Elysium and the River Lethe, crossed River Styx and the guardian Cerberus. The rocks around us were familiar now. No longer were they tainted with the shadows of Death. Now, there was light.

Behind me, my love's steps were heavier now. The shade of Death was dissipating, replaced with the weight of the living.

We were close.

Through the caverns we walked, until sunlight broke through the crevices. It took everything in me not to start running--I couldn't leave my love behind now of all times.

The air was warmer now! Just a couple more steps and--

I stumbled on the rocks beneath me and crashed harshly onto the ground. There were hands on me, helping me and lifting me up again. Their words were nothing more than a whisper on the wind, yet I could understand them clearly:

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm..."

As I turned to reassure them, I realized my mistake too late.

The shadows of the Underworld rushed forward, grabbing hold of their silhouette and pulling. All semblance of life they had regained faded in an instant, and they were returned to the shade they once were. I called their name, reached out to take hold of their hand.

But it was futile.

Death took hold of them once more, and I was left alone. Again.

"Do not despair."

Something whispered to me. Voices upon voices layered upon each other, echoing off every corner of the cavern.

"Who...?"

"Your Fate does not end here."

"What are you talking about? Who are you?"

"We have watched your plight for generations upon generations. For as long as Time itself has existed. You and your Fated lover."

"Tell us. When you asked for the Fates' help all that time ago, did you foresee the pain it would bring? The destiny to relive this very moment over and over?"

"I don't understand."

"We suppose you would not. The River Lethe is known to have that effect on mortals."

"It is no matter. We look forward to seeing how the Strings of Fate determine your destiny in the next life."

"There's no point in seeing the next life if I can't be with my loved one."

"Do you say that because of Hades's offer? Do not worry, mortal."

"Even Death must abide by Fate."

-------

❝ ...but not one that transcends Death ❞

[luminouslotuses]

very very niche au idea but i’m throwing it out here nonetheless: hadestown au with hades & persephone as c!tntduo and orpheus & eurydice as q!tntduo. idk if it could actually function as an au but i’m partial to the idea of the two tnts meeting (something something seeing completely different versions of yourselves but still seeing certain similarities when it comes to your wants and ideals. lmfao anyways)

i think a way it could work would be for ctnt to be like a myth or legend. some people believe, some don’t– but when the weather and the seasons change, that’s when the “myth” becomes all too real.

qw is working on a song that he believes could change the world for the better, and he travels for inspiration. this would be where the conflict would stem from– between qw always being away & qq still reeling from the loss of tilín. that would also be the lure qq would follow to the underworld– the prospect of getting his child back.

ctnt would be romantic (not entirely sure who would be who? the hadestown itself gives me cq vibes but hades is more cwilbur to me,, idk). for qtnt, qwilbur would obviously be orpheus and qq would be eurydice. despite them being in a romantic relationship in the musical, i personally think it would be better here if this relationship was queerplatonic. or better yet; qq thinking he’s in love with qw romantically at first, though he eventually realizes that he was merely enamored with the idea of any kind of love he could receive after losing tilín. he still loves & cares for qw after coming to that realization, but it just isn’t exactly the kind of love he’d originally thought it was.

no clue who the fates or hermes or the workers would be LMAO i haven’t thought out a lot of things yet but fuck. i kinda want to write something for this,,,

[horizon-verizon]

Also, I'm not sure why they think Dany would be "tainted" or invalidated as a hero by a story of a IPV when:

some already think that she is made to fix her ancestors errors or purify the legacy in their pursuits of power (pre-and post- Conquest/Doom)....shouldn't work here, too, where one could say Dany is reversing the conventional woman-as-material of the original prophecy by being a woman/girl who becomes the agent when she would have died?

Nissa-Nissa and Lightbringer's narrative is itself a fictionalized, really mythical, account of a sacrifice meant to bring about great change, yes...when Dany dies she will leave behind a narrative that both confounds and springboards off of the first and thus create space for an exegesis of how such myths are created in a culture

Dany rose from her husband's, father's, and brothers' ashes, from the ashes of the Targ-Andal patriarchy paradigm and the dynasty had to die bc said thing is designed against a woman such as her, to prevent "her"; it follows that she might be dusting the orig prophecy's narrative's patriarchal structure

[coming off of #2 & #3] that patriarchal IPV structure/format is not necessarily defining the prophecy itself as to destroy the significance & point of the sacrifice: something of the self or something one loves will be lost to battle forces of world-eating evil; it is very possible that is the format some people chose to tell it in bc that was most relevant and familiar to make sense for them to "absorb" the prophecy's said point. For Dany to be the active one and not the material or very much not like Nissa-Nissa, we have turned the orig format on its head for others to study or reflect on, as OP says. This isn't to say that it isn't important to point out the IPV or how the myth's format served to reaffirm that control over a woman's body, but I am saying that Dany is literally showing, in real time, that myths are stories we can make new formats for and to re-claim the significance of. That the significance =/= the format as she subverts the format and attaches a new meaning to the prophecy. We as myth/fiction readers often see problematic writing and are nonetheless compelled to pluck & keep the more logically-morally sound arguments or ideas or root of ideas from stories we read/see...could it not be that here, too, we should be seeing a sort of meta "plucking" on Dany and people after her's parts?

In several Greek & Roman myths or tales, we see entire formats carry problematic "messages"/messages but also we do get gems or interpretations here and there about how one deals with death (Orpheus and Eurydice) and many others.

So I think it's a bit too shortsighted to say that Dany can't be Azor Ahai bc that orig prophecy isn't very feminist. If anything, that makes Dany even more a feminist tale AND Azor Ahai. It's a taking charge of the literal narrative set against women.

From time to time, I see some people argue that Dany can't be Azor Ahai because Azor Ahai was a man who killed his wife and such a character can't be considered a hero. So Dany couldn't be Azor Ahai because she is a hero and because such a feminist character like Dany can't be associated with Azor Ahai.

I agree that Dany is a hero, and I agree that Azor Ahai killing his wife is not the most feminist story. But I disagree with the idea that this means Dany isn't Azor Ahai, because literally all the foreshadowing points to her, she fulfills every aspect of the prophecy. Just because we as readers might think there's a moral dissonance in Dany being Azor Ahai, doesn't mean that she isn't. Whether we as readers might not like her being Azor Ahai, whether we think it's not feminist for Dany to be Azor Ahai, it doesn't change the fact that GRRM wrote all the clues pointing to her.

Also, while some people may argue that it's not feminist for Dany to be Azor Ahai because the original Azor Ahai killed his wife, other people might argue that Dany being Azor Ahai is a feminist subversion, because everybody expects the prophesied hero to be a man.

[wedoartblog]

Interview with photographer Vassilis Konstantinou

"Eros & Thanatos" August & September 2023, Kaffeemitte

We are very happy to have Vassilis Konstantinou come to Berlin for the opening of his show. Besides the pictures, the artist himself has a lot of interesting things to tell. The understanding and the detailed exploration of the great stories of ancient Greek mythology are encoded in the 14 prints of the exhibition - but become vivid when Vassilis tells us about the ideas and images that lie in the cradle of European art and culture. During a walk through Berlin, we talked about examples in which we may recognize archetypes and universally valid human behaviours, as described by Greek mythology, between Alexanderplatz and Ostkreuz.

2. August 2023 10:00 Kaffeemitte / Weinmeisterstrasse

Gregor Welcome to Kaffeemitte, Vassilis Konstantinou! What is this show all about? Can you describe the concept of Eros and Thanatos?

Vassilis I started delving into this topic after reading Freud’s “Beyond the Pleasure Principle”. It got me thinking that Eros (Love) and Thanatos (Death) aren’t opposites but two sides of the same coin. What really grabbed my attention were those moments when they fused, becoming one. There are plenty of examples that hint at this connection. Take, for instance, the fleeting loss of consciousness during orgasm, which echoes the permanence of death. It’s intriguing that the French even call the orgasm “Petite Mort”. Additionally, the myths of Orpheus and Eurydice and Romeo and Juliet, in which love passes through death. Beyond that, I found myself drawn to the power of Greek myths that weave Eros and Thanatos into their stories. So, I tried to capture these moments by creating a series of symbolic and perhaps enigmatic pictures.

11:00 / Karl-Liebknecht-Strasse

We left Kaffeemitte and walked in the direction of Alexanderplatz. We stopped below the “Pressecafé” and looked from Karl-Liebknecht-Strasse across the intersection, towards the East. It’s the centre of former GDR, the huge mosaic on the walls still shows the aesthetics of those years.

Gregor We passed some hip stores and we saw teenagers waiting in a long queue, trying to buy a pair of limited edition sneakers. Can these people be a link to one of your pictures? In the photo “The Bacchae” there is a head with an iconic leaf garland. The title comes from the eponymous Greek drama. Why are people so dedicated to a pair of shoes that they run after them like a group of Bacchae? 

Vassilis Euripides tells us about the organized cult of Dionysus. And as with all great myths, the drama is about universally valid principles. In the case of the Bacchae it’s about an extreme appearance of trance. The Maenads, that is, the “followers of Dionysus,” run into the mountains at night, go hunting and eat raw meat. The ecstasy that arises when you get hold of a pair of sneakers is properly not so much the spiritual, anarchic energy described in the Myth. But there are parallels nonetheless. People still gather in groups today and these groups have their symbols, their cult objects. According to the description, there was ecstatic trace, even perversion and this led to the implicit rejection of state practice and state values in general. 

Gregor Alternative life - the rejection of state practice for some - and the desire for ecstasy have certainly attracted several people to the city. How does the drama by Euripides end? Is there anything contemporary followers of Dionysus should know?

Vassilis Certainly, individuals often try to go beyond what we call “just being themselves.” Some people use conventional methods like meditation, while others, like the Bacchae, go for something a bit more unconventional. During my time in Berlin, I got the feeling that the city is a haven of freedom. People come here expecting to find a way to break free from their usual selves and they are accepted by being themselves.

12:00 / Karl-Marx-Allee

We walk on towards Strausberger Platz. We pass more examples of GDR design, passing Haus des Lehrers. Opposite, at the Haus der Statistik, we see scaffolding. Vassilis is surprised that decades after the fall of the Wall, construction is still going on in such a prominent place.  We walk by the Kino International and Cafe Moskau. In Karl Marx Allee we move into one of the building entrances because it started to rain. Vassilis notices the columns that decorate many of the houses in the street. They are buildings in the so-called “Zuckerbäcker” style - an example of socialist classicism from the 1950s.

Vassilis These are typical Doric columns, you can see them similarly in Metapont and on many other temples in Greece and Italy. The materials, and the whole feel of this street, are based on the beauty ideal from the ancient Greeks and Romans. One finds this principle in the symbols too, i.e. in the themes depicted on the mosaics - even if implemented in a more modern way. A beautiful harmonious world with workers like Demeter, scholars like Prometheus and of course Apollo, the god of the arts. In quite an organized manner Dionysus, the god of wine and ecstasy has his place. The oversized proportions of this road suggest that something epic was planned. 

15:00 / Warschauer Straße

It has stopped raining and we reach Friedrichshain. We walk past a squatted house and I tell Vassilis about the punk culture that was once at home in the area.

Gregor Around 2005, when I moved here, these houses were grey and many stores were closed. Punks and their dogs, squatted buildings and open-air parties made the atmosphere - a district with an aura of great freedom. The downside was that in winter we had to heat with a coal oven. The streets were poorly lit at night and large bushes grew along the sidewalks. When my aunt from Munich visited me once, she was scrounged for a cigarette by two punks. When my aunt politely said she didn’t have one, the punks shouted at her to fuck off! It felt a bit like a lawless space here.

Vassilis A famous rebel, Princess Antigone struggled with the question to what extent people should follow the law. She defied King Creon by demanding to give her brother Polyneikes a proper burial. Antigone is committed to divine law, while Creon embodies state law. The author Sophocles addresses the friction between morality and law. An inner voice can lead us to violate state order. Sophocles also addressed the fact that man can act not only good but also evil. However, if he does so within the framework of the law, he is still respected. The drama “Antigone” ends in a catastrophe: Antigone hangs herself.

Gregor If Friedrichshain used to be Antigone 20 years ago and now Creon is getting stronger, will it end as a drama?

Vassilis The play is more complex than that. Creon sees that Antigone was right with her rebellion! But unfortunately too late! What we can learn from this for a city is perhaps that neither one nor the other should become too dominant. A police state is not worth living in, but if safety is no longer ensured by the state, for example, your aunt feels threatened, then it is also not right.

We end our walk at the Warschauer Brücke. The general theme of the exhibition - and our conversation - is a concept that can still be inspiring to us today: harmony between the different pairs of opposites. Rebellion and conformity, chaos and order, emotional and rational. Eros & Thanatos.

Contact

[theduchessofnaxos]

Extremely minor spoilers for The Sun and the Star

Nico and Will are entering the underworld via the Door of Orpheus and I am NOT HAPPY.

On the one hand, it is completely logical. It’s not even a new element - “The Door of Orpheus is in Central Park” has been known since The Last Olympian, it’s been used before, under ANY OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass that they’re using it. It’s just a site from Greek myth like literally everything else.

On the other hand, they’re a couple and they're on a quest to get someone out of Tartarus, with a prophecy saying “something of equal value must be left behind.” And they’re going through THE DOOR OF ORPHEUS. As in Orpheus and Eurydice. As in “you may leave the Underworld and take her with you, as long as you do not look back.” As in “he will always look back.”

Now, I think this is a red herring in terms of foreshadowing. I trust Riordan not to pull a “bury your gays” - he’s talked a lot about how he wants all types of kids to be able to see themselves as heroes and happy, so he is definitely not going to kill off one half of his first canon gay couple. But I am stressed nonetheless.

[uni-seahorse-572]

Bianuca Day 9: free day!!

This one's a fun one! Warnings for character death and violence I think, though it's far from clear cut in this one. I tried out a new style with giving unique voices to the narration - I'd really appreciate it if you could tell me your thoughts on whether I pulled it off and whether it adds anything! @gay-otlc @rainbow-frog-earrings

~

You know the story, I am sure.

Orpheus—the greatest singer—falls in love with Eurydice, but they have little time to spend in matrimonial bliss before the serpent strikes and she falls still.

He chases after her. He always does. He has no fear even as he faces the underworld, as he demands his love back from Hades. In the end, his win is temporary, because who can best death? He’s given a task, and calls it easy. What a fool he is. What a fool we’d all be.

Orpheus looks back. Of course he does.

That’s how it ends. That’s how it must end.

That’s not true.

It’s always been true.

You’re telling it all wrong.

Well then, why don’t you tell it?

Gladly.

First of all, their names were never Orpheus and Eurydice, not if you tell it right. It’s Maruca and Biana—the two lovers whose constellations rest in the night sky.

Maruca can sing sweet as a bird, like you say, but she never does in front of others. It’s hers, and no one else’s. Until it’s Biana’s too, one day, before she’s lost. Maybe forever.

And in her grief, Maruca makes the trek down below. She sings to Hades—her voice so pure with the world above—and he weeps, lets her go leading her lover hand in hand. Biana’s flesh is dead, cold and clammy, but Maruca holds on tight nonetheless.

They step into the daylight. Maruca’s throat aches—it will never feel right again—but they are here again and they are happy. So happy.

Stop making all your endings that perfect. Real life doesn’t work that way.

But I prefer them. They’re comforting, aren’t they?

The truth is worth discomfort.

They get back, yes, and they are happy for a time. But Biana has not lost the underworld’s touch, and at night she slips out to sit by the paths that lead down and down. She forgets to breathe so often. She cannot even make her own heart beat in her chest, and sometimes she’ll go still and silent as a corpse for hours or days, unaware of her surroundings and of her wife.

Maruca tries to love her through it. She cannot.

She can. Of course she can. She endured Tarturus for Biana, didn’t she?

You know as well as I that death changes a person. Besides, you didn’t even let me finish.

Let you finish making something up?

Fine. I’ll tell it again. I’ll tell it right.

Biana and Maruca are close since childhood, and then both of them fall in love without ever speaking it aloud. It’s so dangerous, what they feel. How could they dare to voice it?

It’s too late, finally, when Biana is lost to war. But Maruca isn’t willing to accept that she never got to tell her the truth, and so she makes the journey as she always does.

She stands before Hades, the great and terrible. She cannot sing. She has no gift for music, not even Persephone’s kinder presence at Hades’s side to help sway him.

Instead, she speaks, pours out what she feels. She speaks of unrequited love and fear of changing things, of the pain of never having a chance. She speaks of what she’d have done for Biana, how much it hurt to pine for her in secret, watching her shine and convinced that they could never be together. All she wants, she says, is a second chance for them.

But cold-hearted Hades is unmoved. He refuses her any mercy.

So Maruca stays in the underworld by choice. She won’t leave Biana’s side, no matter what, until she withers to a ghost as well and they haunt the depths of—

That’s not how it goes.

Let me guess, Hades listens? He looks upon Maruca favorably? You can’t seriously believe he’d be so kind.

Of course he is. He sympathizes, after his time spent loving Persephone from below, convinced a goddess of spring could never return his feelings. Hades wants to give these lovers the same chance they had, as Maruca’s story strikes a chord in him.

He sends them up to the surface without caveat. They emerge into the sunlight. And, there, they finally confess.

You really can’t stop twisting it, can you?

I could say the same to you.

Sometimes I wonder if we’re even talking about the same story.

Alright. How about a compromise?

I can’t say there’s anything we agree on, but I suppose I’m willing to try if you are. What’s the compromise?

Who says we have to present the story with an ending? So many of the best things are left undone.

That might just work out. Do you want to wrap it up, or should I?

Oh, go ahead. You know you want to.

I suppose I do. You can’t complain this time, by the way.

You don’t know this story, I’m sure. You’ve heard it but you don’t know it—do any of us, in the end?

We can do stories justice in our tellings, in the way we weave them into being with words, but they can never belong to us fully. I will renounce the truth this once. It is our own truth that matters here through its reflection in a story told every way but ours.

From the time they’re young onwards, Maruca and Biana are inseparable. They click like two souls sliding into place. They haunt the halls of Everglen and consecrate Maruca’s home with their ringing laughter.

Maruca has no true gift for singing, though she can well enough. The true glory of her voice is its cadence—rumbling and low, a steady comfort in the darkest of times. It’s sweet as the pattering rain yet deep as the beating thunder yet warm as the orange-glowing fireplace inside. It’s the siren’s lure that carries Biana through. She could listen to Maruca speak forever.

Together, they make plans for Foxfire, for their future. It doesn’t scare them, not yet. Right now, its’ theirs, after all. They were born into these luxuries. They have been cradled in the lap of privilege for as long as they’ve been alive, parents and prominence carefully shielding the real world from leaking into their gilded cages. Whatever comes next, they cup the whole of the world in their palms.

It doesn’t last. It never does. Reality comes crashing through in the form of rebellion, Moonlarks.

They don’t last. They’re not made to.

Girls born into soft silks and given only safety scissors shatter so easily. It never takes much strain. Maruca and Biana love each other, but they love so selfishly—each hoarding the other close to themself, used to having everything of each other and sent whirling when that’s gone, gone, gone. The dream is over.

Maruca leaves Biana behind. She looks back, once or twice or a million times, and is never sure what she regrets. Biana’s happy now. It’s not her fault Maruca isn’t.

War descends upon the cities they call home, the school they imagined into a haven in their heads, and they grow up. There isn’t any other choice. They tears loose pieces of their softness and sharpen their own edges until they’re bleeding, raw. They live. They learn.

And then they love.

It’s a funny thing, how they never could before, when they were so deeply bound. They don’t voice it this time. It’s no longer a love built around receiving. But nevertheless they dream and dream of each other, aching for that old familiarity without ever choosing to take that next plunge.

After all, they’re happy now, aren’t they?

They are fools. When aren’t they?

Biana falls. She descends into mirrors and shadows, into the sharp cheekbones of a madwoman. Glass shards slice up her skin until she is remade entirely—a cruel combination of flesh and bone. She lies with her own blood her blanket.

She closes her eyes.

She doesn’t know herself anymore. She’s scattered with scars. And every night when she dares to dream it’s only to wake up screaming.

Biana’s fallen. She’s gone past any’s ability to reach.

In the night, if she’s wise, Maruca might approach her bedside. She might take Biana’s uninjured hand gently in her own, and she might speak. She might tell all the truths she knows until her throat is raw and her voice failing.

Oh, if she is wise. If she is brave.

She may yet lead Biana home.

[authoralexharvey]

Awww @ceph-the-ghost-writer you're gonna make me cryyyyy

As for my contributions to this event, here's a few people to keep readers sated. It's not a complete list--it is too hot where I am and I am too tired to think straight--but here's some of my highest recommendations:

Lina/@linaket is a writing buddy of mine and I love their work. They are the author of Shadow's Prey on Tapas and have since branched out to other projects in the same universe. Also one of the few people who can make me simp over men.

Fer/Lowry/@asablehart is a prolific short story writer and vet student with several publications under their belt. From sisters with fucked up dynamics to lesbians in a cult to wasp creatures from another world, they've got plenty of works for you to sink your teeth into. They also make some killer art

Cammie/@aninkwellofnectar is the author of recent debut When the Stars Alight. Her prose is dreamy and delectable and she writes worlds that are so easy to get lost in.

June/@alistonjdrake is one of my favorite authors, full stop, on top of being a good friend. He's an avid worldbuilder and I hope to have a shred of his ability to craft such breathable worlds. I love his Of Rust and Gold series, I love chatting worldbuilding with him, and he's the only person I trust to talk about historical fashion with.

Kat/@zonnemaagd/@kazenokaori has single-handedly rekindled my love of the sky. She also writes bitchin' haikus. Overall, her presence is a balm to the writeblr community. I love interacting with her, I love hearing what she's working on, and her poetry brings me unbridled joy.

Pax/@magic-is-something-we-create is a good friend of mine and a lovely writer and artist. He was one of the first people to help kindle excitement in some of my more major projects and he's a joy to be around. He also hosts writing streams most Saturdays for his Patreon members, and while I can't always take part, I've enjoyed the streams I've been able to attend.

Florrie/Floriane/@broodparasitism writes fantastic projects that are a little closer to home. From a story about bat colonies to twisted family dynamics to absinthe-drinking lesbians, she's got plenty of projects I've enjoyed perusing in the time I've known her.

Krys/@flowerprose has some of the most beautiful ideas I've ever seen. From her Hades & Persephone retelling to her latest project featuring ice mages and re-thawed prisoners, all of her works are wrote with some of the most beautiful and thought-provoking prose I've ever read.

Andi/@andromedaexists writes some of the neatest meshings of mythology and modern/futuristic society that I've seen yet. His claim to fame is Call Me Icarus, but I'm also fond of his shorter works, including a retelling of Orpheus and Eurydice.

Speaking of retellings, Victoria/Ria/@vcaudley has plenty of mythological works under her belt, and is one of the only writers I trust to handle such mythology. I highly respect her and her work.

Again, not a complete list, but enough of one nonetheless.

Community event! Let’s recommend some writeblrs! Reblog this post and rec your favorite writeblrs. But here’s what makes it fun… Tell people why you recommend them! Do they have a specific character that you adore? Is their prose top notch? Is it their killer personality? Share, share, share!

[emilyofmindelan]

all right Hadestown people i’m gonna go off about what i think is happening in the road to hell reprise for a hot second and if anyone wants to weigh in with your interpretation so that i can resolve an argument with my friend, please feel free:

in the end, when everyone returns to the bar and hermes sings the reprise of road to hell and eurydice asks for a match and we reset to the beginning again, what’s your interpretation of what’s happening? because my friend sees it as sort of meta where the actors are indicating that they know they’re acting now and they’re breaking the 4th wall and telling us, the audience, about how they’re singing this for us night after night etc. she found the song kind of trite and meaningless, because her view was “obviously the actors don’t actually think that the story is going to change night after night so its just sort of a weird meta thing”

HOWEVER. remember when eurydice starts singing her original lines but has the flower in her coat pocket? where she pulls it out and looks at it as though wondering how it got there, and why would she care about something frivolous like a flower anyway? so she throws it away. i’d argue that this means that at the very least, orpheus and eurydice never escape the story. maybe everyone else who’s singing the road to hell reprise exists both as a character and as themself, the actor, and maybe not. i’d argue that they’re still characters in this final scene, rather than actors thinking about the roles they were playing and the story they were telling. i think that the characters themselves are looking at what just happened and reflecting on how its sad and unfair, so they say “we’re going to tell this story again. we’re going to tell it, and in doing so, send ourselves back to the start. many of them are gods, they can do this sort of thing. so they instigate a time loop, basically, trying to have the story go right this time. those characters really want the tragedy of orpheus and eurydice to go right, for once. hermes and persephone, certainly, are mourning on orpheus’ behalf. 

so maybe it’s just the two of them who remember, or maybe it’s only hermes. patron of mortals, god of speed, god of stories and tricks and little deceptions. maybe the best he can do for o&e is turn them into a story so that at least they get to love each other even if they lose every time. so they go back to the beginning, or just hermes does, and they try to tell it different but they can’t, because the story is fixed and cannot be changed, but they as characters hope it will turn out differently if they just do it over again. MY POINT IS, i think it’s a different kind of tragedy than it just being “orpheus and eurydice are separated and never see each other again”. i think that orpheus and eurydice are doomed to repeat the story over and over again, falling in love and breaking apart and realizing they love each other and losing anyways. and there’s a part of them that doesn’t forget, that wonders what they’ve forgotten and why they feel like something is missing. this is why they fall in love so fast- they are already in love, it’s just that they can’t remember. and this is why eurydice looks so sad when she throws out the flower. deep inside, she knows it’s the most important thing in the world. but that doesn’t make sense, because she doesn’t actually remember that. so she shakes it off and throws away the flower. 

anyway, i think that’s what’s really being mourned in the reprise. it’s not the separation of o&e, it’s their lost memories. it’s the fact that they can try over and over again and they’ll never get to stay with each other. and it’s the fact that nonetheless, they love each other just as much each time. 

i don’t know. maybe that isn’t that sad to anyone else. maybe i’m just making up silly things in my head that aren’t supported textually, or maybe i’m not making any sense at all. but when hermes said “cause here’s the thing. to know how it ends and still to begin to sing it again? as if it might turn out this time. i learned that from a friend of mine” if anyone else felt like they got hit with a truck then please let me know because the hopeful futility of it breaks my heart anyway thanks for listening to my ted talk everyone

[sxnyarostova]

sun

an au where orpheus (based on either nytw orph or london orph) is super jaded from all the loops; he's the only one who can remember, and he's just come to in the current iteration of the story. he notices that eurydice is a little different from the girl he remembers.

This Eurydice, he notices, is different.

She watches everything with eyes wider than the plates that Hermes puts fruit on, irises sparkling brighter than any waxed apple ever will. There’s a bright, hopeful light inside of her that even the Fates have failed to snuff; something so inexplicably pure that can barely be contained within her small frame.

Eurydice’s sceptical at first, as she usually is, but she falls much quicker for him than all of the ones that had come before her. He tries to lessen his advances, to back up slightly and let this innocent girl leave heartbroken, but leave nonetheless. To his dismay, however, she sticks around like a stray puppy, tail wagging rapidly as she waits for Orpheus to appear behind the counter at the bar every day.

He can’t drag her to hell. Actually, he should’ve tried a long time ago, when he still felt that he could make it out of Hadestown, head angled towards the sun like the bright yellow flowers that grow behind Persephone’s farmhouse.

So he tries to get them all out of this never-ending story, this cycle that forces them to live through this repetitive torture. He wants peace for all of them, for Eurydice to be able to live without having to die once. Orpheus wants peace for himself.

When Persephone leaves, Orpheus doesn’t lock himself away. Instead, he goes out with her, looking high and low for firewood and sustenance so that they’ll make it through the winter. And though the world is still fundamentally broken, Orpheus tries to carve out a different ending for the two of them.

He’s making it up to her. To all of the Eurydices that he’s had the pleasure of knowing through his many, many lives. And who knows; maybe they will make it out this time. All Orpheus understands is that he’s never letting her wander into the cold and dark again.

[yourpaceangel]

divine by loving

[Read on AO3]

It begins, on some sunny morning just weeks after the world was supposed to end, with a vase of flowers and a note. The lilacs are stunning, surrounded by baby’s breath and something green Aziraphale doesn’t remember the name of but looks lovely nonetheless. They’re the one bright spot amongst the dust motes and lazy spill of sunlight through half slotted blinds. A folded piece of paper, sealed with wax, sits beneath the vase and Aziraphale opens it as carefully as he can. Inside Crowley’s sprawling, carefully messy handwriting takes up only a small portion of the thick paper. 

“My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you--“

He’s smudged the ink over the word ‘love’ like he couldn’t resist running a thumb over the word before the ink had dried. Aziraphale’s finger brushes over it and his lips pull into a smile. He puts the note down and has the phone cradled in his hand before he’s thought about what he’s doing.

Crowley, remarkably, picks up on the second ring.

“Hello dear,” Aziraphale says, looking at the lilacs, “I was wondering if you might want to get some lunch?”

*

Summer nudges its way into fall the way it has a tendency to do. The mornings grow crisp, sun coming into the sky later and leaving it earlier. The trees in St. James’ Park turn a multitude of spectacular colors. Vibrant purples, striking orange, muted gold. Aziraphale likes taking their walks in the early evening, before the sun has had time to set, after the heat of the day has already been bundled off and sent to bed. They walk, hand clasped in hand, down set paths with no real intention of going anywhere.

It’s nice. To finally be allowed this, to finally have the time.

“Robin,” Aziraphale says, pointing up at the sweet little redbreast hiding amongst the leaves. He’s always liked bird watching, and Crowley does too, though he sometimes complains that it leaves him feeling a little hungry afterward.

“Goldfinch,” Crowley echoes, gesturing with his head toward a bush.

They wind around the duck pond, stopping momentarily so Aziraphale can toss a handful of birdseed in their direction before starting off again. Overhead the sky turns a brilliant orange, clouds a cotton candy sugar pink spun thin and high above the trees. A bird arcs overhead, striking dark against the light. 

“Blackbird.” Aziraphale says and Crowley looks up.

“Wonder if there are enough to make a pie.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

Crowley’s thumb dances over the back of Aziraphale’s hand, rubbing absently at the skin there. “Dove,” Crowley says after a long silence.

“Yes, my dear?”

Crowley’s thumb stops rubbing and he pauses, thrown for a moment, before bursting into laughter. He points up into a tree at two doves, pressed close together. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, feeling his cheeks heat.

Crowley tugs him toward a bench, under the nearby tree. “Would you like that?” He asks, “Names like that?”

“Crowley, don’t make fun--”

“I’m not!” He sits down, taking up half of the bench by himself. “I’m not, angel, I swear.” He takes both of Aziraphale’s hands with his own. “I just...I didn’t know you’d go for that, really.”

“I wouldn’t normally,” Aziraphale says, shuffling his feet, still standing, “it’s different when it’s you.”

Crowley’s lips form a little ‘o’, his eyebrows scrunching together like he’s thinking. “Angel,” He says, and this time it sounds deliberate. “Dove.” He kisses the back of one hand-- “Sunshine.” --and then the other. “My everything.” He tugs, so Aziraphale will bend down to kiss him and Aziraphale does, their noses bumping together briefly. He tugs again and Aziraphale falls willingly, resting his weight on Crowley’s lap, hands entwined. Crowley’s mouth tastes faintly like a burnt match might, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind it in the slightest. He opens his lips to let Crowley’s tongue touch his, a spark of heat at his core. “My one,” Crowley says against his mouth, breathless, “my only, my l--” He makes a sound like it hurts, like he’s bitten the inside of his mouth.

“Darling,” Aziraphale says, “dearest, starshine, my heart, my love.”

“Oh,” Crowley says and squeezes his hands, “Yes. Yes.”

They’re pressed so close now, cheek to cheek and chest to chest. It takes an age to separate themselves from one another. Long after the moon makes its way warm and full over the treeline, long after the stars began to show themselves, hazy balls of light so very far away.

*

Crowley makes himself comfy in Aziraphale’s reading chair, long limbs sprawled in odd directions in a way that shouldn’t be comfortable and certainly doesn’t look to be. He holds a glass of wine delicately in one hand, cradling the bottom of it like one would a newborn child. He looks good, pleasantly buzzed already, the tips of his ears a charming pink and his cheeks flushed. “I’m just saying,” Crowley says, gesturing with his other hand, his foot bouncing in the air, “I’m just-- what was I saying?”

Aziraphale laughs. He’s pleasantly drunk himself, his cheeks and the tip of his nose hot. “Roses?”

Crowley snaps his fingers and points at him. “Roses!” He declares, “Rotten for romance. Smell atrocious, all covered in thorns. Now the orchid, that’s-- that’s a fine flower.”

“Mm.”

“No bloody thorns on--” he takes a sip of his wine, nearly spilling it over his chin in his haste to continue talking, “No thorns on a good orchid. That’s all I’m saying.” 

Aziraphale is tickled just watching him. The over exaggerated swing of his leg, the slump of his shoulders, the gentle flush of his face. Crowley puts down his wine glass, like he’s made a statement, crossing his arms over his lithe chest. Aziraphale doesn’t try to fight the smile that blooms across his mouth. “So you wouldn’t get me any?”

“Any what?”

“Roses,” Aziraphale says, teasing, “You wouldn’t get me any roses? Even if I asked?” 

Crowley’s wild foot smashes into the end table and nearly sends his glasses and wine glass flying in his haste to sit up straight. “If you asked?” His eyes go wide, luminous. “Angel, I would get you the moon if you asked. Don’t you know?”

“Hm?”

Crowley opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He furrows his brows, looking bewildered. He opens his mouth again and then shuts it. “Come here,” He growls, reaching out a hand. 

Aziraphale sets down his wine and goes.

The next morning there are orchids on his vanity, pale blue, like they’ve always been there.

*

Crowley opens the door of the Bentley for him. He looks dashing in a smart black suit, deep blood red shirt and black tie. His boots are so red they almost look black and Aziraphale wonders for a moment if they just look like snake skin or if Crowley has just taken to forming his feet to look like shoes. “Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale says, kissing Crowley’s cheek as he gets into the car. He smooths a hand over his own grey suit, fiddling with the snake eye cufflinks as Crowley slides on the other side.

The Bentley roars to life, music spilling from its speakers almost immediately. Something soft and so sweet it makes Aziraphale rest his hand on Crowley’s knee and squeeze. “But touch my tears with your lips, touch my world with your fingertips, and we can have forever, and we can love forever.” Crowley peels out, cutting off two cars and scaring a flock of pigeons into flight, but his hand when he rests it atop Aziraphale’s is gentle.

“You have the tickets, of course?” Aziraphale asks, closing his eyes when Crowley drives over a curb to skip a roundabout and several cars blare their horns in fear and confusion.

“Course I do,” Crowley says happily, swinging wildly around a curve.

Aziraphale inhales sharply, digging his nails into Crowley’s knee, hearing Crowley’s answering laugh. “You could at least pretend to care about traffic laws.”

“What would I want to do that for?”

“Crowley--” 

The Bentley slows considerably and Aziraphale feels Crowley pat the top of his hand. “You can open your eyes.” He sounds too amused for his own good. 

Aziraphale peels one eye open and then the other, breathing out a relieved sigh. “Really, my love, it’s like you enjoy nearly giving me a heart attack every time we go somewhere.” 

“Now you’re getting it,” Crowley says brightly. He pulls up outside the Royal Opera House. Cars aren’t meant to be parked here, but Aziraphale knows when they leave later there won’t be a parking ticket in sight. Crowley gives his hand a little squeeze and gets out first to open the door for him, offering his hand.

Aziraphale finds himself a little short of breath, if he’s honest. The light flashes off of Crowley’s feather cufflinks and Aziraphale smiles, taking his hand, letting himself be pulled up. Crowley guides him inside with a steady hand at the small of his back. He takes their tickets from his suit jacket, and Aziraphale barely makes out Orph…& Eur… from under Crowley’s thumb.

“Orpheus & Eurydice?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley hums the affirmative. “Something new,” He explains and then frowns, “Unless you’d prefer--?”

“No, no. New is-- new can be good.”

“It’s not too late,” Crowley stops, letting people walk around them, “There’s a showing of Carmen tonight as well, and there’s always Tosca.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale reaches up to cup his face, fingers tracing briefly over the edge of his glasses, “It will be lovely, I’m sure.”

Crowley leans into him, blowing out a breath. “Just want to treat you right, angel.”

“You spoil me darling,” Aziraphale assures, pressing a delicate kiss to the corner of his mouth, his heart swelling in his chest, “You really do.”

“Deserve to be spoiled,” Crowley mumbles, clearing his throat and straightening back up, “Well, shall we?”

Aziraphale links their arms together, patting Crowley’s bicep. “After you.”

*

It’s a bad day. Winter has creeped its way into the bones of the bookshop and the little flat upstairs, shiny blades of ice clinging to the streets and windows. The cold makes Aziraphale’s leg ache, an ancient wound that shouldn’t bother him in his corporeal form but does nonetheless when the wind outside turns biting and brittle and brutal in it’s coldness. He lights the fireplace and leaves the space heater on but nothing seems to be able to chase the chill from the rooms. 

Crowley is insufferable like this. He whines, he snaps, he sneers. He’s a snake through and through and nothing Aziraphale does is good enough.

“Let’s go away,” Crowley mutters, stomping around the bedroom in his silk pajamas and bundled in a thick wool blanket. “Let’s just go away.”

“Where?” Aziraphale snaps. He’s cold enough, sore enough, irritated enough that he can’t stop himself. “Alpha Centauri?” The way he says it does not come out nice.

Crowley freezes, shooting him a withering look. It’s enough of a sore spot that he goes back to bed, pulling the blankets back over himself. 

“Really now,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley is blessedly, dreadfully silent.

“You’re being childish, Crowley.”

The blanket lump does not move.

“I’m going down to the shop,” Aziraphale sniffs. He does not slam the door shut behind himself, but only just barely. 

The shop is colder than the flat and if anything it worsens his mood. He makes himself tea from the electric kettle in the back room and then promptly forgets about it, finding stacks of books to straighten and reshelve. He opens the blinds in the shop and then closes them again upon seeing the dismal, dreary gray streaked streets outside. He flops into his reading chair and massages his leg.

Upstairs he can hear the bump and thump of Crowley moving around, and then the shuffle of his feet on the stairs as he comes down into the shop. He’s still bundled in that blanket, cranky eyed and frowning, but he makes his way over to Aziraphale and settles himself into his lap.

Aziraphale starts at the feeling of ice cold fingers dipping under his jumper and he grabs them, bringing the hands up to his face. He breathes warm air over cool skin, rubs life into the fingers with his palms. Crowley sags against him, the fight draining out of the both of them at once. Crowley wiggles his hands free so he can knead Aziraphale’s leg, gently working the muscles around the sore spot. Aziraphale sighs against his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, hands digging into the blanket around Crowley’s shoulders to wrap around them both. “I’m having a bad day.”

“Me too.” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale cradles Crowley’s face in his hands, brushing his nose over his temple before kissing his forehead.

Crowley’s hands dig a little harder into his leg. “Angel, I--” He takes a shaking breath and then shakes his head a little, “Nothing.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, running a thumb over Crowley’s cheekbone. 

“Yeah,” Crowley says, his eyes a little wet, “that.”

*

“ I couldn’t utter my love when it counted. Ah, but I’m singing like a bird ‘bout it now. And I couldn’t whisper when you needed it shouted. Ah, but I’m singing like a bird ‘bout it now.”

Aziraphale follows the music to his kitchen. Crowley humming along in the early morning light filtering in through gossamer white curtains, his hands steady and sure as he chops vegetables and moves them into the pan. He’s bare except for a pair of boxers slung low on his hips. Aziraphale almost wants to lecture him on the dangers of cooking without proper clothes but instead has to  lean against the doorframe to steady himself. There’s a gathering of scales at the small of Crowley’s back that glimmer like an oil slick in the soft sunlight, another little patch trailing up his neck and behind his ear. Aziraphale knows if he got a good look at the soles of Crowley’s feet he would have a delightful little patch of scales there as well. He’s enamored with the edges where pale skin meets smooth dark scale and has to hold onto his own hands to stop himself from touching.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley starts, turning around. “I didn’t know you were up,” He says, cheeks pink, scratching at the back of his head. “I was going to bring you breakfast.”

“I heard music,” Aziraphale smiles, “I heard you singing.”

“Ah,” Crowley’s cheeks darken and he clears his throat, turning back around to add eggs to the pan. “That.”

Aziraphale can’t stand not touching him. He presses his chest to Crowley’s back and hugs his waist, tucking his chin over his shoulder. “Yes,” he agrees, kissing Crowley’s shoulder, “that.”

Crowley is quiet for a time. The kind of peaceful, relaxed quiet that means he’s just enjoying being in the moment. Aziraphale kisses those glittering scales behind his ears and smiles when Crowley shivers. “Pest,” Crowley hisses with no real bite. He smacks Aziraphale’s hand with his spatula. “If you’re going to be in here you might as well be useful. Set the table?”

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale squeezes his waist, places a kiss to his bare shoulder, and goes.

*

The moonlight dripping in from the frost covered windows is gossamer soft, kissing sweetly over pale skin and dark scales, whispering across dark hair and eyelashes. Aziraphale watches him from across the room, propped against the doorframe as he is, reading glasses slipping down his nose and book in hand. Crowley sleeps rather a lot in the winter, and Aziraphale likes to watch him sleep. 

There’s something vulnerable about Crowley in sleep. Awake he’s all coiled muscle and perpetual movement. Drumming fingers, thumping foot, taps of pens against the table. 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3. He is confident and cocky, headstrong, headsure, steadfast. He’s a barely concealed grin, a bubble of laughter, the wink of an eye. Asleep he is none of those things. Crowley asleep is something heartbreaking, heartbroken; fragile like the hollow bones of his wings. And trusting. Aziraphale knows he’s the only being alive that’s ever seen Crowley like this, fidgety hands finally still against the pillowcase, face unlined and unworried. 

Aziraphale crosses the room and sits by him, smoothes the fringe back from his forehead with a gentle touch. Crowley rouses beneath him, just a little. “‘Ziraphale?” He mumbles, barely opens his eyes before he’s closing them again. Trusting and so very sweet.

“Yes, starshine,” Aziraphale says, “Just me. You can stay there.”

Crowley curves toward him like he’s magnetized, the way he has done every night since their first together. He feels a barely there kiss to his hip, Crowley’s face pressed against his leg and arm sliding up over his lap. “Like it here.” He mumbles, “Warm.”

Aziraphale hums and scratches at his scalp, drawing a hoarse groan from his love’s throat. Smiling, forgetting his book temporarily, he slips down until their nose to nose, sharing breath. Crowley cracks an eye at him. Smothers his own fond smile by pressing his mouth against Aziraphale’s.

Privately, Aziraphale thinks Crowley’s sleep soaked kisses are the sweetest ones. Not that he’d ever tell him that. 

“Darling?” Aziraphale asks, breaking away. 

Crowley hums in question, nosing along his jaw, his neck, finding where his pulse beats a wild rabbit pace against his skin and applies his lips and tongue. 

Aziraphale shudders and tightens his hand in Crowley’s hair. “Focus, please.”

Crowley makes a rather fetching noise at that but obeys, picking his head back up to look at Aziraphale. He’s lovely like this too. Cheeks pink, eyes hazy with sleep and a little something more, lips red from kissing and sucking and biting. 

“I brought a book with me,” Aziraphale says, “thought you might like to read it?”

“To you?” Crowley asks, sleepy soft and kiss dazed. “Give it here.”

Aziraphale passes him the book and they curl together, Crowley’s head on Aziraphale’s chest. 

Voice soft, honey soaked with warmth and grand affection, Crowley began to read. “The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden...”

*

Spring comes in a bloom of flowers and sun scented air. There’s a carpet of wildflowers rolling past as Crowley drives them further into the countryside. They have no real destination planned, just the two of them and all the time in the world. The radio plays soft and sweet in the background. “You’ve captured my love, stolen my heart…” Aziraphale turns his head to watch Crowley. His face is relaxed, lax, a gentle smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

Crowley looks good like this, soft in the mid-morning light streaming in through the window as they pass fields of rolling green. Crowley brings their combined hands up and kisses the back of Aziraphale’s, his lips soft and warm against the back of his hand. 

Aziraphale scoots as close as his safety belt will allow. 

“We should stop to see Anathema and Newton,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley hums in acknowledgement, kissing Aziraphale’s hand once more before setting it back down. They’d already been heading in the direction of  Lower Tadsfield. Crowley points the Bentley in the direction of Anathema’s cottage.

“It might be nice to bring them something, as well,” Aziraphale says, “that’s the thing to do, isn’t it? Bring someone a gift when you visit.”

“There’s a bottle of wine in the backseat.” 

“Oh! Yes, that will be lovely.”

Crowley nods, his thumb rubbing circles against Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale leans over to kiss his shoulder, lips against dark linen. “Then maybe we can go see the children. Wouldn’t that be nice, Crowley?” 

“Whatever you want, angel,” Crowley says, a little strained, a little breathless, “We can do whatever you want.” 

*

Sunlight filters through the new leaves of young spring trees, breaking across the red tartan blanket that Crowley had rolled his eyes at but packed fondly along with the tan wicker basket. Aziraphale isn’t ashamed to admit he took his time planning this picnic. Deviled eggs, finger sandwiches, a lovely little charcuterie board from the darling Italian deli in Soho, fresh bread from Flor, jam from the market in Tadfield, scotch eggs and wine and tea in a thermos that matched the blanket. And lastly a beautiful angel food cake that Crowley had made a cheery noise at and tried to keep for himself. 

Crowley is spread out flat in the grass just a little bit away, soaking up the sun like, well, something cold blooded basking upon a rock. Music drifts between the two of them from Crowley’s phone, something smooth and slow and earthy. It’s all a bit romantic really. Aziraphale pops the last deviled egg in his mouth and hums, sucking the remains off his thumb. 

“Crowley?”

Crowley turns toward him, smiles. 

Two days ago Crowley had left a bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in butcher paper on the counter of his bookshop and a scribbled note about how beautiful the weather was to be over the weekend and they really ought to travel to the country more. Crowley frankly had all the subtlety of a fox in a hen house. 

“Need something, angel?” Crowley asks. 

An errant ant makes away with a crumb left over from the cake, empty plate glinting in the late afternoon sun. The wind curls along the grass and through Crowley’s hair like fingers. Aziraphale almost loathes to ask it, Crowley looks so comfortable; but he is weak and a little selfish. 

“Come here?” 

Crowley’s smile shifts into something soft, softer. “‘Course.” He falls into Aziraphale’s waiting arms and tugs him in close until Aziraphale is half laying on him on top of the picnic blanket. “Close enough?”

No, Aziraphale thinks, lips pressed to Crowley’s throat, never. If they shared a body maybe, maybe, but maybe not even then. “Yes,” Aziraphale says instead, “thank you, dear.”

“Don’t have to thank me,” Crowley mumbles, face buried in Aziraphale’s hair, “not for this.”

The wind ripples past, tickling the edge of his trousers, the edge of his coat catching and flapping. The grassy hill smells sweet but Crowley’s skin is sweeter pressed as it is under Aziraphale’s nose. He tangles his hand in Crowley’s waistcoat, just holding. 

Crowley hums, boneless and lax beneath him, hands skimming and skipping over clothed skin and nothing at all. Wandering, wondering. Aziraphale catches a hand as it flies past and brings it to his mouth, pressing fleeting kisses to lily white knuckles and a calloused palm. 

Music drifts over them sweetly, soft and cosy as a blanket. Aziraphale can’t remember the artists name but he likes it, ethereal and earthy and heady. Crowley makes a soft noise and nudges at him. 

“Dance with me, I like this song.” 

Hardly a request Aziraphale could ever turn down. Aziraphale pulls them both up to standing, Crowley keeping their hands tangled as they sway together. 

“Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale breathes. 

Crowley shivers against him. “Yeah,” he mumbles, and tilts his head down for a kiss. 

*

There’s a note stuck to the mirror of his vanity, as there has been every morning since Crowley started staying the night. 

Manila yellow with a painstakingly inaccurate little rose on the bottom it reads “But here we are and something about it doesn’t feel like an accident. /  We’re all looking for something to adore / and how to survive the bending and breaking.” 

Aziraphale takes it down with dove-light fingers, mouth a wobbly thing as he cradles the note in his hands. 

In the top drawer of his vanity sits a box, an engraved silver case older than even his bookshop. Aziraphale opens it and places the note inside, atop the other notes, the many dried flowers, his ring from the sixteenth century, the pearls from the necklace he’d worn to Queen Elizabeth I’s coronation. A box much bigger on the inside than it seemed from the outside. 

He runs his finger over a molted black feather before shutting the case and locking the drawer, his heart too big for his chest. 

*

Aziraphale wakes up in his reading chair to Crowley tugging gently at his ear. “You’re getting old,” Crowley teases, grinning. 

“‘M not.” Aziraphale grumbles, batting Crowley’s hand away. 

“You are.” Crowley’s hand brushes his cheek, the curve of his jaw. “Sleeping in your reading chair like an old man.”

“Quiet, you.” Aziraphale says. He grabs Crowley’s dancing hands out of the air and tugs until he has the demon fully seated in his lap. Aziraphale noses at Crowley’s exposed neck, pressing a line of sharp kisses along the skin from jaw to collar bone. Crowley really does have lovely collar bones. 

Crowley squirms. “No, angel, come on I have a surprise.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale bites down on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Ah- angel.” Crowley protests, trying and failing to sound cross. 

“Oh alright,” Aziraphale says, soothing the bite with a kiss, “show me your surprise then.”

Crowley clambers out of Aziraphale’s lap and tugs until they’re both standing. He leads him upstairs, hands tangled, nudging open the door to Aziraphale’s flat with his foot. In the middle of the room is a claw foot tub, steam curling up in ribbons from the water. A low table nearby has a glass and bottle of wine and a box of chocolates. Sinatra is playing from the record table in the corner, “Fill my heart with song and let me sing forever more. You are all I long for all I worship and adore. In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, his eyes wide. 

“Surprise,” Crowley teases, squeezing his hand. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again, “This is- you-“ 

There are times when Crowley smiles that Aziraphale thinks ‘I could not love you any more than I do now or I would overflow with it.’ This is one of those times. Crowley, smiling, soft and fond and teasing. The kind of smile you give someone you’ve loved your whole life. The kind of smile that comes from knowing and being known. 

Aziraphale blinks, a little misty eyed, and draws Crowley against him for a kiss. Tastes all the love curled up there at the corners of Crowley’s mouth greedily, his hands caressing and touching where he can. He doesn’t pull away until Crowley is sufficiently weak kneed and pink cheeked, and even then he only draws back enough to knock their foreheads together. 

“Marry me,” Aziraphale breathes. 

Crowley breathes in sharply, eyes impossibly wide, and Aziraphale fears for a moment he might have made a mistake. Then Crowley clings to him,  hands digging sharply into his waistcoat, and says, “Yes.” He sounds hoarse, like the thought has robbed him of all his air. “Yes.”

And that smile. There is nothing, not in Heaven or Hell or on Earth, as dear to Aziraphale as that smile. And he falls in love all over again.

[postspecificpost]

Marianne must close her eyes to recall Héloïse. For Marianne, Héloïse exists when she can see her.

Héloïse, however, does not need to see Marianne to delve into her feelings. She does not need to see her one last time. Her desires are deeply entombed inside herself, ready to surface through a tremble.

Portrait of a Lady on Fire is a film about many things, abortion, art, but it is ultimately a portrayal of desire. Through vividly meticulous tableaux that establish this world of women, to a silent, steady pacing of choice words and shared experiences, the film reveals slowly the power of desire and how this force can change the way you see and experience the world.

The two lovers know that theirs is a short-lived romance, but they are nonetheless changed forever.

Marianne, the portrait painter, learns from Héloïse how to see beyond formal conventions. From her portrait of her, to Sophie’s abortion, to her later paintings including the title portrait and her salon showcase featuring an original adaption of Eurydice and Orpheus, Marianne, the artist, in turn changes how we see the world.

Marianne’s portrait sketch of Sophie’s abortion is unlike anything we can recall in the male-centric canon of art history. In her adaptation of Eurydice and Orpheus, the lovers are not doomed, because they appear to see each other one last time, as if to say good-bye. Even her portrait of Héloïse, the one pulled out by one of her new painting pupils, defies convention. Running lengthwise into a landscape, the dark night engulfs a lone figure illuminated by moon light from above and by flames from below. She is alone in the world, and her solitude is already a defiance of every social order of the day.  

Set in 17th century France along the south shores of Brittany, we meet Marianne as she travels, unaccompanied across the choppy waters to fulfill her commission. When her belongings fall into the water, and when she must carry them up to the shoreline, she does not ask anyone for help. The film understands that women do not need help. The film understands that men are not helpful to the lives of women, unless it is a father’s name a daughter can submit her painting under or a foreign suitor whose advantageous marriage will lead to a more exciting life for his new mother-in-law.  

Under the pretence as a walking companion, which is already under the pretence of a suicide watch, Marianne is asked by Héloïse’s mother to paint her daughter in secret. Héloïse’s refusal to sit has already frustrated one portrait painter away, and her portrait must be painted and sent forward to her suitor in Milan. The completed portrait will seal her fate, both Héloïse’s mother’s wish to live in Milan and Héloïse to live out the life her sister wilfully evaded. When the finished portrait is sealed into its casing, was it even possible to not imagine the nailing shut of a coffin?

A little death.

Our introduction to Héloïse feels prolonged. We hear about her first. We see her portrait with the face entirely destroyed. The hem and body of her dress floats across the floor as it is carried to the makeshift studio for study. When we first meet her, we see only her back. She walks ahead, and like Marianne, we are eager to see her. Instead, we see the swaying hypnotic folds of her hooded cape. The erotic charge of the bobbing swaying fabric that falls away under the body’s sprint stops short of the cliff’s edge. The momentum of this scene, and running throughout the film, is of sustained desire.

Marianne closes her eyes in concentration during one of her secret painting sessions. Formally trained as a portrait painter by her father, who only ever appears by reputation, Marianne intimately observes Héloïse in order to recall her later. She at times even sees her as a vision and as a premonition. On their walks together, Marianne studies the placement of Héloïse as she rests one hand over the other. Marianne attentively observes the curvature and recesses of Héloïse’s inner ear. Like a new lover exploring and learning every intimacy of her other’s body, the camera lingers, mesmerized by each new detail.

The first time we see Marianne recalling Héloïse is years after they’ve met, when Marianne has presumably taken over her father’s portrait business. We hear her instructing her pupils. Her instructions are didactic. They are intended to follow the day’s traditional conventions. But she is both teacher and model. Her concentration breaks when she sees her own painting. Only through sight does her desire return.

Héloïse is a contrast to Marianne’s externality. Instead of seeing the world and replicating it, Héloïse is composed entirely of an internal existence that she struggles to communicate. She longs to be understood. She thinks deeply and longingly about something before she does it, from the first time she runs to her first kiss with Marianne. Her anger comes on like a flash, brewing away like a storm. When she sees Marianne’s first portrait of her, she is displeased and biting, because she realizes that Marianne does not really see or understand her.  

When Marianne sees Héloïse again, after indeterminate years since their romance, it is first through a new portrait at a painting salon. Marianne rushes through a crowded salon to see this new portrait of the Lady. Héloïse, older, appears in painted form with her young daughter on one side and her own hidden life on the other. Marianne smiles to herself in recognizing their shared past in this portrait of Héloïse before her. The secret code of page 28 is as important to Marianne and Héloïse as lavender wine.

The last time Marianne sees Héloïse, it is from across the auditorium for a performance of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons, summer concerti. Marianne moves right to left across the screen into the more general balcony seats while she spots Héloïse moving in the opposite direction towards the elite box seats. Héloïse’s face remains reposed with the signs of time passed. She is alone, appearing to relish in the anticipation before a performance. The crowd quiets. The orchestra hums. The first notes of Vivaldi’s staccato frenzy slowly begins. The rhythm of the insects swarming brings back every rush of desire into Héloïse’s body. The camera lens spins ever so gently forward. We see in Héloïse’s body a slight heave of her chest. She suppresses a heavy breath. Her eyes widen. They glow with the fire of brimming moisture. As she breathes, her body shudders. We recognize this piece of music is the same concerti Marianne plays for her on the piano all those years ago. We know this is the moment she first felt the desire to kiss her. Héloïse does not see Marianne across the auditorium. She does not need to.