#but then s2 became boring

[swampgothing]

Mel had a lot of character potential, but she ended up being one of the more boring characters of arcane. Noxus is an oppressive nation that Mel held a place of privilege in. Mel goes against every noxian value as an adult, but when it comes to oppression (taking action for or against zaun) she chooses neutrality for years when as a child we see her choose mercy. There are so many places they could have taken that characterization. They could have explored what changed to make her so apolitical and self-serving. Exploring her relationship with her mother, her exile, and how she became such a powerful person in piltover all could have been ways to make her more interesting. She was at her most interesting when she was acting as a politician or interacting with her mother but instead of continuing that they chose to remove her from the plot entirely to send her down a side quest to set up the arcane cinematic universe despite the fact her own mother is one of the main antagonists. Her relationship with her mother is kind of explored in S2 act 3, but everything that happens is so predictable and off course from the story because of the black rose thing that it doesn't feel satisfying. And I have complaints about how I think a story with her in noxus would go, but that's a different post. I just think it was a failure to make Mel so convoluted and boring when they're clearly setting her up as a core character for the noxus series. At this point her only interesting trait is that she's a mage connected to the black rose but those things are confusing as hell to understand if you don't have league lore as background knowledge which I don't so I'm still mostly confused on wtf is going on there (another symptom of S2 shit writing).

[mimi-saurio]

Re-watching Jimmy Neutron and wanna make an appreciation post.

When I was a kid I always thought that Jimmy was cool, not like the typical smart kid who's allergic to everything, or annoying as hell about his intelligence. Now I realize the reason he was cool in my eyes was his selfishness, Jimmy does his inventions not only for his science curiosity but for his own benefits, to have fun with Carl and Sheen, to prank Cindy, to impress Betty, TO WIN SOMETHING. It was in the way he used science and his brain to fulfill his boyish antics, like sending the teachers to space so the kids could have a week off, or when he took his friends on a trip to the dessert just because the class was boring, or when he hypnotizes his parents to keep getting birthday presents to build his hypercube.

I also notice the great friendship between Carl, Sheen, and Jimmy. The first thing you learn in season 1 is that they would be friends even if Jimmy wasn't a genius. They like him and being smart is just the plus that gets them into more interesting scenarios, and Jimmy also enjoys their company (although in season 3 he gets annoyed more easily with them, but c'mon it's justified)

Judy and Hugh are the first representation of a healthy relationship I got in animation, FIGHT ME. I highly believe that Jimmy gets to act his age because his parents raised him with love and no pressure. Smart or not if he needs a scold he will have it, if he gets prized they are proud and happy for him, and no matter what they just love their son. AND THEY LOVED EACH OTHER SO MUCH UGHHH it makes me sick, HUGH SPEND HIS LAST DOLLARS ON JUDY'S RING TO PROPOSE, and then told Jimmy that A MAN HAD TO HAVE PRIORITIES, meaning the love of his life over millions of dollars. IT KILLS ME UUUUGHHH.

OF COURSE, JIMMY WOULD BE A ROMANTIC if he grew up watching their parents doing nothing but love and care for each other. Jimmy learning "the walking man" from Hugh it's POETIC CINEMA, BYE.

About Jimmy and Cindy, as a kid I never noticed the period where they became friends, S1 is all about them hating each other (the crush is there but not as hard) S2 is them developing trust, they actually became friends by papers in the season final (the crush was heavy) and by S3 Cindy and Libby are include in Jimmy's plans and adventures with the boys naturally (also Libby and Sheen's relationship is established by this point too and Jimmy and Cindy are literally fighting their feelings for each other)

Stranded S3 E7 is probably the episode that resolves their Love/hate dynamic, they realize that most of their fights are over the pressure of being more intelligent than the other, and once they are away and alone they leave their guard down. Again, Hugh and Judy raised a gentleman, Jimmy has every little gesture with Cindy.

I'm insane but this little gesture, the "you go first" is such a great detail in his character. Then he goes and opens as many oysters as he has to find a pearl for Cindy, PRIORITIES indeed. Cindy by the end tries to convince Jimmy to stay on the island and it just hit me like, the girl has a lot on her shoulders, classes, grades, the constant to prove that she is worth it as Jimmy is, and this is not on him to blame, but her mother, her status and the way the city price Jimmy when he goes and does something beneficial but completely ignores others kids gifts.

A lot to say about the show and I can go for hours if I can, but this is for now, such a classic and well-written comedy, chill and funny, yet interesting.

English is not my main language so, sorry for the bad grammar, thanks for reading and bye.

[vlcimor]

I am not over (and probably never will be) these two parallels. And no one talks about it enough, so I had to draw it (forgot to post it, surprise) for my own sanity. Does it help? Absolutely not, not at all.

Let's talk about it for a bit, okay?

The first drawing is the scene from the end of the 4th episode of the 1st season, right after Ed's and Izzy's (first mate at the time) conversation about plans with Stede, the full crew of the Revenge, and the future. We can see Ed's expression and OH BOY. He is hiding under the mask of Blackbeard to survive. He is exhausted, bored, empty and so done being "The dreadful pyrate Blackbeard". He just wants to be Ed, who fancy fine fabrics and sweet and soft things. It's completely opposite to Izzy's expression, who is behind him and smiling, clearly delighted by Blackbeard's persona and his great plans. On top of it all, the song "The empty boat" by Caetano Veloso playing in the background (I love love love this song), and it fits so well with Ed's emotions.

The second drawing is the scene from the 1st episode of the 2nd season, right after Ed and Frenchie (now first mates) spoke about future plans. Ed let himself be soft and got hurt because of it. Now he's trying to be Blackbeard again, trying to fit in some "norms" of "manly man," trying to survive in a world where liking soft and being soft means dead, and he is failing miserably. He is everything he doesn't want to be. Also, even Stede's name is not mentioned, you know it's all about him. Ed is hurt, tired, and heartbroken. Ed is not the only one who see this. Basically, the whole crew can see how unstable he became after coming back to Blackbeard/ The Kraken persona. Frenchie´s expression shows it all. He stands behind him on his right side, the same spot where Izzy stands in S1. But his expression completely different from Izzy's - sad, afraid, unsure. Once again on top of the scene, the song "Pygmy Love Song" by Francis Bebey (one of my favourite songs from S2) perfectly shows all Ed's emotions.

I am so sorry for this long, boring post. I simply LOVE these two scenes and everything about them, and I needed to share my thoughts with you. I hope it makes sense and my grammar is not too bad.

[teambyler]

My response to "Will became less interesting and likeable in S4"

VERY interesting recent posts at the subreddit. One has people rank their favorite characters and Will is near the bottom of most lists. The other is screenshotted above.

A common complaint is that he had less to do. (That's for sure!) But another theme is that he is "boring" or "always crying" or "about to cry."

I left the following comment there:

Well, they've written him to be a closeted gay kid in a small town in the 80s. Struggling with his sexuality and coming out is going to be kind of... his everything. I went through it. (The 80s part at least.) And so no, he's not going to be as outgoing or "interesting and likeable" as a Steve Harrington or Dustin.

(Meanwhile, here is the current top post at the subreddit, with people going gaga in the comments:)

Instead, Will is incredibly awkward, reserved, closed-in, and does not project confidence and charisma that make people easily like him, because he hates and loathes and doubts himself. Every movement, every inflection, every look, every expression of himself, threatens his safety and well-being. He has been awkward and introverted and shy. But he has also been sensitive, caring, and empathetic. He was one of the more selfless characters this season. These qualities, at least the way he expresses them, don't win conventional popularity contests. Some people find that "bland." I find it to be admirable.

The Duffers have made clear that s5 will focus on Will:

“Will really takes center stage again in 5,” Ross Duffer told Variety. “This emotional arc for him is what we feel is going to hopefully tie the whole series together. Will is used to being the young one, the introverted one, the one that’s being protected. So part of his journey, it’s not just sexuality — it’s Will coming into his own as a young man.”

As he grows out of his shell and gets to assert himself more in s5, he probably becomes more "interesting and likeable" in the conventional sense.

==========

Anyway, just wanted to share. Will may not be the most "popular" character in the conventional sense, but he's won many hearts. Nor is he "bland" or just a "damsel in distress" (I saw those comments on the subreddit too ugh!) He's our original badass with a gun. Who cast fireball for his friends. He survived the frikkin Upside Down for one week by himself. He found the strength to communicate while being possessed that they needed to "CLOSE GATE" to defeat the monsters in s2, which would have killed him. He was willing to sacrifice his life. And in s3 and s4, he has been wanting to keep the party together and then put Mike and El's interest above his own.

Will is a hero. And heroes can be quiet gay boys, too.

-teambyler

[dezmolad]

EARTHSPARK S3: review??? (SPOILERS!)

this weekend I watched earthspark and I have to say something or I'll explode. This won't be a review as much as just some loose thoughts trying to summarise what this series had became.

STARSCREAM I hate what happened with starscream. I wrote an analysis of how this character got absolutely massacred in S2 (you can check it out here). To summarise: In S1 he was such a great character, shown so intriguing with both his not perfect character and his history of being abused. In S2 they made him the villain in an absolutely shallow way, in the final episode writing him in a way that makes him irredeemable. And I thought thats the worst u can do. And then S3 happened, when he appears for one scene to be shown as funny for "being crazy" (WHICH IS ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING WHEN U REMEMBER S1 WHEN HE WAS A VICTIM OF ABUSE THAT NOONE BELIEVED. IS THIS REALLY A GOOD IDEA TO PORTRAY HIM AS HAHA CRAZY GUY). It's absolutely heartbreaking to watch that scene. Starscream gets electrocuted by the very person he opened up to in S1, he was in isolation for all of the S3, he went insane bc of that, and still at the end we drag him to autobot jail. what is this.

PROWL I have no idea how such an intriguing and complicated character from idw that was clearly an inspiration inspired such a dull and shallow character. His process of learning about respect for human allies and terrans is shown so poorely and never feels like being actually resolved, I won't even talk about this. I admire how they did two things I thought were impossible. I thought it's impossible to make IDW inspired Prowl in this show a good guy (I genuinely thought he's going to be the bad antagonist). I thought it's impossible to ignore his weird and complicated relationship with Tarantulas, in a show that had Tarantulas in S1, was created with Nick Roche as character designed and was inspired by The Sins Of The Wreckers specifically in specific places. They did both of those things and it worked out horribly, congrats.

CONCLUSION I can't understand what happened with this season. it's visible there was some cuts, it looks rushed, it lacks any substance, and Quintessons at the end... didn't help the case let's just say. But that isn't my bigest problem. I feel devastated by what happened to the ideals of the show. in S1 we had decepticons in cages, and figuring out it's not actually a good solution. In S2 we saw decepticon as boring usual villains. But in S3 we have decepticons in one big cage again. But this time there is no consideration, there is no doubt. Even if under Shockwave they just want to go home. They should all be kept imprisoned. No matter if they mean no harm, no matter if, like Starscream, they suffered enough. And there is nothing to figure out, that's just how the world works. After all, they are decepticons, right. yes I'm bitter, S1 was just very important to me and seeing what happened to ES is just sad.

[karaspal]

kara danvers is so ace-coded they should've just confirmed her as asexual. she values friendships over anything else, she gets grossed out by sexual stuff, she can easily make friends with dragons! it's basically canon.

kara spent the entirety of s1 wanting to date james but they became great friends in the meantime, so when it was finally time for them to change their relationship, kara didn't want to date him anymore. she didn't want to lose the connection they had, and a failed relationship would've done that. i think this is the reason kara doesn't want to date people who are already her friends. if it fails, you lose the person. and with ace people wanting to date allo people, it's a real possibility.

in s1, kara also (kind of) faced some aphobia from leslie during her supergirl slander piece. there is also a thing she says in the podcast itself (iyky), but i don't really want to include it because it's very icky.

(this should go without saying, but since this is the internet and nothing goes with a disclaimer, i do think leslie's "lack of sexuality" comment is bad, and i do think it could be seen as aphobie if that's how one chooses to interpret it)

kara spent the first half of s2 not only not showing any interest in mon-el, but outright saying she wouldn't date someone like him (who is, for example, openly a very sexual person. not that there's anything wrong with that, but seemingly not kara's cup of tea). she also rejected him twice. twice.

(the following part i kinda copy-pasted from another one of my posts, but don't judge me too hard, okay. it just already has the points i want to make.)

i honestly think kara dated mon-el because she felt like everyone was pulling away from her and she was scared to be alone again. it was during the time she was fighting with her best friends, and her sister was preoccupied with her own (toxic) relationship. on top of that, part of kara's story in the early seasons is unlearning all the harmful behavior jeremiah and eliza forced her to do so she could "fit in" ("don't be too smart", "make sure not to stand out", "go on dates, find a partner. it's what humans do"). so her abandonment issues, mixed with her belief that you need a partner to fit in and be happy because "that's what humans do", pushed her to mon-el. it also doesn't help alex decided to push the last of her internalized comhet on her sister ("well, mon-el likes you so are you sure you don't like him either?" no. no, she doesn't. this is not slander to alex tho, it's the writers fault. alex is my girl, and i love her very much. it was also said in s1 eliza would get upset with alex if kara didn't date enough so alex pushing kara towards mon-el maybe could be seen as a leftover effect from their mother's unfair treatment.)

i'd also like to say that sleeping with a guy once (if that's even what happened since we didn't really see anything) doesn't really prove she's not asexual. since she also left after (which is so funny to me because she got so bored she left her own loft) and explicitly told him not to tell anyone (which is even funnier to me).

and, on top of that, technically, for kara, mon-el was the closest thing to a kryptonian. in a way, he reminded her of her home (even if he was the furthest from that). she romanticized him a lot (she said so herself in 3x15). she felt like she could be herself with him, because he was also an alien. but the thing was, mon-el hated his planet and didn��t miss it at all. and for all of krypton’s faults, kara still missed her home a lot. mon-el couldn’t relate to her the way kara thought he could.

all these factors - 1) kara’s abandonment issues (because almost everyone was pulling away from her), 2) the belief installed by her adoptive parents that you need a romantic partner to fit in and appear normal (eliza would get upset with her if she didn’t go on enough dates), 3) most of her friends looking genuinely happy in their romantic relationships (happiness kara wanted to experience too and she didn't realise until later in the show that happiness looks different for different people so she assumed a relationship would make her happy), 4) last of alex’s comphet telling her that maybe she likes him too because he likes her (even if there were no indications and in fact, kara said she didn’t like him and looked disappointed when she found out he did), and 5) mon-el being the “closest” to her home (even if that was far from the truth), resulted in kara reassuring herself mon-el would make her happy and that he is good for her. even though he wasn’t.

i mean, forcing yourself to date someone because 1) they like you, 2) almost everyone else around you is in a relationship, and 3) you've been taught dating is the norm, and if you don't, you're weird, is pretty much the standard asexual experience.

in the s3 crossover, kara's conversation with barry can also be seen as asexual-coded.

being asexual can truly feel so isolating sometimes. so i get it.

the end of s3 is so so great because kara finally accepts herself the way she is and is happy with that person. and guess what, the second she does so, her "need" to find a romantic partner disappears. she doesn't have a love interest in s4, and it is so refreshing to see.

also, here are some moments that scream ace!kara because why not.

in conclusion? kara is asexual CANON. have a nice day!

[beevean]

It's really noticeable how vampires in NFCV are... so boring.

For getting all the main focus of the narrative at the expense of the heroes, the worldbuilding is incredibly lazy, to the point that they almost suffer from Twilight syndrome and don't even feel like real vampires. They're more like blood drinking elves.

Under a read more because this got long and picture-heavy. What can I say, I love my references.

1) Vampires don't bite. The only vampire shown biting is Dracula in one flashback.

(in S2E4, Godbrand leads the other generals on a drinking spree, but they are mostly shown dismembering humans with swords and claws, the closest thing to drinking being Raman pouring blood down her throat from a decapitated person.)

The need to drink blood to survive is an important plot point both in S2 and in the Styria subplot, and it is repeated that vampires see humans as nothing more than livestock, but we rarely, if ever, see vampires feasting on humans.

Hell, not only the Styrian council keeps blood in convenient chalices, which could still be justified by them living a decadent lifestyle (something something symbolism of how detached nobility is), but a starved Godbrand dreams of decapitating humans, not eating them. As I explained here, it is especially noticeable with Lenore, the "kind" vampire who owns a human slave. like. the topic of feeding on him or marking him as her property should have come up at one point, right? Or making her look "weird" for not wanting to bite anyone?

It would have been so cool if it became a plot point in the last episode, when Lenore is placed on house arrest. Isaac, naturally, refuses to deliver humans for Lenore to drink from, so her only choices once the reserves run out are to either feed like a "real" vampire from Hector, who would gladly give his life for her because he wants to keep her with him no matter what, or starve. Hence, the decision to just commit suicide, as she would rather die than hurt the man she loves with her monstrosity. Instead, whatever she's drinking is portrayed as wine, and herself like she's getting drunk. Which is not a bad idea, as she said that she enjoys human food, but that tidbit went nowhere fast. Aside from this one scene, we never see one vampire eating food, not even her.

(I forgot, until now, that she says "we eat", and not "I" like I thought. With how she looks at the side, I'm almost tempted to think this is one of her many lies to paint vampirekind as better than it is, but for the sake of this argument, let's assume that she's being sincere)

In fact, nothing is done with the details of a vampire's general diet and their alternatives: the most we know is that Godbrand hates pig blood because "it gives him the shits". This is the only mention of the classic trope of a vampire drinking animal blood, a staple in works that aim to give moral depth to vampires, as they could be given a choice to live on without harming people in exchange for less strength/pleasure - in fact, it is very confusing how somehow vampires digest human food, including fruits like berries, better than animal blood. Lenore introduces the concept of eating human food not for nourishment, but for hedonistic pleasure, implying that vampires don't suffer any consequence from doing this and it's the equivalent of eating treats (which is a shame: it would have been much more interesting to see a vampire insisting on eating human food even if it causes nothing but pain. conflict? never heard of her). This contradicts what we see in the rest of the series, which is that vampires' idea of hedonistic pleasure is to simply, as I mentioned before, dismember humans. It could have, however, furthered Lenore's character as the "odd" vampire who prefers to indulge in human habits like that silly "diplomacy", perhaps even hinting at a resentment against her own vampirism which is another staple of the genre (indulging in shallow pleasures seems to be, for her, the only reason to live forever - an empty lifestyle for an empty person who might be easily pushed to suicide...), but once again, nothing comes of it until it becomes time for her to ragequit out of life in a way that is probably meant to convey "I am disgusted at the monster than I am and will become", that would have fit the previous exchange, but feels more like "i don't want to face the consequences of my actions :<", since vampirism has never been a true issue for her until the end.

Speaking of Lenore, a detail I realized recently is that she looks disgusted when Hector cuts his finger in front of her. A human would naturally be repulsed by the sight of blood and gore... but she is a vampire. She should salivate at the sight of him bleeding all over the floor, even in the general horror of the situation, as a harsh reminder that no matter how hard she tried to look human and peaceful, she is still an animal at her core, a predator who fell in "love" with her prey. Carmilla and Lenore deliberately lick Hector's blood when they wound him as an act of humiliation, but there is a distinct lack of bloodlust from these vampires. Lenore lusts for Hector in a distinctly human way, even including her dehumanization of him. Pass Dracula who is supposed to be ancient, but does everyone have iron-strong self control? Couple this with how vampires often dismember humans but rarely feed on them, and you have to wonder if blood really is a precious resource to them.

The lack of biting was thankfully fixed in Nocturne, where vampires, here depicted as more bestial, are frequently shown eating in all of its messy glory, including a poor girl frequently victim of Erzsébet's hunger.

2) Turning is barely given lip service. In S2, Carmilla mocks Dracula for never turning his "pet", and since her backstory involves being turned by a "cruel old man", one can assume that this is expected of vampires, that they turn humans they fall in love with - if they don't, it means they just see them as toys. Which makes sense from a vampire's perspective: humans are inferior, and being turned is bestowing them a high honor. As she says,

But after that, the topic gets dropped. We don't know anything about any other vampire's past and how they have joined the ranks of the undead. There are no sires and broods. No human is shown wanting to be a vampire, no vampire is shown planning to turn a human, and no human is turned into a vampire on-screen, showing us how the transformation changes you. The question "why didn't Dracula turn Lisa?", which could have spurned an interesting discussion about damning one's soul to selfishly cheat death and how much Dracula truly cared about Lisa's wishes, never gets answered, as Carmilla asked it only to make the Lord look stupid, and stupid he looks. I find an utter waste how Lenore's "tragic" backstory is limited to the war she experienced during her human childhood, and nothing is known about the two hundred years she spent as a vampire and how she dealt with this massive change and suddenly becoming a creature of war and murder she allegedly despises (then again, she's even lucky to have any sort of backstory, very few characters are blessed with one). And let's not even talk about that out-of-nowhere shot of vampire children skulls that rise all sorts of questions that the show does not bother to answer.

This, too, was finally fixed in Nocturne, where Erzsébet turns the aforementioned girl and most importantly Tera by forcing her own blood in her mouth, and we see the process in all of its uncomfortableness. Tera as a newborn vampire shows more internal conflict than anyone from the OG show, which isn't even much, but the difference in treatment of vampirism is noticeable - at least she's tempted by her own daughter's throat!

3) Vampires invoke God's name despite being outside of God's graces, which shows the lack of care in these details.

(Carmilla in particular seems quite fond of calling God's name lol)

And I wouldn't think much of it, if S4 didn't also include that idiotic, lore-breaking scene of crosses being harmful to vampires not as a symbol of God, but because "it confuses the shit out of their brains". When you think about it, for a series infamous for its CHURCH BAD philosophy, you'd think they'd want to explore vampires' relationship with God and the Church, even in a "we're better than the stupid Christians" way. Even in the games you have oddities like Dracula declaring war against God, yet often including a chapel in his castle, that raises interesting questions about his own relationship with religion which were half-answered in Lament of Innocence. Again, this was at least mentioned in Nocturne, when it's said that Drolta can walk around in Emmanuel's church because his actions desecrated it.

And do I need to even mention that water-blessing zombie bishop that is the bane of my existence? Sure, God would absolutely lend His blessing powers to an evil vampire and her necromancer lackey! Sure, crosses upset vampires for """scientific""" reasons but holy water burns them because of divine intervention! Love how it makes all the time wasted on that asinine scene of vampires discoursing about running water hurt just a little more! What next, does the sun set them on fire because their skin is made of gasoline?

4) I simply don't get the feeling that vampires are dead bodies animated by some sort of demonic energy. The most we get is a general pallor - and even then, the vampires of color like Sharma, Raman or Morana have a perfectly healthy skin tone. Or Dracula and Carmilla (and Alucard in Nocturne S2) getting blood in their sclera when particularly feral. If they can, apparently, eat human food without any consequence, it suggests that they have a functional digestive system and all (make of this what you will). Carmilla is shown being unaffected by the cold, implying that she has a naturally low temperature, but humans don't even flinch when touched by what should be, by all means, walking corpses.

Hector being, apparently, able to smell Lenore before even hearing her (which logically should mean that everytime she invades his personal space it would give him the mother of all headaches, but I could chalk it up to clunky writing) could have been a hint that vampires reek of death and need to mask it by covering themselves in perfume; but of course, like many possibly intriguing details, it goes nowhere, because having our beautiful vampires stinking of rot and strong perfume would be unappealing.

and yes i am saying hector should have frozen his dick off while fucking lenore why do you ask. she didn't even drink his blood to warm herself up, i swear the basics of vampire sex 😭

5) A smaller nitpick before the main course: vampires sleep. They sleep exactly like humans, just during the day: Carmilla, Striga and Morana are implied to sleep in their own beds, and at one point Godbrand falls asleep on a chair. They even have dreams and nightmares. Again, I must stress: even Twilight scoffed at the legend of vampires sleeping in coffins, but not only that story took place in a modern setting, the catch was that they didn't sleep at all, which makes sense for a race of undead predators!

6) This one drives me up a wall: "vampire culture" is a farce. In S3, Lenore makes a whole show of gifting Hector a book about their culture, which he finds utterly fascinating because he didn't even know vampires had a culture in the first place.

Well, neither do I! What is this vampire culture that intrigues Hector so?

Social norms? Biting etiquette? Rituals of bonding and turning human beings? The implicit social message you send by making your claws grow longer or cutting them short? That's what I would picture to be very crucial parts of vampire society!

Hector's examples of vampire culture are "ideas about physical presence in the world, the importance of soil and landscape and… being", which is all frustratingly vague: why should soil be important to a culture that has no need for agriculture? Maybe if vampires slept in their own fucking coffins, filled with the soil of their native land like in the Dracula book, this would make sense, but no, as I said, these things sleep in beds like humans!

What is this "philosophy" that he mentions, "conquer all the things" as implied in the "strength and power" conversation in the very last episode? Lenore jokingly goads Hector in admitting that "they're not all monsters", but aren't her attempts at pacifism and diplomacy supposed to be an outlier? Vampires are generally depicted to be warmongering! The most I can think of is the fact that vampires need to have long-term vision due to their immortality which gives them a different outlook of their own existence (which is, admittedly, Lenore's point in that speech I linked), but that, again, contradicts how they are often depicted to be hedonists who indulge in short-term violence!

Is part of vampire culture turning human children to make child vampires, as accidentally implied by the shot of kids' skulls? What about dhampirs, how common and well accepted are they? Alucard is never considered an oddity for being a hybrid. How are vampire/human relationships seen, beyond the general idea of keeping a human as a pet to be fucked?

And what does the aforementioned scene about running water tell us, if not that not even vampires are all sure of what hurts them and what doesn't? Which would imply that vampires are left to fend for themselves by their sires and they have to learn about their own weaknesses the hard way, which is not a bad concept, but this contradicts the idea that vampires are an united society and some of them write down their knowledge! "It's not like we're given a manual for being a vampire" i dunno chief, you yourself seem pretty knowledgeable about ancient vampire history!

(incidentally, we see Hector reading a book in S4E2, which could have implied he's still interested in vampire culture but this time for the sake of playing their own mindgames, but we don't know what it's about and I'm not going to do the writers' job for them, afawk he was just chilling in his gilded cage)

The only "vampire culture" we see is that they essentially preserve human technology that would otherwise be lost to time.

What Lenore is flaunting here is a hypocaust. Which, while they were mostly used at the time of the Roman Empire, actually survived for longer in Eastern Europe than it did in the West, meaning that the Greek Hector should not be this surprised. Turns out, not all humans forget.

It was also kept lit by slaves, which raises all sorts of interesting implications about how the Styrian castle works (they could have handwaved it with magic, but Lenore explicitly makes it about real science, so). But naturally, we never see human slaves being forced to keep the castle warm: that would make Lenore and her attempts to sell the castle as a great place to live in look bad, and Hector's gilded cage less dreamy for the people who believe he got a great deal.

And to briefly go back to the issue of confusing biology... why in the fuck would a castle of vampires, established to be impervious to cold, need a heating system? Are humans part of the castle? Who benefits from the heat, the same slaves that keep the hypocaust lit? The vampires torture Hector in all sorts of ways, including dousing him in icy water, because they see him as little more than a stinking dog only kept alive because Carmilla needs him, but they bother to keep prisoners warm, wasting precious resources? At least I can see why Dracula would build a heating system for Lisa in his castle! This is just stupid! This was mentioned ad hoc to stroke the vampires' dick! "I keep telling you, we're not monsters" only because the writing is bending itself backwards just for you, Lenore!

But back to the main point. This could have been a very interesting topic of discussion, because this means that vampires are soulless parasites who can only vicariously benefit from humanity's ingenuity, unable to produce and only able to steal for themselves (much like they steal human blood), arrogantly believing themselves to be superior but not acknowledging that they need those creatures they see as livestock! Even the comment that vampires "don't forget" could have a negative side, as it means that vampirekind is stagnant, stuck in the past, unable to move on! But no, they are simply framed as superior for their long memory, because they are so technologically advanced, unlike those stupid humans held back by the CHURCH BAD, that they can wear modern clothes and have electric lamps, ohhh, ahhh!

Vampires wear more modern fashion than humans in Castlevania (Alucard invented the V-neck), so there's more room to play with clothing periods.

Yeah, vampire culture is Alucard's cheap, tiddy-exposing V-neck shirt! And dazzling the backwards brown people humans in the spare time. Sign me in!

Incidentally, do you remember when Dracula was framed as being unique for being a man of science in a largely ignorant, religion-riddled world, to the point that it's the main reason Lisa approached him to teach her "real" medicine? And the main reason Alucard feels sorry for his father's madness, because he will use his massive knowledge for evil? And the main reason Isaac wanted to lay down his own life to save that of his Lord?

Yeah, neither do the writers. Dracula is only valued for his ancient "knowledge" by the people who care about him, and by S3 that same knowledge isn't even special anymore. I swear, Dracula is the third most hated character in the show after Hector and Trevor.

Speaking of Hector, he's by far the worst victim of this vampire idealization. He could have had an arc of him learning to love humanity over vampirekind, the same kind that did nothing but use him and hurt him even worse than humans did. He could have accepted that, despite its flaws, humanity can also be good, and the world overall isn't as black and white as he thought. Not at all. His lack of empathy towards his own species is never addressed if not to make him look stupid. Most infuriatingly, his character arc ends with him declaring that he has learned to appreciate "the value and the beauty of things (i.e. vampires, i.e. Lenore) that live longer than he does", keeping him stagnant and shooting in the foot S4's half-hearted attempt to dismantle this idolized image of vampires as a species. Appreciation for humanity's virtues? Not in my adaptation of Castlevania, which is all about the strength of mankind prevailing over evil!

6) And to cap it all off, their powers! What a lack of imagination. What an embarrassment. Vampires are super fast and super strong, with sharp claws, and a few of them are shown turning into bats and mist. Dracula, the most powerful vampire, can shoot one Hellfire. That's. That's it.

Really? This is the adaptation of a videogame series where the most wet cat of a vampire uses telekinesis to throw swords at people! There is a whole ass vampire who stole Dracula's castle through the power of reality-warping paintings! Ohh look how cool Carmilla is dashing around in her final stand, yeah well my Carmilla can turn into a giant naked lady riding a skull that cries corrosive bloody tears!

Where is the damn creativity?! Where is my True Dracula in all of his monstruous Dark Lord glory???

(as a miniscule kernel of positivity, I need to quickly praise Cho for outright weaponizing turning into mist, a power mostly used for evasion. And Sypha for weaponizing it right back, by freezing and shattering her. See, this is a creative display of power! And it's for one of the most wasted cardboard cut-outs of the show. riveting :V)

You know the worst thing? The vampire with the most vampiric traits... is Alucard. Alucard sleeps in a coffin, and even implies that it's more comfortable for him than a bed.

Alucard flashes his fangs and hisses the most to enemies.

Alucard reminds the Japanese not-twins in a spar fight that he's tempted to bite them and drink their blood. Alucard has a sword that he can swing around with telekinesis, more similar to Joachim's power than his own in SoTN. Alucard also shows an extra transformation in the form of a wolf.

Why is the dhampir more of a vampire than the vampires in this setting??? If we didn't see him casually standing in the sun, no one would be able to tell he's half-human! Why, is it hotter if he hisses and talks about his non-existant bloodlust?? It only makes the scene with the kids' skulls, where it's all but said that he keeps cruelly insulting Trevor and his entire bloodline because they kill "his people", all the more demeaning to his character! The whole point of Alucard is that he chooses his own humanity over his vampire side!!

I know that at this point I should give up all pretenses that this show has anything in common with the videogame series it stole its name from, but I am still utterly baffled that they took three protagonists - Trevor the vampire hunter who chose to help the same people that shunned him, Alucard the dhampir who chose to honor his human mother's wish to stand against his vampire lineage, and Hector the Devil Forgemaster who chose to forgive humanity and turn over a new leaf from his Devil-serving days - that in different ways represent the virtue of humanity, and pissed all over them in different ways to prop up their shitty elves! Because this is what vampires are in this universe: arrogant, smug, flaccid, incompetent dark elves that can't even make a proper threat but we are still meant to see as hot!

And that's really the thing. Vampires in NFCV aren't just as dull as dishwater and with a less defined biology than that of Meyerpires (the comparisons with Twilight aren't casual), but they don't stand for anything. Vampires are a prime concept for metaphors such as feudalism, illness that consumes you, the taboo of homosexuality, carnal desire, abusive relationships, feeling like "others" and "unwanted" by society, etc. Even Nocturne, NOCTURNE, one of the emptiest stories about vampires I had the displeasure of watching, uses vampirism as a metaphor for nobility and colonialism and the way they greedily suck away all the resources of the people they oppress! It's as subtle as a kick in the balls and it shatters what little original lore there was left, but the idea is there! It's trying to send a message!

What is NFCV's message conveyed through its decision to focus on vampires as a species, that humans suck? It certainly would fit the nigh-relentless cynicism of the show. Who cares about worldbuilding or consistent characterization? Just add some "deep", pretentious speeches about the evils of CHURCH BAD and how shitty humans are, and look how the praises for being Peak Fiction fall from the sky.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 4

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 4: The Tides of Grief I.

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

The Targaryens, it was said, were nearer to gods than to men, their blood coursing thicker and hotter with flame than no mortal could endure. If such tales bore truth, then their fury too, must be divine in its nature. The wrath of gods did not stew or linger; it burned. It did not wound; it annihilated. It swept the world as a tempest of fire and ruin, leaving behind only ash and echoes of what once was. 

The gods were merciless in their wrath, their vengeance falling like a hammer upon stone, shattering all beneath it. Their fury did not discriminate, nor did it hesitate–it consumed utterly and without remorse. Where their wrath touched, there was no room for forgiveness, no reprieve. It was a force of nature, unyielding, eternal, and cruel in its justice.

And now, that wrath burned within Rhaenyra, untamed and ferocious, a firestorm roaring through the dry forest of her soul. It was not the tame warmth of a hearth but the wrath of a dragon's flame, a conflagration that consumed all it touched. Each breath she drew burned with the heat of it, her grief so raw and fierce it became indistinguishable from fury. The two emotions twisted together, pressing against her ribs, threatening to erupt. 

The heat of her grief was the only thing to warm her. Her body felt distant, as though numbed by the howling winds that lashed against her face, tore through her hair, and clawed at her riding coat as she soared high above the sea. Yet, she scarcely felt any of it. What was the cold to a woman who burned from the inside out? Her only sensation was the searing pain that twisted in her chest like a fiery serpent, an ache so savage it seemed to claw at her very soul. 

Rhraenyra’s gaze was fixed far ahead on the horizon, her eyes dry now, their tears spent long before she had stood before the pyre of her son’s dragon. She had left the smoldering remains of Arrax’s wing behind her, entrusted to the fishermen and the kindly woman whose weathered face spoke of her own loss. The woman’s words still echoed faintly in her mind: ‘A mother who’s lost her child bears that sorrow till her dying day. It is not an easy burden to carry, but ye must endure for the sake of those who remain.’ 

Endure. The word tasted bitter on Rhaenyra’s tongue, like ash lingering from the fire. She did not want to endure. She wanted vengeance. 

Her search was done. The sea had answered her pleas with cruelty, offering her only fragments of the boy she had loved. The wing, the saddle, the cloak–these broken remnants were all she had to carry back to her family. The gods had denied her the small mercy of closure, leaving her to wonder if the sea’s dark depths had claimed her son entirely or if the pieces that remained were but a cruel jest.

Now, there was nothing left to search for. No body to bury, no prayers to offer, no hope to nurture. All that remained was the anger–righteous and consuming.

She had turned from the pyre with laden limbs and a hollowed heart, her grief then settling into a cold, heavy weight in her chest. Her legs had trembled as she had climbed into Syrax’s saddle, her muscles stiff and aching from the days spent on dragonback and nights spent curled in despair. Syrax had lowered her great neck to make the ascent easier, allowing her to climb into the saddle. Rhaenyra had barely registered the dragon’s warmth beneath her, the faint ember of comfort that was swallowed whole by the tempest within her. 

As the dragon’s powerful wings beat against the wind, she had cast one last glance at the horizon, where the sea met the darkened sky. The waves crashed endlessly against the rocks below, indifferent to her agony, their roar a cruel mockery of her cries. 

The search was done.

Her boy was gone–there was nothing left there for her to find.  

And Rheanyra did not look back as she had set off on Syrax. 

The Stormlands had stretched out beneath her then, an endless sea of shadows, the treetops swaying under the lash of the wind. The jagged silhouette of the forest seemed to ripple in waves, the trees bending and bowing in the dark. What illumination there was had come in fleeting, scattered fragments, fragile as a spider’s thread stretched across a void. Here and there, faint glimmers pierced the darkness–a campfire burning amidst the trees, its embers flickering like a solitary star adrift in a vast, consuming abyss. The warm glow of hearths nestled within cottages tucked into the hills, faint and unassuming, barely visible against the shadowed lands. Far off, a string of lanterns swayed in the hands of travelers carving their way through the night, their pale flames trembling in defiance of the surrounding wood. Each spark of light seemed inconsequential against the overwhelming sea of shadows, and yet they had persisted, small but unwavering, stubbornly clinging to the world.

Night had not merely fallen upon the Stormlands; it had seeped into her, enveloping her as if it were an inescapable tide. The emptiness she had carried within her was not a quiet void, but a vast, consuming thing, swallowing all that she was–all that she had been. It stretched inside her, a black chasm that had devoured every thought, every sensation, until even the faint rhythm of her heart had seemed distant and muted, as though it no longer belonged to her. 

Grief clung to her like heavy armor, suffocating and oppressive. It had weighed upon her shoulders, pressed against her chest, and filled her lungs with air too thick to breathe. Each beat of her heart felt unremarkable, as though the organ continued its work out of habit rather than purpose. The pain, sharp and all-encompassing, had dulled to a relentless ache, the kind that hollowed a person out, leaving nothing but a fragile shell behind.

The wind had screamed around her as Syrax carried her higher into the storm-laden skies, the dragon’s golden scales gleaming faintly in the scarce moonlight. Each beat of Syrax’s wings was steady and powerful, yet even the comforting rhythm of the flight could not reach her. Her grief formed a fortress, impenetrable and isolating.

Beneath her, the trees had swayed and whispered, their voices lost to the roaring wind. Somewhere in the endless sea of darkness below, people carried on with their lives, their tiny fires burning against the encroaching night. How could they live so easily when her world had been shattered? How could they keep their homes alight when hers had been all but extinguished?

By the time she had reached Sharp Point, the heavy shroud of night had begun its reluctant retreat. The pale light of dawn stretched its fingers across the horizon, chasing away the shadows that clung stubbornly to the earth. The first brush of sunrise painted the edges of the world in soft strokes of red and pink, spreading across the havens like a wound. 

Below her, the inky darkness that had cloaked the land unraveled slowly, peeling back to reveal Sharp Point. Jagged cliffs jutted defiantly against the crashing waves of the Narrow sea on one side, and the waters of Blackwater Bay on the other. Fields of green stretched inland, bordered by clusters of trees whose leaves glistened faintly in the soft glow of morning dew. Narrow roads wound like threads through the land, weaving between scattered houses at the outskirts of the city walls. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, blending with the crisp air as the city stirred from its slumber. 

It was no different, Rhaenyra had thought then, that any of the sunrises she had watched during her search for her son. The beauty of it had felt hollow, distant, and unworthy of notice. She held the truth now, the answers she had chased across land and sea for, spurred by a fragile hope that had long since been extinguished. Bitter confirmation of her son’s fate brought no relief. It had not erased her sorrow, but instead let her drown in it. 

He was gone. Lost to the unforgiving maw of the sea, or perhaps to something cruller still. And yet, the world endured, as it always did. The day her father had died, her world had cracked in two, yet the sun had risen then as it did now. The tides had rolled in and out; the winds had carried the cries of gulls as if nothing had changed. 

The weight of her grief was heavier still, for it was not her father’s death alone that had unraveled her. That day–the day she learned of her father’s passing–had merely been the first of many blows. The betrayal of kin, the fall of her sworn supporters, the capture of her eldest daughter. And Visenya, her youngest, who had slipped from her womb far too soon, her small, misshapen body lifeless in Rhaenyra’s arms. Those were the fissures that had cracked the foundation of the life she had once known, the tremors that had left her teetering on the edge of a precipice.

It was a cruel irony, wasn’t it? That the day her father had died was not the day her world had ended but the day it had begun to unravel. That was the day everything had shifted. The day the gods–or fate, or whatever cruel force governed the world–had begun stripping her of all she had ever held dear.

And yet the world continued on, indifferent to her pain. The sun rose, the sea churned, and the wind carried the cries of gulls on the air as if nothing had changed. Nature had no memory for loss. It was a cold, unfeeling thing, an endless cycle that carried on without pause, no matter who fell or what crumbled in its wake.

Rhaenyra could not decide if this was a cruelty or a blessing. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps it was neither. 

The sharp cries of the seabirds had pierced the frigid morning air as she’d soared above the city of Sharp Point and beyond, letting it pass by beneath her shadow. The gulls had wheeled and danced in the sky, their wings catching the light of the rising sun as they circled briefly around Syrax. For a fleeting moment, they dared to accompany the great dragon, their sharp, high-pitched calls slicing through the beating of her wings. But soon the birds veered away in fear, their harsh cries fading into the distance as she flew over the jagged cliffs towards the sea. 

The sea surged relentlessly, dark waters curling into foamy white crescents that crashed against the stone with the heedlessness of nature. Spray shot high into the air with every impact, scattering droplets like silver dust before the wind carried them away. 

The rush of the sea and wind filled Rhaenyra’s ears as they’d left the city behind and crossed the waters of the Gullet. The rush of waves and the howl of the wind had melded into one deafening roar, drowning out the world. The salt-laden air had bit at her cheeks and stung her eyes, the briny tang clinging to her skin like an unwelcome shroud. It was a smell she had grown accustomed to in the desperate, searching days as she sought her son in every wave, in the stretch of sandy beach, on the rocky cliffs. 

Yet beneath the sharp tang of salt and sea, another scent lingered. It crept into her senses slowly at first, subtle but unmistakable, winding its way into her lungs with every breath. 

The scent of burning flesh clung to her nostrils like a ghost, wrapping itself around her senses and searing itself into her memory. No matter how fiercely the sea winds blew, no matter how vast the stretch of water she crossed, it would not leave her. It clawed at the back of her throat, a taste of death that lingered no matter how desperately she’d tried to swallow it away. 

As Syrax had soared over the waters of the Gullet, the stench had grown stronger, thickening the air until it seemed to choke her. It sank into her skin, into her blood, branding itself into the marrow of her bones. She could almost feel it–hot, suffocating, as if the flames were licking at her face, their heat rising from the memory of the past fires–and the ones that had yet to come. 

The burning flesh was not here, not now, yet it was with her all the same, as inescapable as her grief.

Her thoughts had drifted then, to the funeral pyres, to the flames that had consumed what remained of her world. First, it had been Visenya, her daughter–a fragile, tiny thing. And now, it was her son’s dragon’s wing–a broken remnant torn from the sky–laid upon the pyre almost in place for the boy himself. 

There would be another fire soon, of course. Her son’s funeral pyre. Yet there was no body to burn, only memories. It was all she could feed the fire. 

As the wind howled and the waves crashed below, Rhaenyra had cast her gaze downward. The sea once again stretched endlessly beneath her, its surface gleaming cruelly under the sun. The surface danced and swirled, catching the light in a way that seemed almost mocking, while its depths remained dark and unknowable. The sea held its secrets tightly. 

She had scoured such waves endlessly, her search driven by a desperation so fierce it could only border on madness. The hours and days had blurred together–day and night, night and day, an endless cycle, until she no longer could tell whether she was awake or dreaming. The sea had consumed her waking moments and haunted her sleep.

How many times had she raged against it? She had screamed for it to give her back her son, commanded it as only a mother could. When anger had failed, she had fallen to pleading, her cries breaking against the waves as she begged for even the smallest scrap of mercy. But the sea had remained silent, indifferent to her pain, answering neither her fury nor her pleas. 

Until it had.

When the sea finally gave her answer, it was not the mercy she had begged for, nor the justice she had demanded. Instead, it had offered her only remnants, shards of the truth sharp enough to cut her to the bone. A wing, broken and forn, its flesh shredded by monstrous teeth. The sight of it had hollowed her, left her reeling in a void of despair so vast the world itself had seemed to fade around her. 

She had once thought the sea cruel, an unfeeling beast that devoured all without remorse. Yet, in the quiet moment of watching the pyre’s flames devour the wing, she had wondered if it had not been cruel at all. Perhaps it had been merciful. 

To know seemed a torment as great as not knowing. The uncertainty had been unbearable, yes, but there had been hope–to see the evidence, to face the proof of her son’s death, to imagine the moment his dragon had fallen and to know the savagery of the attack that claimed him… it was a pain that felt endless, as thought it would stretch across the whole of her days.  

She could see it in her mind–the jagged edges of torn flesh torn by vicious teeth, the merciless savagery of the wounds inflicted by a creature whose fury and strength dwarfed that of her son’s own dragon. He hadn’t stood a chance–no more than an ant beneath a boot. To see Arrax’s wing so mutilated, to know it had fallen into the sea along with what remained of her son–if any had remained at all–left her in utter despair. 

The wind had pressed against her as Syrax carried her onward, the dragon’s wings slicing through the salty air. Her grip tightened on the reins, her mind consumed by the image of that wind and the truth it carried. 

She felt it then–the ember deep within her soul catching flame, roaring to life with a ferocity that burned through the hollow emptiness inside her. It ignited within her chest, a searing blaze that consumed the brittle kindling of grief and despair, filling the void with molten rage. It poured into her veins like liquid fire, a heat so intense it drove back the cold that had taken root in her heart.

The anger had coiled within her, taut and unrelenting, like a serpent winding itself tighter with each passing moment, its muscles rippling as it readied to strike. It was a living thing, writhing and restless, twisting through her like a firewyrm slithering in the depths of her soul. Its heat scorched her from the inside, an unbearable burn that demanded release, a feral energy that threatened to consume her if it could not lash out.

Her body had moved on instinct, leaning to the side and pulling at the reins. Syrax responded immediately, veering away from the narrow line of ships that dotted the Gullet below. The sails of House Velaryon, their vivid blue bright in the sunlight, fluttered in the wind as the ships patrolled the strait. She abandoned them, her focus beyond them, beyond the waters, just beyond the horizon. 

The wind howled around her, carrying with it the salty tang of the sea and the faint flap of Syrax’s wings as they cut through the air. But the sounds were muted, distant, drowned by the pounding of her heart. 

For hours they flew, the endless sky stretching above them in a canopy of crisp, cerulean blue. The sun climbed steadily, painting the world in golden light as it ascended to its zenith. Time slipped past unnoticed, marked only by the slow journey of the sun as it began its descent once more. 

Her jaw tightened as her gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the sky met the sea in a hazy, trembling line–and there, in the distance,  rising from that line, was a city she knew too well, a city she had once called home. The sunlight glinted off the red stone walls of the Red Keep, casting a bloody hue across the gleaming waters of the bay–a raw, open wound that bleed across the horizon.

King’s Landing. 

How many times had she flown across the expanse of Blackwater Bay, the salty winds tugging at her hair as the sea spread endlessly below? How many times had she approached the city from the skies, her dragon’s shadow stretching over the waves as they neared the familiar sprawl of streets and rooftops. And how many times had she watched the Keep rise in the distance, its towers reaching arrogantly towards the heavens?

Too many times to count. 

Once, she had looked upon those red walls with wonder. Once, the sight of the Red Keep, with its proud towers and ancient battlements, had filled her with a sense of safety, of belonging. It had been the center of her world, the heart of everything she had ever known. 

The Red Keep had been her home. 

She had been born within its walls, cradled beneath its vaulted ceilings, where the light filtered through tall windows with colored glass. She had taken her first steps in its courtyards, her tiny feet stumbling over the cobblestones worn smooth by the passage of decades. She had grown up there, walked hand in hand with her mother through its halls. 

It had been there, within the shadow of its high towers, that she had known love for the first time–love for her family, for her friends, and later, for the children she had cradled in her arms. 

But those memories were as distant now as the city itself, a far-off blur on the horizon. Time and betrayal had transformed the Red Keep from a place of sanctuary into something else entirely. Its walls now seemed stained with the blood of treachery and loss. 

The city was no longer hers. It had been taken from her, stolen piece by piece until it seemed as foreign as the lands across the Narrow Sea. King’s Landing no longer felt like home; it felt like a usurper’s prize, a cruel mockery of what it had once been–of what was rightfully hers. 

The fire within her, coiling like a restless dragon in her chest, burned hotter as the Red Keep came into sharper focus. Its towers pierced the sky like spears, their shadows stretching long and dark across the sprawl of the city.

Syrax rumbled beneath her, a deep, guttural sound that resonated through her bones, her massive wings slicing through the air. Each powerful stroke carried them closer to their destination, the sea beneath them a blur of blue and gleaming light refracting off the waves. The wind howled in Rhaenyra’s ears. a piercing scream that drowned out all else, leaving her alone with her thoughts–the raw, unrelenting fire of her grief and fury.

The world had taken so much from her. No, they had taken from her–those treacherous, grasping usurpers who traded her children’s lives for their ambition. They had robbed her of her father’s legacy, the man who had declared her his heir and entrusted her with the future of their house. They had killed the child in her womb with their treachery. And now, they had taken her sweet, brave Luke.

They had stripped her of everything that had once made her whole. They had robbed her of her joy, her peace, her family, leaving her with nothing but the smoldering embers of grief and a fury so consuming it seemed to burn in her veins.

Her gaze did not waver as she fixed her eyes on the city rising on the horizon, growling clearer with every passing moment. The tiled roofs of King’s Landing began to take shape, a patchwork of orange and red that stretched out like a taunt, as if the city itself dared her to come closer.

Her heart felt like a stone, heavy and cold, pressing against her ribs with every heartbeat. It was a weight that threatened to crush her, to drive her into the depths of despair. But the fire within her–hot, relentless, and unyielding–kept her upright. 

King’s Landing stood before her as a monument to all that had been stolen from her, a city filled with ghosts and treachery. It stood as a cruel reminder of all she’d been denied, of all that she had suffered, a beacon of all she would see avenged.

Her hands tightened on the reins, the leather creaking beneath her grip. She could almost see it–the flames rising above the towers, licking at the red stones of the Keep, consuming everything in their path. She would burn it all down, let the fire rage unchecked until there was nothing left but ash and ruin. 

The Red Keep would burn first. Its proud towers, those that had once offered her sanctuary, would crumble under the heat of her fury. The flames would pour into the courtyards, devouring stone and steel, melting the iron gates, and swallowing the treachery whole. The betrayers, the liars, the usurpers–they would all burn.

The city below would follow. Like a forest fire sweeping through a dry, brittle wood, her vengeance would leave nothing but as in its wake. She would scorch every street, every alley, every house until the city itself was reduced to cinders, a funeral pyre for all she had lost. 

There would be no proper pyre for her son. There was no body left to burn, no remains to return to the gods. The sea–or the beast that claimed his life–had swallowed him, left her with nothing but torn flesh and splintered memories. So, she would make a pyre of the Red Keep and everything within it. She would burn the city in his name, let the flames rise high into the heavens as a tribute to the boy she loved so dearly. 

Her rage was boundless, her grief a bottomless pit that fed the fire within her. She would show them all–every traitor, every usurper, every schemer who played a part in her suffering. They would feel her wrath. They would know her pain.

She would make them understand just how merciless a Targaryen could be. They would look upon the skies, see her shadow pass over their city, and know that their doom had come. The city would be cleansed with dragonfire–a purging blaze to burn away the weeds of treachery and rot.

The world would remember her vengeance. 

For her son. For her sweet, brave Luke, she would bring the city to its knees.

Rhaenyra leaned forward in the saddle, her jaw clenched, her gaze unyielding as Syrax carried her ever closer to the city. Below them, the waters of Blackwater Bay churned, their surface rippling beneath the steady beat of the dragon’s wings. Small fishing vessels dotted the sea like scattered leaves upon a vast, restless pond, their sails snapping in the wind as they drifted toward the harbor. The city walls loomed ahead, rising from the shoreline like a fortress of treachery, their stone weathered but unbroken. The wind whipped at her hair, tangling it in wild strands, but she paid it no mind. The fire within her burned too hot for such trivialities. 

Let them burn, she thought. Let them all burn. 

The wind screamed in her ears, a deafening roar that melded with the furious pounding of her own blood. It surged through her like wildfire, scorching her from the inside out, leaving her feeling more flame than flesh. There was nothing but the blaze of her wrath and the hollow abyss of her grief, nothing but the insatiable need to watch the city burn–to watch the red stones of the Keep melt, to see the towers fall, to see all within swallowed by fire, to cleanse the world of its betrayal with dragonflame. 

And then–she heard it. 

A sound, faint at first, barely more than a whisper against the wind. A chiming, high and clear, cutting through the storm of her fury. The bells. 

The tolling of bells ringing out over the city, breaking through the veil of rage that had consumed her. The sound struck something deep within her, something buried beneath the weight of her pain. It reached through the firestorm in her veins, through the hunger for vengeance and pulled her back–back into her body, back into the moment, back into the shattering truth of what she was about to do. 

She did not know why the sound reminded her of her daughter. She could not say what it was about the chime of bells that called forth the memory. Only that it did. 

Her daughter. 

Her Daenera. 

The name echoed in her mind, cutting through her like a blade. 

She could not burn the city.

She could not burn her city. 

And she could not burn her own daughter. 

The realization struck her with such force that she gasped, the tightness in her chest stealing her breath as if she had plunged headfirst into freezing water. She could not. She would not. 

Her fingers tightened around the reins, her body trembling with the weight of it all. The fire within her did not die, but it no longer raged unchecked. It did not consume–it smoldered, curling around the fragile ember of love that still remained. 

She wrenched the reins back with all the strength left in her weary body. Syrax reared up in response, her powerful form rising high into the sky, her golden wings catching the sunlight like molten metal. The dragon let out a thunderous roar, a cry of warning that echoed in the air as though she, too, had longed to unleash her fury upon the city. But instead, she turned. 

With a mighty beat of her wings, Syrax soared higher, her great body twisting against the wind as she veered away from King’s Landing. The air rushed past Rhaenyra, cold against her skin, the city shrinking behind her as they ascended, the Red Keep retreating into the distance once again. The weight of her rage did not lift, but she forced it back, turning her face away from the place that had once been home. They flew over the Blackwater once more, the sea stretching out ahead of them, glistening and endless. 

She had come to set fire to the treachery that had stolen her son, to make the usurpers pay for what they had done. And yet, she had not. 

Not because she lacked the power, nor the will–but because she was not them. 

She would not stain herself with the blood of the innocents. She would not raze a city that had once been hers, that sheltered her people. The people of King’s Landing had not betrayed her. They did not carry the sins of the Greens. 

She would not become Maegor the Cruel.

She would not become what they feared–what they wanted her to be. 

A monster. 

The fire within her had not died, but it had been tempered. There would be justice, but it would not come in indiscriminate ruin. She would reclaim her birthright not as a tyrant, but as a queen. If blood were to be spilled for the wrongs committed against her, let it be the blood of the guilty. Let it be the blood of Aemond Targaryen. 

She cast a glance over her shoulder, her gaze drawn once more to the city fading in the distance–to where the red walls of the Keep were and her daughter was held prisoner. The sun glinted off the stone, making it burn like fresh-spilled blood against the pale sky. She looked back as though she might catch a glimpse of her, as though Daenera would somehow be standing there upon the battlements, waiting, watching, her bright blue eyes searching for her mother in the endless sky.

But there was no small figure standing atop the walls, no dark-haired child reaching out for her. There was only stone and shadow, only distance and silence.

A fresh wave of anguish surged through her, but she turned away before it could consume her. She would come back for her daughter. She would not leave her to the Greens, to their lies and their cruelty.

As King’s Landing faded into the distance, a strange weariness settled over Rhaenyra, creeping into her bones like a slow tide. It was not merely the exhaustion of the body but something deeper, something seeping into her very core of her being. She felt as though she hung suspended by a single, fragile thread above the abyss of her grief, a vast and endless sea that waited hungrily below, ready to swallow her whole the moment she let go.

She clutched that fragile threat with all her remaining strength. She went rigid in the saddle, her body locking as if braising against an unforeseen force. The air was cold against her skin, the rush of wind whipping at her hair, but she barely felt it. She could not afford to feel anything–not the cold, not the ache in her limbs, not the grief pressing against the edges of her mind like a beast lurking just beyond the firelight, waiting to tear into her.

By the time Dragonstone emerged on the horizon, its dark, jagged silhouette rising from the sea, the sun had begun its slow descent, bleeding red and gold across the sky. The sight of home should have brought some semblance of relief, but there was none to be found. 

Her heart felt like a stone lodged in her chest, its weight pressing against her ribs, making every breath a struggle. The air never seemed to fill her lungs, only reaching the very top before the pressure of her grief forced it out again, shallow and fragile. She teetered on the edge of something unseen, holding herself upright, rigid, taut like a bowstring pulled too far. 

She could not allow herself to break.

If she did, she feared she would slip, fall from the saddle, and let the sea take her–let the waves pull her under and carry her down into the dark where all things lost were swallowed whole. 

So she held on. 

She clenched her jaw, gripped the reins, and forced herself to stay upright. The sea stretched endlessly below, cold and unyielding. The wind howled around her, and Dragonstone loomed ahead, dark and waiting.

The gulls of Dragonstone were braver than any others. They did not scatter at the shadow of a dragon passing overhead, nor did they break formation in fear of being devoured. They soared alongside Syrax, their sharp cries ringing through the air, echoing over the jagged cliffs below. Their calls carried across the dark stone, a chorus woven into the wind that howled around the island’s peaks. 

By the time Rhaenyra reached Dragonstone, the sun had long since sunk beneath the horizon, leaving only the deep hues of twilight painted across the sky. The sea glistened with the last remnants of dying light, and the island loomed ahead, its sharp, black cliffs rising like the broken fangs of some ancient beast. 

She guided Syrax lower, past the sheer drop and rugged coastline, towards the entrance of the Dragonmont. The air here was thick, clinging to her skin with the mingled scent of salt and sulfur, a heavy, pungent reminder that this land had been shaped by fire and stone.

The cavern swallowed them as Syrax descended through the mouth of the mountain. Darkness engulfed them, vast and unyielding, the world beyond the entrance vanishing in an instant. But within the gloom, fire still clung to life–torches and braziers flickering against the oppressive blackness of the cavern. Shadows danced along rock, shifting with the unsteady glow of firelight, unable to truly banish the darkness that resigned there.  

Below, the landing stretched out before them, carved from the bones of the mont itself. The dragonkeepers stood waiting along the walkway, their forms still as statues, their faces unreadable in the dim light. They did not flinch as Syrax’s wings stirred the air, nor did they step back as the dragon’s golden form loomed over them. They had seen the return of dragons countless times before–this was no different. 

Rhaenyra did not hesitate. She pulled at the reins, guiding Syrax towards the landing. The dragon obeyed, angling her great body for the descent, her wings folding in as her claws scraped against the stone. A deep, reverberating thrum echoed through the cavern as she landed, sending dust scattering into the air and sending rocks tumbling.

The dragonkeepers did not speak. They only watched. 

The wind howled through the opening of the Dragonmont, sweeping through the cavernous halls and stirred the torches in their iron sconces. Shadows danced wildly along the stone walls, flickering like restless spirits, as the steady beat of Syrax’s wings finally ceased. The great golden dragon settled, her massive frame folding in upon itself, her breath a deep and resonant thrum that shook through the rock beneath them. Even Syrax seemed to understand the weight of their return.

Rhaenyra, hollow and weary, remained in the saddle for just a moment longer, staring into the waiting dark. 

For days, she had ridden the skies, her body aching from the endless hours in the saddle. She had searched the waves and cliffs, soaring over the jagged coastlines and the narrow inlets, scouring every sandy beach and every sheer drop where the sea met the stone. She had combed through every crest, every tide break, every shadow cast by the churning waters.

Days.

And for what?

Now, the search had come to an end. Now, she could no longer cling to the desperate illusion that there was still something to find, something to save. Now, she had to face the awful, unyielding truth.

Her son was gone.

Forcing herself into motion, Rhaenyra pried her fingers from the reins, the motion slow and stiff, as though her bones had petrified. The long days spent in the saddle had left her hands curled and aching, but the pain was distant, dulled by the crushing weight of exhaustion that pressed upon her. Her body had grown accustomed to the endless flight, to the ceaseless wind cutting against her skin, to the cold that seeped into her very marrow. 

The strap across her waist resisted as she reached for it, her fingers creaking as they worked the familiar buckles. Even the simple task seemed insurmountable, as though she no longer had full control over her own body, her fingers fumbling against the iron. At last, the bindings loosened, freeing her from the saddle. 

Then, slowly–almost reverently–she turned, her hands seeking the bundle strapped behind her saddle. 

The wind had stiffened the fabric, crusting it with salt and the lingering remnants of the sea’s cruel embrace. The once-soft wool was not a lifeless thing, hardened by the elements, its folds brittle where they had been lashed against the saddle for too long.

One by one, she loosened the ties, fingers working sluggishly against the straps. And at last, it came free. 

For a moment, she simply held it, cradling the weight of it in her hands as the fabric stirred faintly in the dim, cavernous air. It was heavier than it should have been, as though it carried with it the weight of all it had lost. The scent of the sea clung to it, brine and storm-wind woven into its very fibers, mingling with the lingering trace of something familiar–something that was him.

Or perhaps it was only her imagination, a hope. 

Her throat tightened. 

She turned her focus back to herself, forcing movement into her body. Every muscle protested as she shifted in the saddle, the pain sharp and insistent–and yet strangely distant, as though separate from herself. Syrax shifted beneath her, lowering her great golden frame with a quiet hum. The dragon’s warmth radiated against her, a silent offer of comfort–but Rhaenyra scarcely felt it. 

Bracing herself, she swung one leg over the saddle and let herself slip down. Her boots met the stone with a dull, jarring finality. The impact sent a sharp pang through her legs, her muscles protesting after days spent in the saddle. She staggered slightly but forced herself upright, her spine locking into place, the muscles between her shoulders tightening, keeping her rigid. 

Now, on solid ground, she felt unsteady, as if her limbs had forgotten how to move without the sway of the dragon’s wing beneath her.  She took one step. Then another. 

Each movement was agony, her joints grinding like rusted hinges, her body protesting with every inch forward. But still, she moved. Still, she walked. 

The dragonkeepers stood at the periphery of the cavern, their faces half-hidden in the torchlight, watching in solemn silence. They bowed as she passed them. The air in the Dragonmont was thick, stifling with the scent of sulfur and old smoke, the ever-present heat of the volcanic heart pulsing beneath their feet, but even that felt distant–meaningless.

Her pace quickened, driven not by strength but by sheer will, her boots striking loudly against the stone. She moved through the ancient corridors, past the towering pillars carved into the rock, past the flickering torches that cast elongated shadows against the walls. The castle loomed ahead, dark and waiting, its high walls untouched by the turmoil that had ravaged her soul.

Still, she held the cloak.

Her fingers clenched around the fabric with such force that she could feel the bones beneath her skin groan in protest. She did not loosen her grip. She could not. She carried it as though it were her son himself, as though letting it go would be to lose him all over again. The thought alone sent a fresh wave of anguish crashing through her, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself forward, step by step.

The torches lining the corridors flickered in the wind that followed her passage, their light casting brief flashes of gold upon the stone. Her shadow stretched before her, long and unsteady, distorted by the uneven glow. The silence was suffocating, pressing in on her from all sides, broken only by the distant sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below. The sound seemed to follow her–it echoed in her ears, a constant, haunting murmur.

She reached the doors of the keep. The great wooden slabs loomed before her, their iron reinforcements darkened with age. Two guards stood at their post, their faces unreadable, yet there was a shift in their stance as she approached–a flicker of something beneath their rigid composure.

They knew. They stepped aside without a word, pushing the doors open with a low groan of wood and iron.

Rhaenyra did not slow as she moved through the winding corridors of Dragonstone, her steps echoing sharply against the cold stone. The weight of exhaustion dragged at her limbs, but she carried herself forward with rigid determination, her gait stiff yet purposeful. She had flown through the night, her body hollowed by grief and weariness, yet the fire in her veins burned hot, driving her onward.

The air was thick with the scent of salt and damp stone, the ever-present sea wind sweeping through the castle’s narrow windows and open archways. Still, the air was warmer here and carried the scent of burning logs and melting wax too. The keep was silent save for the distant howling of the wind, its mournful wail threading through the narrow windows like a ghost’s lament. 

At last, she reached the threshold of her council chambers. As she approached, a voice rang out from within, cutting through the hush of the chamber beyond.

“Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Ser Erryk Cargyll’s proclamation echoed through the hall as she stepped forward, her arrival heralded with the weight of her many titles. Yet the words now seemed to ring hollow in her ears.

She ascended the final steps, her figure framed in the torchlight as she entered the chamber.

The Council was gathered. They stood around the Painted Table, their expressions grave, their weary gazes shifting toward her as she crossed the threshold. The great carved map of Westeros stretched before them, its surface illuminated by scattered candles that flickered and swayed with the faint draft seeping through the stone walls. Shadows danced across the Seven Kingdoms, the light catching the raised ridges of mountains, the deep grooves of rivers and roads, the jagged edges of the coastlines.

The air was thick with tension, heavy with unspoken words.

The scent of burning wood and melted wax lingered in the chamber, the smoldering embers in the hearth behind the table casting a dull, orange glow. It was warm here–warmer than the halls she had passed through, warmer than the windswept cliffs outside–but the heat did not reach her. Her blood still ran cold, her skin numb beneath the weight of grief.

The ache in her body deepened as she crossed the chamber, a relentless, gnawing pain that had been held at bay by sheer will alone—her last defense against the weight of her grief. She clung to that will, grasping it as tightly as a drowning woman clings to driftwood, swallowing the pain down, forcing it into the pit of her stomach where so many other sorrows had been buried. It threatened to rise, to claw its way free, to unravel her where she stood. But she would not allow it. She could not. Not now. Not yet.

Her gaze met Daemon’s. His brow lifted slightly as he searched her face, his eyes keen, reading her as he always did. There was a softness there–one reserved for so very few. He moved towards her, his long strides carrying him forward like a soldier on a battlefield, though there was something more measured about his approach now, as if he feared she might shatter.

He met her halfway, stepping closer, the scent of amber and sandalwood familiar and grounding. His presence was a tether, something steady in a world that had been anything bit. The ache within her grew sharper as he came nearer, the sheer effort of staying upright in his presence suddenly overwhelming. 

Daemon leaned forward, his forehead pressing gently against hers in a silent greeting. His voice was a whisper, intimate and low. “Did you find what you needed?”

She felt the brush of his fingers against hers, the calloused tips grazing the backs of her knuckles. His gaze flickered downward, settling on her hand where she still clutched the cloak–Luke’s cloak. The evidence. The proof. Her fingers trembled as she pried them open, each movement slow and reluctant, as though surrendering it would solidify the truth she wished to deny–but there was no denying it. Without a word, she allowed him to take it from her grasp. The moment it left her hands, a strange weightlessness filled, as if she might collapse beneath it. 

Daemon’s fingers curled around the fabric, his grip firm, steady, but his expression remained unchanged, as though the weight of it had not yet settled upon him. She stepped past him before she could see it–the moment it did.

She forced herself to move forward, each step a battle against the exhaustion weighing her down. Her body yearned to collapse into Daemon’s embrace, to fold into his warmth, to let him bear even a fraction of the agony that threatened to consume her. But she could not afford that–not here, not now, not before all of them. She had to be strong.

They watched her. 

She could feel it as she moved around the Painted Table, the silence stretching as the tension in the room coiled tighter with each step she took. They were waiting, expectant, watching to see how their queen would carry the weight of this moment. She sensed the unspoken questions behind their solemn expressions: Had she truly returned from her madness? Was this the Queen they were meant to follow? 

Daemon did not move, did not speak, yet she could feel the shift in him, as palpable as the change in the air before a storm. She sensed it without needing to see it, the subtle straightening of his shoulders, the ease with which he slid from the softness of a husband to the cold steel of a warrior. In the space of a breath, he had slipped into another skin, shedding the quiet intimacy of the moment to stand as her Prince Consort, her General, Her sword.

A man ready for vengeance. 

"Your council stands at the ready, Your Grace," Daemon said, his voice firm, though she hardly registered it. “I will fly to Harrenhall at your command and set our toehold in the Riverlands.”

She reached the head of the table, her gaze drifting across the carved lands before her, across the realm that was hers. The thought rang bitter in her mind. The Greens had taken her throne, but they had not taken her claim. They had tried, but her right was stronger than their treachery.

Her eyes moved over the map, tracing the lands where banners had been raised in her name, where lords swore their swords and their fealty. The North, the Vale, the Riverlands–their carved markers stood tall, resolute. But her attention drifted past them, drawn southward, past the heart of the realm, past the great carved lion of the Westerlands, past the green dragon of King’s Landing. Her breath caught as her gaze settled upon the storm-lashed coast where her son had last been seen.

Storm’s End.

Her hand clenched into a fist, her nails–ragged and torn from days gripping the reins too tightly–biting into her palm. The salt on her skin stung the raw flesh, but she barely felt it. The pain was distant, muffled beneath the deeper ache that throbbed in her chest, hollow and unrelenting. Grief rose like a tide, thick and suffocating, clawing up her throat, threatening to break past her lips in a sob.

Her breath came shallow, each inhale an effort as her ribs tightened, squeezing her lungs as if her own body sought to deny her air. Her womb ached–a dull, ceaseless pain, more than just the remnants of labor, more than the wounds of childbirth. It was the pain of loss, of emptiness, of a mother’s body mourning the child she would never hold again.

She swallowed hard, forcing it down, forcing herself to stand straighter, to hold the weight of her grief within her ribs where no one could see it.

Rhaenys spoke tentatively, “Your Grace, my lord husband’s blockade of the Gullet moves into place.” Her voice was calm and composed. “All seaborne trade and travel to King’s Landing will soon be cut off.”

Rhaenyra heard the words, understood their meaning, but they felt distant, insignificant in the face of all that had been taken from her. She had spent days searching the sea, sifting through wreckage and despair, only to return with nothing but grief and the tattered remnants of her son’s life. The war had barely begun, and it had already stolen too much.

She felt as though she were staring through glass, observing from some place beyond herself, detached from the present moment. The room was warm from the hearth and the candles, thick with the scent of burning wood and candle wax, yet she felt none of it. The cold had settled into her bones, a deep, marrow-deep chill that no fire could touch.

Silence stretched between them. The council waited, their eyes on her, expectant. They sought a command, a direction, something from their Queen. But what was she to give them? Her throat felt tight, as though the weight of her sorrow had lodged there, strangling the words before they could form.

The ember of rage that had driven her across the sky, that had burned within her chest and kept her upright in the saddle despite the crushing weight of grief, flared hot and furious. It was the only thing holding her together, the last thread tethering her to purpose. Justice. Vengeance. A reckoning for her son’s blood. The thought alone sent a fresh wave of fury surging through her veins, as though the fire within her had been stoked anew. 

She wanted justice. No, she wanted more than justice. She wanted revenge. 

Her body ached, her throat raw from the wails that had been torn from her on the winds, from the bitter salt of the sea air that had scoured her lips and dried her tears. 

She swallowed, her breath hitching, but forced the words from her aching throat. “I want–”

Her voice was scratchy and hoarse, the sound of it foreign even to her own ears. Still, she pushed her words past her lips, her gaze burning like dragonfire as it lifted from the Painted Table.

When she spoke again, her voice was steel wrapped in flame, “Aemond Targaryen.”

The chamber seemed to still around her, the very air tightening with the weight of her words. The name landed like a hammer striking stone, shattering the brittle silence. Her eyes met Daemon’s.

His gaze was already on her, sharp and knowing. A blade poised at her throat, yet offering no harm–only understanding. His expression did not waver, but there was something in the set of his jaw, in the way his hand curled over the Painted Table, that told her he saw the storm within her, that he felt its weight pressing against her just as surely as he felt the hilt of his sword against his hip.

A flicker of something dark passed through his eyes, a promise unspoken, an oath unuttered.

But she knew.

Daemon would drown the world in blood if she asked him to.

And gods help her, she was beginning to wonder if she would.

And just as quickly as the ember had flared into a blaze, the blaze was extinguished as grief surged over her, an unforgiving tide washing away the last remnants of fury. She had spoken her darkest desire aloud–demanded blood for blood from the one she knew would give it to her–and now, all that remained was the hollow ache it left in its wake. Her vision blurred with tears, and she tore her gaze from Daemon, turning from the Painted Table. There was nothing more to say. 

The silence behind her was suffocating. She could feel their eyes upon her as she moved, their unspoken thoughts clinging to her like shadows. The weight of expectation, of command, of grief, pressed against her shoulders, but she refused to falter beneath it–not before them. She kept her back straight, her movements deliberate, each step carrying her away from the war council and towards the sanctuary of solitude. 

Her steps did not falter as she ascended the stone stairway leading towards the royal apartments, though the strain of exhaustion pulled at her limbs like leaden chains. The doors loomed ahead, the flickering torchlight casting long, wavering shadows across their surface. She stepped through, into the dimly lit corridor beyond, and only then did she feel the first fracture in her resolve. 

The tide of emotion she had fought so fiercely to suppress began to rise, threatening to pull her under. Her breath quickened, her pulse thudding against her ribs like a war drum. But still, she pressed forward, her boots striking against the cold stone floor with steady, hollow echoes. 

She did not stop until she reached the door–but it was not her own chamber that she found herself before. 

Her fingers curled around the iron handle, trembling as she pushed it open. The air inside was still, untouched by time, yet thick with the echoes of a presence now lost. The room smelled faintly of parchment, of sea breeze, of the boy that had been torn from the sky. Her gaze swept across the familiar space, the neatly arrange books, the small doublet draped over the chair in the corner, a remnant of the boy who had once called this place his own. 

Lucerys. 

Her breath caught, her chest tightening as she stepped inside. Her fingers trialed over a nearby shelf, brushing against the cool iron of a small toy horse. A gift from his father. She picked it up, the weight of it foreign in her palm, as though it belonged to another life. Swallowing hard, she set it aside, her gaze drawn towards the bed. 

The carved dragons winding up the spiral columns of the bedposts stared back at her, their ruby eyes glinting in the dim light of the hearth. She stepped closer, her fingers grazing the blanket that lay undisturbed upon the mattress. The fabric was soft beneath her touch, worn with use, adorned with crooked flowers stitched by an unpracticed hand–small imperfections that made it all the more precious. 

She lifted the blanket, pressing it to her face, inhaling deeply. The familiar scent of lavender clung to it, the same soap Luke had always used, mingling with the essence of something indefinably his. The ache in her chest deepened. It did not carry the scent of her daughter–neither the one who had sewn it nor the small child it had once wrapped–but it reminded her of them both, of all that had been stolen from her. 

A sob finally broke free, muffled against the soft fabric. She clutched the blanket tighter, as if holding onto it could tether her to the past, to the life that had been shattered beyond repair.

The pain that had been kept at bay surged forth with the force of a breaking dam, raw and unforgiving. Her knees buckled beneath its weight and she fell to the floor, curling in on herself. 

The Targaryens were said to be closer to gods than man–if that were true, then so too was the depth of their sorrow.

[lucifertheanalyzer]

Would it be unfair to say it seems like Helluva Boss is nothing but a Hazbin leftovers dump (with stuff like Exes and Ohs being a retool from one of the pitch bible comics) and merch brand more than anything now? Feels like Hazbin's gone up since it launched while Helluva's has plummeted and the merchandising of it has gotten more desperate and cheap

Helluva being the dumping ground for scrap Hazbin ideas is not far from the truth. Helluva was not planned, originally Blitz and Mooxie were a part of Hazbin.

The multiple back-to-back merch drops screams 'let's milk this before it is too late'. The views have drop dramatically. Episode 8 to 12 have yet to reach 20 million views. Ghostfuckers is currently the worst performing episode. I have screenshots of EP8 and 9's view counts from back in July and it took eight months for both episodes to reach 17 million views.

More and more people are losing interest in Helluva due to Stolas/Blitz being the main focus for multiple episodes. The show is supposed to be about Blitz's relationships with others but that fuck ass owl is priority. In S2, episode 1, 2, 4, 8, 9, 11, and 12 is about Blitz/Stolas. I think S3EP1 is going to be the breaking point for someone. I am still mix if I am going to watch the season 3 because the show became boring in the latter half. I was dragging my feet to watch the episodes after Apology Tour and the shorts did not interest me.

Onto the merch, SR is just making too much stuff in short amount of time, there is still 'limited edition/stock* available for purchase. They should just stick to merch around new episodes, V-Day for the horny fans, Summer, and Halloween merch. The quantity control is pure ass too and it is not a recent issue. During my daily eBay bowering, I found listings for the Pride playmat from 2024 and the seller received it when errors. Customers should receive A grade products when pre-ordering, B grade and C grade products should be sold at a discount. If small fan shops can do it, why cannot a big production product do it?

Stylishoccult is expensive fast fashion. Like I am not paying $95+tax for a single jacket. I can get four outfits from discount store for that price and still have money left over. It would be different if the jacket was reversible or something. I can give the site credit though; its layout is way better than SR and has this fun interactive element to promote those cheap looking plushies. Look at them go!! 😊

[mdhwrites]

how would you have written eda's curse and Luz's time in hexside? Eda's curse supposed to be a stand in for chronic illness but not only did they get rid of it they turned it into her 'superpower'- I know a lot of people call that a bad faith critic but it bothers me and just because hexside is cool and magic doesn't mean it's separate from the rest of the BI's laws and darwinism plus Luz is neurodivergent and has no biological magic- she would have issues with bullying and learning like she did back on her world- things wouldn't be magically fixed and might even be worse?

Why is it that The Owl House has nothing interesting to be done with powerlessness? To turn one's theorized weaknesses into strengths? Why do they just have to become strengths?

This is one of the biggest ways in which I would argue TOH is brain dead. Most other aspects of the show I can criticize but I have to admit that they tried. That there's something there... But it's entirely missing here. Which the fact that in an adventure series, the show cannot challenge the protagonist when they have a SEVERE disadvantage like this is emblematic of how the show doesn't challenge anyone on anything.

Eda's curse is like THE plot point of S1. Its finale and S2's opening, and even Affearances, all revolve around how we have gone from being worried about using magic to not being able to use magic. It's a HUGE status quote, especially because it leaves these characters so much more vuln- Oh never mind. Eda has explosive potions and glyphs that outdo all of her magic that she did before. It's not a problem. Move the fuck on.

I talked to an author after Clouds on the Horizon about how Eda gaining a coven sigil means nothing. They argued back that she'd lose her magic then. I shot back that she already lost it... And they admitted, being a fanfic author for TOH, that they FORGOT EDA DIDN'T HAVE MAGIC.

But why would you even remember that? She uses more magic with the glyphs than she did without them. The one time the curse really got in the way was with Tibbles. Then it not just became a superpower, it had EXTRA POWERS! Like what we saw in Eda's Requiem. Her magic genuinely got more interesting and more devastating AFTER losing it.

And this paralleled with Luz. Covention is the ONE time her not having magic comes up as something that puts her in danger and the answer is just to have someone else do the magic, which is always the solution in S1 early on. Need to fight Bounty Hunters? Bring in Willow. Need to escape detention? Yo Gus, use that good good illusion magic of yours. My own unique personality traits, skills and abilities instead? Why the fuck would we use that when everyone is overpowered and that's SO much easier a solution?

And once Luz does have her full arsenal, she rivals ANY other mage we've seen below Lilith's level. Fight a Selkidamus? Sure, I'm better than the entire fucking boat and will solo this bitch after they fail and I only need them for physical strength. The Conformatorium is my bitch by the end of S1 despite no training or practice. I can just walk up to Warden Wrath and render him completely at my mercy with just slips of paper. After those two back to back moments, anytime Luz loses or is challenged is just narrative contrivance because we've seen that her power is essentially limitless. It doesn't even cost her energy since her stamina seems entirely disconnected from her spells...

Which Gus reinforces because when he picks up glyphs, even when nervous with them, they are bluntly stronger than any other version we've seen of those spells. The largest fireball in the entire show is when Gus nervously casts his first glyph. It's horseshit.

And as you point out, it has cascading effects. If you want boring combat because otherwise you would need to sacrifice time from character work, that's one thing. However, the show's premise is on Luz learning magic. Learning to be the best version of herself. Because magic is not challenged though, she does not have to improve as a person to improve her magic. That's why three of her four glyphs have nothing to do with moral lessons. Arguably, all of them, and that's not getting into how the combo glyphs happen off screen and you can't argue shortening because all but one combo glyph is gotten before the shortening took effect. As such, you're not doing character work AND you're not doing interesting, entertaining combat or adventures.

I think the most damning thing here, period, is that I've mixed these subjects because it's obvious. A depowered, master of magic working with someone who wants to be that master of magic to understand the world and their abilities. It should be a bonding point for them that they don't have magic or that magic comes hard for them. But... It's not. It literally never is. The closest it EVER comes to that is when Luz teaches Eda glyphs which is like all of two minutes between two episodes and that's in SEASON TWO. It's not a reversal of dynamics because the first dynamic just straight up NEVER HAPPENED.

But it's easier to just give them powers. To just give super forms or combo glyphs or whatever else the person needs in that moment. It's easier than exploring the complicated subjects of not having something everyone else has, even though shows for TODDLERS literally have done it for decades in single episodes.

How am I supposed to agree that this is the deepest show with the most complex writing when they could not bother even once answering the question "How does someone without magic win against that win against something that does?" And for a show with two of its protagonists entirely missing magic at different points in the show, that's downright embarrassing.

TOH would have to be more than just another isekai using fantasy elements for power fantasy elements to give a shit about that though. Shame to anyone who actually cares about those genres though, this isn't the place for you. See you next tale.

======+++++======

Before anyone tries to crack back with this btw: Putting a glyph on Belos WOULD count if not for the fact that Luz has to break every version of the invisibilty spell we've ever seen for that to have worked. Her magic just did what it needed to do. She wasn't smart, the show cheated, which is essentially the whole point of this blog. And for those curious: EVERY other use of the Invisibility spell includes making the entire person vanish which makes sense since it is connected to the breath of the caster. Then out of nowhere, Luz can do it to a single object that she's wearing despite no one ever making their shirt even accidentally vanish. That's not clever, that's bullshit.

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead. If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

A Twitter you can follow too

And a Kofi if you like what I do and want to help out with the fact that disability doesn’t pay much.

[tessarionbestgirl]

I think the reason Team Black love Jace so much is because although they love to brag about how they "won" they ended up with two of the worst Targ kings. Aegon III is dull as dishwater and is the reason House Targaryen doesn't have any more dragons whilst Viserys II is plain evil.

So with Jace they can project their ideal Targ king, declaring that unlike Aegon III he wouldn't let the dragons die out and unlike Viserys II he wouldn't claim Rhaenyra is proof to why women shouldn't be allowed to rule nor would he force his daughter to marry his rapist son.

Look I think Jace is a nice character, and even....how I am going to say this? One of the reasons Ryan is so pro team black sometimes in his writing, is because he has a producer mentality, that means he believes to maintain big audience, he will write characters that the normies can root for. That are not so morally gray. Some people call Hotd the mcufication of asoiaf and they are not out of line because just like the comic books are way more philosophical with their story (the end civil for example) Hotd takes away the little nuance that fire and blood give of the war and character and leans completely to one side.

Season one we had Viserys, and worked so well that in S2 he basically wrote Rhaenyra personality in the same way. Jace falls under that wing.

And while tb eat that shit for a lot reasons, including the one you said, like I also see them getting defensive towards Aegon III, although I have a feeling they've only been like this with them since his relationship with Jaehaera became popular.

Viserys in S1 was constantly shit talked and for good reasons. This season, because the fans loved him, he is acclaimed, even for the wife he constantly disrespect groomed. Rhaenyra acting like him . And that is not the reason why people liked her in the first place. Remember the girl that flew to Dragonstone without her dad permission and faced her uncle? That is the Rhaenyra people like it.

This all backfire and Aegon of all people become a fan favourite.

Ryan desperately needed to create a character where the normies would root for, but he end up making Rhaenyra boring and so he underdeveloped Jace and make him palpable for teen girls thirsty over.

Ignoring there is one character in the book that is coded to be the "Jon snow" the guy the people would root for. And Martin wrote him to be that so, because when adapted people like him. And Ryan cut him almost him completely if wasn't for George complaining in his door. And that is fucking Daeron.

[pepstarvanmoon]

I really wonder what GAs think about Mike’s overall storyline in S3 and how it extended into S4.

When I first started S3 (I didn’t start shipping Byler until the rain fight and didn’t go deeper into the fandom until after finishing S4), I didn’t really care about what Mike had going on.

He was being a typical teen with their frustrating and dismissive ways, but I wasn’t really bothered by it? I didn’t really care until it started to feel sort of shoved in my face? Like being late to the theater, ditching Dustin on his first day back, everything with Hopper tbh, lying to El, advice from Lucas, not playing DnD to look for gifts at the mall, the break up, not playing DnD (again) to wallow in self-pity and to be gross boys lol (part of that scene is just so El and Will can react to Mike being gross like why).

By the time we got to “they’re conspiring against me!” I started rolling my eyes every time Microbial’s relationship issues became the focus of a scene. It was starting to piss off other characters, too, so I felt kinda justified in how little I cared.

Then the store scene where they’re patching up El’s leg and Mike struggles (badly) not to SAY “I love you” to her face, but to somehow get her to say it for him? (Like some weird school lesson trying to get students to find the answer without outright saying it like it’s a curse or something. This show has never needed I love you’s to convey that a couple is in love, so this whole thing felt unnecessary to me my first watch). I remember sitting there wondering why I should gaf about this plotline at all. It was so drawn out for what felt like no reason, and it didn’t seem to be going anywhere? “I know that I…” Are you sure you know, Mike? Like say it or move on.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but it really had no impact until they force you to remember it during the move out scene where El says she loves him too (weird btw seeing as we got the “I love her and I can’t lose her again!” BEFORE the “you’ve never heard that term…?” I guess it was to have a ‘funny’ scene after that first encounter with ther meat flayer? Idk maybe I need to rewatch S3)

I guess they left it open ended after that uncomfortable kiss scene because it’s clearly still an issue in S4, but in my initial watch, more than it not making sense to me, I just sort of found it boring? It might’ve just been my bias because I started to enjoy Will and El’s characters more than Mike’s at the time, and Madraosis’ constant (and minuscule) problems were making them both miserable. To have it pick up again in S4 annoyed me because the S3 finale made it seem like their relationship was okay, but… did they really resolve anything?

Honestly, my biggest gripe was it being included at all. It felt unnecessary and boring at the time, but if they’re gonna keep pushing Mike’s inability to say “I love you” and function normally while in a relationship after all that bs in S3, it better be for a decent reason. It was no longer as cut and dry as I thought when I watched S4, and it’s difficult to grasp that a lot of people watching the show still think this way.

I mean, just imagine Nancy spending a whole chunk of S2 trying to convince/tell Steve she loves him and treating Jonathan like an afterthought before they get together that SAME season (like a romantic and less traumatizing spin on what happened with Barb (RIP), where they clearly demonstrated how bad it was that Nancy was getting swept up in her relationship with Steve).

Nancy getting back with Steve at the end of S1 was annoying for a lot of people, but more of an “eh, whatever” until they started having problems again in S2. Why is it literally the same storyline?? It’s pretty blatant, too. I hardly see any GA really questioning it, and if they do it’s always chalked up to bad writing (which… yeah). If it’s not because Mike and El are having legitimate problems, or about Will’s confirmed feelings, then what do the Duffer’s want me to think?

(first post but I've been lurking here so long it doesn't feel like it.)

[stardustpr1ncess]

Desperately trying to get the words out in order to articulate why I really don't like what they did with Arcane season 2 but, I just keep wanting to say "not good." Like at one point I audibly yelled; "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?" but not in an amazed way, in a really fucking annoyed way. May break it up into multiple posts because this is taking longer to process than the other acts.

So... I guess the most encompassing problem is the scope just became WAY too big. The first season, despite having Lean that can turn you into a giant purple monster and magic-powered weapons, was very grounded in its #1 plot #2 locations and #3 characters. Let's discuss what season 2 did with each of these categories.

"The" plot. There's too many of them at this point, barely related to each other, and not enough fucks to go around for each one. The main plot however, would I guess be Viktor and the Glorious Evolutions™.

Firstly the floating in space shots to represent his conciseness connected to everyone's and how he's so ascended looks stupid and boring. Just straight up, they're silly to look at. Secondly the concept that he's now using some unknowable cosmic power to make all life a hive mind that will infect and destroy the planet along with turn everyone into the coolest looking mannequin is just so... WHY?! Like if I told you that's the s2 a3 climax 3 years ago you'd spit in my face (would not wipe it towards my mouth like Caitlyn tho that absolute horndog). The show was a political dispute between an oppressed city who wanted independence from a really wealthy and powerful city. Now it's for the sake of not only the world but like, EVERY REALITY NOW?!

Gonna try to make the other 2 points quicker but fuck there's so much going on.

Locations. Season 1 had Zaun, Piltover, and essentially just mentions of Noxus. Season 2 we have MULTIPLE DIMENSIONS MOTHERFUCKERS WOOOOOOOOO! Look I'm sorry if these points are articulated a lot worse than my prior essays but I'm running out of ways to say it's dumb because it's stupid lol. Within 7 episodes after the (probable) start of a civil war between 2 cities... There's now an infinite number of realities. Just the most insane stake raising they could've done, with a season not even 10 episodes long.

Too many characters for this post so again I'll focus on Viktor since he's now the main antagonist and, protagonist? Him being the wizard that saves Jayce, along with EVERY Jayce in EVERY reality, is simply something that did not need part of the budget put towards it. Genuinely just, the wizard did not need fleshing out. The multiverse in a contained 2 season show did not need to be this crucial last second. This is like if Optimus Prime showed up in season 3 of Avatar, it's just so pointless and diminishing of the story that came before.

So yeah needless to say, I thought this season was terrible. But hey, I'll probably buy the steelbook anyway.

Thank you for reading.

[canonizzyhours]

i read more canyon fic than i should.

it used to be because i was interested in the actual canon edizzy dynamic some other posts here have talked about and i wanted to find good darkfic about izzy topping from the bottom. then i realized i was never going to find that and it became something i did in good faith hope that i would understand the canyon better, maybe i'd find some really good fic about their take on fanon izzy and i would finally get why they found this compelling. at this point it's something i do out of morbid fascination, i'm still trying to understand the canyon but what i keep understanding is that their perspectives are always worse than i expected.

anyway here's what i was thinking about today. at this point i can sort canyon fic into categories and there's this one subgenre that's always fascinated me - and it goes well back into the early post-s1 hiatus era - where izzy becomes a weirdly passive character who never really does anything.

you can see exactly why this is happening. the author is so immersed in canyon meta that they refuse to engage with any of izzy's canonical motivations from s1 - the craving for power, the homophobia, the fetishizing obsession with masculinity, the contempt for the crew who work under him, the cruelty, the sense of entitlement to control ed's life: they've been convinced that none of that stuff is a part of izzy's character. but when you take it all away, you end up with a guy who would never actually do any of the stuff izzy canonically does in s1. and if you gave him any other motivations that pushed him to do other stuff instead it would become really obvious this is just a completely different guy (there's several OTHER genres of canyon fic where they do exactly that and it is super obvious this guy just has nothing to do with izzy anymore). so you end up with a character who does absolutely nothing except stand around in the background of scenes gazing at edward thinking sad thoughts about their dying relationship and every once in a while the author remembers to have him say "fuckin' twats."

so i was thinking about this today and what hit me like a lightning bolt is this exactly predicted what would happen in s2. the writers wanted to redeem him in one season and since all his motivations in s1 existed to push him to be awful, they had to resolve all of them as quickly as possible. so within the first half of the season izzy had let go of his creepy psychosexual obsession with ed and belief that he should control ed's life and his homophobia and contempt for effeminacy and learned to respect others instead of needing to dominate or be dominated.

but just like in those fics, this turned izzy into a character who no longer had any real personality traits besides saying twat sometimes, or any reason to actually do much of anything at all. and since the traits they got rid of so completely defined who he'd been up to that point, giving izzy any NEW motivations or personality traits would just make it really obvious this was functionally an entirely different guy.

this is the exact reason he was so boring in 2x05-2x07. with those traits gone there is no longer any reason for him to do anything in particular. the only thing they can do with him at this point is demonstrate that his redemption arc is complete by repeatedly having him do the opposite of evil stuff he did last season, and once they've checked off every box on that list, they have to kill him off because there is now nothing else he can possibly contribute to the narrative.

it's so funny to me that if i had taken seriously the lessons i learned from reading canyon fic i would have been able to predict at the very beginning of the season, as soon as it became clear they were speedrunning the redemption, that he would be dead at the end of it. those fics showed me exactly why there couldn't possibly be any compelling reason to keep a fully redeemed izzy in the narrative.

#394.

[starry-on-ao3]

✨personal reflection on my writing process for 'How long have you felt this way?'✨

I finished a thing!! I finally finished something!! yay 🫶

My 6-part 79,700-long series containing my first ACGAS (Farmody) fic, 3 follow-on ficlets, 1 one-shot, and 1 one-shot collection. Holy moly. Allow me to indulge for a moment in a writer's reflection on this whole process :)

My first thought when I saw 5x4 Uninvited Guests, and especially this scene, was "if they didn't want to make it gay they sure did a very bad job🤷‍♀️", and from that moment onwards I, like many others, was obsessed.

(5x4) Uninvited Guests

There's just something about these two, dude. Tristan's defensiveness, and very relatable fear of being pushed aside by a sparkling new assistant. Carmody's fear of abandonment and rejection. The fact both of them share these qualities, and they both feel like outcasts, but in a "hey, at least we got each other" sort of way. Need I say more?! I will leave it up to the following tags to say more.

I had wanted to get back into fandom for a while, after taking a long break, and I hadn't written anything that wasn't for college or work in years - so my skills definitely weren't where they could be, and initially I felt so insecure putting something out into the scary world of the internet. But I had no reason to be afraid! I found such a lovely, warm, welcoming community of people who wanted to read what I was writing, and I'm so grateful for that! ❤️

So I thought it would be cute to reflect on struggling with writer's block for so long, and just generally on what the writing process was like for this series - partly, I thought it might interest some of you who've been following this series since the start, and partly for my own sake as somebody venturing back into creative writing in a way I honestly never thought I would again!

In How long have you felt this way?, part 1 of this series, and the focal point I suppose of the whole series, I sort of fast-forwarded past their friendship-and-trust-building phase, because I honestly wanted to get to the juicy pining faster. Partly, it was also because I hadn't spent enough time with the characters to really fully imagine how their friendship might naturally develop (now obviously that I've spent a lot more time with them, I can see how their friendship would progress more naturally - which is why I'm returning back to HLHYFTW and filling in more scenes in the one-shot collection, Audrey's Memories). Additionally, chapter 1 is so dialogue-heavy because I am very much a visual thinker (although ironically can't draw to save my life lol) - but imagining dialogue comes easy to me, so the question became, "How do I get these two to talk about relationships?" which is something I couldn't picture them doing naturally.

I decided that Carmody was already developing feelings for Tristan by this stage, but Tristan hadn't fully realised his feelings yet. I think that Carmody would likely ask about Tristan and Maggie, given he was trying to test the waters. Then, it seemed natural for them to talk about their exes, and for two blokes in their mid-20s in WWII, it also seemed natural for them to talk about the future in a general sense, given the existential threat of the war (Tristan musing about settling down in chapter 1 - I borrowed this from Tristan's, imo somewhat unfinished, arc at the end of S2 where he's upset by Maggie moving on). Then Carmody comes out to him, and says settling down wouldn't be as easy for him to do. 6 chapters of pining later and they kiss :)

I do regret ending HLHYFTW so quickly after their first kiss, so in Research isn't as boring as it sounds, actually I imagined how their first conversation after their first kiss might go. That's where Carmody is very blunt with Tristan, and says that being in a same-sex relationship, in 1940s Britain, isn't going to be easy - linking to Carmody's fear of rejection. I wanted it to appear as if Carmody was almost offering Tristan an "out" out of their relationship before it had had even begun (I'm a sucker for angst, can you tell!?). This in turn triggers some anxiety in Tristan, where he's worried that Carmody is pulling away, and Tristan's shutting down makes Carmody in turn more anxious that Tristan will leave him for the same reasons his ex did (an OC named John who we universally hate). Tristan's also anxious that Carmody's already-glittering research career will make him want to stay in London, as opposed to returning to Darrowby. In short, they miscommunicate, have their first fight, (which broke my heart to write, but they needed to get past that milestone to develop their relationship), make up, and move on :)

In London Calling, I wanted it to be much more upbeat: shake off the angst and let them have some fun. I also wanted to show some more of Carmody's life in London, his friends, teachers, the RVC (this was one human error I made: I forgot that he goes to Imperial College in 5x5, not the RVC!), and of course, Hamish :)

I also wanted to show their relationship progressing emotionally (with another difficult conversation) and physically (but I off-screened that because I detest writing smut) so I focused on their emotional bond and made vague references to their sex life (I didn't want to ignore that side of their relationship either). Carmody gives Tristan a tour of the Royal Veterinary College, and Tristan begins to trust that Carmody does, actually, genuinely want to return to Darrowby and isn't sacrificing too much of himself to do that.

This is where I've brought in some of my own personal experiences and this is one way that fic is a safe space to explore some potentially difficult/challenging aspects of your own life, or of those around you, in a sandbox - and that's one of the reasons why I adore fic and fandom so much, and why I'm sure many of you do too!

When you're a researcher, it's very easy to hyperfocus and obsess over your topic (because, let's be real, it isn't just a topic, it's more like a vocation, and without your research, you wouldn't really know who you are!) - I suspect this is something I have in common with Carmody, and it was interesting to explore this characteristic but from Tristan's perspective, as opposed to Carmody. (I know what it feels like to be in my own head, but I don't know what it feels like to be in somebody else's head, observing me. I think that's why I write from Tristan's perspective so much.) Recognising this hyper-obsessive academic trait in Carmody, Tristan gets in his head worried that Carmody is sacrificing too much of himself to return to Darrowby to be with Tristan. So there's a tad of emotional hurt/comfort here, too. That was all informed by either personal experience, or stories from other people in my life where geography and love doesn't always line up (thanks, Brexit 🙄).

[stop reading here if you have not read the last chapter of 'See you at the end of the aisle'!]

See you at the end of the aisle is a sort of full-circle moment: lots of the plot lines I started in previous installments finally pay off and it was incredibly satisfying to finish this ficlet! - (Siegfried and Audrey's wedding, Tristan's recurring anxieties about "the future", and Carmody's need for a deeper commitment from Tristan). Here, again, I leaned into some personal experiences: I adore hearing other people's engagement stories, and now I have my own to tell, I adore telling my own engagement story too (DM me and I'll happily re-tell it, it never gets old!) - so the dinner scene where Siegfried and Audrey are telling their engagement story, and Tristan and Carmody are listening intently, is again directly inspired by real life. (I remember listening to other people's engagement stories, and longing for my own, and I would always picture myself in the role of the woman being proposed to.) So Tristan and Richard naturally do the same thing, and the roles they imagine themselves in foreshadow who eventually does the proposing, that being Tristan.

Here, I wrote from Carmody's perspective for a couple reasons.

Firstly, I adore romcoms and especially ones which have to do with weddings/engagements, and it's a familiar and comforting trope for me to return to!

Secondly, if I did write from Tristan's perspective, it would ruin the ending of the fic! So obviously the only way to do it was Carmody's pov :)

The sad elephant in the room is that Tristan and Richard obviously can't get married as two men in 1942. But I'm a hopeless romantic, so Tristan instead declares his forever love to Carmody, and I like to imagine they had a little spiritual ceremony anyway, with just the Skeldale family :)

To wrap up this very long post, the one-shot He's the love of my life and the (as-of-now ongoing) collection Audrey's Memories are written slightly out of context, basically in an effort to include certain scenes that didn't quite fit in the main 4 fics/ficlets, but which I wanted to write anyway, or which were inspired by conversations with friends in the Ao3 comments and I wrote them as thank yous for always encouraging me!

And I'll reiterate it now: thank you to everyone who subscribed, commented, gave kudos and read this series!! Every single notification email from Ao3 would have me smiling or giggling to myself, whether I was bored at work or on public transport or just chilling at home - I honestly can't emphasise enough how beautiful of an experience it has been to share these stories with you all 🫶 and I'd like to particularly thank @101goldenretrievers, @augurey-ray and @a-casual-egg! 🥰 Genuinely, I don't know how I could've gotten this series over the line without all of your amazing incredible wonderful love and support! 🫶

What's next?

My ongoing WIP, Close To You, is my current main focus, and I'm also working on Beyond All Reasonable Doubt, which is a fixit in which Carmody never leaves after 5x5!

I also write drabbles for these two adorable dorks, which you can find here, and I moderate the ongoing Farmody Prompt Challenge - follow @farmody-prompts to keep up to date with that 🥰

To wrap this up...

Thank you if you've read this far, and enjoy this gif of our faves as a reward 🫶💕

(also, below the gif is a deleted snippet of dialogue between Carmody and Tristan which didn't make the cut after their engagement, but which I wanted to share anyway somewhere so here you have it 🥰)

(5x5) Pair Bond

The way Tristan's smile and his eyes linger on Carmody I am WEAK do you notice how he keeps looking at Carmody even as he walks away???!! As if he's waiting for Carmody to turn around?!! oh my GOD HE'S SO IN LOVE hngnnggngng

Deleted dialogue from 'See you at the end of the aisle' chapter 5:

"How long have you felt this way- I mean... how long have you known you wanted to propose?" Carmody asked, admiring his twine ring in the gentle yellow glow of the light above.  "Honestly - since Christmas," Tristan replied, leaving a gentle kiss on Carmody's temple. "Remember that conversation James and I had by the fire? When you and Helen and Audrey were doing the washing up - since then... that's when I knew."  "And - how long were you planning this for?" Carmody asked.  "I actually wanted to propose the day we went for the picnic at Pumphrey Manor - but I could tell you were stressed out from your research, and I didn't want to distract you - I thought it probably wasn't the right time... And I've been carrying this letter around all week, ever since you got back, and just trying to find the right moment, then... In the dance hall, when you said you wanted to dance, I just knew this was the moment - now or never - and... All I needed then was for you to say yes."

[imthepunchlord]

I'm with you on finding Nathaniel boring.

I really can't see any appeal to him if you didn't ship him with Chloe between S1 and S2 and built an entire character around him that isn't actually there, I was really hoping for Alix to pull ahead of him

Oh man the mention of Chlonath is a blast to the past.

Alix was the classmate I liked the most back in s1. I liked her design, and the little we saw of her was actually really cool. She was one of the very few that actually acknowledged her shortcomings, apologize, and learn a lesson.

Which is so freaking rare in this show.

And then she kinda fell to the wayside, and then Bunnyx showed up with freaking time travel and I didn't like Alix as much.

And the more we got of the Bunnyx, based on what I've heard, I hated it more and more.

So then Kim became my fav classmate as I love a good himbo, who was sweet and he was funny, and then I got to hear they ruined him.

I just can't enjoy things with show, can I?

Anything I like is ruined.