#death in venice and other tales

[quotelr]

Nothing is more curious and awkward than the relationship of two people who only know each other with their eyes — who meet and observe each other daily, even hourly and who keep up the impression of disinterest either because of morals or because of a mental abnormality. Between them there is listlessness and pent-up curiosity, the hysteria of an unsatisfied, unnaturally suppressed need for communion and also a kind of tense respect. Because man loves and honors man as long as he is not able to judge him, and desire is a product of lacking knowledge.

Thomas Mann, Death in Venice and Other Tales

[allthedesiredusernamesaretaken]

" Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry. But also, it gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd. "

- Thomas Mann, Death in Venice and Other Tales

[demifiendrsa]

EGOT winning american film, television, and broadway actor James Earl Jones has passed away on September 9, 2024 at the age of 93.

Jones made his film debut in Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove. He received a Golden Globe Award nomination for Claudine. Jones gained international fame for his voice role as Darth Vader in the Star Wars franchise, beginning with the original 1977 film. Jones' other notable roles include in Conan the Barbarian, Matewan, Coming to America, Field of Dreams, The Hunt for Red October, The Sandlot, and the voice of Mufasa in The Lion King. Jones reprised his roles in Star Wars media, The Lion King (2019) remake, and Coming 2 America.

Jones' television work includes playing Woodrow Paris in the series Paris between 1979 and 1980. He voiced various characters on the animated series The Simpsons in three separate seasons. He then was cast as Gabriel Bird, the lead role in the series Gabriel's Fire which aired from 1990 to 1991. For that role, he won the Primetime Emmy Award for Outstanding Lead Actor in a Drama Series and was nominated for his fourth Golden Globe Award, this time for Best Actor in a Television Series Drama. He played Bird again in the series Pros and Cons, which ran from 1991 to 1992; that earned him his fifth and final Golden Globe Award for Best Actor in a Television Series Drama. He then had small appearances in the series Law & Order, Picket Fences , Mad About You, Touched by an Angel, Frasier. His role in Picket Fences earned him another Primetime Emmy Award nomination, one for Outstanding Guest Actor in a Drama Series. His later television work includes small roles in Everwood, Two and a Half Men, House, and The Big Bang Theory.

Jones' theater work includes numerous Broadway plays, including Sunrise at Campobello (1958–1959), Danton's Death (1965), The Iceman Cometh (1973–1974), Of Mice and Men (1974–1975), Othello (1982), On Golden Pond (2005), Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (2008) and You Can't Take It with You (2014–2015). He was also in various off Broadway productions and Shakespeare stage adaptations such as The Merchant of Venice (1962), The Winter's Tale (1963), Othello (1964–1965), Coriolanus (1965), Hamlet (1972), and King Lear (1973). His roles in The Great White Hope (1969) and Fences (1987) earned him two Tony Awards, both for Best Leading Actor in a Play.

[bingwriterxo]

the shakespeare exhibit - part 3

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: in which you and tara have a study date

warnings: none

word count: 1700+

author's note: pure fluff, some fluff, and a little more fluff

previous part | next part

“Can you name three of Shakespeare’s histories, tragedies, and comedies?”

I wonder how planes fly. Like, where’s the physics in that? Tara thought as she stared blankly at the notebook in front of her, the page filled with half-assed notes about literature. And why can’t we fly? That’s bullshit.

“Tara? Are you with me?”

This mattress is really comfy. I should ask her where she got it.

“Tar?”

Tara glanced up at the sound of your voice, blushing as she realized that you had been asking her a question, which had promptly flown over her head because of how boring the topic was.

“Sorry, what was the question?” she asked sheepishly, smiling at the way you giggled.

“Three histories, three tragedies, three comedies,” you said.

She’ll be lucky if I can even name three plays in general. Tara huffed, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she thought. “Okay, comedies: Twelfth Night, The Merchant of Venice, and…uh, The Winter’s Tale?”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowed as you thought about her answer. “Twelfth Night and The Merchant of Venice, yes, but The Winter’s Tale is technically labeled as a tragicomedy nowadays.” What the fuck is a tragicomedy? Tara thought. She blinked at you, and you clicked your tongue. “I think your professor would accept that, though. Next?”

“Othello, Antony and Cleopatra, and Titus Andronicus--tragedies.” You nodded, not even sparing a glance at your own note sheet that you had pulled out to help Tara study. How does she just know this shit off the top of her head? “And histories? All of the Henry plays.”

You chuckled. “Can you be more specific?”

“No.”

“Tar, come on.” You crossed the room and sat on your bed, leaving your desk abandoned. She held her breath at your sudden closeness, your shoulder nudging against hers as you pointed at her notebook. “You have them written down.” You squinted. “I think? Tara, I can’t even read this.”

She looked down at her notes. What she had thought was legible writing was, in fact, just chicken-scratch. “Oh,” she said. “I think I was falling asleep during this lecture.” She sighed and leaned back against your pillows. “This is stupid. I’m a film major! I don’t need to know about Shakespeare or Hawthorne or the Pope!”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Do you mean Pope, as in Alexander Pope?”

Tara frowned. “Same difference.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.” You shook your head, giggling. “Look, I know you find literature boring--”

“Literature is the bane of my existence,” she stated, crossing her arms over her chest.

You leaned back, and Tara tensed as you placed your head on her shoulder. Must. Stay. Perfectly. Still.

“You didn’t have to take Intro to Lit., you know. There’s a lot of other courses that could’ve fulfilled this credit.”

She grumbled. “Mindy told me to take it. She said it would be easy.” She clenched her jaw. “It’s not easy.”

A laugh erupted from your throat, shaking Tara’s frame, and a grin pulled at her lips at the sound. “Of course she would think it’s easy, Tar,” you said. “She likes literature.”

“Whatever,” she huffed.

You sat up and twisted yourself so that you could look at her, your eyes soft and smile softer. “Come on.” You pulled lamely at her arm. “We’ve gotta get back to studying.”

“Fine.” She sat up and rested her chin on your shoulder. “But I’m not happy about it.” She felt as you shivered when she spoke, her breath painting over the skin of your cheek.

Your eyes flitted down to her lips, and just when she thought you were about to lean in, you asked, “Can you explain the idea of the Blazon to me?”

She clamped her eyes shut. This girl will be the death of me. She opened her eyes, looked at the small smile that was always on your lips whenever you were around her, and sighed out, “Okay.” And I’ll gladly accept that death.

* * *

“There’s only, like, three more authors we have to go over, Tar.”

It had been nearly four hours since you had moved away from Shakespeare and onto the other works that Tara had been reading for her literature class, and it was safe to say that Tara was burned out.

“Can’t we just take a nap or something instead?” she asked. She tugged at the sleeve of your sweatshirt to pull you to lay back with her. “Or make out?”

The tips of your ears turned bright pink, and she was sure that if you were facing her, the rest of your face would be the same hue. “Shut up,” you mumbled. You looked at her, and her guess was proven correct--you were blushing all over. “We have to do Emily Dickinson.”

“Oh! Like that TV series with Hailee Steinfeld.”

Your eyes widened. “You watched that?”

She shrugged. “Some of it, but I was only paying attention to--”

“Hailee Steinfeld, of course.” You chuckled. “You didn’t listen to any of the poems, did you?”

She waved you off. “Of course I didn’t.”

You shook your head and looked down at her notes, eyebrows furrowing and a scoff pushing past your lips. “You guys didn’t even read any of her best poems,” you said. You stood suddenly, and Tara watched as you crossed the room to your backpack, pulling out a small, battered, leather-bound journal. You cracked it open. “Like, how did your professor never assign ‘I Cannot Live With You’?”

Tara shrugged. “Never heard of it.”

You cleared your throat. “‘I cannot live with you,’” you began, taking small steps toward the bed as you read. “‘It would be life--, and life is over there--, behind the shelf.’” You sat on the edge of the bed, eyes still trained on your notebook. “‘The Sexton keeps the key to--, putting up, our life--his porcelain--, like a cup.’”

Tara listened as you continued to read her the poem, her heartbeat speeding up at each word that rolled off your tongue. You looked so peaceful reading poetry, like you had just made your way home after a long trip, and she gulped. Jesus Christ, she thought. Could she be any more perfect?

“‘So we must meet apart--, you there--I--here--, with just the door ajar, that oceans are--and prayer--, and that white sustenance--, despair,’” you finished, glancing up at her when you were done. She was staring back at you with half-lidded eyes and her mouth slightly agape. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“You’re beautiful,” she breathed out, and you smiled, blushing again. “Can we makeout now? Because that was, like, the hottest thing ever.”

You shut your journal and threw it near Tara’s notebook. “You’re horrible,” you joked. She shrugged, like she couldn’t be blamed for wanting to pounce on you. “Since your mind is so set on kissing me, let’s turn your studying into a little game.”

Tara eyebrow’s furrowed. Why won’t she just make out with me? “A game?”

“I’ll ask you questions, and if you get them right, you’ll get a kiss,” you said. She nodded fervently and sat up, hovering over her notebook.

“Okay! I’m ready!” She glanced at you, watching as you giggled to yourself. “Also, before we start, is this entire thing”--she pointed at your journal--“filled with poems?”

You shook your head. “The back half is poems, the front half is plays and novels.”

She picked up the little book and opened it, eyes widening at your delicate handwriting detailing different plays that you wanted to read or novels that your professors suggested. She flipped to the back half, where she found pages upon pages of poems written out, some from Emily Dickinson, some from authors she had never heard of in her life.

“You’re such a nerd, you know,” she teased, putting the journal back down.

“Yeah, a nerd that’s gonna get you a passing grade on this damn midterm.” You grabbed her notebook from her, leafing through the pages before settling on a topic. “Okay, what literary period was Alexander Pope in?” you asked.

“Uh, an old one,” Tara said lamely.

You glared at her lightly. “Tar, I’m not kissing you until you get one right, so you might as well try.”

She huffed. “Fine.” Literary period? Stupid. It’s all stupid. “The Restoration?”

“Close,” you said. “Wanna try again?”

“No.”

You rolled your eyes teasingly. I’d like to see her eyes rolling in a different way-- “It’s the Augustan Age. What about Jonathan Swift?”

“Oh! I know this! It’s also the Augustan Age, ‘cause he and Pope were friends.”

You tilted your head. “They weren’t really friends, but--”

“But that’s right, isn’t it? Don’t I get my kiss now?”

You chuckled at her eagerness. “You sure do.” Tara leaned forward, and she frowned when you put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “If you can name one piece that Swift wrote.”

She gasped, placing a hand on her chest. “You said you’d kiss me if I got a question right!” she whined.

“I also said I’d get you to pass this test.” You raised an eyebrow at her. “So, what did Swift write? Give me literally anything.”

Cruel Summer, Cardigan, Back to December. She shook her head. That’s Taylor Swift, stupid. Jonathan Swift, on the other hand…

“Uh, ‘A Modest Proposal’?”

You leaned forward, pressed your lips to hers, and she grinned into the kiss. Win!

“Good job, baby,” you said when you pulled away, your eyes widening when you realized the pet name that had slipped out. “I mean, uh--”

“‘Baby’, huh?” She bit her bottom lip and smiled. “I could get used to hearing you say that.”

bonus: “i got an A on my midterm!” tara exclaimed from where she sat at her desk, eyes on her laptop, which displayed the grade that had just been released.

mindy, who was scrolling through her phone on tara’s bed, jumped at the sound. “you got an A? On Intro to Lit.?”

tara grinned. “it pays having an english major for a girlfriend.”

“girlfriend?!” mindy immediately started scrambling on her phone, and tara heard her own phone buzz on her desk a minute later. she picked it up, glancing at the screen.

you :D (9:43pm): girlfriend, huh?

you :D (9:43pm): i wasn’t aware we were girlfriends yet

tara (9:44pm): hold that thought

tara twisted in her seat, eyes narrowed at mindy. “i swear to god, i am going to strangle you.”

[chaoticallywriting]

A Merciful King ☼ Epilogue

Pairing: Aegon Targaryen x Reader

Warnings: talk of death, blood, torture, childbirth

Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: It has been exactly a month and fourteen days since I posted the first chapter to this series (on my old account). I had no clue it would go this far or that so many would love it, I'm so used to my writing not being received at all or only being received by very few. The response I've gotten for this story is overwhelming and honestly I love all of you guys for the support you've given me. Despite being ready for a new story I think I'll always have a soft spot for amk and I know I'll miss this series. On a story note, the second to last like 'scene' is both of their povs, mainly readers but I decided to mesh their thoughts in certain bits. I also took inspiration for the crown from jesus because despite not being religious I like the flare of it.

Synopsis: The war is over, the blacks have lost, and as Rhaenrya’s daughter it is your duty to marry a green to secure your younger brothers safety. If only Aemond paid attention to you like his brother does.    

Taglist, if you asked to be tagged and you aren't on the list it's because it wouldn't let me add you so I just got rid of your name. It only lets me tag 50 people so I'm sorry!: @mirandastuckinthe80s @b1gb3anz @daenerysdracarys @wondergal2001 @flavorofsalt @daddysfavoritesexkitten @zillahvathek @itsametaphorbriansblog @elleclairez @stargaryenx @tired-ninfa @caramelcandescence @viscardiac @moonxhunt @tisthekatseason @bajadotcom @xxlilyxx90 @ohitsthemaster @justasmallbean @thefloatingpickle @lawlerek @miqaelababa @arcielee @watermel0nsugarhigh @lovecleastrange @lyannesworld @imakeangelscry @aloneatpeace @xinyourdreamsx @cl-0-vr @borikenlove @shion-ah @widemiffyhappy @aegonsgf @bwormie @bellameshipper @evienorville @mandiiblanche @hydrationqueensworld @shiranai-atsune @hiatuswhore @giulia2372 @venice-bish @malfoytargaryen @crudemoon @crispmarshmallow @trifoliumviridi @wooya1224

Previously

Aegon Targaryen dutifully stays by your side while you recover. He doesn’t move from the rather uncomfortable chair, nor does his hand leave yours. Unfortunately, none of the lords nor guards were able to locate his brother, only found two different trails of blood. One leading from a study to the ballroom and the other leading from the same study to where Aemonds bastard son, Jaerion, was sleeping.

He has already told his mother his decision, that when you wake up he will marry you. She only nods, face solemn, as she goes back to mourning her favorite son. He’s not dead, that much is obvious by Vhagar’s behavior, but he is gone. The preparations have already begun, he’s decided the ceremony will be in the Grand Sept and a celebration will be held in the gardens. He understands why you might have an aversion to the ballroom.

Aegon tells you all of this while you sleep, there are only a few times you wake up from your milk of the poppy induced slumber and all you speak is gibberish. You ask for your handmaid Lila, you keep mumbling her name, but unfortunately no one can find her. 

Your marriage has been annulled, Aegon made sure of it during one of the most recent small council meetings (it's the only time he leaves your side). The small folk had shown so much outrage at learning that their favorite princess had been hurt by her own husband. 

Many began to gossip that something seemed amiss that day during the festival, that he seemed too tense and neither of you seemed to even notice each other's presence. This fairy tale that they were spoon fed was a lie, and all of Flea Bottom knows that the reason children are no longer dying of starvation is thanks to you. 

He tasks his mother and daughter to have your wedding dress made, the royal tailors already have your measurements so that should be easy. Giving them this task helps ease his daughter's anxiety, he even asks her to see if the boys would like to help. His only request is that the dress did not have any green on it, much to his mothers dismay. Aegon knows how much you’ve grown to hate the color, and he wants this to be a memorable and lovely day. 

“I love you,” he whispers, you groan in response.

Upon fully waking up, Aegon is filled with something he has not felt since Jaehaerys’s murder. You tell him and Alicent everything, it’s hard to ignore the face she makes when you mention stabbing Aemond, but you simply remind them both of what Alys has done. 

He wants to send out search parties all throughout the free cities, to put her head on a spike, and you keep quiet throughout his raging, not minding the idea. It is Alicent that shoots him down and reminds him of how that may make the leaders of said cities believe he is trying to attack them. 

So instead, search parties are sent all throughout Westeros (once again) looking for your handmaiden. Upon waking up, one of the first things you did was ask for Lila, Aegon had foolishly believed that maybe the two of you harbored a friendship, so imagine his surprise to find out the truth.

He feels the same outrage you do, those handmaidens were picked by him and his mother, and yet one was the reason for all of this? A taster is hired, all your meals are tested before being brought to you, and all of your handmaidens have been swapped.

“What kind of flowers?” he asks you one day, leaning on his hand that’s propped up by his elbow. He’s laying at the end of your bed, watching you sip on the broth the maesters brought you. ‘It has healing properties’ they said, but the face you keep making leads him to believe it’s just a new form of torture for you. Nevertheless, you drink all of it, every day since waking up you've drank and everyday you comment on how rancid it is. 

“Dragons breath, and black lotus’s. They’ll perfectly display our house colors,” you set the empty mug aside and reach out for him. Aegon eagerly moves from his position at the end of the bed to lay beside you, pulling you into his arms and kissing the top of your head. 

He’s more at ease now that he doesn’t have to hide his love for you, some of that possessiveness and jealousy has waned away. Aegon is finally being granted his wish of calling you his, he just wishes so much tragedy hadn’t taken place to get here. 

“I want them filling the Sept,” you say, arms wrapping around his waist. Your eyes seem elsewhere, perhaps dreaming of the upcoming day. He’s thought about it with great detail and finds himself wistfully imagining the rest of his life with you. 

It makes Aegon feel like a silly child, like he needs to be scolded and reminded he cannot have such wonderful things. Yet you are in his arms, agreeing to marry him. When you woke up, and he told you the news, there was no fighting, no resentment or anger, only a sigh of relief. 

“Would you want a valyrian ceremony?” He knows there will need to be one following the faith of the seven, the lords and ladies will not approve of their marriage if they don’t. But perhaps, if you want, there can be another one, a more intimate one.

It’s silent for a few beats, your expression contemplative and lips pursed. “No,” you run your fingers up and down his chest, your eyes almost glazed over as you look at Rhaenyra’s bassinet. “I do not want to shed any more blood for a long time.” 

Part of Aegon feels relieved, if you had said yes he would do it, but the idea of seeing you bleed again (it’s only been a month) terrifies him. That night you laid limp in his arms as the Maesters got to work, they did the best they could while still in the ballroom. Maester Orwell had said they must act fast, that moving you to a private room would have to wait or else you would perish from blood loss. 

Aegon’s hands had been stained red for days, Alicents too. He had held his hand on top of the wound with his mother, trying to help in any way. Some courtiers stayed to watch, while others ran in disgust when they saw how much blood was smeared all over you. Most of the men were gone by that point, having ran out to try to secure themselves a seat on the small council. 

He didn’t realize just how much blood was on him until two guards slowly lifted you onto a wooden board and gently carried you to your chambers. He was knelt in a large puddle, as was his mother, and Aegon had held you for a long period of time. You were smeared all over him, staining his clothes, his hands, some had even gotten on his face.

The poor king was in shock, sat staring at the massive puddle, reflection gazing back at him as tears filled his eyes. You had almost died, the maesters even told them there was a chance you would die within the first few days of recovery. They talked about loss of blood, bed fever or even infection. Somehow you prevailed, and Aegon doesn’t know who or what to thank for such a miraculous thing. 

“I love you,” you murmur, fingers stilling as your gaze shifts to look into his eyes. His face softens, mind being pulled away from the thoughts that plague his mind late into the night, and brings his lips down onto yours. The kiss is chaste, it’s nothing like how he normally kisses you, but perhaps a near-death experience softens a man. 

“I love you too.” 

You looked radiant, the dress was made of the finest white silks, it was form fitting and had gauzy sleeves and a cape that trailed behind you. There’s little silver dragons on your sleeves and cape, along with a metal belt that looks like a dragon taking flight around your waist. You looked like the perfect Targaryen bride. 

It’s three days after your wedding when the news reaches the both of you about Lila. She was found hiding in a pleasure house in Flea Bottom, apparently trying to make enough money to find safe passage to Pentos. The guards drag her into the throne room while Aegon sits upon the iron throne with his crown nestled perfectly upon his head.

You stand beside the throne in a dress made of black and red fabrics with gold detailing and a valyrian steel circlet that matches Aegon the Conqueror's crown. He had ordered it to be made three days before your wedding and placed it upon your head himself after the two of you had kissed.

The guards shove her onto the floor at the bottom of the steps, hands on their swords as they watch her every move. Aegon wants to order her death immediately, his chest rises and falls as he takes in the traitorous woman who helped kill his son, who tried to kill you. 

Surprisingly, she does not beg, nor does she weep or even look a little scared. Her eyes stay set on you, a hardened expression on her features as she never wavers. Gone is the girl you described her as, and in her stead sits a woman who looks ready to try to finish the job. 

“Why?” Is all you say, voice shaking with barely contained rage. Your hands are clasped together, tightly clenching your fingers as you take her in. All Aegon sees is blood that needs to be shed. He finds himself itching to grab his sword and do it himself, to slice her to bits that he will later feed to Sunfyre. 

“Your stepfather killed my father and little brothers in the war, there wasn’t even anything to bury once he was done with them. My mother followed soon after by her own hand.” Lila grits teeth, chest raising and falling. Her hands have been chained, as have her ankles, but still she yanks on the chains as if she believes herself strong enough to break them. “Alys offered revenge, I was happy to accept.” 

He leans forward, practically seething now. No one else is in the room besides the sworn guards, who happen to be Ser Criston and Ser Arryk. His mother stands on the opposite side of the throne, with Otto beside her. His words will never leave this room, he’s sure of it. “So you killed my son?!” 

Alicent jumps at the volume of his voice, hand clutching her chest, and Otto sighs. His wrinkled hand rubs his forehead, probably disappointed in him yet again. You on the other hand, stay with your back straightened, your hands reddened from irritation as you glare at this woman. You told him how you thought she was a friend, he cannot imagine how you must feel. 

“I believe it was Daemon Targaryen himself who once believed it was okay to seek revenge for the killing of a child, my youngest brother was only four and ten, just like yours was.” Lila briefly looks at him, that same barely contained rage in her eyes, before looking back at you. “A son for a son, Alys called it. I think my mother would have appreciated me seeking what little vengea-” 

You storm over to her, snatching her by her chin and roughly pulling her face up to look into your eyes. Aegon stood, ready to defend you, as he just barely heard your words. 

“Death would be too kind a sentence,” you spit out, “I shall have you tortured in the dungeons for as many years as we can keep you alive, perhaps I might stop by to watch occasionally.”

You shove her to the floor, body shaking as you clench your fists. Aegon comes down to stand beside you, a hand on your shoulder to say ‘I’m here, I understand.’ 

Ser Criston looks to him for confirmation, he seems astonished by the sentence, but all Aegon does is nod. Why would he go against your command when it is you she wrought the most pain against. Aegon grieves his son, misses him too, but Lila betrayed you the most. He won’t take choices from you ever again. 

Criston and Arryk pick her up, beginning to drag her away when she calls out, “you are a wicked beast! I wish I had managed to kill you!” 

He’s astonished by your response, he wants to grab your cheeks and pull you into a kiss when you confidently reply “you’re right, I am a dragon after all, and it will take more than your puny poison to kill me.” 

Gods, he loves you. 

He had danced with you all night, not a drop of wine was needed after the ceremony, his lips had hardly left yours. All your favorite foods were served, songs you both loved strummed out by the bards. You even picked up Jaehaera and brought her into dance with you two at one point. He had waved Aegon and Viserys over, so they could join too. Aegon never thought he’d have such a joyous wedding, let alone a little family that loved him like this.

Aelar is named heir while you are still a sweaty mess in your birthing bed. His older sisters Jaehaera, Rhaenyra and Saera all crawl onto the bed to get a peek at their little brother, excited giggles filling the room. He lets Otto announce to the kingdom that Aelar is born, he can’t bear to be away from you right now. Not when you're glowing like this, not with his son in your arms. A healthy baby boy who is alive. 

Aegon III and Viserys visit later, both boys having been training in the yard when the news broke out. The labor had been quick, so had Saera’s thank goodness. They ask to pick the egg out themselves and the two older girls all but demand to come with, Aegon watches as you smile at their childish bickering, little Aelar still in your arms. 

“Would you like to hold him?” You ask, voice low enough that the kids don’t notice. Honestly, Aegon is scared too. He had practically snatched Saera out of your arms when she was born, so excited for another child to spoil, but Aelar is smaller and the past still haunts the both of you. 

He nods, heart pounding as you slowly shift him into his arms, the second yours are free Saera climbs into them. She’s only just turned one, her brain probably has no clue what’s going on. The both of you had decided to wait for another child after Rhaenyra, the trauma left behind was too fresh. Both of you were scared that another birth would take you, or that you would perhaps deal with another stillborn. 

By now, Rhaenyra is five and an absolute spitfire, she constantly talks and always wants snuggles from her father before bedtime. It was due to her that Saera was born, she had begged for a little sibling despite Jaehaera telling her ‘they can be annoying sometimes’. Rhaenyra had thrown a pillow at her in response and stomped her little foot, lips pouting as she stared up at him. 

That night he had talked with you, and you agreed to stop drinking moon tea. Both of you were scared, but the pressure for an heir was ever present, and enough time had passed. The wound was still there, just like the scar on your stomach, but it had faded with time. Both of you hardly thought about Lucerys II anymore. 

Aelar squirms in his arms, tiny feet slowly kicking in the air, he’s all squishy and red like newborns are, but Aegon thinks he’s perfect. You lean your head against his shoulder, arms wrapped around Saera who gently tugs at your hair and stares at your son. This, him, he’s perfect. Suddenly Aegon forgets about the stress, the pressure, the desire to throw his crown into a crowd and walk away. 

Perhaps now life will be a little easier, perhaps the work of a king will be worth it when he thinks of how one day Aelar will inherit it. 

“I love him,” he whispers. By now, all four of the kids have run off with guards trailing after them, most likely to pick out an egg together. His gaze shifts to yours, eyes meeting in a loving stare. “Just like I love you.” 

“I lo-” Saera shrieks, hands roughly grabbing your cheeks as she surges forward. The both of you laugh at her silly antics.

The morning of his wedding, Otto had tried to discuss matters regarding the realm, he had all but tried to shoo him away. Unfortunately, his grandfather is a stubborn man. “There is also the matter of your… Assassins.” 

Aegon stills, telling all the servants shuffling about his chambers to leave as he finally faces his grandfather. Of course, nothing gets past this man. “Can I not have one happy day? One without business or whatever dreadful thing you're about to tell me.” 

“I have not told your mother about the horde of mercenaries you have hired to kill your brother, but I do want to remind you to restrain yourself. Even if another man kills him, since you were the one that paid for it, you would still be a Kin slayer.” 

Aegon shrugs, hands running through his cropped hair as he eyes the decanter left on his dresser. “I do not care, besides the last update I received is them being run out of Pentos. None of them have found where the roaches are now hiding.” 

Just one glass, he thinks while pouring himself a chalice full. You would need this too if you were stuck talking to Otto. “Seems the lords there were fond of Daemon Targaryen, they have not taken lightly to the news of his stepdaughter being harmed. Dorne also kicked them out for killing a child, I believe they didn’t fare well in Essos either.” Aegon takes a swig, leaning against the dresser as he glares at his grandfather, “either my mercenaries kill them or starvation will finally hit. They must have run out of money by now.” 

“Saera claimed Vhagar,” you say one evening, you're pregnant with your fifth child by now. Aegon stills, hands full of important documents that he’s drowning in. The words circle through his mind, trying to think of what to say as realization sets in. “The dragon keepers were surprised, seeing as she is only four and….” 

You're wringing your hands out, feet propped up by a stool, while you sit in your armchair. He wonders if you’ve told his mother, does she know? Should he go check on her? She’s been so focused on Helaena’s recovery, a new-found confidence in her daughter surging within her ever since Helaena has finally started leaving her room. Should he be the one to ruin that happiness for her? He’s ruined everything else, so it wouldn’t be anything new. 

“Oh,” is all he says, his throat is suddenly so dry. Aegon thinks to pour himself another glass of wine but for some reason he can’t unclench his hands, the papers within them crinkle, some rip. The stress did not leave upon Aelar’s birth, the weight on his shoulders has only grown. Now he wants to leave a perfect kingdom for him, and no matter what it seems he can’t. 

You slowly pull yourself from your chair, letting out a low groan as you waddle over to him. You’ve complained recently of your feet aching, it’s late into your pregnancy and any day you may go into labor. He wonders if it’ll be another boy like Rhaegar or if they’ll have another girl. He doesn’t know which he wants more. 

You stand in front of his desk, gentle hands on top of his as you slowly peel his fingers back. He gulps, staring at your hands, once stained red with your own blood. There are scars on both of them, Rhaenyra asked you about them recently.

Aegon had stilled at the dinner table, a dark look coming over his face as he recalls that horrid night. But you, ever the smart woman that he loves, just smiled and said, “sometimes a mother must make sacrifices.” 

It had been vague enough to confuse her and keep her from pressing for more information. Jaehaera though had stopped eating as well, eyes on your hands as she too recalled that night. Her name day has never been the same, every year she thinks of you in that puddle. 

“It was most likely peaceful” you say, pulling him out of his thoughts. Aegon knows you still despise him and while he too hates his brother for what he did At this moment he realizes what this means. His brother is dead. The boy he used to tease as a child, the one who covered for him when he would run off to Flea Bottom. The little kid he used to steal food from. He’s dead, and Aegon doesn’t even know how. Some time passes before you kiss his forehead and head to bed. Aegon finds himself slowly standing up, deciding to join you when his hand slips, papers sprawling across the floor.

He lets out an annoyed huff before bending down to pick them up, his hand sifts through the pile, bunching them in one hand while the other grabs the rest. His hands grasp onto something unfamiliar, brows furrowing when he finds a letter amongst the stack. 

Aegon shoves the unimportant (but actually very important) papers onto the desk before ripping open the letter, the letter is short, it’s signed ‘Nightshade’. His heart drops. 

“It’s done, proof is enclosed. 

~ Nightshade” 

Aegon digs inside the envelope, producing two strands of silver hair and one black. 

“You would still be a Kin slayer.” 

Aegon cannot bear to speak after that, he can’t even respond when you sleepily say you love him. The stunned man only nods in response. 

The cake served was a honey cake, he thinks, no he knows because that is your favorite cake. It was honey and your hair was pinned back, silver dragon pins found throughout your hair. You looked stunning that day. 

Everyone has caught on, the king is different, he’s quick to temper, erratic, stressed. He’s constantly seeking you out, so he can calm down, hands shaking and crown askew. Aemma lays in her cradle as you hold him. Aegon won’t say why, he can’t seem to fathom telling you what he’s done. 

“It’s too much” he sobs one day, hands clenching your dress as you hug him. “It’s too heavy!” 

You frown, pulling away and cupping his red cheeks, you look concerned, scared. Aegon can’t blame you, he’d be scared if this was you. “My love, talk to me, please. What is too heavy?” 

He chokes on his sobs, head resting on your chest. You take off his crown, throw it onto the bed and rub his back. “This feeling, I did it! I did it and I can’t take it back!” 

“You must tell me what this feeling is, so I can help you, maybe it won’t feel so heavy if you tell me.” 

Aegon pulls you closer until your body is flush against his, “I forgot she was still employed by me, everything was going so good, and she hadn’t found him in years s-so-” he sniffles, body shaking, “I forgot.” 

You nod along, one hand playing with his hair in a way that you know soothes him. “My last assassin killed Aemond, she killed his whole family.” 

He whispers the words, scared somehow the walls will hear and scream it to the whole realm. ‘Aegon killed his brother!’ They would screech, ‘he’s a kinslayer!’ 

Your ministrations stop, body suddenly so still as you take in his words. He’s scared you’ll scold him, reject him, show him the disgust he knows he feels for himself. Instead, you pull his face away from your chest, despite his protests, and look into his eyes. He doesn’t find any of those things, only sorrow and concern. 

“You forgot?” 

He nods. 

“Then you did not mean it, and therefore it was not you.” 

It's shitty reasoning, but he’ll take whatever you give him. He launches himself back into your arms. By now, the front of your dress is soaked, but neither of you comment on it. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he repeats like a mantra. 

“And I, you” you murmur, kissing the top of his head. 

He can’t remember what kind of flowers were draped throughout the Sept, nor can he seem to remember the necklace you wore, despite it being a gift from him. Aegon can’t remember if you sat on his left or right, and he knows he used to remember that. 

“I want to talk to you,” you start. Aegon is laying in bed, boots kicked off and only in his small clothes. Lately there have been bags under his eyes, he’s lost weight and despite your talk a few weeks ago he still seems on edge. You’ve sat in on many of the small council meetings and noticed how detached Aegon has become. Many of the members scoff when they must repeat themselves. You're scared. 

Aegon pats the spot beside him, you crawl onto it but stay on your knees, a hand resting on his thigh as you gaze at him with concern. “What of?”

Even his tone sounds tired. Your hands reach up to cup his cheeks, “I have an idea, but you must hear it out before you make any comments.” 

“If this is about that new thing you heard the ladies gossip about, I will not let it anywhere near my as-” 

You chuckle, shaking your head. “I want you to abdicate.” 

It’s silent, he looks confused, the only sound in the room is the crackling fire. You had moved Aemma to the nursery when you noticed how tired he seemed, best let him get as much rest as possible. “The stress is destroying you and-” you scoot forward, forehead pressing against his, “I can’t keep watching as you fall apart. I just want to see you happy again.” 

“Aelar is too young,” Aegon concludes, brows still furrowed. 

You chew on your lip before pulling away from him, hands dropping into your lap. You wring them out as you look down at them, the words that leave you shock him. “I know, but you have me, I could do it for you until Aelar is old enough.” 

“That’s unheard of,” he leans against the pillows, watching you nervously fiddle with your hands. You sigh, shoulders slumping as you look up at him through your lashes. 

“Yes, but not impossible. If I take over, you could relax, be with the kids more, take a deep breath. At this rate, if you keep going you’ll die from the stress alone.” You lean forward, leaning against your hands that are now flat against the bed. “I do not wish to lose you, and the kids are worried about you.” 

He gulps, even after so long such words still seem foreign to him. Every time his children tackle him or excitedly shriek at his presence he looks around for what is so interesting, it’s always him though. He doesn’t know how, but they love him, so do you, so do you his nephews. Even Alicent is gentle with him now. He’s taking on so much to keep you from it and yet you're sitting here asking for the stress, the burden, to help him. 

The small council would not like that, nor would Otto, and probably not his mom. The kingdom might be confused by it, but they do love you. Having you on the throne does not change the succession either, it would still fall to Aelar, so there would be nothing to worry about in that regard. 

“Let me be queen, so you may be the father you wish to be,” you say it so sincerely, so earnestly. How can Aegon say no to that? He hardly ever says no to you, he can’t start now. 

“You love me?” He asks, it’s the first time he’s had to ask in years, but this decision involves all the trust in the world. He needs reassurance. 

You nod, a smile on your beautiful lips as you sit back down, “I do, so much.”

You try not to remember your first wedding, the day was somber and against your will. None of it had been planned by you, and you had to keep from crying at the altar. But your wedding to Aegon? He made sure you helped plan it and when the day arrived everything fell together so perfectly. For a moment you forgot all your pain, all your heartache. That wedding you remember vividly, even as the years pass by. 

The dress they fit you in has valyrian steel shoulder pads and a belt. It’s all black with red satin cuffs at your wrists. The style of it reminds you of the dress you wore the day you almost died, except this one has silver dragons embroidered on the skirt. Your hair is twisted into intricate and regal braids and a silver ruby necklace is draped across your neck with matching earrings. 

The coronation will be in the throne room, and after you will give a speech to the small folk in front of the Red Keep. Many were shocked by the news that Aegon was stepping down, none more surprised than your good mother. Her lips had been pursed while she picked at her fingernails until they bled. 

You later found that she felt all her hard work and sacrifice over the years had been for not. Despite rejecting Aegon’s pleas as a child and making him marry Helaena, here you stood happily married to her eldest son. Despite starting a war to put him on the throne, here you stood, about to be crowned queen of the seven kingdoms. 

You think against telling her that none of this would have happened if she had just let the two of you marry, it would only upset her further. Upon hearing about Vhagar she had been beside herself. Helaena had stood awkwardly, not quite sure what to do, as she herself was not fully present yet. Her mind was still elsewhere most days. 

“Are you ready?” Aegon asks, he had requested to be the one to give you the crown and walk you to the throne. It felt right to have him be the one to hand it over to you, to tell the world he approves of this decision, that he sees you as the true ruler of the seven kingdoms. You take his hand, letting out a shaky sigh before nodding. 

“Yes.” 

You catch one last glimpse of yourself in the mirror before walking away. The sight shocks you, the woman staring back looks eerily similar to your mother. You wonder what she would make of the life you’ve lived since she passed. You still think of her often, thoughts consumed on if she’d be disappointed or not. 

The coronation is a blur. Aegon walks you to the iron throne after a guard announces your arrival. Everyone turns and watches you walk up the steps. You do not sit immediately, Aegon says his speech which you hardly hear, the ringing in your ears taking precedence over his words. In the crowd you see your children, up at the front and grinning from ear to ear. 

Jaehaera holds Aemma and Rhaenyra holds Rhaegar. Saera and Aelar are standing in front of them, fidgeting as their little bodies try their best to stay still. Your brothers stand behind your girls, shoulders back and faces proud. Neither remember what your mother looks like, you wonder if they see her in you as Alicent does. Part of you hopes they do. 

Aegon grabs the crown from the velvet cushion it was sat upon. He had a new one made for you, it’s the valyrian circlet he had made for your wedding, except he has added thorns to it, the way they are shaped almost looks like a dragons nest with rubies embedded to look like the eggs. They seem sharp enough to harm, maim even, as the thorns curl around one another. 

You wonder what went through his brain when coming up with the concept, he gently places it upon your braided hair and whispers, so only you hear, “for my mighty dragon.” 

Gods, you want to cry. 

“All hail the queen!” He shouts, turning to the crowd in front of him. They chant along with him as you finally ascend to the throne, your body fits perfectly against the seat as you stare out at the people, no, subjects in front of you. 

And while your new subjects stare up at you with unadulterated rage and shock, a shiver of happiness worms its way into your heart. This might not have been the way your mother wished for the war to truly end. She would still disapprove of your marriage to Aegon, but you know that at this moment as you sit on the iron throne, the crown of y/n the mighty laid upon your dark curls, that she would finally be proud of you. 

And in the end, that’s all you ever wanted.

[bobbole]

The Corinthian: character abilities

The Corinthian is many things: nightmare, medium that reflect the darkness dwelling in the subconscious of human being, saint patron of serial killers and incomparable babysitter. In addition to all this, there are several references to his other abilities and powers in the comic books.

PHYSICAL STRENGTH

We do not have many opportunities to see the Corinthian fight. In The Kindly Ones, the three most significant occasions are the fight against the wolf, Loki and the spider Nybbas: all very important, as they demonstrate Corinthian's great physical strength; an element this, among others, that allowed him to first retrieve Daniel and then protect him in the castle.

INSPIRE AND COMMAND DREAMERS' THINKING AND ACTION

This apparently is an almost "obvious" aspect (dreams and nightmares inspiring human beings) but very fascinating especially because of the implications it has with a character like the Corinthian. In Overture, during a dramatic confrontation with Morpheus, he makes an explicit accusation against his Lord: he can inspire and command Gilles de Rais, the famous Bluebeard, to commit any kind of nefarious deeds but he himself cannot be the one to do them in the waking world. This suggests a connection between the Corinthian and the ante litteram "collectors" he inspired that precedes his escape into the waking world, though less systematically than he would do later. More importantly, however, the word command implies that the Corinthian's power does not merely inspire, but may also be able to exert substantial action in the real world, albeit indirectly.

CLAIRVOYANCE

Perhaps my favorite, which I fervently hope to see well represented in the TV show in the future! The Kindly Ones reveals to us this gift of the Corinthian: he can use the eyes as a tool to see the past and the future those to whom those eyes belonged (and it is a gift he can offer to others, as seen in The Corinthian Death in Venice). You're sick/No, I am a visionary is one of the most beautiful exchanges in the entire comic! (and it's emblematic that Corinthian refers to himself with this expression).

BODY SWAP

This is an ability shown in Death in Venice: the Corinthian, in the waking world, can takes possession of a man's body (and the man's hair turns white). This is one of his most disturbing and intriguing abilities and not far from the clairvoyance shown in The Kindly Ones: seeing the victims' lives through their eyes could be called a kind of possession, albeit in reverse.

WRITING AND DRAWING

These are perhaps among his best-known talents (thanks also to the splendid Nightmare Country panels). Artistic creation, whether intended symbolically or otherwise, is a concept strongly associated with this character (and words such as visionary, collector, collection refer to the art world). "I am everybody's story. I am Dream's story" he states in The Glass House, and this would presuppose a kind of passive acceptance of his always being a tale, never a narrator. But the Corinthian, when he writes, brings back memories of victories in a life that is not his life. It is precisely inherent in his being the will to be a storyteller and not just a narration (obviously with all that goes with it).

[obsessioncollector]

However, when he was twenty-one, his mother died after a long illness. This was very painful for Johannes Friedemann. He enjoyed it, that pain, he yielded to it as one does to a great happiness, he nurtured it with a thousand childhood memories and wallowed in it as his first powerful experience.

Thomas Mann, "Little Herr Friedemann," in Death in Venice and Other Tales, trans. Joachim Neugroschel

[crystalromana]

In Storm Warning, Charley is introduced with the words ‘Diary of an Edwardian Adventuress’, and in this adventure she remains true to form.  More than any previous companion, more so even than Romana, Charley’s role is that of a female equivalent to the Doctor - nosy, determined, forever intrigued and by turns exasperated and amused by those around her, she takes a blithe stroll through the tale of the death of Venice until even the Doctor is infuriated by her. Although the third release, The Stones of Venice was the first of the eighth Doctor adventures recorded, and so marked something of a crucial piece of work for India Fisher and Paul McGann, as Charley and the Doctor respectively.  It is no exaggeration to say that Stones... is also Fisher’s best performance in the role, giving Charley a blustering youthful vitality that makes her character more of a player in this than any other adventure. Of course, it is the script which makes this possible.  It is Magrs’s decision to separate Doctor and companion ten minutes into the first episode that makes Charley such a powerful presence - far from the traditional companion’s role of dumb inquiry, capture, helplessness and acquiescence to the Doctor’s commands, Charley takes things into her own hands, and even tricks the Doctor by pretending to be hypnotised, doing things her own way as and when it occurs to her to do so.

-The Stones of Venice PhoenixCourt.org

[myhauntedsalem]

Mirrors are Portals

From fairy tales to real life, mirrors, reflective surfaces and still water all have something in common. They can be used for divination, magic, stealing souls and repelling evil. The first reflective surface used for divination was a body of still water. Mirrors are a basic tool for magical work. The Egyptians, Romans and Greeks made their mirrors from bronze or silver. The Chinese and Hindu also used metals. It wasn’t until the 13th century in Venice that glass mirrors were introduced.

In tribal societies it is the belief that ones reflection is actually ones soul. And by exposing ones soul it is made vulnerable to evil influences and even death. It is believed that mirrors are tools in which souls may be stolen for evil purposes. Mirrors have been used as tools to increase clairvoyance and/or to gain knowledge of past lives. All class levels have used mirrors to tell their futures. From the middles ages to the 19th century, mirrors have been used by everyone including Catherine de Medici and Henry IV.

It’s not only mirrors that have created concern for people’s souls. The Motumotu of New Guinea believed their reflections were their souls the first time they saw their likenesses in a looking glass. The Basutos believe that the crocodiles have the power of killing a man by dragging his reflection under the water. Saddle Island residents in Melanesia believe there is a pool in which a malignant spirit lives. When someone’s reflection is seen in the water, it is feared that they will die and the spirit will do evil with his soul. The Greeks regarded seeing ones reflection in the water as a death omen for they feared the water spirits would capture the person’s reflection (soul) and drag it into the depths of the water thus leaving the person soulless.

Mirrors are often associated with evil, either as a means to repel evil or as a way to further evil growth in the world. Mirrors are thought to be portals into another dimension or world allowing evil, spirits, etc. to wreak havoc on the world. Superstitions about mirrors are many.

If it is true that one sees their soul in the reflection of a mirror, then that must be why vampires can not be seen in them. Vampires have no soul. We also have it on good authority that vampires do not have reflections. After all, it was Bram Stoker’s Renfield who noticed the lack of mirrors in castle Dracula. Taking Stoker’s lead in vampires, Hollywood has reinforced this belief.

It has been a belief that mirrors can be used to protect one from vampires and witches. In Europe it became fashionable for one to wear small looking glasses on ones hat. This was done to repel the evil eye and protect the wearer from evil.

For paranormal investigators mirrors or other reflective surfaces wreak havoc. When taking photographs (35 mm or digital) especially whenever there is a flash involved, the reflection of light can create images that are not really present. One example of this occurred when taking a photo of some clothes hanging from a metal rod located in front of a mirror. The clothing and the reflection gave an illusion of a nose within the clothes as if someone was peaking out. Mirrors draped with lace or near hanging lace can also present the illusion that someone is present within the folds and design on the lace. The same can be said of still bodies of water. Water in a pond or the bottom of a bowl will also create illusions.

[haveyouseenthishorrormovie]

What would you recommend for someone who's never really been able to get into horror movies but is super into psychological horror?

Ooh this is a good question!

I'll give you my top ten in no particular order (please check for content warnings on all of these, take care of yourselves!). Let me know if you want anymore!

Rosemary's Baby (1968) - A young couple trying for a baby moves into an aging, ornate apartment building on Central Park West, where they find themselves surrounded by peculiar neighbors.

Funny Games (1997) or (2007) - both versions are great - Two violent young men take a mother, father, and son hostage in their vacation cabin and force them to play sadistic "games" with one another for their own amusement.

The Shining (1980) - A family heads to an isolated hotel for the winter where a sinister presence influences the father into violence, while his psychic son sees horrific forebodings from both past and future.

Don't Look Now (1973) - A married couple grieving the recent death of their young daughter are in Venice when they encounter two elderly sisters, one of whom is psychic and brings a warning from beyond.

The Silence of the Lambs (1991) - A young F.B.I. cadet must receive the help of an incarcerated and manipulative cannibal killer to help catch another serial killer, a madman who skins his victims.

Annihilation (2018) - A biologist signs up for a dangerous, secret expedition into a mysterious zone where the laws of nature don't apply.

Possessor (2020) - An agent works for a secretive organization that uses brain-implant technology to inhabit other people's bodies - ultimately driving them to commit assassinations for high-paying clients.

A Tale of Two Sisters (2003) - After spending time in a mental hospital, a girl is reunited with her sister and returns home, only to see some truly strange events start to happen.

The Thing (1982) - A research team in Antarctica is hunted by a shape-shifting alien that assumes the appearance of its victims.

Creep (2014) - A young videographer answers an online ad for a one-day job in a remote town to record the last messages of a dying man. When he notices the man's odd behavior, he starts to question his intentions.

[phinniastuff]

These are the things I wrote for fest, wrote for fest, wrote for fest. These are the things I wrote for fest and now I'm feeling punchy.

After sunset, at the Syrian Embassy - table 3 - migrating birds

007 and the librarian table 4 - Q is not with MI:6.

games without frontiers table 4 - M is so done

concealer table 3 - fallen angel

the coffee shop in venice table 4 - Bond Girls

the perils of goat yoga table 3 - chalet

i love you as one loves certain obscure things - table 3 - lips

<a href=https://archiveofourown.org/works/57464965>old fashioned, extra cherries</a> table 4 - retired james bond

an elephantine explanation bond breaks q's equipment - gen

<a href=https://archiveofourown.org/works/57489703>i'm borrowing your bath, i don't want to hear another word about it</a> table 3 - bath time

relay station (stuck in the middle with q) - table 3 - lakeside flats

cattywampus - table 4 - james bond breaks in

dosing error - table 4 - drunk Q

gruesome fairy tale table 3 - knitting basket

your lover is in another castle table 3 free space

something's going around the office life at MI:6 - table 4

adventures of the patient resident City Park - table 3 finished fic

my little bird. table 4 blank space. Okay, this is a wingfic, but it retells Casino Royale. It's got Brosnan!Bond as Alec's dead mate and Craig !007 being minded by Alec after he recklessly blew up the embassy. So you've got partners, one vaguely suicidal but being kept back by moral obligations and the other just finding out about the fit-looking 006 with a death wish. It has everything. It has Vesper with wings and snarky Brosnan!Bond (who exists only in his partner's head) and brand new!Q and sympathetic Eve and Dench. And WINGS, everybody has those, don't forget.

And yes, I did a genderswap thing. I am going to finish that, too. But the wings thing grabbed my brainmeats and refuses to let them loose.

(and i know the html is screwy. i have tried to fix it. it dislikes me.)

[soulicrhythms]

Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry. But also, it gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.

-Thomas Mann, Death in Venice and Other Tales

[nobeerreviews]

Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry. But also, it gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.

-- Thomas Mann, Death in Venice and Other Tales

(Bucharest, Romania)

[hayleylovesjessica]

I did a little more investigating into Thomas Mann translations, and I saw that Penguin Classics published a collection around 25 years ago translated by Joachim Neugroschel under the title Death in Venice and Other Tales. When I saw the cover of the original Viking hardcover online, I thought, Hmmm, I think I might actually own that? I went down to the basement, and I found it almost instantly, huzzah! So, I went online to start the process of returning the Bantam Classics translation by David Luke that I received a couple days ago, also titled Death in Venice and Other Stories, and Amazon is refunding me the money and letting me keep the book. Double huzzah! Also, I spent yet another hour moving books around, and I finally found my copy of Goethe's Faust, which, in my mind, is one of the three most canonical works of literature (well, Western literature) that I've never read. Triple huzzah! Now, I just have to read it!

[gayregina]

Put the demons to sleep

A fanfic by gayregina

So hi. This is the story of Armand from his early life made into an one-shot switching povs from Armand to a outside narrator(you understand I don’t condone certain actions but present them through Armand’s clouded judgment). It’s based mostly on the books but I had Assad in my mind the whole time so you understand the geographical differences. That being said, be aware of all trigger warnings that come with Armand’s tragic background. English isn’t my first language so I am sorry in advance for any grammar mistakes. Enjoy:)

-

This story is a lullaby hauntingly hovering above the dark skies of Venice. The tale of a small boy so angelic, they say he was a dream. His bronze skin glimmering under the sunlight, inviting all to gaze upon him. His black curls so beautifully framing his soft features, shielding his neck and ears. The deep brown eyes were like pools of honey; alluring and once you stared into them you were deliciously trapped within the sweetness. Sometimes they resembled a crystal clear mirror, other times they were your largest secrets whispering back to you, unraveling your very being in quite a humbling way.

With the charm of a little girl, he got his way around the city. His master was never seen beside him watching the crafting of the ships. Never became witness to the easy smile his lips would settle on. The curious and unbothered demeanour that early teenage years required. In those moments, he was allowed to be a free and careless boy named Arun. Always full of dreaming. Instead, Amadeo had a place in his master’s bed, victim to the twisted love he learnt to be grateful for.

Arun had been a slave and Amadeo was bought to worship. His inexperienced hands trembling on the rough unfamiliar skin. His face plastered on walls and ceilings and canvasses, his master’s depiction of the boy being one of angelic beauty. Always being praised for it, always being craved because of it. His body captured begging for affection at the feet of the elder and now forever displayed for the strange to see.

Amadeo would grow up eventually, his maker whined, no longer a cherub but a young man. He would rid himself of his naivety and leave the venician home behind. Disregarding the ticket that granted him a spot in the arms of his master, his beauty lost to time. So Amadeo bargained with his master, bargained with the devil. His life was given away and Amadeo was no longer. Lover of God he could never be again.

Now only Armand remained and he resembled the boy only on the outside. But even his eyes were no longer welcoming. Instead, they seemed like little fires burning far away inside his head, rearranging it or perhaps freezing it to preserve it from the damage of death. He didn’t recognize a home anymore, if he ever had. His mind now forever closed off to his maker, their bond forever changed. He could only drag his perpetual body through the mist of the unknown and hope he wouldn’t drown.

Endless nights followed, accompanied by powers rooted so deep within him yet so unfamiliar, they frightened him. A twisted thing he became, hiding away in the darkness of Rome’s underworld. The only need of his that was met was the blood and only that sufficed. Now the luxuries of his past life rung so far away in the distance like they were once a mere figment of his imagination. No sunset he ever saw again, its rays no longer hugging his body but harming it. Only enduring he knew those days, hard and filthy. Forever cursed he felt in the body which had once been the very reason he was spared. No person was enough to pull him out anymore, not if he wasn’t willing to give up the control, to give into the light.

Arun was once heard laughing through the maze of tea plants nearby his family’s home. Amadeo could be heard moaning through the hard walls of his master’s bedroom. But no one would hear Armand screaming if he threw himself into the flames that were calling to him to join the children of darkness that perished before him. A pile of ashes his maker would find in the morning and a single strand of hair abandoned further off. A souvenir from enduring, he would think. A reminder of the innocent, if you will. Would he be missed? Would his maker grieve the loss of his child? What place would await him after? Would he get a glimpse of the pearly gates or was he always meant to suffer in a prison?

A child, a juvenile and a monster he had been. A lover, a whore and a hunter he had played. Who was he if not a role he had been given? Who was he outside of people’s shallow perceptions of him?

The boy was never seen again. They say he surrendered to the illness, his body now traveling in the water of the Mediterranean, cold and stoic. His face a mirror of pain and his eyes closed off in shame. None would witness them again, no one would be drawn by their spell. His loose curls floating around his face, almost creating a soft pillow for his eternal sleep. His numb hands crossed over his abandonment, the life slipping through their fingers agonizingly. His pale skin sickened his form and sucked the charm out of it. A single tear of regret rolling down his cheek, alone and bitter. No rest for Arun, no salvation for Amadeo. No place for Armand in the new world. And so he became a legend and a mystery, his essence always lingering around the paths he had chosen and the sheets he had been offered.

Only a madman had once sworn demons were near, the eyes of a beast he vowed he had seen. Amber like the morning sun, he had said, tempting him to taste the fire. The young boys of the town listened breathlessly and stricken by the story, they whispered it around the neighborhoods. The devil is here, they had said, because the tale of something horrific is the kind they always sought out. But the men, mature and thoughtful, knew who it had been, the ghost of his short lived existence back again to haunt the dark streets of Venice. Amadeo, they hummed as they walked, the familiar lullaby still fresh in their minds. They prayed the spirit wasn’t angry at them, they prayed for his soul to cease its search and find its place.

Arun’s laughter could still be heard around the decks, Amadeo’s body still lost in the abyss. And Armand, known to none, a faceless boy masquerading as a gentleman was hiding around the corners, humming along the rhythm of his life story, a stranger now to its twists and details. He stood, waiting. Forever waiting.

-

I would love to hear your thoughts!

[denimbex1986]

'Barbenheimer, the biggest double-bill of the year, has been a massive success. The box office, film circles, and the wild world of the internet have been buzzing about the unlikely pairing of two vastly different films made by two of the most renowned filmmakers of our time. Greta Gerwig's Barbie is a vibrant exploration of its titular character experiencing an existential crisis, one of the last thoughts that could pop into one's head when talking about the beloved doll. On the other hand, Christopher Nolan's Oppenheimer brings viewers right into the mind of the father of the atomic bomb. While both of them look to discuss certain political and social aspects of the world, only one of them succeeds in providing a nuanced exploration, and it's not even close.

'Barbie' Takes a Look at Feminism

In Gerwig's world, "Stereotypical" Barbie (Margot Robbie), in the middle of one of her routine night parties, abruptly experiences thoughts of death. This leads her perfect plastic figure to undergo several physical changes, such as having cellulite or getting flat-footedness. She discovers that all of this is caused by the state of mind of her owner in the real world, which she must change before she becomes fully human. Barbie, together with Ken (Ryan Gosling), travels to Venice Beach in search of her owner while discovering the imperfections of the mundane human world. It is during this trip, and the events leading after, that the film provides a commentary on femininity and what being a woman in the real world means.

Their arrival opens up a plethora of discourse regarding being a woman in the real world. One of the main tenets in Barbie's women empowerment manifesto is a tale as old as the movement itself. It offers the notion that stereotypical beauty standards are not the end-all and be-all. The movie hammers home this point when Stereotypical Barbie herself calls an elderly woman on the bus stop beautiful. Another point is when Barbie is taken aback by the self-awareness of her owner Sasha (Ariana Greenblatt), calling her a fascist, among other hurtful things. Barbie isn't the role model she thinks she is, and she learns that the existence of Barbies may have caused more harm than good. Yes, this concept might be a bit on the nose, but it still works. However, it is just one of the many things in relation to the bigger picture of female representation and equality. There's more to it than just beauty standards, which Barbie attempts to tackle throughout the film.

Gloria's Monologue Gets at the Core of the Message

When Ken discovers that the patriarchy is the ruling system in the real world, he begins to carry that mentality. Acting as if he has just discovered the penultimate secret of the universe, Ken runs back to Barbieland alone and takes over with his new philosophy. When Barbie takes Sasha and her mother, Gloria (America Ferrera), back to Barbieland, they're shocked by the change and endeavor to save it. When Gloria inadvertently discovers that the key to saving everyone in Barbieland is an impassioned speech on what it takes to be a woman, the film's inner meaning becomes crystal clear.

Gloria espouses how it is so hard to be a woman because the system is rigged against their success, and that everyone blames them for what's wrong in the world. While inspirational in its own right, and embodies truthfulness to some degree, it is but a reductionist view on the problems that plague women. It is a futile attempt to encapsulate the bigger picture of the admirable movement of women's rights, and boils down to an emotional but simplistic rant on how women are oppressed. Generally speaking, it bears little depth in relation to the complexities of empowering women. It's like a person merely touching the surface of a lake, and immediately judging that it's safe to swim in. For some, it falls flat and was an underwhelming climax for a fairly enticing buildup.

However, there is an argument to be made. Isn't that exactly the point? It is a Barbie movie after all, and it makes no bones about its nature. It is a movie about a plastic doll that discovers its own sense of consciousness. Did we really expect it to delve deep into the roots of a deeply ingrained issue, and offer some form of emancipation? Absolutely not! If we want to be technical about it, Barbie belonged to a world where there were absolutely no problems. Her arrival in the real world was a culture shock, there's no way she could fully grasp everything about the complexities of gender politics in such a short amount of time. Yes, Barbie's critique of the patriarchy is surface-level at times, but as the ending shows, she still has more to discover about herself, and that's alright.

The Hypocrisy of Free Thinking in 'Oppenheimer'

On the other hand, Nolan's Oppenheimer, by its very subject, offers a lot more leeway in terms of discussing politics. It is a film about one of the most controversial subjects the world has ever seen, so it is at a distinct advantage. As the director of the Los Alamos Laboratory for the Manhattan Project, J. Robert Oppenheimer (Cillian Murphy) was at the receiving end of mudslinging efforts, among other things. The picture does a marvelous job of presenting Oppenheimer as both a pompous intellectual with no regard for boundaries and as a human being facing the immense consequences of his actions. Despite his polarizing personality, one of his most commendable traits is his penchant for standing up for what he believes in.

Oppenheimer, as depicted in the film, was a stand-up guy when it came to his science and an even prouder individual when it came to his own beliefs. The earliest form of conflict was his affinity with left-wing politics. While not strictly a communist per se, his loyalty was put into question, especially due to his fondness of socials hosted by members of the Communist Party USA. An affair with one of its most prominent members in Jean Tatlock (Florence Pugh) only made things worse. His sympathy for some of the party's ideas is where his troubles began, which eventually sealed his own fate. It is a common occurrence that still plagues the world today. Someone expressing approval for left-wing politics, can easily be branded a communist. During the height of McCarthyism, and the immense fear brought by the Cold War, paranoia against communists and spies in America hit an all-time high. Movements like these are often hijacked by those in power and can be wielded like a weapon against those they see as a threat.

'Oppenheimer's Commentary Exposes the Dark Complexity of Politics

With the success of the Trinity test, and the war-ending bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Oppenheimer vehemently denied support for its prospective use. He began to speak against the very thing he created, and while his philosophies were laudable, the US government's mentality went in the opposite direction. Seeing it as a race for global arms supremacy, President Harry S. Truman (Gary Oldman) insulted Oppenheimer for being resentful of his brainchild. For a man who contributed so much to ending the war, the president's dismissal of his concerns speaks volumes.

On the other hand, Lewis Strauss (Robert Downey Jr.), who carried a personal grudge against Oppenheimer, used his alleged communist connections as fodder for his scheme to permanently revoke the physicist's security clearance. It is one of the most blatant displays of the hypocrisy of supposedly democratic governments. The proliferation of ideas, and the flourishing of free-thinking is only heralded when it plays into the government's interest. If your ideas are of no use to them anymore, or if you have already served your purpose, they will throw you out faster than a nuclear reaction. It is Oppenheimer's bread and butter: to expound on the dark inner workings of politics, and it succeeds in providing a more nuanced take compared to its fellow release-day movie.

Barbenheimer's Have Two Very Different Approaches to Politics

Rather than viewing Oppenheimer as a more politically conscious film, perhaps it would be best to discuss the different approaches of the two in terms of examining politics. Gerwig made a nostalgia piece, aiming for viewers to relive their childhoods. Politics is secondary when you are talking about dolls living in colorful and majestic houses. Nolan's character study was built for this argument, and he masterfully dissects the double-edged sword that is free speech, as well as questioning the ethics of nuclear warfare.

Yes, from an objective standpoint, Oppenheimer provides a better political cinematic undertaking, but it doesn't mean that Barbie had nothing to offer at all. Rather than favoring one or the other, it is best to critique the two blockbusters with the appropriate lens. At least the two blockbusters are sparking discussions on two very important issues, and that's all we can ask for as moviegoers.'