#for the last ten years i have ragged on him as gambit

[s0fter-sin]

wooimbouttamakeanameformyselfere

[vegalocity]

The pieces fall (Red Groom AU)

Basically i said to myself 'I need to finish this before i get too deep with the Animorphs stuff' and then realized this was the final chapter about halfway through lmao

TW: Death, blood, 'To The Pain' is retold in its entirety

--

Red Son was out of time.

He stalled as long as he could, bought as much time to drag the official ceremony on as possible But it was for naught. He heard the commotion outside, the demons shrieking in fear the booming voice that reminded him of the mercenary in Spider Queen's Employ, Spat the tea forced into his mouth in the Prince's face, and loudly cursed and raved, insisting not only that he did not consent to this, but also that this sham of a marriage would only last for the length of time it would take for his love to arrive.

His Noodle Boy would come for him, he'd crowed and bragged with all his might, and the Prince had insisted the futility of the hope, that his love was dead, and yet more lies, that he'd seen to it himself.

But he couldn't hide the fear behind his eyes and Red Son announced as much. He couldn't move with the cuffs restraining him, his hands throbbing in pain and a solid purple color from the restriction of blood flow, but he raged and rallied anyway, he was tempted to try and ruin the fine robes the servants had forced him into, to scorch them without a care to what injuries would be laid onto himself from it, but he didn't want to be in rags when his love crashed through the doors.

But then the ceremony was finished, despite his protests, and Red Son was out of time.

He struggled against the guards as they shuffled him through the halls, followed by the weak and fading demon king, but one final ditch plan formed in his head as the halls lit with flame and he was brought to the prince's rooms.

“I suppose I should apologize, demon king.” The frail creature turned to Red Son and he felt a strange sort of pity for the man. He seemed no longer aware of what year it was let alone the cruelty of his own offspring.

“What was that young fellow?”

“I'll have to be killing your son tonight, or I'll die instead. And you were probably a kind man before this curse destroyed your body and mind, so I felt I should tell you as much.” he placed a hand on the King's arm and he hummed absently as their paths diverged.

As then the door slammed shut behind him, and Red Son's last gambit had to be played. If he was fast and he burned hot enough he could do it. It would be a struggle to work around afterward, but if he could manage it and he had Xiaotian to help him work around it he could invent something to compensate by the end of the year.

Still, to cut ones own hands off to escape bindings and then murder their fiance was certainly going to be a challenge.

–

She saw him. For just a moment she saw the Macaque, the flash of dark fur, the curl of his tail, those six ears, those cruel amber eyes. She'd said what she'd been waiting to say for ten years, she held her head high and said the phrase that had kept her going for so long.

And he'd fled.

She'd parted form the group the second he'd left, racing through the corridors, breaking through doors, and following the faint sound of fading footsteps. Finally, Finally it was happening. Today was the day. The day she'd been waiting for for ten years. The day she finally walked up to the monster that ruined her life, the bastard that stole her father from her, the macaque that took everything from her before she was even a woman, and she finally made him pay.

She descended a staircase that lead deeper into the halls and a sharp pain pierced through her gut. Xiaojiao yelped and brought a hand to her side, she saw the dark fur for only a brief moment before she stumbled back, hand clasping over the- over the blade-

he'd thrown a knife at her and it had landed in side. She didn't think it pierced anything important, but she couldn't be sure. It felt like she'd been struck by lightning in one very small localized area. Warm blood quickly soaking through her shirt and staining her hand.

It wasn't that her legs weren't working anymore, but they refused to obey her as her back hit the wall and her knees turned to jelly. She slid until her bottom brushed the stairwell behind her.

Ten years.

And she was a sitting duck. The Macaque could kill her in one swipe of that wretched spiked staff of his and she'd die a failure.

“I'm sorry father-” she muttered softly to herself. “I tried.”

“Hang on, I recognize that sword.” The Macaque's smarmy voice broke through her thoughts. “You're that dragon girl aren't you?” He whistled lowly. “It's been what, ten years?” slowly she watched the monster approach. “Have you been tracing me your whole life?” He laughed, a cruel cold thing. “and right on the precipice of victory you die here, bleeding out from a stomach wound. Pathetic.” he leaned against a table, ready to host the banquet for the wedding that would never come now. “Honestly that's hilarious.”

her fist tightened over the handle in her stomach.

–

He needed to be quick, he only had a little time before the Prince came in to end him, and with his hands so useless already he would just need to stop the bleeding which would be a snap once he had his fire back.

But he needed something sharp first. His hands gave dull throbs of pain whenever he tried to force the sluggish digits to move but eventually through his rummaging through the nearby work desk he found a small silver dagger, likely the one the prince was planning on using to kill him later on. He'd have to brace the knife on something to get both of his hands and if he passed out in pain he was as good as dead.

Soon enough he pulled together a brace on the worktable, and went about steadying his left hand first, if he was quick he could pass it right through cleanly and-

“You know there's kind of a shortage on perfect hands, It'd be kind of a shame to waste such beauty as yours.” a voice cut through his thoughts.

A familiar voice. But a kindly one.

His heart leaped into his throat and he felt his face turn red as he turned to find Xiaotian, a little beaten up and still in his False Monkey King garb laying on the bedding as if this were any day back on his mountain. Red Son wondered just how long his love had been there, watching him plotting out and trying to carry out his own dismemberment, and Red Son hadn't noticed. It would have been embarrassing if he bothered to care.

But he didn't, he cared far more about seeing his beloved again and ignored the pain in his hands as he fell on top of Xiaotian in the bed, barely able to get his name out before Red Son was kissing him. The uncertainty that the prince had placed in his mind burning away in and instant as he felt Xiaotian move against him he was kissing him back, he wasn't angry or upset-

But he wasn't returning the embrace.

Red Son pulled himself away from that perfect mouth just long enough to smile and mumble a small teasing comment. “Is this your revenge for leaving you waiting? Must I beg just to get you to hold me?”

“Ah-” Xiaotian sounded pained, but when Red Son let up properly any trace of discomfort was gone. “No, it's just a bit complicated.” But there were other pressing matters.

“I just need a moment my love, no matter if I'd love nothing more than to run off with you, I wasn't able to stop the Prince from forcing things to fall in his way.” It was a rock in his gut to consider, especially how without the use of his hands he'd need to somehow pull a victory against a demon prince in his own mountain but-

“If we want to be together this farce of a marriage needs to be made defunct.”

“Well did you consent to it?” That gave him pause.

“Huh?”

“The marriage, did you give consent to it?”

“Of course not!” his temper flared for a moment only to be immediately quelled by the small adoring grin Xiaotian hadn't stopped looking at him with. “I spent the whole time rejecting the whole thing, loudly. Violently. Buying time for you to break the ceremony up, wonderful timing by the way Noodle Boy, I was just about to chop my own hands off if you hadn't noticed.”

“I did actually. Horrifying. But crafty.”

“But what does my consent have to do with it, that's not how demons work things out-”

“Maybe, but it means more when its demons marrying each other.” His gaze flickered to a place just over Red Son's shoulder. “Wouldn't you agree, your highness?”

a thin blade rested on Red Son's shoulder. “A mistake that shall never be repeated, 'Monkey King'” the Prince hissed, breath hot and far too close to Red Son's ear.

–

“Are- Are you still trying to fight?” Her knees felt like they were about to give in, and her hands were shaking, but she was able to pull the blade from her side and raise her sword again. “Wow you're obsessed!” The macaque crowed, before finally taking out his staff. “That's gonna get you into trouble some day.” he sent the head of the staff for her face, child's play, the flat of her sword hit it right before impact and pushed it to the side, one half of her hair was taken down from its updo, the stone cracked beside her head.

But her skull wasn't smashed in.

The Macaque pulled away and made another lunge. He was rusty. How long had it been since he'd actually fought anyone? She made the next jab skew to the other side, her hair now fully released from its former ties, the wall behind her now a pile of rubble.

It seemed the Macaque realized she wasn't an easy kill because he started to properly wield his staff again.

His form was sloppy. Strikingly easy to counter, even with the fact that she was stumbling forward, free hand buried in her clothes to try and stop the bleeding in her side as she fought.

She opened her mouth, and she wanted to say something witty, but she couldn't think of any words to say at all, her entire mind was turning to white noise, save the one thing she'd been carrying with her for a decade.

“Hello, my name is Long Xiaojiao. You killed my father, prepare to die.”

Her side gave another throb and she caught herself on a nearby table. The Macaque spurred forward to try and capitalize on the opening.

The bench below splintered into pieces and she forced him back a few steps. “Hello, my name is Long Xiaojiao. You killed my father, prepare to die.”

“I heard you the first time!” The macaque grunted as he swung forward again.

Child's play.

Somewhere along the line, she'd surpassed him.

“Hello! My name is Long Xiaojiao! You killed my father! Prepare to die!”

“Stop saying that!” The Macaque growled, he was getting flustered. Good.

He made another jab at her, this time when she parried her blade met flesh and struck a line across his cheek.

“Hello! My name is Long Xiaojiao! You Killed my father! Prepare to die!” She crowed, now she had him on the ropes, when she moved forward and struck he'd have to move back to not risk being hit again. She could corral him. Her blade landed again, this time along the Macaque's knuckles, and his staff clattered to the ground. The tip of the jade blade tore into his shoulder, right in the place her scar was.

She only ever told people the first part of how she would picture this to go. And sure it wasn't perfect, she didn't expect to nearly die right out the gate, but it didn't need to be.

It just needed this.

“Offer me money.” She pointed the blade to his nose. He was without a weapon and if he tried any tricks she could run him through before they were completed.

“Three mountains full, all yours.”

“Power too, offer that.”

“All that I have and more.”

She leaned back just a hair, not enough to give him any room to work, but just enough to gesture. “Offer me anything I want in the world.”

The Macaque seemed to know where this was going, and whether he had a backup plan in mind she didn't care. “Anything.” He made one last lunge forward to try and grab her.

A grip on a sleeve, a jerk forward, the warm blood dripping down her sword.

“I want my father back you son of a bitch.”

When the Macaque's body fell she didn't... feel much relief. A little, the release of tension of a confrontation, the knowledge that she hadn't wasted her life.

But no revelations, no great euphoria or deep happiness at finally avenging her family. Her side was still bleeding, and the scar on her shoulder was never going to fade.

She began to stumble forward through the pain. She'd lost Sandy some hallways back, and they'd left Xiaotian high and dry, she needed to find them or they'd never get out of this damned mountain.

–

“Now beloved, you may want to remove yourself from this charlatan before I'm forced to do something you'll regret.” Red Son glared over his shoulder at the prince, but he gazed impassively back at him, and flicked the tip of his ear. There was a small zing of pain and suddenly the side of his face was very warm. Xiaotian hissed through his teeth at the Prince, but Red Son did as asked.

Once again parting him from his love because he had no choice but to trust a liar to be telling the truth.

“I should have had your body tossed in the forest when I had you killed. I never liked Six Ears' machine.” The Prince huffs. “But nonetheless it'll be more rewarding to kill my husband's lover first and THEN my husband. And hey! I won't even need your parent's army beloved! The Monkey King will be dead and Flower Fruit Mountain ripe for the picking!” The Prince crowed. “So, Qi Xiaotian, to the death?”

“To the pain.” Xiaotian didn't even flinch. Despite the fact that Red Son had never heard of such a duel condition.

Apparently nor had the prince, “I'm not sure if I'm familiar with that one.”

“I'll explain, and I'll use small words so you can understand you slug faced warmongering buffoon.” The tone in his Xiaotian's voice was unlike anything Red Son had ever heard, even when he was still masquerading as the Monkey King. It was severe, cold, yet ruthless. The unrelenting force of a blizzard.

“That may be the first time in my life someone below my status has insulted me.” The Prince turned a very strange shade of violet.

“Well it won't be the last. 'To the pain' means that once I defeat you, which I will, first you lose your feet, just below the ankles.” Xiaotian held direct eye contact with the Prince and Red Son found himself unable to look away. “Then your hands at the wrists, next your nose-”

“Then my tongue I assume? I killed you too quickly the last time, an error I will not be repeating.” The Prince reared back with his sword and Red Son made a grab for the knife he'd had before, but when Xiaotian spoke up again the prince stopped.

“I wasn't finished! The next thing you lose Is your right eye, followed quickly by your left!”

“And then my ears I get the picture! Let's get on with it!” The Prince was losing his temper fast, Red Son needed to act quickly. He couldn't torch the prince and hope it would be enough to break his cuffs, but he could barely hold the knife he'd dived for let alone be able to wield it with any force.

“Wrong!” Xiaotian interrupted, his face still the picture of determined calm. “Your ears you keep! And I'll tell you why!” The Prince was stopped again, and Red Son figured if he could put enough weight into his grip he could probably disarm him on his own at the moment. And another wave of frustration washed over him at the realization that he certainly couldn't put enough weight into his grip.

“-So that every shriek of every child dismayed by your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every maiden that cries out 'Heavens above what is that THING' Will be heard oh-so perfectly, in your untouched ears.” He huffed a small laugh. “That is what 'to the pain' means, it means I leave you in Anguish. Alone in your head with naught but the screams you've long since deserved forever.”

There was a pause as the Prince processed the threat. “You're bluffing.”

“It's possible, worm.” Xiaotian responded. “I could be bluffing. It's conceivable you miserable odious mass.” 'Odious' what kind of vocabulary did his love learn while becoming the false Monkey King? “I could be lying here because I lack the strength to stand. But then again, would you like to take that chance?” slowly, as though he were in great pain, Xiaotian began to sit up, and from there stand. He lifted his staff from its position leaning against the bed frame, and pointed the end to the Prince's nose.

“Drop your sword.”

it clattered to the ground.

“Undo the cuffs on Red Son's wrists.” a quick spell and a gesture and the golden bands clattered to the ground. A fierce pain jolted through either of Red Son's hands as the blood was finally allowed to start traveling back through them.

“Have a seat.” The Prince stumbled into a chair and Xiaotian glanced over at him.

“Can you tie anything?” his fingers curled painfully but he could probably manage, so he nodded and only then noticed the coiled up rope beside Xiaotian's former resting place.

“When did you get that?”

“You never know when you need rope.” All the same he tied the prince up firmly, excepting on the wrists that he tied to the armrests of the chair, those he tied as tightly as possible.

See if he liked watching his hands turn purple.

Just about as Red Son was done restraining the prince the sound of approaching footsteps came near, and with a flash of green (well, green stained red) he recognized the Swordsman mercenary.

She looked around at the lot of them and then her gaze settled on Xiaotian. “Where's Sandy?”

“He took of with you!” Xiaotian countered.

“Yeah but then he said he'd double back!”

“Well-!” Xiaotian cut himself off with a surprised yelp as his body pitched to the side, Red Son of course was there to catch him.

“Quick on the draw Red Boy.” The Swordsman hummed “Was that just reflex?”

He didn't pay her any mind. “Xiaotian what happened are you alright?”

“I'll be fine.”

“He was mostly dead all day, his body's completely zapped of strength.” The Swordsman countered.

“You've been dead?!”

“Mostly dead!” Xiaotian corrected as if that made any difference.

“Ha!” The Prince cackled. “I knew you were bluffing!” The Swordsman had zero patience for him though as that was enough for her to press her sword to his nose. “I knew he was bluffing.” The Prince repeated far more sedate.

“Xiaojiao! Xiaojiao can you hear me?” a voice calling from the window broke up all the near forming arguments, and though ti took Red Son a little finagling to ensure he had a proper grip on Xiaotian despite his hands not wanting to grip much of anything right now, the three made their way to the window peeking out the side of the mountain only for Red Son to see the large mercenary waiting below with a small gaggle of horses.

“Ah! Xiaojiao! There you are! I was trying to make my way back to Xiaotian and I ended up in the Prince's stables! The poor things deserve to have better keepers I think! I figured I'd take four of them, since there would be four of us when we found the Red Prince.” Sandy's eyes flickered to Red Son. “Oh, Hello Red Prince!”

“Nice job Sandy!” the Swordsman (Xiaojiao apparently) cheered. “Think you can catch some projectiles?”

“Of course!”

the large mercenary (Sandy) positioned himself below the mountainside, ready to catch any and all of them, and Red Son could remember, vividly, just how adept he was at such physical performances.

“well, royalty first.” Xiaojiao turned to him and gestured. Which, whatever. Though his hands gave another painful throb, he climbed onto the windowsill and jumped. The air was cool as it whipped against him.

–

“You know, it's funny.”

“What is?”

“I killed the Six Eared Macaque and now... I'm not sure what else to do. I've been in the revenge business so long, I don't know if I have anything else of value to try out.”

“Would you like to try leading? I could use a captain I can trust back on Flower Fruit Mountain.”

Xiaojiao shrugged.

–

“Oh, well you don't wanna hear this. The end I suppose.”

“What? Why are you stopping if it's not the end?”

“Well you were very specific about not wanting to hear about the kissing stuff, I don't want to gross you out or anything little one.”

“Well... Maybe I... won't super mind... if it's the ending. But only because it's the ending!”

–

It took a week's travel for the four to enter truly safe territory. To come into the lands of Flower Fruit Mountain and be greeted by the armies of demon monkeys that Xiaotian called his people.

They were finally safe, and Red Son recalled that he'd promised himself to wait until such a time came before he allowed himself to drown again in the ardor of having his love back, but now that it came, he found he simply wasn't as deliriously giddy as he once was. The stresses that had mounted between Xiaotian's return and now had dampened the mood, though his hands no longer ached and strength had returned to Xiaotian's body, they'd both been through so much stress there simply wasn't the space in either of their heads to be anything but focused on reaching their destination.

Of course Red Son had curled up next to his love every night around the campfire the Swordsman- That Xiaojiao would light and tend to, but there was nothing but relief in his body, bone deep, weary relief.

But now they were safe, and Red Son simply couldn't muster up the energy. He should have been jittery and excited to be alone with his love, but honestly he'd just wanted to bathe and eat something beyond travel rations.

Then the dirt and sweat had been washed away and their bellies were full of fruit and what few savory dishes Xiaotian had taught his monkeys to make, and Sandy and Xiaojiao shared a sly grin before going to explore 'the guest bedrooms' in Xiaotian's iron palace behind the watercurtian, and he was alone with his love.

And he felt like he should do something, yet nothing was coming to mind. They were safe, Xiaotian was alive and right here, and they could finally be together in the open, and Red Son felt such a fool for the fact that he didn't know how to proceed.

Xiaotian scooted closer to him and placed an arm around his shoulders, tugging Red Son to the side until he was leaned up against him.

“Red Son.” His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through Red Son's chest.

“Xiaotian.” he responded simply.

He might not have known what to do, but Xiaotian it seemed did. He reached over to gently cup Red Son's face with a hand, and brought him close.

There have been more love stories on this earth than we have time to ever recount in their entirety, but every story has in it a kiss. A soft, loving kiss, a kiss of relief and thankfulness and passion as the hard part was finally over.

It has been said that in the upper echelons of these kisses, that the one shared between Red Son and Qi Xiaotian in that moment, blew them all out of the water.

Tomorrow would come, and Red Son would sent missive to his parents explaining the situation, and Xiaotian would prepare a message to be sent to his own fathers, and they'd spend the next few days bracing for impact.

But tonight was theirs.

And though struggles were certainly on their way, all in all, their lives were finally on the path to be together.

And to live happily ever after.

–

“-The end. Now I think you should be getting to sleep.”

“Okay....”

“Welp, get better soon little one. So long.”

“....Grandpa Sun?.... Maybe you could come over tomorrow too? I could teach you how to play my game?”

“Heh, As you wish.”

[padawanlost]

I thought it was less ‘choosing not to talk about it’ and more ‘the Jedi want him to disconnect from his past and won’t let him talk about it’ or am i misremembering?

It’s both. Anakin’s ‘I don’t want to talk about my past’ behavior is a result of his inability to express himself without being reprimanded and his unwillingness to face his trauma. When he was a kid Anakin was pretty open about his thoughts and feelings. The isolation he experience as an adult was a learned behavior. Anakin was always proud and refused to allow his slave status to be used against him, something he learned from Shmi.  But he wasn’t ashamed of it either. He openly talked about his past with complete strangers when he was a kid.

They sat down to eat Shmi’s dinner a short while after, the storm still howling without, an eerie backdrop of sound against the silence within. Qui-Gon and Padmé occupied the ends of the table, while Anakin, Jar Jar, and Shmi sat at its sides. Anakin, in the way of small boys, began talking about life as a slave, in no way embarrassed to be doing so, thinking of it only as a fact of his life and anxious to share himself with his new friends. Shmi, more protective of her son’s station, was making an effort to help their guests appreciate the severity of their situation. [Terry Brooks. The Phantom Menace]

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Anakin replied, “Yes, Master.” Obi-Wan wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected a hint of resentment in Anakin’s voice. He hadn’t considered that Anakin, because of his experience on Tatooine, might be sensitive to calling anyone Master. Obi-Wan sighed, then said, “Please don’t think it gives me pleasure to admonish you, Padawan. I can only imagine what it was like for you to grow up as a slave, and I —” “Do you ever miss your mother?” Anakin interrupted. The question caught Obi-Wan off guard, but he recovered fast to answer, “No. No, I don’t. I never knew her, not really. I was still an infant when I arrived here, at the Temple.” “Then maybe we can make a deal,” Anakin said, and Obi-Wan could tell that the boy was trying to keep his voice from trembling. “You won’t feel sorry for me because I was once a slave, and I won’t feel sorry for you because you don’t miss your mother.” [Ryder Windham. The Life and Legend of Obi-Wan Kenobi]

Fear, hatred, anger. . The old trio Anakin fought every day of his life, though he revealed his deepest emotions to only one man: Obi-Wan Kenobi, his master in the Jedi Temple. The Blood Carver stooped slightly on his three-jointed legs. "You smell like a slave," he said softly, for Anakin's ears alone. It was all Anakin could do to keep from throwing off his wings and going for the Blood Carver's long throat. He swal lowed his emotions down into a private cold place and stored them with the other dark things left over from Tatooine. The Blood Carver was on target with his insult, which stiffened Anakin's anger and made it harder to control himself. Both he and his mother, Shmi, had been slaves to the supercilious junk dealer, Watto. When the Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn had won him from Watto, they had had to leave Shmi behind. . something Anakin thought about every day of his life. [Greg Bear. Rogue Planet]

The Blood Carver was not helping. His irritation at the delay was apparently being channeled into ragging the human boy at his side, and Anakin was soon going to have to put up some sort of defense to show he was not just a stage prop. "I hate the smell of a slave," the Blood Carver said. "I wish you'd stop saying that," Anakin said. The closest thing he had to a weapon was his small welder, pitiful under the circumstances. The Blood Carver outmassed him by many tens of kilos."I refuse to compete with a lower order of being, a slave. It brings disgrace upon my people, and upon we." "What makes you think I'm a slave?" Anakin asked as mildly as he could manage and not appear even more vulnerable. [Greg Bear. Rogue Planet]

The Blood Carver had hurt Obi-Wan, threatened Jabitha, called Anakin a slave. For these things there was no possible redemption. [...] "What will you do, slave boy?"  It was the connection Anakin had sought, the link between his anger and his power. Like a switch being thrown, a circuit being connected, he returned full circle to the pit race, to the sting he had felt with the Blood Carver's first insult, with the first unfair and sneaky move that had sent Anakin tumbling off the apron. Then, back farther, to the dingy slave quarters on Tatooine, to the Boonta Eve Podrace and the treachery of the Dug, and to the last sight of Shmi, still in bondage to the disgusting Watto, to all the insults and injuries and shames and night sweats and disgrace piled upon disgrace that he had never asked for, never deserved, and had borne with almost infinite patience.[Greg Bear. Rogue Planet]

Obi-Wan could not reassure Anakin that his words were spoken out of haste. He was worried about the effect of this mission on Anakin. If they did engage with Krayn, Anakin's deepest emotions would be tapped. Obi-Wan knew his Padawan had not begun to truly deal with the years of shame and anger he had passed as a slave. Someday he would confront this. Obi-Wan fervently wished that day to be in the future, after Anakin had honed his training. Yet he had the feeling that this was exactly why Mace Windu and Yoda had chosen them. It was not the first time Obi-Wan had suspected the Council of being too harsh. [Jude Watson. Path to Truth]

"The planet's leader, Aga Culpa, has made an agreement with Krayn that its people will remain free in exchange for Krayn's control of the factories," Mazie explained. "There is not much honest work on Nar Shaddaa, and the guards are well paid. So tell me, how do you come to be here? Is this your first experience as a slave?" "I was free when I was captured, but I was raised as a slave on Tatooine," Anakin said. [Jude Watson. Book 01 - Path to Truth]

"Lying again," Deland said to Anakin. "No human can be a Podracer." "One was," Doby said. "A human child. A slave. He won his freedom, and after the race he disappeared. His name was — " "Anakin Skywalker," Anakin supplied. "Pleased to meet you." "Now you're a Jedi?" Doby asked in disbelief. "And you were a slave?" "It's a strange galaxy," Anakin said with a grin. [...] "I'm sorry that your sister is a slave," Anakin said. "Do you know Shmi, my mother? She's a slave, too. Or she was, when I saw her last." [Jude Watson. Dangerous Games]

Unfortunately, over the years Anakin became more private about his feelings.  You can see the difference between his interactions with stranges and with Jedi. He was much more open about his past with people he didn’t know. And that’s not an accident. It was a change even Obi-wan noticed.

When they’d met, Anakin had been a warm-hearted nine-year-old boy with an open nature. He was twelve and a half now, and the years had changed him. He had grown to be a boy who hid his heart. [Jedi Apprentice Special Edition: Deceptions by Jude Watson]

Obi-Wan crouched by him. “This isn’t work, Anakin. It’s a hobby. And if you are using it to keep distance between you and your fellow students, it’s not a helpful one.” [...] “They don’t want me,” Anakin said flatly. He walked over and slung the legs of the protocol droid under one arm. “I’m not like them.”  Obi-Wan couldn’t argue. Anakin was unique. There was no question about that. He was an exceptional student, much more in tune with the Force than others his age. He had come late to the Temple. It wasn’t that the other students disliked him, they just didn’t know what to make of him. [Jedi Apprentice Special Edition: Deceptions by Jude Watson]

When did it happen? Obi-Wan wondered again. Why did it happen? Was it the loss of his mother, followed so closely by the death of Qui-Gon? Obi-Wan could not replace those people in Anakin’s heart, nor did he wish to. He had hoped that with Jedi training and their own relationship, Anakin would come to find peace. He had not. [Jedi Apprentice Special Edition: Deceptions by Jude Watson]

Anakin’s inability to talk about his past was something Obi-wan recognized as ‘damage’.

[...] Obi-Wan stifled a sigh. Oh Anakin. This was about his childhood. Again. About the indelible fingerprints slavery had left on his soul and his psyche. Qui-Gon, did you never once stop to think of that? Did it never occur to you the damage might run too deep? “Anakin—” Anakin flicked him a frustrated look. “I know you think you understand. I know you want to understand. But if you haven’t lived it, Obi-Wan, you can’t. And you never will.” They really shouldn’t be talking. Even keeping their voices low almost to whispering, it was dangerous. But if he shut down the conversation now, if he refused to hear what Anakin had to say, he’d pile damage upon damage. [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

Anakin was hurt by his past and his inability and unwillingness to openly discuss it was harming him. And, as we can see above, that didn’t happen naturally. It was the result of years of jedi training (and bullying). 

“Thank you, sir,” Anakin said in a quiet voice. Palpatine interlinked the fingers of his hands. “I’m told that you grew up on Tatooine. I visited there, many years ago.” Anakin’s eyes narrowed for the briefest moment. “I did, sir, but I’m not supposed to talk about that.” Palpatine watched him glance up at Obi-Wan. “And why is that?” “My mother—” “Anakin,” Obi-Wan snapped in reprimand. [James Luceno. Darth Plagueis]

But Anakin is not aware of that. As a character he can’t be that self-aware. So he rationalizes it as a behavior he chose. It’s much easier for him to admit he can’t talk about something because it might hurt than it’s to admit the tragedy of his life. After 10 years of burying the trauma from slavery from the Jedi in his life, it’s only nature he’d hide it from Ahsoka too.

[dust2dust34]

Four Walls (Of Law Firms and Honey) - Olicity AU, Explicit

Summary: Oliver is Felicity’s boss at Queen & Queen, a prestigious international law firm. She’s the tech genius, he’s the top dog’s son, and they viciously disagree on nearly everything. Despite that, they work together, neither outright acknowledging the ever-present simmering attraction that has slowly been growing hotter and hotter…

Until a chance meeting at a grocery store one night has them crossing a line, a tiny little line that was never meant to be crossed.

A collection of ficlets in the same ‘verse: Of Law Firms and Honey.

Rated: Explicit

Full fic: AO3 | Tumblr | Timeline

Reminder: Please read the story tags and notes at the beginning of each chapter.

This fic is being told out of order. Please see the timeline to read them in order. Please see the previous installments for additional author notes and story information.

Check out the Four Walls playlist, and if you have suggestions, I’d love to hear them!

Additional A/N: This is the other ficlet I planned for a generous donor in the Fic For Food Drive I took part in. Thank you to everyone who participated!

Chapter Summary: Flash Fic #4. She finds him in a coffee shop.

(read on AO3)

8:27 a.m. Gilded Bean (Flash Fic #4)

The bustle of the coffee shop encompassed him in a pleasant haze.

Sipping his coffee, Oliver scrolled through his email on his phone, enjoying the relaxing slant of his shoulders caused by the chatter behind him, the footsteps of people hustling to the counter, the distinct sound of beverages being crafted. It complimented the busy downtown street outside the window he faced, the people rushing by, cars stopping and going, the sky clear for once, letting sunshine spill on the world.

He savored it, knowing he would be going back to his quiet office for the board meeting in thirty minutes.

Pinpricks of anxiety slithered over him.

Oliver sucked in a breath and quickly looked up at the busy world. His fingers tightened around his coffee cup, so hard the top nearly popped off. He fixed his eyes on signs of life - the strands falling from a woman’s braid, a man digging in his back pocket, a dog prancing by on a thin leash, the woman walking it staring at her phone, a dent in a passing car, a man talking to someone in the backseat of another car, pieces of hair sticking to the corner of someone’s mouth, a woman’s lips as she sang along to whatever came out of her headphones.

He clung to everything before him, holding it close, despite being outside of all of it.

A chime told him he had fifteen minutes to get back to the office.

He didn’t move. Instead, eyes not straying from the mosaic of life, he set his phone down and rubbed his thumb along the ridge of his index finger. The motion soothed him enough that he settled, his heart rate slowing. He calculated how long he could stay until he had to run back to the office to make it in time.

Six minutes.

Ten if he really booked it.

“Hey.”

Oliver froze.

For a split second he wondered if he was imagining it. He’d heard her voice enough over the last several months, whispering through his thoughts, and dreamt about it even more than that. It had become a permanent fixture in his mind during those days drifting on the ocean, memories coming to life, haunting him until he wasn’t sure if he was praying for death or for her.

A hint of her perfume sliced through the smell of coffee.

Oliver breathed it in, deeply, as the warmth of a person sitting down next to him fully registered.

Holding his breath, he turned.

His heart slammed into the floor.

God, she was a sight for sore eyes. She looked the same - her hair back in a high ponytail, dark-framed glasses, bright pop of color on her lips, her earrings exactly how he remembered them - but she was different, too. Calmer. Softer. A casual confidence made the air around her shimmer.

She was stunning, even more than he remembered, and all he could do was stare as the full breadth of how much he missed her hit him square in the chest.

“Felicity.”

A hint of a smile touched her lips and the quiet beauty of it shredded his insides.

“Don’t think I’ll ever be used to that,” she said with a little laugh.

Oliver huffed out a noise, something caught between a chuckle and a grunt, mostly because he felt like he should acknowledge her words somehow. And because his voice was gone.

He stared at her, his mind whirling.

He hadn’t seen her since the bluff last year, their bluff, a few weeks after he’d been found in the North China Sea. She’d found him on the cliff’s edge, staring at the water crashing into the rocks down below. To this day, he still didn’t know if he would have jumped, but then it hadn’t mattered, because she was there. And the second she touched him, he’d fallen apart, collapsing into her arms, breaking under the weight of all of it.

… the Gambit flipping in the frenzied sea, going under… terrified shouts for help from the crew before the ocean tore them away… his father shooting the captain in the face… propping himself on the edge of the raft, telling Oliver it was the only way before putting a bullet in his own head… Oliver’s frantic screams as he fought the rough ocean waves to get his father’s body back… the sea sweeping his father away, so far away, taking the gun with him… floating, for days on end, so many days, knowing he was going to die… hoping for it… wishing for it… so much that when the shadow of the freighter appeared, he finally felt a modicum of peace knowing it was all over…

But it wasn’t. He was still alive.

And the world was unchanged, unaffected, unaware.

She was the only one who knew what had happened out there. The words had come tumbling out in a fervor of raw emotion, running together, his tears blurring the edges until he was nothing but a sobbing mess that she held together all through the night.

Then that was it. They went back to their separate lives - her to a life that didn’t involve him, and him to continue his life with McKenna.

Except here she was, in all her beautiful glory, glowing with all the light he’d taken for granted.

“Hi,” he whispered.

It was all he had.

Her brow furrowed and he watched that familiar line appear between her brows. It always announced her troubled thoughts, no matter how hard she tried to hide them. His mouth went dry. Was she regretting sitting here? Did she wish she’d turned and left instead? They didn’t have much of anything to say anymore, did they? Not now. Not after everything. But the thought of her walking away again sent a white hot knife slicing through his gut and Oliver opened his mouth to beg her not to leave, even though he knew he didn’t deserve it…

She didn’t leave.

With a tiny whisper of his name, Felicity grasped his hand.

Choking on a surge of emotion, Oliver’s eyes dropped to where she touched him. How many times had they touched? In how many ways? Hundreds. Thousands. It was countless, and yet it felt like the first time he was feeling her skin against his. She was as soft as ever, and so damned warm. It wasn’t until this moment that he fully appreciated just how frozen he still was at his core.

His fingers curled around hers, his heart cracking when she held him back.

His phone chimed.

Oliver started, blinking rapidly, only realizing in that moment that tears had been filling his eyes. He swallowed hard as he glanced at his phone.

Five minutes.

“Damn it,” he breathed.

She tugged her hand out of his and the loss carved a jagged hole in his center.

“I have to go, too, actually,” Felicity said, sliding off the barstool. Her front grazed his arm in the miniscule space between them before she stepped free. She offered him another smile. “It was good seeing you, Oliver.”

“Yeah,” he replied.

Absently. Automatically. Blankly. Just going through the motions.

Which was all he’d been doing, wasn’t it? For months now. Floating through life, doing what he thought he was supposed to do, filling shoes he felt woefully inadequate in, going home to someone who barely pierced the surface of his heart.

And he was doing it here, with her.

He didn’t want to be numb anymore.

Oliver surged off his barstool, towards her. The coffee shop was busy, people loitering in line, baristas yelling names, glasses hitting tabletops, utensils hitting plates. All of it was suddenly so viciously clear that it hurt his ears, but none of it mattered as he looked at her.

A thousand words hovered on his tongue. None of them came out, nothing but…

“Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Felicity said, her smile warming. She grasped his bicep and pushed up onto her toes to kiss his cheek. Oliver’s eyes slammed shut and he instinctively leaned into her, his heart damn near ricocheting off his chest plate when she lingered for a second longer than necessary. Her lips moved over his stubble as she said, “Of course.”

As if it was a given.

As if he deserved it.

Oliver let out a ragged exhale and pressed his cheek to hers. She paused, but she didn’t pull away, like he thought she would. Like she probably should. Instead her hand tightened on his arm and then she pressed back, a stuttered breath dancing over the shell of his ear.

They lingered there, caught in the in-between, suspended between the past and the present, and a future that didn’t exist.

He knew nothing about her life anymore. He didn’t know what she had been up to. He didn’t know what she did with her time. He had specifically gone out of his way to avoid looking her up, because it was a closed door that needed to stay that way.

But she was also here, right here, right before him.

“Felicity,” he whispered, his hands finding her elbows, tentative, unsure.

I miss you.

With a ragged gasp, Felicity slid her arm around his neck and tugged him into her.

Relief shot through him and he sagged into her arms.

They hugged each other, tight, grasping, clinging so tight it hurt. Her nails bit through his jacket, a whimper he hoped he wasn’t imagining slipping out as she used her hold on him to yank him down closer to her. He pulled her flush against him, burying his face in her shoulder, and then her neck. The lapel of her jacket got in the way and he nosed it out of the way so he could breathe in that unique scent that was all Felicity. She smelled so good, so perfect, and something deep inside him slid into place, a missing piece he hadn’t realized was missing. A piece he hadn’t wanted to admit was missing. Because he needed it, like the air in his lungs, and the thought of living life without it for even one more second had him gasping her name again and pulling her in even more.

He had to leave. So did she. They had lives to live, lives that didn’t involve each other anymore.

But neither of them moved, not until someone bumped into them, breaking the moment. Even then, when they parted, they lingered in each other’s bubble, so much flying between them that he didn’t know where to begin thinking about it, much less talk about it.

They did finally part, though, and went their separate ways.

But they didn’t say anything, because they didn’t have to.

This was enough.

It had to be.

*

Thank you for reading! Reviews literally feed the soul and muse.

[geneshaven]

The Newbies (a report card)

As season 5 closes out, I wanted to take a look at how the Newbie’s fared during its run. I haven’t seen a whole lot of meta’s or analysis’s on them, and this isn’t one either. I just wanted to look closer into them as characters, and how they strike me. They are Team Arrow now, so why not.

 Curtis (Mr. Terrific)

Curtis is technically not a Newbie. This is his second season on the show, but the two are vastly different. I don’t know, but is seems to me that he has kind of been all over the place this season.  When we were first introduced to him in Season 4, he was funny and smart and a bit eccentric. He was a good match up with Felicity and the two of them worked off of each other, showed good---dare I say chemistry. Even though the writers didn’t delve into his character all that much, we got a sense of who he was. He was in a happy marriage with Paul. He won a bronze medal at the Beijing Olympics. He liked to base jump. He is a brilliant inventor (I give you Felicity being able to walk again.)  So, what’s not to like?

But when Season 5 began, Curtis seemed to regress away from all that, away from the potentially great character he could and should be. I didn’t really feel a whole lot of new motivation for him. It was: do this, stand there, say that, cry, fight (sort of), help Felicity with the tech stuff. It wasn’t the vibrant person from Season 4, more of a cut out version, a bit darker, because this season hasn’t really been about legacy, but more like darkness. Curtis had some moments, but nothing that made me want to break out the Kleenex, happy or sad.

To be fair, Curtis has had some good moments this year. He officially became a member of Team Arrow, and not a chasing robotic bees kind. He is fully in. His stint on the salmon ladder, and afterwards he and Felicity admiring the view when Oliver climbed on in his Mayor suit was memorable, more like the old Curtis from last year.  Giving Oliver a shot of truth tea in 502 was good. Any time another character besides Felicity can give Oliver pause and make him think about his decisions gets another positive mark on the report card. He showed grit and determination when Oliver was beating the crap out of him, you know, during ‘training.’ But he kept coming back for more, so… admirable. He could have been a better sounding board for Felicity, but he lost that battle before it started. Felicity’s darkness had more depth than Curtis’s. She was out of his reach---she was out of everybody’s reach. Losing Paul was painful, but it seemed to strengthen Curtis, make him more determined to get beat up more---as pain and grief will do to a person. Being Felicity’s bodyguard in Russia was hilarious, some good comic relief from out of the darkness.

So overall, Curtis has been both good and bad. At times he was tepid and irritating, but also familiar and someone to pull for. Like it or not, he is part of Team Arrow. Whether he becomes a true representation of Mr. Terrific, aka more meatier scenes, (perhaps a flashback of his Olympic training or his courtship with Paul) is another story, perhaps one that hasn’t been written yet.

Grade: B+

 Rene (Wild Dog)

Out of all the Newbies, Rene has rubbed the most people the wrong way. He is abrasive, self-reliant and fiercely independent---almost to a fault. He can be disrespectful, (is there a Blondie in the house) a loose cannon and a closed book. He is angry, argumentative, hard to impress and hard to impress on the people around him. He is a wildcard, a wild spirit---uh a wild dog.

It’s because of all those things; I am one of the few fans who like him. There is something good and decent about him. His whole purpose and motivation in joining Team Arrow was to fight against the bad people in the world, at least in Star City. He is a survivor, as we got a look at in some of his past---a failed military career, a murdered wife and orphaned daughter. There is some potential there to build his character into a strong one. Would it be OTA worthy---yeah, right, as if.  

If Oliver would let him, Rene would be the first one in and the last one out where dangerous situations are concerned. He is unpredictable, but dependable. He wasn’t at first trustworthy, but he will always have his team members backs. He is defiant, loyal, arrogant, and knows how to take one for the team---the torture and near death sentence from Church as an example. He is a father, a warrior, a partner and could become a lover (wink*Dinah*wink.)

Again, the writers crammed all of these traits into Rene without really endearing him to their audience. I think we’ve seen some potential with his interactions with Curtis, with Lance and definitely with Oliver. Rene is compassionate and despite his indifference at times, he is aware of everybody else’s strengths. He respects Curtis’s talent with technology. He respects Lance’s experience and wisdom. He respects Dinah’s fighting skills (and probably her beauty as well.) And most importantly of all---he is totally behind Oliver’s crusade. Would he die for it? You bet your ass he would. He sees in John as having a new big brother---as I’m sure everybody on Team Arrow does. And despite the Blondie stuff, I think he feels a connection to Felicity’s pain and loss. He has experienced something similar with his wife and daughter, not on the same level of killing tens of thousands of innocent people, but he knows about tragedy.

This might seem far-fetched and probably unpopular, but once Rene is tempered and solidified into a complete person, he could be just like Oliver. No, not as badass, but a leader, one who could take the reins of a crusade, the type of person who can instill admiration and faith and belief to those around him. You know, a hero.

Grade: A

 Rory (Ragman)

Rory was quite simply---Havenrock. At first, that is. He was the bridge leading Felicity into the aftermath of her involvement and guilt from destroying his home town and killing his family.  Rory was the writer’s way of opening the door to Felicity’s downward spiral. He was put in her face as an unwanted reminder.

After Felicity was motivated by Curtis to face her issues, she finally went to Rory and confessed her sins. Rory was understandably shocked and angry and hurt, a whole gambit of emotions that could have easily pushed him over the edge and made him into a monster, one that was capable of devouring Felicity and anybody coming to her rescue.

But instead, he walked away, torn between vindication and forgiveness. He chose forgiveness. Out of all the Newbies, Rory was the easiest to accept.  He made sense. His character was tortured, yet approachable. Sad, but optimistic. Angry, yet forgiving.

And his rags were awesome. The invincibility they gave him, and through him, Team Arrow as well---it was a great weapon for the arsenal. Also what was awesome was the bargain and promise he made with Felicity, to help each other stay afloat in the guilt and self-pity they felt they were mired in. To watch each other’s backs in the chaos. It was the definition of who he is.

Ironically, and unfortunately, Rory’s finest moment was his last one on the show. Protecting Felicity, and probably the tens of thousands around the warehouse where Walker put the nuclear bomb, was the ultimate look into a hero’s heart.

I miss Rory, his calm, his being the only one it seemed worried about Felicity and her inevitable journey down the rabbit hole. During his stay, he reminded the team that no matter how dark things get, no matter how painful things become, no matter how impossible it seems to overcome that which can destroy you---it is through compassion and love and grace that one can make a difference, not only in your own life, but those around you as well.

Grade: A+

Dinah (Black Canary)

Okay, sonic cry aside, Dinah is another new character that brings potential to the table. Add her fighting skills to the sonic badassness (by the way, those fighting skills are light years in difference to what Laurel was capable of) and we get the full package. She also fits in because she comes from a background of tragedy and suffering, of loss and rage and hopelessness. It seems to be the right kind of resume to secure a place in Team Arrow.

Oliver recognized it. So did John and Rene. Even Felicity, despite her natural state of cupcakeness and providing light when darkness intrudes---they all recognized how pain and suffering can damage one’s soul. Dinah found her place on Team Arrow, because she was shown what a team truly can be. She found a way to make sense of things again. And maybe, she will find a way to love again as well, (wink*Rene*wink.)

Grade: A

 Evelyn.  (Artemis)

She is a traitor. And possibly evil. She started out as a Newbie, but ended up being just a plot point. A way for Chase to get deeper into Oliver’s head.

Grade: D

 Thanks for reading. Any one of these Newbies could end up playing an integral part in saving the day when the dust settles, not as individuals, but as Team Arrow. And I can’t wait to give OTA and Olicity their year end grades too. I might be able to give them an A+ right now, but I’ll wait until Oliver and Felicity are (willingly) marooned on Lian Yu when everything is over.

@hope-for-olicity @louiseblue1 @almondblossomme @tdgal1 @dmichellewrites @ruwithmeguys @swordandarrow @ibelievenu @graviolabr @callistawolf @candykizzes24 @c0bra5nak3

[caveartfair]

How Damien Hirst’s $200 Million Auction Became a Symbol of Pre-Recession Decadence

Damien Hirst poses with his workThe Incredible Journey at Sotheby’s art gallery and auction house in London, 2008. Photo by Shuan Curry/AFP/Getty Images.

On September 15, 2008, Sotheby’s was set to auction off 223 brand new works by Damien Hirst, including top-flight examples of his whole animals in formaldehyde, medicine cabinets, and spin paintings. It was an unprecedented incursion by an auction house into the primary market, and an unabashedly flashy sale accompanied by a global marketing tour with stops in Kiev, Aspen, and New Delhi. Sotheby’s produced a three-volume catalogue that cost approximately $240,000 to produce and put on a party for 1,500 guests, who nibbled foie gras wrapped in gold leaf. The auction was expected to bring in at least $120 million over an evening and day sale, with a high estimate of $176.5 million.

The morning of the sale, Lehman Brothers announced it was closing its doors with more than $600 billion in debt, the largest bankruptcy in U.S. history and the beginning of a financial crisis that would cause unemployment to top 200 million for the first time in history, wipe out $16 trillion in American wealth, and send the art market into a spiral that knocked $15 billion from its total sales.

The Hirst auction, which the artist had dubbed “Beautiful Inside My Head Forever,” exceeded all expectations, grossing $200.75 million over the course of two sales in the span of 24 hours and becoming the most expensive single-artist auction ever. The 56 lots at the evening sale went 97% sold, and the two lots that did not find buyers during the auction were sold before the night was over. Over a third of the buyers had never bought contemporary art before. On the cusp of a global recession, Hirst walked away with $172 million.

“I love art and this proves I’m not alone and the future looks great for everyone!” Hirst said in a statement after the sale, during which he was playing snooker at London’s Groucho Club, his personal assistant relaying the prices while on the phone.

Flooding the market with hundreds of works may have hurt his prices at auction, and ten years on “Beautiful Inside My Head Forever” is remembered as a defining moment in the pre-recession contemporary art boom. It was a last gasp of decadence, punctuated with $18 million stuffed cows, and a risk that nearly torpedoed Hirst’s sky-high career.

But with Hirst’s market enjoying a healthy resurgence in 2018, the go-for-broke strategy that he perfected with the sale is still novel a decade later.  

Breaking all the rules

The dinner and party to celebrate the auction of artwork from Damien Hirst’s “Pharmacy” restaurant in Notting Hill, held at Sotheby’s New Bond Street auction house, London, 2004. Photo by Dave Benett/Getty Images.

Damien Hirst had a history with Sotheby’s. In 2003, a pill-themed London restaurant called Pharmacy—a clubby spot that Hirst invested in, filled with his medicine cabinets works and butterfly paintings, and had a hand in designing—went belly-up.The restaurant’s current owner was planning on dumping all the ephemera—floorboards, lighting fixtures, cutlery, matchbooks—that had been, at least to some extent, designed by Hirst in the pharmaceutical theme. At the last minute, Hirst’s accountant and manager Frank Dunphy ran over to the restaurant and bought everything for £50,000. If they could sell the Hirst artworks that hung in Pharmacy, perhaps he could sell the Hirst-designed matchbooks and martini glasses, too.

Sotheby’s Oliver Barker, who at the time was a senior director in the contemporary department, suggested a very unusual kind of auction, which came to him as a vision when passing the shuttered Pharmacy space on the bus to work with his wife.

“I just had a brain flash: That could be an incredible auction,” Barker, who is now co-chairman of Sotheby’s European operations, told Artsy this week. “He could have gone to White Cube or Gagosian to sell butterfly paintings from the Pharmacy restaurant, but the only way to attract the highest value for all the fixtures—the costumes and the glassware and the furniture and the flooring—was really through auction.”

Dunphy was able to convince Hirst to go along with demented gambit, and when the sale was announced in July 2004, the British rags had a field day making fun of the ambitious prices listed for bizarre tableware and decor. “Anyone with a heartfelt yearning for a stool in the shape of an aspirin need not go away empty-handed: a set of six could be yours for a mere £700,” The Guardian wrote at the time. But then something wild happened—when the bidding opened in October 2004, everything sold, and for prices remarkably above the estimates. When Barker opened bidding on the first lot, a pair of martini glasses estimated to sell for £50 to £70, the paddles exploded, and bidding pushed the price to £4,800, nearly 100 times the low estimate. A pair of salt and pepper shakers, estimated to sell for an already pricy £40 if you considered how easy it would have been to steal them after dinner were you so inclined—well, they sold for £1,920. In total it made £11.13 million ($20.06 million), more than double the high estimate.

Hirst, who didn’t bother to show up, told Dunphy, “Suddenly my restaurant venture seems to be a success.”

When Barker noted  it was the first and only time a living artist had consigned all of the work in a single auction, it gave Hirst and his business manager an idea.

A high-risk event

A gallery technician checks Damien Hirst's collection of artworks and original designs at the Sotheby’s sale preview of contents from the Pharmacy restaurant, London, 2004. Photo by Scott Barbour/Getty Images.

The idea of an all-new, all-Hirst auction came together over the next two years, born of a mutual desire between Hirst and Sotheby’s to one-up the Pharmacy sale.

Barker said that the high-clip pace of production at Hirst’s studio, Science UK Limited, was such that a body of work large enough to fill out an evening sale and a day sale could be created in a year and a half. Increasingly, Hirst started to feel like an auction was the best way to get the highest prices for them.

“All of us had been left with a taste in our mouths that Pharmacy wasn’t the last time we would work together,” Barker said. “We started thinking: Look, you could go into the auction ring with brand new work from the studio. Initially it was an idea that was quite shocking and quite scary.”

Taking work directly to market through an auction house would siphon millions of dollars from Hirst’s powerful dealers, Jay Jopling and Larry Gagosian. Hirst’s set up was typical of any in-demand artist at the time: He made work, and his dealers  decided where to place it. Ordinarily, it is frowned upon when a vetted collector flips a work at auction. But Damien embraced that very act of betrayal and decided to pre-flip his own works to whoever could pay, with the support of Dunphy, whom he trusted more than his two dealers.

“Frank has my best interests at heart,” Hirst told The Economist in a story published before the sale. “Dealers say they do, but they don’t.”

Hirst volunteered to level with Jopling, his longtime confidant and friend. It was up to Dunphy to tell Larry Gagosian he was getting cuckolded. “Larry said, ‘It sounds like bad business to me,’” Dunphy recalled to The Economist in 2010. “‘It’ll be confusing to collectors. Why do you need to do this? We could continue in the old way.’”

The old ways were over. In July 2008, Sotheby’s announced that it would hold a special sale with that utterly Hirstean name of “Beautiful Inside My Head Forever.” The artist’s market had never been hotter—a year earlier he had set a record for a work by a living artist when the daughter of the Qatari emir bought a pill cabinet called Lullaby Spring (2002) for £9.65 million ($19.2 million)—but most thought the idea was a disaster.

“Is Hirst sabotaging his own market?” Sarah Thornton asked in The Art Newspaper, noting that many works of his at the Art Basel fair in Basel, Switzerland, a month before were left unsold. The writer Richard Bevan railed in The Art Newspaper that this amounted to a declaration of war from artist to gallery. One collector told Thornton, “I love Damien’s work, but his treatment of his business partners is abusive and selfish.”

Hirst himself seemed aware of the high probability of failure, but he was characteristically blasé about it. The day before the sale, Hirst told a writer for the New York Times about a recurring nightmare in which the sale begins and not a single paddle is raised.

“It’s risky I know,” Hirst said. “But it’s too late to worry now.”

A tsunami of financial doom

Auction of work by Damien Hirst at the Sotheby’s sale “Beautiful Inside My Head Forever,” 2008. Courtesy of Sotheby’s.

Meanwhile, the weekend before the sale, the heads of the major Wall Street firms held an emergency meeting at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York to try and forestall the collapse of the bank Lehman Brothers after the U.S. Treasury declined to bail it out. After a proposed takeover by Barclays fell apart Saturday, markets opened on Monday, September 15—the day of the evening sale portion of “Beautiful Inside My Head Forever”—to the news that Lehman Brothers had filed for bankruptcy. The Dow Jones Industrial Average plunged more than 500 points.

“As the sale got closer, it became clear that fairly unprecedented things were going on with the financial markets,” Barker recalled. “I remember waking up to the news that the bankers had decided not only to not bail out Lehman, but then that decision had precipitated this tsunami of financial doom, which started in the Hong Kong markets and gravitated west. By lunchtime in London, it was complete pandemonium.”

Dumphy had originally got dressed in a drab suit instead of his usual bow-tie get-up, as if he were going to a funeral, he recalled in the catalogue for an upcoming sale of his personal collection at Sotheby’s. He told me he was concerned because, as he put it, “if we fell flat on our face that would be bad for Damien’s market in the future.” Thing did seem precarious, Barker recalled. An auction with this much cache would usually have been choreographed ahead of time to ensure that there’s bidding, but they were mostly going in blind. None of the works were guaranteed.

“Beyond the very top lots, it was unknown as to how well it could do,” he said. “People were keeping their cards very close to their chest.”

But when Barker started off the bidding with an especially spastic spin painting looming behind him, it was quickly clear that there was little to worry about. No one hesitated—81% of the buyers were collectors themselves, with Russians, then the major force in the art market, snapping up a good chunk of the entire ensemble. Maria Baibakova, Vladislav Doronin, Victor Pinchuk, and Gary Tatintsian all bought works, and Alexander Machkevitch bought six works for a total of £11.7 million. The Italian collector and fashion designer Miuccia Prada spent £6.3 million on three carcass-in-formaldehyde works: a sheep, a calf and a fowl; she called the sale “an incredible conceptual gesture.”

At the end of the first evening, the haul with the buyer’s premium was £70.54 million ($127.2 million), ahead of the high estimate of £62.18 million ($112 million). Perhaps the art market was just, at least for the time being, immune from the perils of the global markets, as some economists believe that art objects were a sound investment in confusing times.

“Our sale was partly a result of the power of Damien, and the power of the product and the desirability of the work, but there was a bit of a flight to Damien from the financial markets,” Barker said.

Or, as the New York-based dealer Jose Mugrabi told the Times after the sale, “Today more people believe more in art than the stock market. At least it’s something you can enjoy.”

The last hurrah, and the last laugh

Auction of work by Damien Hirst at the Sotheby’s sale “Beautiful Inside My Head Forever,” 2008. Courtesy of Sotheby’s.

But like all markets during the recession that followed the Lehman Brothers demise, the art market took a hit, and many say the last gasp came with that legendary auction of dead fowl in formaldehyde, toasted with champagne and foie gras. “The longest bull run in a century of art-making ended on a dramatic note with a sale of 56 works by Damien Hirst,” The Economist wrote in November 2009.

By that point, the global art market was worth $50 billion, down from $65 billion in 2007, according to Clare McAndrew, the founder of Art Economics and author of UBS and Art Basel’s art market report. One major casualty of this downturn was Damien Hirst. In 2008, his average auction price was $831,000; by 2010 it was $136,000. “The perception of collecting Damien did suffer,” Barker admitted. In 2012 he left Gagosian, with the economist Don Thompson, who wrote the art market book The $12 Million Stuffed Shark, telling The Guardian that the dealer couldn’t afford to have an artist in his stable shed value so quickly, as it would erode the contract of trust he has with his collectors.

But in 2016, he rejoined Gagosian—“Great artists, like great people, have second acts,” Gagosian said—and in 2017 he staged another risky gambit. He would invest a chunk of his personal fortune to produce a monumental $65 million show across both of billionaire collector Francois Pinault’s colossal palazzos in Venice—a fever dream of ancient mythology and seafaring hijinks and Disney-esque theme park magic—called “Treasures from the Wreck of the Unbelievable.” After months of hype, the show was pilloried by critics.

Today, the global art market is once again hovering near its record highs, up to $63.7 billion in 2018, according to The Art Market | 2018, released by Art Basel and UBS. And with the economic recovery in its ninth year (and the gains unevenly tipped towards the wealthy), the global collecting elite are once again opening their pockets for Hirst. During the Venice Biennale, Hirst’s “Treasures” show was all anyone could talk about—and collectors were buying up a lot of it. By November, there were $330 million in sales.

This past January, Hirst filled Gagosian’s Beverly Hills space with a series of paintings that he actually painted himself, despite the fact that he is not known for his gifts with a paintbrush. The show sold out in days, with the larger paintings priced at $1.6 million. He had gone back to the “old ways” that Gagosian was trying to hold on to in 2008, while also—with the show in Venice—staging the ambitious stunts outside the gallery circuit like he did with the landmark 2008 auction.

Once again, Hirst succeeded by doing exactly what everyone thought would be his downfall. As Dunphy told Artsy, “The legacy of the ‘Beautiful Inside My Head Forever’ sale is that people felt he was a very clever businessman.”

“His belief in his own abilities really came through again,” Barker said.  “The recent show in Venice, coupled with the recent shows at Gagosian Gallery, they were hugely successful as well. In a funny way, Damien’s really had the last laugh.”

from Artsy News