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mister-tom-a-dildo-lover · 6 years ago

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Strive Pt. 22

{PART 1} {PART 2} {PART 3} {PART 4} {PART 5} {PART 6} {PART 7} {PART 8} {PART 9} {PART 10} {PART 11} {PART 12} {PART 13} {PART 14} {PART 15} {PART 16} {PART 17} {PART 18} {PART 19} {PART 20} {PART 21}

Pair: Tomarry

Rating: M-E(depends)

Tags: Mild Language, Homosexuality, Sexism, Obsessed Tom, Time-Travel/Dimension-Travel, Teacher/Student, Eventual Romance, Teacher-Harry, Grey!Harry, MoD(sort of), Death!being,

"You know, I don't want to try to control the way you do things in your life, but if you go and get a Mastery in Magical Smithing, it'll look very good on any resume you decide to build in the future."

Tom's tea cup paused against his lips as he considered Harry's words. Applying for a Mastery was a free process. And he was very young. People his age didn't often get Masteries. Especially ones centered around dying arts that were rarely mentioned anymore since it usually took extra effort to find information about them and he had the benefit of Salazar's knowledge on his side.

"Technically, you could apply for a Mastery in many subjects. Magical Smithing, Runes, Arithmancy, Legilimency, Occlumency, Defence, Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions. And for a few of those, you were self-taught. Such notes would go over well with most people and even if you end up in another profession, your status as a Master would have you called upon often by others. Few people in our community are Masters in Legilimency or Occlumency for example and you could be called in to help the Unspeakables should they have need of your… abilities."

Suddenly the idea had become very appealing. "Having multiple Masteries would make me come across as more capable, yes?" Trustworthy. Hard-working. Dedicated. If someone was to see that he'd achieved Masteries in many subjects, they'd be impressed and more willing to put their faith in him. They'd most likely take him more seriously then, and consider everything he had to say as something valuable.

If he ever personally got into politics, that could greatly help with his ideas in moving forward. And it would draw his acquaintances even closer to him because it was in a Slytherin's nature to want to be near greatness.

"You're already Apprenticed to a Defence Master who will be going for a Runes Mastery soon. With a proper attitude, good support base, and necessary skills, you could probably obtain all those Masteries before you're thirty," Harry told him confidently.

It would be around twelve years until then, but at the same time that was such a short span of time for wizards. Nine Masteries in twelve years sounded impossible to the ear, but Tom did like challenges and he always came out on top eventually.

And he liked the benefits. If Tom was one of the very few Masters of a certain Art in Britain alone, he would be asked for assistance. Could probably charge outlandish prices simply because someone's desperation didn't let them think clearly. He very much liked the idea of it.

Also proving himself better than others by holding multiple Masteries at once sounded appealing. Tom was a narcissist first and foremost.

~.O.~

"We're going to explore my memories of the duels," said Harry as he held up a kit full of several vials of different colours, all bearing a different label on them. "Unaltered as promised. Choose which you wish to start with."

Tom squinted at the man's atrocious writing and plucked Duel 5 from the case.

According to Potter, they were borrowing the Headmaster's Pensieve for this lesson. He'd never seen one in person before, and committed the ornate markings in the bowl to memory. They looked like Runes, but unfamiliar ones, so mostly likely those from another culture.

"Pour the memory into the basin and dip your head inside."

The memory was silver as it poured out, but turned black the moment it hit the liquid within the Pensieve. Tom took a deep breath and followed Harry's order.

The Dueling Championship had been held in a massive outdoor stadium as large as Hogwarts' Quidditch Pitch. And the space where the duels took place was just like his and Harry's Room of Requirement training had been. Every element available to make things interesting.

The stands were filled with people holding up flags from different countries and cheering on their favourite competitors.

Said competitors were standing on the sidelines looking agitated as they had to wait for their turns.

A horn blew and a portly witch in bright yellow and black striped robes took center-field, her wand activating the Sonorous Charm. "We are ready to begin the Fifth Round! The first competitors up are Harry Potter of Great Britain and John Crawford of the United States!"

The cheers erupted from the stands.

Tom backed up until he was certain he was out of the way of the entire duel as the announcer shot off red sparks with her wand.

The four duels Harry had been through before this one were enough to make his opponent skeptical of him. He didn't rush in with his wand waving and spells flying. Instead, the blond man across the field stood perfectly still and waited, his blue eyes trained only on Harry in a manner that Tom did not appreciate.

Harry mimicked his opponent, stance casual and face passive. The two let the minutes pass them by, the silence rendering the crowd into a mass of confusion.

Eventually, it seemed that Crawford had lost whatever patience he'd been trying to show off, and whipped his wand out in an upward arc. A streak of flames followed the movement like a whip, and when the wand lashed out again, the whip snapped toward Harry's position.

Of course Harry quickly proved why the majority of Slytherin was looking to him to defeat Grindelwald. Instead of pulling up a barrier of any sort to protect himself, Harry quite literally took two steps to his right, allowing the fire whip to pass his left shoulder without a backwards glance. He didn't even blink.

The whip retracted and then lashed out once again, and once again, Harry manoeuvered himself around it, avoiding what would no doubt be a painful feeling if he had been unfortunate enough to get wrapped up in it.

There wasn't even a magical application to this, it was simply Harry being observant enough to predict where the whip would go specifically and simply moving to a position away from the targeted area.

Crawford didn't seem to appreciate Harry's treatment of his skills. Perhaps to a fool it looked as if Harry was mocking him, but if Harry was honestly good enough to avoid damage without having to use magic, then why tire himself out of he didn't have to? It would be pointless otherwise.

Common sense should be a thing utilised by everyone in Tom's opinion. It could honestly save one's life one day.

"Fight back, damn you!" Crawford eventually yelled.

Harry cocked an arched, perfectly plucked brow, and flicked his Holly wand once. Nothing seemed to happen and Crawford cackled. "Not so talented, are you? That's why you keep running away!"

And then Crawford's entire body jerked out of nowhere, and his hands rushed to his face to rub at his nose. He seemed to forget that he was holding a literal whip of fire and with his wand suddenly in his face again, the whip snapped back the way it came and Crawford got a face full of burns as punishment for his boasting.

The stadium erupted in applause and cheering, the astounded faces hanging out so openly. It was because Harry wasn't very intimidating in figure and didn't look like someone capable of much beyond looking pretty. But he'd proved their assumptions wrong so effortlessly!

Harry had won using only a tickling charm. Honestly, Tom shouldn't be surprised by his strange approach to magic.

~.O.~

"What did you observe?" Harry asked pensively the moment he was freed from the memory.

Tom shook himself in order to center his thoughts and stop the mild vertigo he was feeling. "He was very cocksure, but mostly in an attempt to hide that he was actually unnerved by you. You got that far so you had to be a threat in some way and when you didn't use magic to fight back and just kept avoiding his attacks, he became even more frustrated and attempted to goad you into fighting."

It was a pathetic attempt. Crawford was not so good with words as to manipulate anyone into anything. He would be a poor public speaker.

"He also knew how to use a whip," Tom added. "Very well. The flickings of his wrist spoke of experience." Tom was very well aware of how a whip was used. It took a lot of time to acclimate oneself to the proper motions if one wanted the best results.

"Correct. Anything else?"

He had to think for a moment. "He was impatient but also lacked common sense. He should have tried something else when you dodged the whip for the third time. Simply relying on the same technique for several minutes was foolish of him, and it rendered his arm tired after a certain amount of time elapsed. His form became sloppy and slow and even more predictable than before."

"Exactly. In essence, nothing particularly impressive. What would you have done differently?"

Against Harry? Tom already knew Harry. He'd been dueling Harry for weeks. Compared to Crawford, Tom already had a bit over him in terms of 'knowing his enemy'. He could formulate better ideas easily, though whether they'd actually work against Harry was an entirely different thing altogether.

Still…

"I would have learned a better version of the spell. A single whip is relatively easy to dodge because it is thin and can only go in one direction, but a cat o' nine tails is not. You aren't fast enough to dodge nine individual strips of flame no matter how talented you are."

Harry nodded, seemingly envisioning the very scenario and twirling his wand experimentally. "And if that failed?"

"Probably something involving animals. I've very good at controlling animals and most people are very hesitant to harm an animal, especially if they think it looks cute." He could capitalise off their hesitancy and then take them down.

"Interesting."

~.O.~

Dinner with the Malfoy family. It hadn't been since Yule that Tom had visited the Malfoys and he honestly found himself bored of them. Though it was incredibly useful that they felt indebted to him(and that was only because of Harry) he just didn't find them as interesting as he had before.

It was so strange how his way of thinking had changed so much.

During dinner, Tom had been asked a simple question. "How have things been for you, Tom?"

And he had to think about it for a moment.

"Considerably well if I ignore Dumbledore stalking my every movement," he'd answered. "I am Apprenticed to Harry Potter now."

Abraxas beamed, looking as if he had a million questions that he was only barely keeping himself from asking. His father however, merely looked politely interested.

"Our son told us you seemed less enthused the last time you met up for lunch," Lord Malfoy said calmly, not even looking up from his plate. "Are you well?"

An interesting place to insert this information. "I am am merely conflicted after I learned some sensitive information about the Slytherin family."

All three Malfoy's stiffened and turned to look at him with full interest.

"Oh?" Lady Malfoy asked.

"Indeed. Professor Potter is actually also related to the Gaunts and he is also a Parselmouth. As such he has managed to acquire many tomes about both the Slytherins and the Gaunts and has allowed me to study them. They are in Parselscript however, so it took time. I have learned that the enmity between Salazar and Godric had nothing to do with Mundanes, and everything to do with Godric's wife's younger sister starting a fight with Salazar's son over his pet snake."

"Mundanes?" Abraxas repeated with obvious confusion.

"Their older term for Muggles," Tom clarified. "Salazar sent his son away because Godric overreacted and when he found out he was in the wrong, he refused to take anything he'd done and said back, which lead to Salazar leaving as well after a time because he was too frustrated with Godric's childish behaviour."

"Ho-how did the story change then?" asked Abraxas, looking a good mix between horrified and baffled. "How could a fight over a snake escalate into him being pure evil?"

"It seems we've allowed the other Houses to dictate our Founder to us," said Tom plainly. "The whole story about the his monster is a lie. The Basilisk exists but not to cleanse the school of Muggleborns. All the Founders had a 'monster' that served to protect the school. Godric had a dragon that fell in battle, Helga had a Phoenix that still lingers around the property when it wants to be seen, Rowena had a Sphinx that was sold off centuries ago, and Salazar had a Basilisk that fell alongside Godric's dragon. So Salazar bred another to protect the children and left it there for any of his blood to make use of should the school need its greatest defence again."

The looks of shock and minor outrage on their faces was somewhat amusing and also sad at the same time. This went against everything they had ever learned about their House Founder after all.

"Essentially, we've been lead astray by the very people who hate us for the House we're Sorted into." If Tom was going to change something, he'd at least make certain proper blame was placed.

~.O.~

A knock on door of his rooms made Tom frown. No one ever visited him because there was no one around that would need or want to. And it was always him going to see Harry.

When he opened the door, he was greeted by the sight of one Ella Potter smiling up at him with mischief all over her face. "Hello, Tom. Care to come on a walk with this old woman?"

And the first thing out of his mouth was an offended, "You are not old. Dumbledore is old. Ancient even." He added last bit just to be petty.

Ella snorted behind her hand in a very unladylike fashion and nodded. "Such a charmer, Tom. He's only seven years older than me."

Briefly he had to wonder what happened because she looked so young and Dumbledore didn't.

Tom held his hand out and his cloak laid itself over his arm a second later. He didn't know why Elle was there at all but he wouldn't pass up the opportunity to speak with her if she really wanted to talk to him. He actually liked her company.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked as he stepped into the third floor corridor swinging his cloak over his shoulders.

"Not really. I'm merely going to have lunch with Harry and I thought you'd like to join us. You're always so alone down here. It's not healthy, you know."

"I'm not alone. I spend a lot of time with Harry," he defended since it was the literal truth. He spent so much time with Harry and still managed to not be bored of seeing his beautiful face.

She sent him an unimpressed look, left brow angled down to give the look more character. "All this time with him and you still haven't made a move. You need help."

Oh Merlin! He was getting courtship assistance from Harry's aunt. He didn't know if he should be embarrassed that his interest was so obvious to her, or grateful that she was in full support of it and wanted to see it blossom into something more.

Ella linked arms with him and gave his shoulder a fond by pitying pat. "It's really not that difficult. Harry is a bit dense but once things are more clear he will be more than receptive."

The entire afternoon was filled with Ella making certain to drag complements out of the both of them for each other. She also managed to get Tom to blush, which was a feat no other but Harry had managed. It was obvious she'd been a Slytherin. She was devious and single-minded in her purpose and didn't bat a single lash at her nephew's mortified sputtering.

And yet it was all worth it in the end just to see Harry so carefree and happy. While he hadn't been sad or dispassionate while teaching, he held a personal belief on how teachers should act when around their students. So the familiarity and fun behaviour he had shown all afternoon, was something new.

Tom felt privileged that he even got to witness it. Seeing sides of Harry Potter that others didn't get to, made him float.

Literally.

Sometimes he got so excited about Harry that he'd lose his connection to the Earth for a few seconds. It was embarrassing. Thankfully no one had noticed it yet.

~.O.~

"The school year is starting next week," remarked Harry that evening at dinner. They'd had a long day of training in dueling and this was the time they could indulge. Harry was eying up the platter of treacle tart the House Elves had brought for after supper.

"It'll be interesting to see the Great hall from a different angle." They took their meals together for the most part. Or Tom went to the kitchens personally in an effort to avoid Dumbledore. He hadn't stepped foot in the Great hall once that summer, and it had been marvelous!

Harry snorted. "You'll realise just how big it is then. It can almost feel overwhelming at times. So many students. So many faces. You can't even see them all perfectly near the double doors at the far end."

To Tom it sounded spectacular. Of course it could just be his happiness over getting to be in Hogwarts still. Not having to leave his true home behind could be blinding him.

"Have you already worked out your schedules?" Harry asked him, setting his plate aside and pulled the entire platter of treacle tart closer. As they were for him to begin with, Tom wasn't offended by the the gluttonous reaction.

They'd already discussed it. Tom would be taking over the classes for the first through third years. Harry had deemed him prepared enough to handle that much work, and had already bestowed much wisdom on how to handle assignments and such. And he had Harry's own example to base his own teaching style off of. Despite him originally being incensed in regards to it, Harry's method truly worked. He raised the grade average of the entire school simply because his class touched upon applications from nearly every other class in the school and his Dueling Club had been a great help.

With Tom taking on some classes, Harry's schedule would be freed up so he could dedicate the proper time to his Deputy duties. And there were so many to see to! Every day he had something to do, even in the summer!

"I have everything set up," he told the man confidently. "Though I wouldn't mind if you'd like to look over what I've come up with."

Harry's smile could make him believe in angels, it was just that fetching. That innocent. How had he existed this long and manage to be so untarnished?

"You've come a long way, Tom. I'm proud of your progress."

Tom was not blushing he was simply a little overheated still from the intense workout Harry had put him through. His clothes were hot and there was even still sweat on his brow!

There was sweat on Harry too. It made his hair shine and his skin glisten just a bit in the candlelight. And Tom's mouth felt dry suddenly.

"Are you okay, Tom?"

"Fine! Just fine."

He was not fine.

A/N: This chapter was finished months ago, for the most part. It was long enough and everything, but I chose to hold off on posting because it didn't feel right to me. Last night I got a review and decided to re-read the whole fic, plus this chap to see what was missing. I found it too. It was just detail. Some of the writing was just bland. I fixed it while I added 1,000 words!

#Strive #Fanfiction #Tomarry #Watermelonsmellinfellon

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jahaanofmenaphos · 5 years ago

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Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

Read the full work here:

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TUMBLR CHAPTER INDEX

QUEST 07: DISHONOUR AMONG THIEVES

QUEST SUMMARY:

Due to his status as the World Guardian, Jahaan wound up as part of Zamorak’s heist team. Their task? Steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske and return its power to Zamorak. Jahaan gets to learn more about a god propaganda had always skewed, but will he be on board with Zamorak’s plan in the end…

CHAPTER 5: WRATH AND RUIN

Moia’s eyes narrowed as she locked onto Sliske’s glittering yellow irises. “Sliske…”

With a dramatic flourish, Sliske flamboyantly gestured around him. “Welcome! How nice to finally have some visitors. Hope you like what I've done with the place. The statues are truly inspired artwork, I think. I recommend having a-”

“Enough of this prattle!” Zemouregal cut in, summoning smoke to his fingertips with malicious intent. “I say we eliminate this vermin before he has the chance to scurry away!”

Hopping backwards, Sliske held his palms outwards and said, “Ah-ah-ah! How rude of me, I almost forgot to introduce you...”

Shivering slightly, Khazard took a tentative step backwards. “Bilrach... do you sense that?”

“Yes, Khazard, I sense it too,” Bilrach’s fists were clenched, his voice low and eyes darting around him. “Be on your guard.”

Sliske’s smile grew wicked now. “I think it's time for you to meet the other guests.”

From a cloud of smoke, Sliske revealed his latest creations: shadow replicas, clones of the present Zamorakians that nested comfortably in the uncanny valley. They wore the same armour as their counterparts, had the same weapons, but they still seemed… off. Perhaps the sinister air surrounding them was just something that had brushed off from their creator.

“Nomad, meet Nomad!,” Sliske proudly introduced, watching the expressions of confusion and horror from the Zamorakians with twisted glee. “Daquarius, meet Daquarius! Jerrod- well, you get the picture.”

“So this is the result of your twisted experiments in the Shadow Realm,” Bilrach regarded the shadow apparition of himself without amusement.

“What have you done, Sliske?” Khazard demanded, his hand clenched around his sword hilt. The shadow figure of him mimicked the action. “Playing god like this is dangerous - even for you!”

Sliske sneered, “If I didn't know better, I'd say you were scared, Khazard.”

“No!” Khazard barked, too sharply, and it betrayed him. “Surely they are nothing but apparitions, constructs of shadow…”

“Indeed,” Nomad concurred, his resolve more certain. “A nice trick, but nothing more, conjurer.”

“Oh, but they are so much more! You will find them to be quite formidable opponents.”

Jahaan scanned the ranks once, then twice, and noticed an absence. His tone was slightly wary as he inquired, “So where's my one?”

The smirk Sliske gave him made Jahaan wish he had never asked. “Such impatience! Just you wait, I still have an ace up my sleeve for you...”

“We have heard enough of your empty words,” Moia summoned a ball of flames to her palms. “Disciples of chaos, ready yourselves!”

With that, the Zamorakians drew their weapons and readied their spells; their opposites did the same.

Unsurprisingly, Zemouregal was the one to make the first move, blasting Nomad’s double with a bolt of shadow magic. “Ha! Been waiting to do that for a long time.”

Taking it personally, Nomad squared off with Zemouregal’s clone, while the others paired off with their counterparts in a flurry of combat.

Jahaan was about to get stuck into the action too when he felt a force tug him backwards. From the instant chill, he realised he’d been dragged into the Shadow Realm again, the dark tinge his vision he’d acquired confirming this.

He wasn’t alone. This he knew. He could sense a presence. Nay, multiple presences. Those not quite living, not quite dead. These weren’t Sliske, but he was here too, his looming spirit omniscient.

Right in the centre of the room, a platform, holding the Stone of Jas atop it.

Sliske's voice echoed around the cavernous vault. “Welcome to the carnival, Jahaan! It’s been too long, my dear. Now, it’s time for the main act to begin...”

Suddenly, a figure materialised and charged at him, holding two blades akin to his own. Instinctively, Jahaan swung for the apparition, only for it to disappear in a cloud of smoke. Confused, Jahaan held the grip of his swords steady, shuffling backwards.

It was a whisper of a sound, a ghost of a noise, but there was someone behind him. Slashing around in the area his ears had tweaked, his blades greeted nothing.

Just as he was about to grumble out his frustrations, another figure appeared at his six o’clock. Jahaan rolled out of the way of the crushing sword blow, whipping around with his two blades, expecting not to meet the attacker. But this time, he did. His swords clashed with two blades, similar to his own, but radiating smoke. The opponent holding them was himself. Or, rather, a slightly more contorted version of himself. Pupilless eyes, slightly crooked limbs, like a puppet being held on a loose string. The likeness was revolting, for Jahaan felt like he was looking into the zombified version of himself, entranced and helpless to Sliske’s command.

It also had a hauntingly familiar smile carved into its overly pale face.

“Do you like him?” Sliske’s voice was laced with a malicious chuckle. “It’s such a shame you scarred that pretty face of yours, you know. Such a waste.”

Despite being faced with… himself… Jahaan found that he was on the defensive more often than not, and that every strike he made was countered perfectly. Knowing he was fighting an uphill battle, Jahaan said to himself, This is just a game to Sliske, like everything is. I’ve gotta focus on getting the Stone back into the material realm...

As he sparred, Jahaan edged backwards, closer and closer to the Stone. A blade swung for his neck, but Jahaan ducked in time, managing to use one of his blades to swipe at his opponents shins. Despite being a shadow construct, the counterpart took the hit like he was flesh and blood, and Jahaan capitalised with a slash across the chest with his other blade, only cringing ever so slightly at the sight of causing ‘himself’ such agony.

Not wasting a second, Jahaan dashed up to the Stone’s plinth, finally taking in the awe-inspiring power radiating from the immense artefact up close. It caused his skin to crawl as he felt the energy creep underneath his flesh and into his veins.

Despite guessing that it would be foolish to reach out and touch the godly weapon, Jahaan decided to reach out and touch the godly weapon.

Upon touching the Stone, Jahaan’s mind was cast back through time to witness a memory that was imprinted on the Stone of Jas many years ago, far back towards the end of the Third Age, and to a land once known as Forinthry…

The battlefield was solemn, a haunting wind crying out through the desolate grey sky. Mere minutes beforehand, the place was ablaze with the clashing of swords, the screams of battle, and the rattle of magic. Now, it was eerily quiet, save for the low groaning of the wounded and the unstable pulsing of energy emitting from the Stone of Jas.

Panting, Zamorak was huddled over on the ground, a hand defiantly (albeit desperately) sealed onto the Stone’s surface.

When he blinked through the grit in his eyes, he saw three figures looming over him, though keeping a comfortable distance.

Saradomin, Armadyl and Bandos, side by side.

“You are defeated, Zamorak,” Saradomin announced, barely keeping the smugness from his tone. “Give up the Stone.”

“Never,” Zamorak spat, unsurprised when blood spilt from his lips. “You betrayed me, you bastard! You threw away our alliance the moment your knife could find my back!”

With his words, the Stone’s surface quivered and cracked, energy pounding through it with more vehermence than ever before.

Seeing this, Armadyl pleaded with heavy eyes, “Please, Zamorak. Look at the Stone. Your desperation is causing it to become unstable!”

“Stop squawking, bird,” Bandos grunted, tightening his grip on his large warhammer. “Bandos has destroyed red man’s armies. Now, Bandos finish red man too!”

“There’s a peaceful way out of this for all of us, you barbarian,” Armadyl maintained, softening his tone when he returned his focus to Zamorak. “Please, Zamorak. It does not have to end like this...”

Saradomin’s eyes were on fire, burning holes through Zamorak’s skull. “You cannot reason with this mad dog, Armadyl. He and his forces are devoted to evil above all else.”

“Lies!” Zamorak rebuked, forcefully. “You do not understand… you have never even wanted to fucking TRY and understand! I have risen to power through my own strength and will, and that is how ALL can thrive! You… you little bitch, you’re wretched and weak, just like your pathetic excuse for an ideology. Order leads to stagnation, but chaos leads to innovation, empowerment, FREEDOM!”

Now, the Stone’s pulsing began to cause rifts in the world, quaking the earth surrounding them all, but Zamorak didn’t even seem to notice. Armadyl’s resolve, on the other hand, was about as unsteady as the ground beneath him. He looked over his shoulder to the aviansie army behind him, the fearsome warriors that had followed him from their home world on Abbinah in hopes of finding peace on Gielinor. He had lost a fair few good soldiers in the battle preceding this standoff, and he would weep for them all. However, many were still alive, and thus one thing was repeating inside his mind, clawing fiercely to escape.

“Zamorak, I beg of you - the Stone!” he implored with increased urgency. “You know not what you are doing. You could annihilate Forinthry and all innocent life within!”

“Do you see now?” Saradomin swept a grand gesture behind him. “This is what you truly stand for - the destruction of life. You are nothing but a villain.”

Coughing, Zamorak ignored the blue deities remarks and turned to the others. “Armadyl... Bandos... hear me. Everything I've done was for Gielinor. I seek only to raise up the people of this world.”

But Bandos just laughed. “Ha! The mighty Zamorak, begging on his knees. Pathetic.”

There was a glint in Armadyl’s eyes, however, that indicated he might be reasoned with. “Saradomin, does he speak the truth?”

Quickly, Saradomin dispelled this idea, eager to keep his allies on his side. “Lies, all of it. He is trying to manipulate you. We each allied to bring this wretched criminal to justice. The Stone is rightfully mine!”

This didn’t sit well with Bandos. “Yours? Looks like fair game to Bandos, old man.”

Latching onto this, Zamorak growled, “Saradomin, you only want to rule and control this world with your power, the same as Zaros before you. Stagnation and weakness is all that comes of it.”

“And you believe chaos to be the answer?” Saradomin rebuked. “Would you have this planet ravaged by a never-ending war?!”

“Conflict would be inevitable, yes, but the people of the world would be free. Free to fall and grow, to fail and rebuild-”

“MADNESS!” Saradomin cut in, and by the looks on Armadyl’s on Bandos’ faces, Zamorak knew he had lost them all. Nevertheless, he persisted, “Surely you can see the value of my words, Bandos?”

“They are just words,” Bandos snarled. “Powerless and empty. In another time we might have seen eye-to-eye. You might have been allowed to fight for Bandos.”

Lastly, desperately, he turned to Armadyl. “Armadyl? Come on…”

His eyes wavered, and he looked away from the downed deity. In a regretful tone, Armadyl said, “I am sorry, Zamorak. I cannot allow chaos to engulf this world.”

Sneering with victory, Saradomin declared, “The time has come for you to meet your end, usurper.”

“NO! You are all blind!” Zamorak’s rage began to get the better of him, and the Stone crackled and pulsed in time with his temper, shaking the ground beneath as it started to glow brighter. “None of you are deserving of this power. None of you! If I must meet my end, THEN EACH OF YOU WILL MEET YOURS!”

Jahaan could no longer hear anything, and his vision began to get blurry. Armadyl reached out a hand, Bandos charged forwards, Saradomin raised his Staff, and Zamorak rose to his feet with the power of the elder gods infused into his heart. The world burst into light, and then receded just as quickly into darkness.

When Jahaan opened his eyes, he realised that he and the Stone were back in the material realm. He was still attached to the Stone, and it required some fighting to break free from it. Once he did, he noticed how his entire body was tingling, similarly to how he felt with Zaros inside of him. This time though, the power was much stronger, dizzyingly so. He felt unstable, but at the same time, he felt immortal.

Clenching his fist, he noted how energy was literally sparking from his knuckles. It was intoxicating, and it made him want to fight. The nearest conduit for his adrenaline was the shadow copy of Enakhra; Jahaan didn't even draw his swords as he knew he had the power flowing inside him to channel a magic spell. What spell, though, he wasn’t sure - he had no runes, and Zaros only acted as a substitute for the ancient magicks.

Soon enough, he realised this little conundrum wasn’t going to be an issue as he shot a bolt of pure elder energy out of his palms, so powerful that the Enakhra shadow dissipated upon contact.

Startled, Enakhra spun around to see who had stolen her kill. Grey eyes sparkled with shock horror when they met Jahaan’s green ones, seeing the fire dancing inside them and the magic wrapping around his palm.

However, Jahaan realised that the attack had used up a lot of the power he’d taken from the Stone. Knowing the magic was fleeting, he thought to pick his next target more wisely. Zemouregal's shadow was long since dead, as was Nomad’s and Khazard’s. The aforementioned had spread themselves around to take out the remaining shadow’s of their comrades. Only Lord Daquarius fought alone, sparring with a mirror image of himself. Jahaan sprinted over, gathering the magic to his fingertips, but a lighter blast this time - overkill was not necessary. The amount definitely proved to be effective as Lord Daquarius’ shadow went down without a second thought.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bulky figure running towards the Stone. Clearly he wasn’t the only one to see it as a female voice called out, “Nomad, stop!”

Instinctively, Jahaan whipped around and fired a bolt of energy towards the charging Nomad. It caught his back and shoved him forwards, onto his knees.

“You dare stop me from realising my destiny?!” he bellowed, picking himself up and changing the grip on his spear so it was as if he was holding a javelin. “Only I am worthy of the Stone's power! Foolish human. I should have finished you long ago!”

Swiftly dodging to the side, Jahaan missed the spear’s deadly tip by a literal hair’s length - he felt it cut through his dreadlocks - and retaliated by slipping his dagger from the sheath at his back and launching it towards Nomad, slicing into the soul mage’s fingers.

Roaring in pain, Nomad clutched his left hand, watching helplessly as blood poured from where his index finger used to be. It’d been sliced clean off from just above the top joint, and his middle finger had also lost the tip. Seeing he was outnumbered and losing blood fast, Nomad caved and teleported away, a harsh curse thrown in Jahaan’s direction for good measure.

Once he left, another figure emerged, fading in under the glow of fire and shadow.

Zamorak had arrived.

He wordlessly nodded to his followers, then to Jahaan, before turning his attention to the Stone. Eyes full of hunger, he strode up, examining the glowing and crackling specimen for only a fleeting moment before he placed a grey claw upon its surface. Reeling back, Zamorak began to shake, his body convulsing as energy surged through his veins.

It was at that moment Sliske revealed himself once more. All the Zamorakians were so focused on the spectacle of Zamorak absorbing the Stone’s power that they didn’t notice the snake’s arrival, but Jahaan did. He didn’t have time to act, or even call out, before Sliske began to move, disappearing back into the shadows. His movements were quick, his appearances fleeting; he appeared in front Khazard first, thrust a palm into the Mahjarrat’s stomach and chest, and then vanished once more before reappearing in front of a new target. Whoever he touched was left paralysed, limbs frozen and stiff as a flurry of shadows engulfed them. Jahaan, however, had been spared, and could only watch in amazement and horror as Sliske effortlessly worked his way through the Zamorakians.

By the time Zamorak noticed, all his followers were incapacitated. Growling, Zamorak removed his hand from the Stone, staring daggers through Sliske when he manifested opposite him. The fury in the deity’s eyes could burn castles to the ground, yet Sliske seemed unphased, or at least that’s the facade he wore.

“So, the serpent finally rears its ugly head,” Zamorak spat, his fists clenched into tight balls as the elder energy flowed between his fingers.

“Ah, good ol' Zammy,” Sliske cheered in response. His smile dripped from his lips like acid. “It’s nice to see you again too.”

“Release my followers or you will leave here in a FUCKING BUCKET.”

Tutting, Sliske’s smile grew into a wicked grin. “Careful, I could disappear into the shadows with the Stone faster than you could say 'Saradomin'.”

Zamorak stance was proud, solid, immovable. “You better watch that tone of yours," he threatened with a hiss. "I'll rip your tongue out with my bare hands for all the shit it's caused."

Sliske’s stance, on the other hand, was hunched, casual, his hands wringing together incessantly. “Oh, come now, we have so much in common! There was a time when we stood side by side, many lifetimes ago.”

“We’re nothing alike, Blasckum.”

At this, Sliske roared with laughter. “Such colourful language! Do be careful - there are humans present, after all. And to use such harsh words against one of your brothers!”

“We’re not brothers anymore,” Zamorak maintained, his voice cold and chilling.

“Oh but we were!” Sliske maintained, his voice cheery but his eyes emotionless. “Back in the good old days of the Zarosian Empire. Did we not work together then, Legatus? Until you stabbed Zaros in the back, that is.”

Sliske leaned in a little closer, his voice lower and more calculating as he revealed, “Tell me, Zammy - do you really think that the Praefectus Praetorio was unaware of your plot against the Empty Lord?”

Zamorak paused, hesitant, carefully trying to read Sliske. “...bullshit.”

This elicited a grin from Sliske. “Why would I lie about this? The old society was oh so boring. Everyone being watched, afraid to put a foot out of line. Your development of this 'chaos' ideology was a breath of fresh air. Honourable intentions certainly, but it was the results that had me intrigued.”

“Chaos is not a game where you can pull the strings,” Zamorak asserted. “Only an arrogant Zarosian would believe they could play puppet master.”

“Yes, I suppose that is where we differ,” Sliske sighed. “But ask yourself, do the motivations really matter when the goal is the same?”

“You're no ally of mine, you damn snake. Fuck off back to the shadows where you came from. The Stone belongs to me now.”

Erupting with cackling laughter, Sliske countered, “Ally? Oh Zammy dear, I fear I have misled you. You know better than to think me so… unambitious. You may have reached the Stone, yes. It was truly amusing to watch your minions play my games. But to believe it is in your possession? Well…”

“I’ve already drawn power from it, regardless of your empty words,” Zamorak replied. “Even now my energy increases. It’s about time I finally shut you up for good.”

“Ah yes, you can feel the energy coursing through your veins. You are addicted, just like Saradomin is, just like Lucien was,” Sliske raised his eyebrows, his tone lighter as he finished, “And now I am too.”

Crinkling his brow, Jahaan had been silent thus far, watching the events unfold with baited breath, but finally he piped up, “What do you mean ‘addicted’?”

Sliske turned slightly towards Jahaan, keeping one beady yellow iris on Zamorak at all times. “Can't you see? Everyone who has ever touched the Stone has sacrificed everything in order to keep it in their grasp. The energy withheld in the Stone is not from this world, and the feeling of absorbing it is incomparable. I am not so clouded by pride that I would deceive myself.”

“You speak only of your own addiction,” Zamorak declared, “The Stone is nothing but a tool, a necessity if I am to free this world from the other gods.”

“Fool yourself all you like, Zamorak,” Sliske’s wicked, all-knowing smirk was back. “I know the truth.”

Considering this, Jahaan evaluated the feeling he had when he touched the Stone, and easily could see how one would become addicted to such an immense feeling of power. Then again, he already felt the power depleting oh-so quickly, and with it, his lust for the Stone did not remain. Hesitantly, he asked, “What about me? I touched the Stone after all.”

“Hmm… It would seem being the World Guardian is a double-edged sword,” Sliske replied. “You may not be harmed by the gods, but you are also unable to absorb divine energy. Good old Guthix gave you a blessing - and a curse. You do seem to be quite handy at channeling the Stone's power temporarily, though. Addiction may not be your downfall, no, but power so often corrupts the heart and mind.”

“Enough of this chatter,” Zamorak hissed, a small storm brewing around his palms. “You’re done here, Sliske. And I mean for good.”

Finally, Sliske’s calm demeanour dropped, and he looked slightly worried now. Jahaan could have sworn he saw the Mahjarrat gulp. From the corner of his eyes, Sliske locked his glare onto Jahaan, his tone absent of all joviality as he stated, “Jahaan, I have afforded you the opportunity to influence history. Choose wisely.”

The gravity of Sliske’s words sunk in instantly. He saw Zamorak begin to channel a spell, and Sliske just standing there, waiting, somewhat nervously. Why isn’t he moving?! Why isn’t he trying to defend himself?!

It was like the world was moving in slow motion, like everything was underwater.

Jahaan thought the choice was obvious. He had some of the Stone’s energy inside him still, and if he helped channel a spell at Sliske alongside Zamorak, then perhaps it would mean an end to all his games, his charades, his war and insanity. The shadow that had loomed over Jahaan’s life for so long would be gone, and he’d be free from the wretched puppeteer.

But as quickly as those thoughts crossed his mind, so did their counterparts. Should Zamorak really have the Stone? And it wouldn’t just be him having that power, it’d be all his followers. Zemouregal, Khazard and Enakhra… all of them would have even more power and influence over this world. One of them would be bound to follow in Lucien’s power-hungry footsteps. And I’d also be making enemies of Azzanadra, Wahisietel and Zaros… ah, FUCK.

Not allowing himself to think twice, Jahaan fought back his hesitation and channelled all the remaining power within him.

Just as Zamorak was about to strike, Jahaan cut in, hurling elder energy into the deity’s chest. It winded him, but didn’t have a lasting effect. Confused, Zamorak’s betrayed and fiery glare settled upon Jahaan, and he readied a retaliatory strike. Edging backwards, Jahaan suddenly regretted all of his life choices. Luckily, before Zamorak could strike, he was yanked into the Shadow Realm and teleported away.

When Jahaan opened his eyes, he recognised the blurry outline of the Empyrean Citadel wavering around him, cloaked in shadow and mist. The Stone, too, was beside him. As he caught his breath and tried to still his rapid heartbeat, Sliske’s laughter echoed around him.

“Good show, Janny! You really did leave it until the most dramatic moment to upstage poor old Zammy. Needed a little help from yours truly, of course, but impressive nonetheless.”

Jahaan looked up and into the smirking, smug face of Sliske, and again regretted his life choices. “I didn’t do it for you. I didn’t want the Zamorakians having the Stone. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”

“Ignoring that hurtful remark,” Sliske grinned. “I must know - what did Zammy offer you to become his lackey, hm?”

Too tired to think of a suitable rebuttal, Jahaan just sighed, taking a seat on one of the statue plinths. His eyes wandered about the Citadel. “He didn’t offer me anything. I liked his ideology; it makes a lot of sense, it’s practical... I didn’t mind going along for the ride, for a while. But I guess I can strike Zamorak off my Wintumber Festival card list…”

“Ah yes, Zamorak will certainly regret bringing you along,” Sliske smiled wryly. “Now, I have much to do, and as much as I enjoy your company, I think it’s time we parted ways. Do enjoy the scenery up here, though. I often admire the sunrise from such a view.”

Sliske placed a gloved palm atop Jahaan’s shoulder as he said, “Until the next time, darling…”

Within a blink, Jahaan was back in the material realm. It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the blinding sunlight that was pouring into the Empyrean Citadel.

Peering over the edge into the clouds below, Jahaan rolled his eyes. Fantastic. Couldn’t have transported me anywhere more convenient, Sliske?

Luckily, he remembered the invitation box he’d kept after Sliske’s ascendency ceremony and hurriedly removed it from his backpack. With a deep exhale, he readied himself, opened the box, and was whisked away to the forest north of Ardougne.

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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#sliske #zamorak #saradomin #armadyl #bandos

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neuxue · 7 years ago

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Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 21

All in all a mixed bag of a chapter, in which Perrin reaches some decisions and Faile remembers, I still dislike Rolan, and Borderland sayings are A Problem for me

Chapter 21: Embers and Ash

Last weekend, I went to my favourite bookstore and bought an actual, physical, hardcover book for the first time in years. That book was The Book Of Dust Volume One: La Belle Sauvage by Philip Pullman. The first book of the companion series to His Dark Materials, the final book of which I queued for (and then promptly devoured) at a different bookstore, seventeen long years ago. Some of you may know the extent to which my love for this series is deep and abiding; the rest of you need only know that it was my Hogwarts letter and my magic wardrobe and my invitation to the world of magic and fantasy and wonder all rolled into one, and my love for it is deep and abiding.

I was never, until around this time last year, sure that we would ever be getting The Book of Dust. (In honesty, there have been times where I was unsure whether I wanted it; I’ve always been a bit skeptical of post-facto additions to canon). But now suddenly it’s here¸and I have it in my hand, and after a week of it taunting me from the bookshelf I finally have a few hours in which I can sit down and get some reading done.

Why am I telling you this story? So you will understand the LEVEL OF COMMITMENT I AM MAKING when I say that I have decided I’m not allowed to read La Belle Sauvage until I get at least through chapter 22 of The Gathering Storm. Which means I may never get to read La Belle Sauvage, because Chapter 22 is the one you all keep telling me will kill me.

But THIS IS MY PROMISE, AND I WILL KEEP TO IT, BY MY HOPE OF SALVATION AND REBIRTH.

So here we are. Chapter 21: Embers and Ash. And I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t point out that that’s a lovely chapter title. I’m not usually one for ranking favourites of things because usually I fail miserably, but once I’ve finished the series I might have to go through and rank all the chapter titles in order of awesome.

Perrin opened his eyes and found himself hanging in the air.

Oh great, we’ve moved beyond even cliffs and garden walls. Levelling up and NOT IN A GOOD WAY. LEVEL DOWN. ABORT. ABORT.

He felt a spike of terror, floundering in the sky.

I’d say ‘at least his survival instinct is intact’ but the past…oh…ten books or so have proved that to be utterly false.

(I say this as someone whose frequent activities include rock-climbing and flying trapeze, and whose recent google searches include ‘bungee jumping near London’ and ‘skydiving prices London’ so it’s possible I’m a hypocrite).

He waved his arms reflexively, as if to swim

Yeah I know swimming is my first instinct when suspended in midair as well, Perrin. Seriously, what the fuck? Also the more I think about it, the more hilarious this whole image is to me. Someone skilled at art and/or gif-making, please make some kind of visual representation of Perrin doggy-paddling in midair. In his pyjamas.

Well what do you know, we’re in the wolf dream. And after Perrin’s last chapter I’m optimistic that maybe he’ll finally commit to it properly. He’s danced on the edge of learning to use Tel’aran’rhiod since TDR and it’s about time for him to enroll in an actual crash course.

Pun only somewhat intended.

He took a deep breath, then closed his eyes and imagined himself jumping.

It’s okay, everybody falls the first time.

Nope, not Perrin. Perrin wins the Matrix Tel’aran’rhiod and sticks his landing perfectly.

This time, those dark storm clouds remained. They boiled, spun, and shot lines of lightning between different thunderheads.

The true difference between Sanderson and Jordan: Sanderson capitalises everything and Jordan pluralises ‘lightning’.

But the storm is not transient, not even here in Tel’aran’rhiod.

Actually, the interesting thing is that it’s not transient in Tel’aran’rhiod, where most things are, but it is mercurial and unpredictable in the real world. Those black and silver clouds from the prologue that hovered in the distance, then appeared instantaneously overhead, then vanished again…it’s a perfect reversal of how things are supposed to be. A storm whose reflection in the World of Dreams shows its gravity and permanence, while in the real world it is terrifying in part for its caprice. But even in the real world, it is not fading or vanishing or blowing over easily. The storm is gathering and everything is darkening and lightning hovers on the horizon, as it does here as a now-permanent feature in the skies of dreams.

It comes, Hopper agreed. If Shadowkiller falls to the storm, all will sleep forever.

If he falls to the storm. “I am the storm.” It’s not so much a question of whether Rand will be hit by the storm when it breaks as it is a question of whether he will be consumed by it, inside and out. “There is a rage in him fit to burn the world, and he holds it by a hair.” There is so little holding him back now, and so much power and anger within him. Master of the lightnings, rider on the storm. I’ve always linked Rand to the wind from the beginning of each book, for some reason (well, I know why I’ve made the link in my head; whether it was intended by Jordan is a different question but I’m inclined to think so), but now even that wind has become a tempest, and this time there was something wrong with the wind, and there is a storm gathering and Rand stands at the centre of it, and walks a razor’s edge between commanding it and being consumed by it, destroyed from the inside.

Perrin’s confused. It’s okay, Perrin. When you get home from dreamworld, just google ‘pathetic fallacy’ and also maybe ‘fisher king’ and things will start to make sense.

Or just when in doubt apocalypse.

Two legs, Young Bull? Two legs are slow!

Excuse you, ~legs are required for jumping, dancing, strolling along on those…what’s that word again? streets……~

“I have to keep control, Hopper,” he said. “When I let the wolf take control…well, I do dangerous things.”

Ah yes, this again.

Although, having said that, this actually isn’t a trope I get tired of, for the most part. This question of control, and the fear of losing it balanced against the knowledge of or desire for the power that such a surrender could bring; the fear of what lies beneath the surface, of what hides beneath who you want to be and curls itself around who you are; the navigation of lines and boundaries and balance.

Perrin wants control, but what he needs is something closer to balance, and understanding. And the desire for control, and the almost instinctive reaching for it feels more like a kind of denial. There is something within him that he fears, something within him that clashes with who he wants to be or thinks he needs to be, and so instead of allowing himself to explore and understand it, he suppresses it, denies that part of himself, and calls this control. And it feels like control, on the surface. But it isn’t; true control can’t be gained by simply suppressing. It comes more from knowing and accepting and understanding, from the ability to balance.

It’s not unlike Nynaeve and her block. She was, on some level, afraid of the power she had, and so she shut it away from herself, so that she could only access it when anger eroded those barriers. She could only access it when she ‘lost control’. But it wasn’t until she learned to surrender and accept that she was able to learn true control. To embrace the Power as a part of herself, and guide it as she willed.

That’s the difference, it seems to me. You can suppress something, and refuse to look at it, and hold it at bay with as much willpower as you can muster, and if you’re lucky it might not break through the barriers you’ve built and wreak havoc. (It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, in that way. If ‘losing control’ means letting this thing run rampant, unable to do anything to guide it or mitigate it because you’ve spent all your time and energy trying to push it away, then losing control is indeed something to fear). Or, you can do the much more difficult thing, and look it in the eyes and know what it is and learn how to use it, or how to accept it as a part of yourself, which is a very different (but arguably more effective) kind of control. It’s a control that comes from balance, rather than its absence.

But that’s what I see as Perrin’s issue. He’s always been afraid of losing control to the wolf, and because of that fear he’s never allowed himself to actually explore the wolf aspect of himself. So he doesn’t fully understand it, and yet he can’t rid himself of it, so he ends up in this ongoing situation where he tries to hold it at bay but invariably can’t do that permanently, which leads to these moments of ‘losing control’, which only serves to exacerbate the fear, which…oh hey there vicious circle.

Hopper, meanwhile, is attempting to convey either ‘please find some chill’ or ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about’ with a single expression.

There were wonderful things about what had happened to him since leaving the Two Rivers.

But he couldn’t continue to lose control. He had to find a balance.

Yeah, pretty much. Well done for articulating that to yourself, Perrin. And I think finding that balance will go a long way towards solving the issue of control. But we shall see.

Throwing away the axe had made a difference. The axe and the hammer were different weapons –one could be used only for killing, while the other gave him a choice.

I think I liked this better when it was just implied, rather than stated outright. There have been a few times, now, where I’ve felt this way in this book. I think in part it’s a Sanderson thing, because it feels very like how he handles some of this in his own books. Only there, it’s consistent with the overall storytelling method, and characters, and modes of characterisation, so I don’t particularly mind it. My personal preference is for things to be left a bit more open, and for authors to leave more to the reader, but I think in his own works Sanderson is certainly able to leave enough unsaid that the things he does explain clearly – usually pertaining more to characters’ states of mind or personal journeys and conflicts – don’t feel like clumsy storytelling, at least to me. It works, because it’s how he writes. The thing is, it’s not quite how Jordan writes. Jordan does give the reader a fair amount of explanation sometimes, but through slightly different methods – most of which are informative but slightly less direct. So in that context, statements like this, that just hand the situation to you, feel…clunky. Like they were pulled unaltered from an outline, or else like Sanderson felt clarification was needed, but relied – understandably – on his own methods to do so.

But this is also one of the things I actually expected of the authorial transition, just from having read Sanderson’s books. It’s one of the ways in which he and Jordan are very different as writers, and it’s definitely something that was on my mind as I started reading TGS. Which means there could absolutely be an element of confirmation bias at play here, but it also means I’m not overly surprised and therefore not all that disappointed by it at the end of the day.

“But I need to know this place, Hopper. I need to learn how to use it, control it.”

Men, Hopper thought, Sending the smells of dismissiveness and anger. Control. Always control.

Hopper definitely has a point there. I suppose it makes sense, given that each of us is the only constant in our own lives, and even that is up for debate, as I’m not sure anyone is truly immutable. So from that perspective the need for control makes sense, because especially if everything else is changing, it seems only natural to desire some kind of anchor. Maybe you have to be able either to trust in yourself or trust in your surroundings, and if we can’t have one we seek to impose the other. Maybe I’m just talking out my arse. But hey, that’s the whole point of this, isn’t it?

Perrin does his usual trick of pulling himself here too strongly because Perrin has no chill, Hopper tells him to leave and maybe find some chill, Perrin gets kicked out of dreamschool. Damn it, I was hoping for a little more progress but I suppose the very fact that Perrin’s actively trying to learn is a good start. Still, KIND OF UP AGAINST A DEADLINE HERE.

Oh man can I tell you how glad I am to see Faile out of that fucking Malden storyline?

Though there was that odd edge to his eyes. Not a dangerous edge, just a sorrowful one. He had grown haunted while they were apart. She could understand that. She had a few ghosts of her own. One could not expect everything to remain the same, and she could tell that he still loved her – loved her fiercely. That was enough, and so she didn’t worry on it further.

And Perrin for his part seems able to see that Faile does have some ghosts of her own, and also accepts it. Malden was a shitshow but at least we’re getting some character growth and maturity out of it. Not that you can’t get those through other ways, but look, at this point, I’ll take what I can salvage from that whole…deal.

One of the things I genuinely like about how Perrin and Faile are handling the aftermath is that they both truly seem to understand. They understand that the other has been through some shit, and that they’ve been hurt in ways that may not be immediately obvious, and even that there are some things they don’t understand. But neither blames the other for that. Perrin doesn’t blame Faile for whatever happened in Malden and for whatever she had to do, even though he has no idea what exactly that might be. He may assume the worst – whatever the worst is, in his mind – but he makes it very clear that he isn’t holding that against her. And Faile, for her part, understands that Perrin has also probably dealt with some things that she doesn’t know the details of, but where that once may have incited insecurity or jealousy, now it’s just…part of the way things are, and she loves him and knows he loves her and that’s enough.

“I didn’t sleep with Berelain,” he said, voice gruff. “No matter what the rumours say.”

Dear, sweet, blunt Perrin. “I know you didn’t,” she said consolingly.

Honesty! Communication! Conversations in which characters just get straight to the point and state something clearly! Relationships that include a stronger and stronger element of trust!

You know, maybe it’s not actually all that suprising that, given this is the Wheel of Time (and Absolutely No Communication), it took a two-month slavery interlude, four books, and a battle to achieve something like that.

Snark aside, it is genuinely nice to see.

“Perrin, haven’t I explained this? A husband needs to know his wife is jealous, otherwise he won’t realise how much she cares for him. you guard that which you find the most precious. Honestly, if you keep making me spell things out like this, then I won’t have any secrets left!”

That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever to me and I’m not sure how much sense it makes to Perrin, but the important thing here is that she’s explaining her thought process and behaviour rather than assuming he will know what she’s doing and why. They both seem to have come a long way in that regard – mostly, I think, by realising that the other person just doesn’t know. They’re more aware of the fact that they’re coming from two very different places and sets of expectations and cultural norms and perceptive filters, and where that was once a source of tension and unintentional hurt on both sides, they’re now making an effort to be more honest and open and understanding, and to trust that, at the end of the day, they love each other.

It was as if she hadn’t quite understood what it was to be a lady until Malden. Oh, she’d had her share of victories. Cha Faile, the people of the Two Rivers, Alliandre and Perrin’s camp members. She’d put her training to use, helping Perrin learn to be a leader. All of this had been important, had required her to use what her mother and father had trained her to be.

But Malden had opened her eyes. […] She had been humiliated, beaten, and nearly killed. And that had given her a true understanding of what it was to be a liege lady.

I have two problems with this. The first, and lesser, is that it feels like Sanderson again explaining a little bit too much – telling rather than showing. A little annoying, but I can deal with it; I think what irks me about it is more that it’s trying to paint Faile’s section of the Malden storyline as necessary and All About Her Character Development rather than…Damsel in Distress who is blocked at every turn from doing anything at all to rescue herself, is forced to rely on a man who may or may not ask a price for that safety, and in the end is rescued by the man who is placed at the centre of this storyline because we all know that the best way to hurt a male character is to kidnap, rape, or kill his female love interest. It’s not about her; it’s about him. At least have the decency to own up to it.

(The fact that Perrin as a character chooses to reject this notion, and acknowledges that Faile suffered and her pain is her own and he has no right to usurp it or hold her responsible for his own suffering by extension is a huge credit to him and to the way he’s written, and I appreciate it to almost an absurd extent, but it doesn’t solve the rest of the problem).

This brings me to the second thing about this that bothers me: She had been humiliated, beaten, and nearly killed. And that had given her a true understanding if what it was to be a liege lady.

Discovering strength in times of adversity is a trope for a reason, and that’s not what I have a problem with, because I think there’s a great deal of truth to it, and it can make for some excellent stories. No, my issue lies more in the specific kinds of adversity typically given to female characters, as well as the fact that this once again feels almost like retconning Faile’s storyline for the past few books to make it seem more palatable and more necessary and less All About Perrin.

Why is it that female characters must so often discover their strength only when they are humiliated and degraded, while male characters get to at least bear their pain with dignity as their arcs unfold?

I should clarify that this is an issue I see more in the genre as a whole than in Wheel of Time specifically. This series is definitely better than some at providing equal-opportunities Pain And Suffering For Everyone. The (male) protagonist is locked in a box and beaten (though even then, the humiliation aspect is far more subdued; the focus is agony), one of the (male) secondary protagonists is raped and humiliated for an extended period of time, and a (female) major character faces daily beatings with her head held high and is forging a remade Tower around her in the process.

But.

There’s still an imbalance there, if you stack it all on the scales. And without the rest of the genre exacerbating the issue, this might not be as much of a problem. Unfortunately, though, it’s one of those things that has become frustrating for all the times it’s occurred elsewhere, so now every time it shows up it’s just nails on the damn chalkboard.

Perrin learns leadership by having it thrust upon him in times of emergency. Lives are lost and he holds himself to blame, but he isn’t torn down before he’s allowed to grow. Faile, meanwhile, apparently doesn’t truly learn leadership until she’s enslaved.

Rand is captured and beaten. Egwene is captured and spanked. There’s a difference, much as I still love Egwene’s current storyline.

And then you get the genre as a whole, where the easiest way to generate a tragic backstory for a female character is to rape her. The easiest way to generate a tragic backstory for a male character? Hurt his wife and children. Hang on a second. (Oh, and then there’s the part where said male character is justified in having a vengeance-driven plotline, while the female character who is herself violated is usually punished in some way by the narrative for wanting that, and instead has to learn to love, or to forgive and move on).

Plus there’s the fact that male characters tend to have a much more diverse range of tragic backstories –and sometimes they don’t have a tragic backstory at all. They’ll face challenges and difficulties, but a male hero can make it through a story without degradation, without being actually knocked down himself. Whereas if a female character is written that way, the most common criticisms are that she’s ‘unrealistic’ or ‘too powerful’ or ‘hasn’t earned her ending’. Check out what people have to say about Rey, who is probably the best recent example I can think of of a heroine who gets to just be a hero.

Where are the female heroes who dedicate their lives to vengeance and justice for the ones who murdered their husbands? Where are the female heroes who are unjustly exiled and become noble stoic wandering badasses? Where are the female chosen ones for whom the weight of prophecy and saving the world is pain enough? Where are the female Aragorns, the female Jon Snows, the female Asriels, the female Han Solos? There are entire archetypes that are virtually nonexistent for female characters.

It gets tiring to only see certain roles ever given to male characters (and derided when someone tries to give them to a woman), and it gets tiring to see female characters robbed of agency and dignity in order to progress, while male characters get to hold on to a great deal more of these attributes. Wheel of Time is a lot better than some – in large part due simply to the fact that there are so many women – but it’s not exempt.

All of which is to say, the notion that Faile only discovered what it truly means to be a liege lady while she is enslaved and humiliated and slapped by the narrative every time she tries to reclaim some semblance of agency is…irritating.

Being a noblewoman meant going first. It meant being beaten so others were not. It meant sacrificing, risking death, to protect those who depended upon you.

Okay…and what part of that requires slavery and constant threat of sexual assault and routine humiliation and dependence on a man to rescue and protect you?

Remind me why she can’t learn these same things by braving Trollocs and Whitecloaks to go recruit an army that she leads back to the Two Rivers? Or by co-leading her and Perrin’s people as they take on the twin threats of Masema and the Shaido? Or maybe by being the one to secure that tenuous alliance with the Seanchan, at great risk? Or any number of other options that don’t involve being tied up naked on a table. For instance.

“I don’t care what happened to you,” he said.

She sighed. No, not asleep. “What happened to me?” she asked with confusion.

He opened his eyes, staring up at the tent. “The Shaido, the man who was with you when I saved you. Whatever he did…whatever you did to survive. It’s all right.”

This is the part I like. This absolute understanding that whatever happened and whatever she did, it’s not for him to judge or claim or even ask her about. And he goes out of his way to make that point – not because he wants an explanation or because some part of him is holding it against her, but because he wants to make it clear to her that his silence isn’t in any way a condemnation. It’s okay; it’s not about him; he understands. I am absurdly grateful that this is included – multiple times – in this aftermath, especially because so much else about the whole thing frustrates me.

When the gai’shain women had started to be in danger, the Brotherless had chosen and protected those they could.

Those they wanted to have sex with, you mean.

They hadn’t asked anything for their efforts.

Bullshit.

Well…that wasn’t true. They had asked for much, but had demanded nothing.

If only it were that simple.

It bothers me, this massive oversimplification that’s apparently supposed to make us think it’s all okay. He didn’t outright demand anything, so it’s all fine.

But coercion’s a lot more complicated than that, and this explanation entirely fails to recognise the huge power differential in the situation. Did Rolan force her? No. Did he allow her to believe – without saying or doing anything to reassure her to the contrary – that her continued protection could well depend on his continued interest in her? Absolutely. Faile thinks at various points of how to balance maintaining his interest, of what she might have to do, of what it might come to.

And that is fucked up. “Hey, I can keep you from being raped by these other guys, but only while I think I have a chance of sleeping with you myself.” And even if he would have continued to protect her anyway, he doesn’t tell her that. So while the constant threat of rape may have decreased for her, there’s absolutely still an implicit threat hanging over her head that he does ABSOLUTELY FUCK-ALL TO MITIGATE.

He didn’t demand anything, so it’s fine. He just kept her in a situation where at any moment he could have demanded whatever he wanted and she’d have been hard-pressed to say no, because that might mean foregoing his protection. He let her live with that hanging over her head, this sense that at any moment it could escalate beyond her control and there would be nothing she could do about it. Accede to him or take her luck with the rest. At that point, it may be a ‘yes’ but it sure as hell isn’t freely given consent.

If you feel like your safety depends on someone’s sexual interest in you, it doesn’t really matter whether they’ve made demands or requests. And I hate, hate, the way this reduces it to a simplistic black-and-white ‘he didn’t rape her so everything is fine’.

I may have mentioned I’m not a fan of Rolan.

She had never so much as kissed Rolan, but she had used his desire for her as an advantage. And she suspected that he’d known what she was doing.

Wait, really? We’re really doing this? She was a slave and reliant on his protection, and he continued to pursue her despite her refusing him, but we’re going the temptress/seductress route here? Because it wasn’t his fault,it was really her, she was using her wily feminine wiles and he couldn’t possibly be held responsible for his actions in the face of wily feminine wiles and so really she was the one taking advantage of him, the poor guy. Power imbalance? Slavery? Coercion and a sense of entirely conditional safety? Nah, she led him on and used him and he was powerless to resist her. Of course. So really he’s the victim here.

Fuck that whole narrative and the horse it rode in on with an unlubricated chainsaw.

Of course he knew what she was doing, because he created the entire damn situation in which she felt as if she needed to do it, and still did absolutely nothing to give her any indication to the contrary.

[Perrin] had changed during these two months, perhaps as much as she had. That was good. In the Borderlands, her people had a saying: “Only the Dark One stays the same.” Men grew and progressed; the Shadow just remained as it was.

This, I like. The Wheel of Time turns…and ending that, ending change, is just another kind of annihilation that masquerades as eternity.

Also, character development! Self awareness!

“Has anyone discovered what happened to Masema?”

‘I don’t know; has anyone discovered what happened to that knife I…misplaced? Seen it anywhere? Shame, I liked that knife.’

“Blasted colours…I don’t want to watch you sleeping, Rand.”

I don’t know, I’d be grateful Rand is getting any sleep at all, really. Also, just talk to Mat. You could be getting a much more awkward display. Take what you can get.

“What happened to your hand? Light-blinded fool, take better care of yourself…You’re all we have…”

Ah, this is…there’s something almost achingly soft and gentle about this, about the unfiltered moment here where Perrin’s barely even aware of what he’s saying but this is what he says. Where you see Rand’s pain not even through another’s eyes, but a step removed from that, and it serves as a lovely sad reminder of how very human Rand is.

And it’s striking, because when you actually see Rand in the story, either through his own eyes or someone else’s, that’s…not really how he comes across at this point. Especially to other characters, but even to the reader his pain has become something of a constant, a part of the status quo. And his humanity is slipping. He can’t let himself feel any of this, and those immediately around him can’t see it, and so you just…don’t. It takes a moment like this to evoke the memory of the Rand from the beginning, of the boy who was Perrin’s friend, of the fact that all their hopes rest on this young man who has been pushed far too far, beyond all reasonable endurance, who is coming apart and yet can’t let go. He’s all they have, but there’s a fondness that comes through here, a gentleness, that says not ‘saviour’ but ‘friend’.

Faile’s off on some midnight errand; what else is new.

Chiad smiled back. “He did not expect that one of the men he killed would turn out to be the one to whom Bain was gai’shain. I do not think Gaul is happy to have both of us serving him.”

I do not think I’m happy to have both of them serving Gaul. How come he gets to carry his spear to the Last Battle but they don’t? Why do we have to resolve this love triangle by making both fighting women put aside their spears to serve the man? I mean, this is not the hill I’m going to die on, but…sigh.

Faile unwrapped the bundle. The contents weren’t anything extraordinary. A small handkerchief of yellow silk. A belt of worked leather which had a pattern of bird feathers pressed into its sides. A black veil. And a thin leather band with a stone tied at the centre.

Ah. That’s what Faile’s midnight errand is. They’re holding a funeral.

“Four people are dead,” Faile said, mouth suddenly dry. She spoke formally, for that was the best way to keep the emotion from her voice. “They protected us, even cared for us. Though they were the enemy, we mourn them. Remember, though, that they were Aiel. For an Aiel, there are far worse ends than death in combat.”

I…this is lovely and on one hand I absolutely understand why it’s here, but on the other hand I’m really, really not here for the redemption of Rolan. Or rather, for the narrative insistence that there was nothing that needed redeeming. I do not come to mourn Rolan, I come to bury him.

Faile had distracted Rolan at just the right moment, making him hesitate. He’d done so out of concern for her, but that pause had allowed Perrin to kill him.

Had Faile done so intentionally? She still didn’t know. So much had been going through her mind, so many emotions at seeing Perrin. She’d cried out, and…she could not decide if she’d been trying to distract Rolan to let him die by Perrin’s hand.

This part works for me, far better than much of the rest of the scene so far. Faile replaying the scene over and over in her head, still not sure of her own motives in that single instant where there was no time to think, only to react. Knowing that this resulted in Rolan’s death, and just trying to work through it. It’s not even a mourning so much as a processing, and it feels raw and honest and it’s one of those questions she’ll probably never have an answer to.

And here, I find that it doesn’t matter so much that I personally cheered when Rolan was killed, because this is entirely about Faile. It’s not about who exactly Rolan was, or whether he’s someone we should like or feel sorry for; it’s just about…those split-seconds in which everything changes and someone is dead and there’s blood on her hands, and friend or enemy he was known to her, and she’s human. There was nothing else that could have been done […] But that made it more tragic. Faile steeled herself to keep her eyes from tearing up like Lacile’s. She hadn’t loved Rolan, and she was glad that Perrin was the one who had survived the conflict. But Rolan had been an honourable man, and she felt…dirtied, somehow, that his death had been her fault.

…No. Sorry, this is where the scene has lost me again. Rolan is not what I would call an honourable man, for all the reasons I’ve gone into at length above. And this notion that Faile feels dirty, feels like she is at fault…it makes me sad, actually. Because we see her feeling shame or guilt, and we see this polished version of him in retrospect that paints him as honourable and his death as a tragedy, and so once again it’s as if the whole thing has been flipped on its head to make him the victim. When there’s never really an honest examination of what he did. I’m not trying to say he deserved to die for it, necessarily, but the lens through which this whole thing has been shown treats him as virtually blameless, and leaves Faile with this feeling of guilt and shame and sorrow. We don’t need more of that. We’re already far too proficient at seeing the Rolans of the world as paragons of honour and pitying them their suffering at the hands of women they’ve wronged.

This shouldn’t have had to be. But it was. Her father had often spoken of situations like this, when you had to kill people you liked just because you met them on the wrong side of the battlefield.

I may have mentioned this one or two hundred times, but I will eat this particular trope up with a spoon. Enemies-by-circumstance, betrayal-by-necessity, enemies-to-friends, friends-to-enemies, the whole notion of ‘the wrong side of the battlefield’. Love it.

But that’s not what this feels like to me. I can’t see Rolan in that light; I don’t see him as one who was a friend, but as one who was simply a different kind of threat. I can’t put him in that tragic role because I hate him for the choices he made and the things he did to Faile, for the position he put her in.

And this whole concept – when you had to kill people you liked just because you met them on the wrong side of the battlefield – could be show so much more powerfully through so many other characters. You have Tylee and Perrin, who have already laid the foundations for this, if one were so inclined. You have Mat and Tuon and “You are not my enemy, but your Empire is.” You have Gawyn, who has fought and killed men he liked and respected, and whose choices have torn him apart. Hell, you have that lovely scene with Ituralde and General Turan. The Seanchan as a whole are a ready-made device to set up all kinds of these small tragedies, if you want to use them. You have a Black Tower of divided loyalties, and no doubt plenty of Soldiers and Dedicated whose chosen ‘side’ is little more than an accident of circumstance. There’s not exactly a shortage of options here, and the fact that this is the one highlighted is…odd to me, and weirdly disappointing.

If she had to go back and do it again, she would take the very same actions. She wouldn’t be able to risk Perrin. Rolan had to die.

But the world seemed a sadder place to her for the necessity of it.

Once again, I am wholeheartedly on board with the overall sentiment being conveyed here, in the abstract, but I so strongly disagree with the way it’s applied in the specific.

Maeric’s death felt like a tragedy. Singing, the Moshaine Shaido ran to dance their deaths felt like a tragedy. The existence of the Brotherless feels like a tragedy. Even the deterioration of the Shaido, and the loss of their identity as Aiel, and the way it has slowly destroyed them from the inside, feels like a tragedy.

If you want to play with the tragedy of circumstance and inevitability and situations in which there are no good choices, in the context of the Aiel, you already have the Rhuidean sequence and everything that follows on from it. You have the Shaido as the continuation – yet another change, from what they once were to something unrecognisable, while all the while fighting to hold to that core of I am Aiel! You have the Aiel leaving the Three-Fold Land and not knowing if they will return; you have their questions of identity and what comes next; you have those who cannot accept the knowledge of who they were and so instead must betray who they are, by breaking bonds of clan or society. You have the deaths of so many Shaido at Dumai’s Wells, in a battle that definitely makes the world seem a sadder place for the necessity of it. You have all of this; you don’t need to glorify a sexual predator.

“Dead by our hand,” Faile said, “or simply dead from battle, these four showed us honour. As the Aiel would say, we have great toh to them. I don’t’ think it can be repaid.”

You. Owe. Them. Nothing.

That’s the whole damn point. That’s where the whole coercion aspect comes in; in creating a sense of guilt for not repaying, in creating a feeling of obligation or necessity or debt, the coin of which is made very clear even if it is not demanded.

“But we can remember them. The Brotherless and one Maiden showed us kindness when they didn’t need to. They kept their honour when others had abandoned it. If there is a redemption to be found for them, and for us, this will be it.”

This whole scene, just taken as itself and without everything that’s attached to it, is beautifully done, and strikes such a lovely tone.

I just can’t appreciate it because I so fundamentally hate so much of the message it buys into and conveys, and it frustrates me that there’s absolutely no acknowledgement of that.

“Kinhuin had only just started looking out for me,” Alliandre said. “I know what he wished for, but he never demanded it. […] Even if I turned him down, he would have helped us.”

That last bit would go some way towards making this a little bit better if I had any faith at all that it was true. And we didn’t see much of Kinhuin, so maybe he really was a decent guy. But what we did see, of Rolan, did not…really match that. He didn’t say he wouldn’t help Faile if she turned him down, but he sure as hell did not say he would, and he made his interest in her and his…courting…of her so much a part and parcel of his protection of her that it would absolutely have been a risk to trust that he’d continue to protect her anyway.

Also there’s the fact that he didn’t stop asking her and pressuring her even when she did say no, which is bad enough when there isn’t the whole slavery issue thrown into the mix, but as it was she had no way to get away from him and he showed that ‘no’ didn’t mean a whole lot to him.

So in conclusion, nice try but I’m not really buying it. At least, not as a blanket statement for all of them.

“Maretha hated what the other Shaido did,” Arrela said. “But she stayed with them for her clan. She died for that loyalty. There are worse things to die for.”

That, there, is much closer to what I do actually find sad about the Shaido and the whole situation of those caught up in this. That’s the tragedy. Just…remove the part where Rolan and the others kept asking for sex and this whole thing would be SO MUCH BETTER. Agh.

The past was a field of embers and ash, an old Saldaean proverb said, the remnants of the fire that was the present.

That is beautiful.

And maybe it’s only a Saldaean proverb, rather than a Borderland one, but it reminds me so strongly of:

“Burning your future? It will sorrow a great many, I think, when you die in the Blight.”

“Burning my past,” [Lan] said, rising. “Burning memories. A nation. The Golden Crane will fly no more.”

[…]

“You said you burned your past. Let the past have its ashes.”

So…there’s that. I’m not sure I even have a point to make here except that this scene in New Spring destroyed me and that thought from Faile brought it immediately to mind and I’m fine, everything’s fine, this is completely 100% okay, I have no problems at all being reminded of Lan burning his past and not believing he has any right to a future because his life is tied to that fire.

(The past is a field of embers and ash, but the Golden Crane flies for Tarmon Gai’don).

Anyway. Back to Perrin.

He stared up in the darkness, trying to make sense of Hopper and the wolf dream. The more he thought about it, the more determined he grew.He would march to the Last Battle – and when he did, he wanted to be able to control the wolf inside of him. […] He had some decisions to make. They wouldn’t be easy, but he’d make them.

And so Perrin at last is taking his final steps on the road that will lead him to the finale. He isn’t lost anymore; he still has decisions to make and things to learn, but he knows now what those are. He knows what he needs to do and he’s not running from it anymore, or pushing it away. He’ll face what comes and he’ll face it on his feet.

He was going to have to let Faile ride into danger, perhaps risk her again.

Yes. And given the storyline of the past few books, that’s…an impressive realisation for him to come to. Not an easy one for him to accept, but once again, at least he knows it now. Besides, those are her choices to make.

The decision to face his problems brought him a measure of peace

Yes. That’s the real closure of this previous arc, here. The decision to finally face, head-on, what comes next. To acknowledge what that will require from him. Now he can move forward.

Next (TGS ch 22) Previous (TGS ch 20)

#this was actually a lovely chapter #despite my issues with some of it #Wheel of Time #neuxue liveblogs WoT #The Gathering Storm

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bublp0pr · 8 years ago

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Roletale Sans & Paps

Now the struggle of who to swap first…. the pressure is crazy. Hmmmm. HMMMMmMmmm. Let’s start with the obvious characters you think of in UnderSwap: Sans and Papyrus.

(I don’t know how I’m formatting these or whatever so don’t expect structure that makes complete sense haha. Also i got too lazy to capitalise their names or spell out Papyrus’s full name all the time so i’ll just call him paps)

Main differences to UnderSwap

Normal US

In normal underswap, papyrus becomes the chill laid back one and sans becomes the obsessive one that wants to be a member of the royal guard. Sans chases down papyrus a lot for slacking off but it’s papyrus who’s actually more observant and ends up looking after him. Paps drinks mustard where sans drank ketchup. And for some reason they made sans like tacos. I’m guessing it’s the AU equivalent of pasta for pap? Sans is considered one of the most adorable versions of himself within the multiverse: hyperactive and demonstrating beliefs and understanding similar to a child in some cases, though has been shown to be capable of being more serious in other instances like Errortale.

(askError!Sans, my one true love… will your hiatus ever end??? Error’s ORIGINAL universe-destroying emotionally complex character (not that fan art inkxerror fluff and smut) has imprinted on me for life ;_; Atleast i have Fatal!Error plot to sustain me)

From what I understand of the webcomics, papyrus becomes the one to watch out for in a genocide run, having their own megalovania sequence in the judgement hall. Papyrus is also considered to be the one with a science background. Whether or not he is aware of the timelines isn’t something the webcomics I’ve seen dwell into. Judgement hall would usually imply that he is the character with some awareness of the implications of determination. On the other hand though, it’s swap sans that ends up in multiverse shenanigans more frequently than paps.

Because of how these characters were swapped, it’s like inserting a papyrus straight into sans body and a sans straight into papyrus. Which is pretty impressive. But not the goal of my AU. I want sans to still be sans an paps to still be paps in their own way.

Take puns as a simple example, sans will still love puns and paps will still hate them… you know what? Sentence form of this will take ages. How about I just make this a list of things I’m keeping from UT?

Sans:

likes puns

likes science (this is canon to undertale. Papyrus says so in one of his calls)

cares for his brother deeply

has an awareness of at least the scientific implications and likeliness of resets

won’t fight you unless you give them no other choice because they realise the futility of trying

one day stopped being a scientist probably due to either losing WD or learning about resets

knows an old lady from the other side of a door who shares puns

Paps:

likes making spaghetti

hates puns

will always respond to your calls

fights you in Snowdin

will believe in you when no one else will. Has a a lot of faith in people and trusts that you can do better. To a fault… = )

is capable of being a royal guard but doesn’t have the value set for it (because of previous point)

How, you may ask, can I make this a swap universe when so many things are the not swapped? Well that’s the fun part.

Backstories etc.

Sans

It wouldn’t be swap if sans didn’t aspire to be in the royal guard… and be slightly pathetic at it despite all of his highly motivated efforts. But i have a solution.

What if before the CORE, sans was a scientist who loved puns but didn’t really have any friends and was always focussed on his work? (Remember papyrus didn’t have friends before in UT either so it’s reasonable to impose this scenario on him. Puns aren’t always popular with crowds afterall) He worked with Gaster and then after the… incident, sans had vague recollections of WD and studied determination in an effort to figure out why he can’t remember him properly. With a certain someone playing around with time, this study leads to the reports that show timelines starting and stopping until suddenly, everything just ends.

This comes as a huge blow to him. But not in the way it does in UT, where he finds it harder and harder to care about things because of how powerless he is. Quite the opposite, he starts to realise that if his life doesn’t matter he wants to spend it doing what he wants to do rather than what he’s good at, because there’s no point anyway. He wants friends. He knows paps used to be a royal guard and he’s popular so sans makes it his lifelong dream to become a member of the royal guard and receive a little love and recognition, to bathe in a shower of kisses every morning etc. etc.

Kinda tragic really considering how good he was at science and how terrible he is at his duties. I mean, he only has 1 HP and 1 AT. This is the main reason they haven’t let him in the guard yet, because if he entered a fight he’d just die.

With motivations like that, you can sorta see how a normal sans might show papyrus behaviour, right? No need to just swap the personality entirely.

I will concede to say that in this universe sans has passion for making the puzzles (a normally papyrus trait that i really shouldn’t be adding but it just simplifies things). He tends to make them overly complicated and convoluted in reference to his science background but he always misses the obvious point in their design.

Papyrus

Did you notice I said pap used to be royal guard? Yep. This is one of those I’m-tweaking-with-the-plot-in-a-big-way things. So papyrus in US has a bit more of a level head than UT. Which is sorta hard to bring out in our normal loveable skeleton.

Let’s say that in this universe he somehow became a royal guard without the struggle he faces in UT. In fact, let’s say that he became a royal guard a long time ago. His vigour and commitment made him a good candidate and they hired him a thought. So, without having to be desperate about getting people’s approval like in UT, he found he didn’t need to try so hard to make friends which actually made him more popular and likeable.

He was a capable royal guard really. I mean, Undyne admits in UT itself that he’s actually pretty strong. But what stops him from fulfilling his duties is exactly what Undyne notices in him with UT, he’s too morally good for the job.

*queue the weird screen wobble of a backstory*

I’m not sure on the details but in my head, papyrus learns his fault in a serious way. Maybe facing one of the past humans or another monster (I might use this loose end to tie up some other plot point later..).

Anyway, at some point in the past he confronts an assailant one on one. He knows what he must do: kill them. He’s been in FIGHTs before of course, dealt damage and captured badguys, but he’s never actually turned a living thing into dust. Facing his enemy, he faces a moral conflict at the core of his being. Papyrus can’t kill. Because despite everything, no matter how heinous the crime or horrible the person, he can’t help himself from believing in the potential of others. From hoping that people can do a little better. And as long as he thinks like this he knows he will never be able to rob someone from an opportunity to improve themselves. To give them that chance at change. There, facing this villain just waiting for him to strike, he realises that he will never be able to be a true royal guard.

They stand for what feels like hours but may as well be just moments of real time in a standstill waiting for papyrus to FIGHT, or atleast even ACT. Finally, papyrus relents and shows mercy, giving into his true nature. It’s at this point that Alphys arrives and intervenes, fighting and capturing the assailant. But papyrus has already learnt a lesson about himself that cannot be forgotten.

Despondent, realising what this means for his job, papyrus begins to care less and less about his work. A stigma grows around him. The guard who won’t FIGHT. The laziest member of the force. It’s around this time he starts frequenting Grillby’s. He eventually quits the guard entirely and embraces what people assume he is. Laziness becomes his escape from the blame he places on himself for all the things he HAD done as a guard and the one thing he couldn’t that fateful day.

Years pass and his time in the guard is all but forgotten. Paps is popular, easy-going and doesn’t care to do much of anything. That is until the one thing he does care about intervenes.

Sans and papyrus always had a strong relationship while younger. Paps is one of the only ones who stuck by sans through his awkward scientist days. Before, sans hadn’t cared much for gossip or other people in general and didn’t really bother to learn about why pap left the guard. What he did know was that somehow being on the guard had left him popular all this time later (which motivated his need to be in the royal guard like I said). Because he was concerned about how lazy paps was getting, he encouraged paps to join him as a sentry.

It’s an offer papyrus couldn’t refuse, knowing how vulnerable sans truly was. Someone needed to keep an eye on him. And really, the dynamic works both ways with sans being there to stop paps from giving up on life entirely some days just by being his perky self.

Dynamic

There’s still that adorable by-play between the bros.

Sans gets frustrated at papyrus for being lazy.

Papyrus silently cringes at the puns sans makes (but he doesn’t react to it like he does in UT)

Despite being the laziest monster in the underground sans still considers him ‘the coolest’

Papyrus somehow always manages to have access to spaghetti 24/7 which drives sans crazy. Sans refuses to eat the spaghetti because of how ridiculous it is. This is supposed to replace the pun thing in UT. I keep thinking of a twist on something in the game: “Papyrus! You need to stop making spaghetti all the time! It’s getting out of hand!” “come on bro, your stomach is grumbling just looking at it.” “I know and i hate it!”

Instead of a hotdog stand, papyrus has a full-on spaghetti kitchen concealed in his sentry station.

Sans is the one that has all the extra sentry jobs around the underground though that he impossibly manages. Most people don’t question it because he’s always putting 110% into everything he does (but how can he possibly be in so many places at once i wonder... *audible wink* )

Papyrus will give Frisk their phone number and answer their calls whenever for each room but I’ll explain how and why that works in another post (I’ve let this one drag long enough)

To be continued i guess?

Ok... That’s not EVERYTHING. But that’s the basics. I still want to go into how frisk encountering the skelebros would work (like i mentioned with the phone calls), the whole lady behind the door thing (but i’ll probably cover that in the Asgore/Toriel swap), who you fight in the blizzard exiting snowdin, who you date in a true pacifist route and how the whole genocide drama would run down. Not to mention i still need to elaborate on the separate friendships they have with alphys, undyne, hapstablook etc. but i’ll them bring up with their own swaps rather than this one because the skeletons are too integrated with everything and everyone to explain it all here.

#roletale #essay #at this point do i even need to put essay tags on my posts???#i overanalyse everything #role!sans #role!paps #fun fact: i typed this listening to basically every boss soundtrack EXCPET sans and paps lol #undertale au #accidentally brought up my error!sans withdrawls

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aboardthessbae · 7 years ago

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Fifth trip report: Home 100ug LSD tab 25 June 2017 Self Took the tab at ID10T midday so I would still be peaking for Madeon whose set ended at 11. I was there alone, surrounded by people of all ages. As I came up, I kept repeating to myself to calm down because of how extremely easy it was to be overwhelmed there; I've never put big sarah so out of her element and on display. It was horrifying honestly, the knowledge that I could easily get caught on this drug. During the comeup, I passed a VR booth where they let people play a puzzle game with the goggles. After some consideration, I sat down at the end of the queue to play. I was so embarrassed when it was my turn because I was shivering and shuddering, so the left and right controllers on the screen everyone else was looking at were shaking a lot. The puzzle itself was so difficult for me because I felt so disoriented. One of the features of the game was teleportation because you can't physically move around too much and man oh man was that something else entirely. I never got the puzzle done because in my state, that was asking way too much of me even though in reality it was a simple task. I began to trip hard, and as much as I told myself to stay calm, I knew that would not be possible. I was surrounded by swarms of people, billions of judging eyes scrutinising my behaviours and waiting to get me in trouble. I was alone, already a pretty strange sight to see a solo attendee let alone the fact that she's tripping major balls. I was listening to music, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself be washed over by Porter's music. Scared of losing touch with reality and appropriate social conduct and knowing I wanted to let it overcome me and that my typical response would be overly conspicuous, I walked as quickly as I could to the bathroom and locked myself into a stall. During this entire time, I was typing down my thoughts as I typically do, and most of it at that moment was my paranoia that I wasn't acting normal. But I realised all I was doing was staring down at my phone typing as I walked to my next destination as quickly as I could and that in doing so, I was acting normal. That is so typical of people, maybe an extreme example, but still, just trying to get to their next task or their next conquest or their next source of what passes as happiness before they get their fill and are bored, staring down at their little screens and giving no time nor attention to the world around them. When I got to the bathroom, I began to sob, and I created a shelter for myself in that horrible little public bathroom stall. I quickly put down toilet seat covers, but found that sitting on the toilet further confused my body and its needs and functions. I climbed onto the tiny toilet paper dispenser attached to the left wall and put my feet up on the opposite wall's trash can. I began to heavily regret tripping in such a majorly public scene, feeling like I abused my beloved Lucy, and was dangerously considering staying in that stall for the rest of the day till Jai Wolf and Madeon. Alex got to the venue with his cousins. I convinced myself that to make the most out of the day, I'd have to enjoy the moment over the drug, even if it meant I couldn't listen to my own music. I asked myself when I would allow myself to listen to my music. And my answer was home. But what I had to settle for as home was either the bus back or Matt's house. And I realised, yes those are safe places, but they aren't home. My music is what makes a place home to me. I went to join them. I watched Alex buy something from someone, which was so strange. He asked the seller "How much for this?" "10 dollars" "Okay," and he handed him 10 dollars. I was baffled at the idea of monetary values. This useless piece of green paper that we collectively decide has some set worth that we use to exchange for real goods. It seemed such a foreign concept, though it's the only way I've known all my life. How does something that unnatural have so much hold over our lives, from the moment we're born to the moment we die? Being with Alex and his cousins, I felt the courteous thing to do was to be social and stay in conversation with them, but it was so overwhelming on top of the thousands of conversations that were already going on in my head. I had to remind myself that I can make myself alone whenever I want. It was strange that I was able to hear every word around me clearly and comprehend none of it. My inner voice seemed to drown out their meanings. It was so easy to get overwhelmed, anxious, frightened, and my mind would run in messy circles, amplified by the anti-introvert environment. But when I let myself listen to my music, it became my sole focus, all I could accept as existing as it left no room for anything else I could perceive or conjure. One of the most strikingly new opportunities this trip and my environment allowed me was the ability to observe people—friends, individuals, crowds— up close. And as uncomfortable as it made me, it intrigued me that much more. I knew that I'd feel perfectly fine around other animals, beings we can define as part of nature, but man? Man is so evolved, the species separated itself from nature, became wretchedly intelligent enough to dictate thoughts and motives and behaviours that go beyond mere existence. I wished so much for it not to be illegal to be on acid in public because all I wanted was to be outside but still be allowed to have my primal hysterical reactions to music. I love sobbing to music, it's a physical release of all the emotion I experience when listening, which is also why I feel compelled to heave and purge when that release comes to a peak. I realised that I actually love being emotional, having the ability to experience a wide range of emotion; it's one of the many privileges of being more than an animal. I felt like it was a waste to not use that ability and harness it to express myself. I compared myself to how I used to be, thinking it was pathetic to be empathetic, but I came to decide if empathy is at all part of the reason music moves me so deeply, it's serendipitous. I think a lot of my understanding of the way people think and behave comes from my own experiences being on multiple edges of the human persona spectra. I kept yearning to somehow maximise, capitalise my time, thinking I needed to make every moment meet its potential. I felt as though all around me was undulating, pushing and pulling my helpless self and controlling my circumstances. It was new, I was so used to being able to force things my way because I was alone. It was terrifying, and it stoked more internal chaos. But I realised that every moment is already at its best potential, I can be at my maximum happiness without changing my surroundings or circumstances but by changing my perspective. Then the fear turned to entertainment, and I started having fun just living. It was strange focusing my energy onto the external rather than the internal, felt as though I was a matterless spectre perceiving all things, an outside observer. The guilt that I felt before over having put Lucy on extreme display and throwing her into a sea of this strange alien species taught me a lot about Lucy and myself. I saw that I trip as a way to escape from people, that my sense of isolation is partially responsible for my superiority complex, why I see everyone as a plebeian. In the tent, I first thought festivals were just a mass gathering, a reminder, of human filth, but I constantly brought myself back down and prevented myself from believing I was better by reminding myself that just like me, everyone else is trying to maximise on their time and enjoyment too. When I engrained that idea in my head, criticism turned into observation, and observation turned into admiration. I stopped seeing people as cockroaches and began to really appreciate that they just want to have fun in their own ways. And when everyone's focused on having a good time and sharing that time with others, there is no malicious intent and people aren't so bad. And everyone looked so beautiful, exotic. Humans appeared as crafted creatures, each one so different from the last. This appreciation extended itself to individuals too. Usually I do a lot of introspection, study and learn about myself, but I was now trying to grasp the essence of who people were, especially the people in my life. I marvelled in the idea that sharing even a single moment with someone means you know at least a small part of him. I found meeting people so phenomenal—here's the same creature as the 7.3 billion minus one rest of you, and yet it's not the same creature at all because this thing has its own past and life paths, likes and dislikes, dreams and thoughts, ideas and outlooks, and I wondered how we are this diverse. I was a little sad to know I wasn't able to reach that transcendence and clarity and feel clever, but all I really cared about was music, so it was okay. Any trace of regret that remained was decimated the moment Jai Wolf came on. I made my way to the front of the crowd, where I could see his face as he created the art that I was consuming all at once. I was astounded by this creation I was witnessing as if it were a gift just for me. I was basking in the present and the present. As Like It's Over came on, memories of my first trip spilled into my mind and forced out more tears. When I experienced my first trip's egodeath, I was alone, inconsolable till I heard Like It's Over. It felt as though it somehow extended itself to me and enveloped me, and my devastations subsided, overcome by oneness and a quiet, serene kind of beauty. When Jai Wolf played it, I was overwhelmed by the privilege I had of experiencing that moment at such a deeply personal level. Jai Wolf's set ended, and I made it even farther forward to see Madeon. A lot of the time being there with Madeon made it feel like I had the gift of reliving Shelter Live. I was so happy to be drinking in his music next to a friend I made who was as much of a fan as I am. As Madeon performed right there in front of me, I laughed because I felt as though I was marrying him. As I searched for words throughout the day, forming coherent, maybe even eloquent, sentences felt as though I was flipping through my mind's dictionary at a rapid rate, scanning for the exact word I needed to wordsmith my thoughts. Getting back to Matt's was such a struggle. I walked to the bus stop to catch my bus, which was late, making me think I was stranded for a while. The bus ride was a few hours long, and my phone was barely on with its battery in the single digits. I worried about how Matt would pick me up from the bus station so I asked him for his number to memorise and use someone else's phone to call him when mine died. I quickly figured out that memorising a string of ten numbers in my state was a challenge so I used sign language, thinking it was at least worth a shot to use muscle memory. My phone's lack of battery brought up many dilemmas. I needed to keep it on for as long as I could to savour my music. I also was finally in a dark and relatively solitudous place and allowed to think. I came to great epiphanies and as a greater achievement still, I managed to connect all these ideas together in the most satisfying and encapsulating way. These ideas and connections and the significance of them all are lost to me now because as much as I wanted to, I knew I couldn't afford to write them down. My phone finally gave out and I was forced yet again to make the most of my situation, on a bus playing music I disliked. When I got to the bus station, I borrowed someone's phone to call Matt, who came to get me promptly. I froze while I waited and deeply regretted not bringing a jacket, but when I saw Matt and Josh pull up, waves of relief and comfort and triumph came over me. I was proud of myself for proving my ability to take care of myself or at least find ways to keep myself alive for a day on acid in a strange, unbeknownst place called the Bay Area. The morning afters of my trips usually span at least a day but this one only lasted the morning as I lied in bed staring up at the ceiling, not even writing my report because I couldn't bring myself to. It ended when I got myself out of the room and was greeted by Matt and Josh downstairs. Having friends around really numbs the usual dense pain of loneliness that comes after Lucy has gone.

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