#i drew this in a fugue state late into the night | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

arrivisting · 4 years ago

Note

I’d love author commentary on basically the whole scene at Ekkaia in all my war is done (or any individual part of that scene, if your prefer). Taken together, it’s one of the most beautiful and emotionally complex and heartrending things you’ve written, from the description of the sea itself, to the difficulties of Fingon and Alqualondë, to Gil and the ocean and his ‘mother’, to Fingon and Gil beginning to tackle the thorny subect of Maedhros.

I should admit something about all my war is done: it's the most fugue-like my writing has ever been. I jotted down a few notes on my commute into work - I was deeply underwater with my PhD at the time, three months away from submitting - and then the idea of writing a sequel to scion seized me so profoundly that I sat down in the Starbucks where my bus stops, took out my laptop, and wrote instead of just collecting my coffee and walking down to my office. I wrote 15k. In one day. In about five or six hours. I've never achieved anything like that before or since - I do have good days where I can knock 2-4k out easily, but not 15k. (You might note that the posted part of all my war is done is only 12k, but I wrote all the way up into the next bit with Fingon in Tirion that you've read, up until Turgon at the dinner table). I didn't sit down or plan events; I didn't actually know much about what would happen: but I knew they were going to Ekkaia and they'd have some kind of resolution there. These are my phone-notes, from that morning:

You can see, I think, something of the way an idea hits me. I note down a few snatches of plot, not necessarily in any order, some lines I think people should say at some point, although I might not use them, sketch out some things (Formenos's ruins were going to feature more heavily, but they're waiting for a later story).

(It makes me laugh, the words my phone doesn't accept - Gil-galad, for one - and the ones it automatically capitalises from where I've yelled enthusiastically about elf things at people. I never stop long enough to correct spelling etc when I'm trying to get something down).

I clearly knew from inception that I wanted Fingon's place to be called the hill of waiting, and had tried out the name in Sindarin; because my verbs are not good, I came up with Amon Dartha. It was when I was redrafting that I realised Amon Darthir had existed actually in Dor-lomin(!!!) and the name was even more perfect symbolically than I'd meant it to be! Did I know that, unconsciously? I don't know.

You can see, too, that the Sea of Ekkaia was almost the very first point to hit me, and that I knew it and the scene there would be important, and that I knew that the story was about Fingon finding a way to tell Gil-galad that he had been loved, and wanted, and that meant talking about Maedhros; and that at the end I wanted Gil-galad to be gently, impersonally, firmly clear that he would not, could not, be staying to wait with Fingon.

Okay, DVD commentary proper - I'm sorry, I remember awfully little about writing this, given the fugue state and my thesis and everything, so I'm not sure how useful this will be!

“Oh,” said Gil-galad when they broke out of the woods and began to ride down over the dune-lands to the rocky shore. “Oh!”

The Sea of Ekkaia was beautiful, in its own way, but that way that was like no other place in Arda, in either Aman or Middle Earth.

It was a dark-blue that was almost black, even in the late afternoon, and the shore was less sand than gravel, a strange inconsistent rubble of rock and broken sea-shells that had been dashed to pieces by the constant fury of the waves. Staring out to sea, one did not see the far-away horizon the way one did on the gentler coast of Belegaer: there was no gentle faraway blue haze through which one might, perhaps, on a clear day, imagine that Middle Earth could be glimpsed, or at least the Straight Path.

No: instead along the horizon there was a seam of silver light, and then a great blackness, where the Sea of Ekkaia met the Uttermost West that was not quite the Doors of Night, but was certainly the end of Aman itself. If you stood on the shore watching, the seam would ripple with a pulse of light, sometimes green and sometimes white.

It was so far from anywhere the Eldar of Valinor lived. While they clustered around the Belegaer like moths to flame, this shore seemed instead to repel them. Was it the sight of the world’s end itself? It might be; yet Fingon thought there was more to why this wilderness was so little visited, this howling black sea lashing itself against a grey shore. It was beautiful, but not in the way Elves liked things to be beautiful: it was too raw, too unfinished, too savage.

It was too close to where Mandos kept his Halls, which were not only a thing of spirit but also matter, at least in the way that things in Aman were both. Too close to where Nienna’s tower looked out into the Void and where she wept, and wept, and wept. It was too close to death and to rebirth, to judgment and to pity.

There's a little Dawn Treader, I think, in this idea of the uttermost West. I don't know why I thought the seam of the world should pulse with strange light, but it's an uncanny kind of geography, so near Mandos and Nienna, and I like the sense that this is the end of the world, but not the end of the universe.

A lot of this came together serendipitously. I knew some kind of memorialisation of the river that bore Gil-galad needed to be part of his story; that meant going to the sea; and it's clear from the notes that I had already decided that couldn't mean Alqualonde because of kinslaying reasons and memories. (And that that too would need to be confronted). Therefore: roadtrip to Ekkaia. Therefore, the question: what would Ekkaia be like? We don't really know anything about it - only the good qualities of Belegaer. This was really written by a process of inversion, a way of pulling what we know about Belegaer inside-out, and imagining a place at the world's edge, a place that was empty, a place that was uncannily close to difficult things, to Mandos and Nienna; a place that seemed to repel the Eldar as surely as Belegaer drew them like iron filings.

I was thinking visually about New Zealand, too. I spent my childhood summers on the beaches up north, mostly around Tūtūkākā, which are bright and lovely, with golden or white or tawny sand, with gnarled pohutukawa and blue-green water. Like this:

That's what beach and sea meant to me, and it was a shock the first time I went to one of the black sand beaches where the wind howled and the colours weren't blue, green, gold, but iron, grey, navy, black. I loved it, but it felt so other, so passionate, so strange. That shock and that wild beauty and desolation were things I wanted to get at, though Ekkaia would be far more wild and desolate still.

They left the horses in the thin sea-grass, and their shoes, too, and walked down to the water. “I missed it,” Gil-galad said, and closed his eyes, breathing in the brine. “I missed it badly, all the long years besieging Mordor before I died.”

I think Gil-galad would be very marked by his upbringing first in the Falas and then on Balar; you don't lose that, if you grew up by the sea.

The wind took up his long dark hair and made a banner of it as they walked along the rough crescent of rocky ground where the waves met the shore, and around their bare ankles small stones tumbled back and forth in the lace-edge of the water.

When I was young I used to stand in the water and let the waves bury me up to my ankles, watching the water move in, out, spreading skirts of lace overlapping as new waves came in. I could do it for hours. There's something very liminal about the water's edge, between the solid land and the sea, which is why I put this conversation in it, I think. They're in a liminal space and at a liminal moment. It's the scene the whole story has been inexorably building toward, the point where all Fingon's painful scraping-away of his barriers finally reaches his skin.

“Sometimes in Middle Earth it became very difficult to believe in the Valar,” Gil-galad said, his eyes still closed, “in the blood, and the mud, and the filth. There were so many great and small unfairnesses, day upon day, year upon year.” He opened his eyes and looked towards the Uttermost West where the world ended. “And here it is impossible not to. Look at it!"

This is a little more hopeful than the original version, which I don't have anymore, but went pretty much:

"Sometimes in Middle Earth it was very difficult to believe in the Valar,” Gil-galad said. "In the blood, and the mud, and the filth. There were so many great and small unfairnesses, day upon day, year upon year.”

It was a comment more about Gil-galad's rueful scepticism than wonder - because he fought the Dagorlad before he died, because he spent the last ten years of his life in mud and blood and filth and horror. I work on the First World War - its literary legacy and traces in the decades after, more than its immediate experience or actuality, because there was a ten-year period after 1918 where it was more latent than overt, a traumatic lacuna of silence, a Nachträglichkeit- and I thought in the blood, and the mud, and the filth was a little too on the nose.

I kept it, though, because Tolkien was drawing on his own memories of the trenches with the Dagorlad and the Dead Marshes, with those blurred lines of solid land and mud/bog, the living mixed up with the remains of with the dead, all the themes you see again and again in the war poetry and the officer war-books. (Santanu Das is very good on this, as is Eric Leed). Paul Fussell is a bit old-hat now, but his argument that WWI altered the sensibility of its survivors because of their close, consanguinous co-existence with the dead is something I still find valuable. I think there's a lot of WWI survivor in the way I think of Gil-galad, actually, I'm just realising - not that he survived the Last Alliance. He's detached in a different way from Fingon. Fingon's built himself a thick layer of repression/denial, a kind of callous to protect himself from confronting or thinking about what Maedhros did, and what that means for him and to him; Gil-galad is entirely present, but somewhat detached in some ways, the way people who came back from war could be. Not that Fingon and Finrod aren't also separated from the Amanyar by their time in Beleriand and experience of war and death, but Gil-galad lived there for millennia, and he fought a longer, harder, more total kind of war than they did.

But he's at the Sea of Ekkaia, as west as you can get. So much of Tolkien is about that endless longing glance west, that movement: why is this very westernmost edge so under-explored?

I wanted Gil-galad to be softened by this encounter with the sea, so I went back and let his wonder be as much at the spectacle itself as the sea, like the greater hand at work he had sometimes doubted being visible was something wonderful rather than something to be bitter about. I wanted to position him to be potentially open to, perhaps, the Valar; perhaps, to Fingon. I hope he doesn't come off as closed-minded: I think of him as having a fair mind, and good judgment, but - despite placing him here between the sea and the shore - very clear personal lines between what he thinks is just, and what is not. Certainly, it helps a lot, never having known the Feanorians when they had not fallen.

The seam of the universe pulsed with light, and beyond it was – what?

Unutterable nothingness, something worse than death.

Perhaps Maedhros.

This is an important line for Fingon. He hasn't though the name of his own accord for much of the story, flinching away from it; it's only come in when Finrod and then Gil-galad speak the name. This is the first time he's thought it clearly of his own free will, and this is I think the first signal that he's brought Gil-galad here to be as honest and earnest with him as he can be, however much it hurts, or however much it might drive him away. Because if he isn't, and doesn't, Gil-galad will be driven away anyway, and Fingon wants to be connected with him, the first time he's wanted that kind of bond with anyone since he returned.

(I think of Finrod as someone who just kept turning up, regularly, and forcing Fingon to associate with him; and then bringing Amarie; and then his children; and not taking no for an answer. It bothers Turgon rather terribly that they seem to be friends now, when they were never that close Before: that Fingon pushes him away, but allows Finrod to keep pushing; that Finrod does push. He doesn't know about Gil-galad, of course).

He's brought Gil-galad here to show him if possible that he was wanted, to conjure up lost Ringwil where she might be felt if not found; and to do the same for Maedhros. This is a signal that this journey to the sea is as much about Gil-galad's missing father as his missing mother.

The almost-forgotten tang of salt in the air always mingled with the smell of blood in Fingon’s worst memories, and he was not the only one who remembered. The waves were gentle around Gil-galad’s feet, but they boiled furiously around Fingon’s, delivering small spiteful slaps at his calves.

Spiteful was probably the wrong word here. I don't necessarily mean a dramatic boiling or bubbling; but the water is harsh where it touches him, the kind of slapping roughness you get when the tide is coming in rough.

It took Gil-galad longer to mark the difference, engrossed in the joy of the sea and spectacle as he was, and when he did, his face changed. There was something terribly sad in his eyes when he lifted them from the water to look at Fingon.

It wasn’t why he had brought Gil-galad here; but Fingon didn’t want to imagine the look he would receive if he brushed aside the silent question. “No,” he said. “I am not forgiven.”

“So I see.”

They could probably leave it there.

But Fingon won't, because he's trying. He's really trying to connect after all the time flinching away from it, and he's remembering what Gil-galad said about talking, and what Finrod said about mistakes and silences in their first life.

He said, “You said you loathed the thought of being the son of – a murderer. But my own hands have not been clean since Alqualondë, and death didn’t unstain them. All the time you thought I might be your father, you must have known I was a Kinslayer, too.”

I tried to signal this in their earlier tower conversation with Finrod, and Gil-galad's changing of the topic, but I feel like it's a little abrupt here.

“Yes,” Gil-galad said, and his expression didn’t change. “And when the knights that had served you came to me, they told me that you killed that day in ignorance, that you came upon a battle already being fought; that you took up your sword to save those you loved and didn’t question whether it was just. I heard that from others, too, those who had less reason to bend facts to a flattering pattern; survivors of Gondolin and of Nargothrond. I did ask."

“Ignorance wasn’t an excuse. I died ashamed of it, and I live again with the shame.”

"Good!” said Gil-galad, and there was no forgiveness in his voice, even when Fingon jerked his head up in shock. Instead there was the stern ring of a king used to weighing the ideals of justice against the world as it was, the king who had walked arm in arm with Eonwë the Maia, led his people through many full-fledged wars, and held court and meted justice to them for an Age. “That gives me a far better opinion of you than any of the stories did! I’m glad.”

I remember talking to you about this in the comments, about what it meant that Gil-galad wasn't forgiving him. I think I really meant condone, but I also don't think it's Gil-galad's place to absolve Fingon - he wasn't the one wronged! - and that it's important to me that, because Fingon does truly regret it, he doesn't wish to be absolved, to slide away from it. I don't mean he ought to wallow in it or flog himself with it daily, but I think it would be important to him to shoulder and own that guilt rather than ever allowing himself to put it behind him or have someone else tell him it’s quite all right.

I think this is a moment where I show that they're quite similar, too, because even if Fingon wasn't aware that a bracing, clear assessment was just what he wanted, it was what he needed, rather than people being kind (which he's had a lot of, since he returned; and which hasn't touched that central guilt he's hidden from them, that he loved Maedhros, who had done such terrible things. It's prevented him from accepting kindness made him block people reaching out to him. Gil-galad is not being kind, but just, and still reaching out).

It felt like Fingon had been struggling to take a full lungful of air for a long time, and now something constricting in his chest had loosened, as it hadn’t even after the Valar themselves had judged him. It was only now that he realised that he hadn’t wanted Gil-galad to forgive or absolve him. He had wanted – needed – Gil-galad to be better than him, to withhold forgiveness when it was unmerited; and Gil-galad had. He had become the shining legacy they had all hoped he would be, the thing they had all somehow done right.

The water slapped at his ankles again, in impatient reminder.

This is too brief a transition. I should have fleshed the join out more.

“I think Ulmo would come to you here, if you called. You were a king by the sea in Middle Earth, and you may not remember it, but it was a river who gave you life.”

Gil-galad looked at him as if he’d grown an extra head. “What?”

“I brought you here for a reason,” Fingon said. “Where did they go, the drowned and poisoned rivers of Beleriand? I don’t know; but Ulmo might.”

I've really personified the rivers, but I think it's a clear and easy extrapolation from the Withywindle and the River-daughter in The Fellowship of the Ring that I don't need to justify in order to argue that every river might have had its own attendant Maia-spirit. It does make what happened to the Rivers of Beleriand much worse, though, and I wanted to look at the way a character that was a throwaway mechanism in scion ended up being sickened and dying as horribly as Beleriand did; this story was really about following all those lighter bits in scion home, to the end of the line, and looking at the long-term impacts of something that began more lightly. In this verse, Ringwil was a river, but also a person; and I think of her and Finrod as sharing a strange human-river friendship and overlapping enthusiasms.

He clapped Gil-galad on the shoulder, hoping it said all the things he meant it to say. Affection had been so easy for him once, in the life that had been taken from him by the fiery flails of the Balrogs, but now it came hard, and the sea-smell was in his nose, the terrible memories too close to the surface.

He had surely outstayed Ulmo’s tolerance by now. Fingon left Gil-galad there in the water, and didn’t dare glance back until there was thin sandy soil under his feet again.

Only then did he look once more towards the sea.

Gil-galad was standing in the shallows. His broad shoulders were bunched tight, as if he was readying himself for something very difficult, a confrontation with one of the Valar he had long doubted.

Then he spread his arms out, empty-handed, and tipped his head back, and the light on the horizon grew unbearably bright, whiter than white, more silver than silver; and a face began to move upon the water.

I really like this, honestly. Which I can't/don't say often! The temptation to overwrite this was strong, to show this encounter, to describe the Vala: but I think it's often stronger not to show something numinous, to pull away, to let the mind fill it in.

Again, this is Gil-galad as I imagine him: still somewhat distanced from the Valar by the Dagorlad and the things that happened there (and I think perhaps doubly unhappy in that he lived through the end of an Age once before, and that time, at least, the Valar came: they did not come in the Second, nor send so much as a messenger, and such obscenities as the fall of Ost-in-Edhil and the drowning of Numenor had been allowed to happen, and Men and Elves were left alone to come together and break Sauron's grip). Doubting, but not angry; doubting, but still curious. Open to listening.

a face began to move upon the water is of course a deliberate sideways reference to

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

It took a very long time. Fingon could not watch; his eyes dazzled.

Can you tell I was teaching The Duchess of Malfi at this time? Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle; she died young. That sense of a light too bright and white to look upon; that sense of guilt; that faint reference to life lost untimely. This wasn't meant to be a direct intertextual reference, but that net of meaning was there, lightly. Again, I wanted to under-write rather than over-write. I know I have a tendency to over-write.

And of course - there's a sense here that Fingon is refusing the kind of close enoucnter with Ulmo he could/might have. There's water in his eyes. From the wind?

“Thank you,” Gil-galad said when he rejoined him at last. His eyes were glowing, and he whistled Ceredir to him from where he was tearing ropey roots of sea-grass from the dunes with great relish. “Thank you for bringing me here;” and he didn’t say it the way he’d thanked Fingon for the horse, or the armour, or the sword, or even the lance.

Because this is a real gift, something that means something to both of them, something more honest/painful. Fingon's been trying to connect through gifts but not serious conversation or sharing, like some estranged parents do, throwing money at the problem rather than giving of their time or their selves, and however well-meant, it hasn't worked.

“I didn’t truly do anything."

“You brought me to the Sea. I know – I could see – how difficult it was for you."

"Well,” Fingon said lamely. He cleared his throat. “What did Lord Ulmo say about – oh, I can’t call her your dam! – the Maia who bore you? Did she – was she there?”

The dam pun is Finrod's. Don't blame me.

A little of the light dimmed, but it didn’t quite fade away. “No, she’s gone. Back to the Timeless Halls, he says; but one with him again, Ulmo, at the same time.” Gil-galad made a noise. “I don’t pretend to understand any of it, all the metaphysical nonsense of the Ainur! But he was kind to me, and he told me something of her – that she delighted in the making of me.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “I left the flowers we gathered earlier in the waves for her and the sea didn’t dash them back onto the shore. I’m sure Ulmo broke a few laws of Arda there.”

I like this image of the flowers suspended in the water. I had it clearly in mind from before I began to write.

"You were wanted.”

“I’m beginning to believe it,” Gil-galad said.

“You should,” Fingon said. He took a breath. Talking is how you sort things out; and a long time ago, Fingon had been known for his valour. Gil-galad deserved to know how much he had been wanted, who had called himself a political compromise given birth. The truth of that had stung.

And it was less than the truth. Fingon could still remember the first time he had opened his mind to Maedhros over the leagues between them and let him see Gil’s small face through his own eyes, holding nothing back. He had shown Maedhros the dark long lashes and the squashed baby nose, the milk-blister on the bow of Gil’s upper lip, the way his whole head turned an alarming red when he wailed; shared with Maedhros Gil’s fondness for being tossed in the air, his splashing joy in his bath.

This is is me trying to describe a baby without being too sentimental about it, because Fingon wasn't all, oh look at the toesie-woesies, or my son, my son: his eye was more detached, and you see him in scion thinking of Gil-galad as it.

I've been thinking about why Fingon in no way allowed himself to consciously dote on the baby, why that streak of denial that's so strong in his second life was there in his first light, and really: it would have been dangerous to let himself love him, to see Gil as his son and Maedhros's. He was born at a time of terrible loss, after the Flame, when they all expected they could die themselves. He was moved around Beleriand like a game-piece. Fingon was always going to lose him: he wasn't going to get to raise him, after all, until and unless Morgoth was defeated. Maedhros wasn't going to meet him, until and unless &c. It was easier not to let oneself get attached than it was to confront those hard facts and let oneself be hurt by them. Easier to think of him as a baby Finwean prince, and that only: a political pawn, not a son.

Conversely, Maedhros maintains a physical distance, but not an emotional one. Here's a bit from Maedhros's perspective:

Finrod had told him that. They had written, back and forth, in the long months as Ringwil’s belly swelled, as the child formed, as it began to move and stretch and turn frog-like inside her. They had corresponded constantly during the first months of the child’s life in Nargothrond, and during the first months of his life, Finrod had sent long scrolls detailing every change in Artanaro’s weight, his length, his hair colour, his eye colour, how much milk he’d consumed each day: screeds winging forth to Himring until the child was old enough to survive the secret trip north.

Fingon’s letters had been infuriatingly spare of useful information while the child was fostered at Barad Eithel. Beloved, ineloquent Fingon: Fingon, who had nevertheless shown him the child as no reams of paper could.

Fingon had given him forever the rounded bloom of his full cheeks, and the pursed mouth, sullen in sleep: the feathery, rather cross-looking eyebrows, and the small hands with their deep dimples and smaller fingernails, curled into the edge of Fingon’s furred mantle.

Maedhros had felt the way Fingon hovered between wonder and confusion at what they’d wrought: the way he couldn’t quite manage to think of the child as his own, this thing spun out of air and calculation and freshwater into heavy, solid life. He could have loved him so desperately, Maedhros knew that. He was halfway there, hovering in terror on the edge, afraid of falling. If the baby had stayed in Barad Eithel longer; if Fingon had watched him begin to creep around on fat little knees, to pull himself up on the furniture and to take his first steps – to hear the baby babble turn into words and speech – his heart would have opened to him like a flower, and the child would have become the centre of his universe, the sun in his sky.

Fingon had never known what to do with Idril as an infant, either, but he’d easily become an adored uncle as she grew up. If they’d had more time – if the child had been permitted to stay with Fingon even a month longer before being sent for safety to Cirdan –

Well, they’d never had enough time.

There had been few walls between them then, so he had felt Maedhros’s bright joy, the painful love, in its moment of birth: swelling and swelling like a cloud with rain, as though his heart was growing and his blood was leaking out of him at the same time, transmuting into pure tenderness and iron purpose.

I like this because I think of the Ekkaia scene as a cloudburst, full of emotion that has been swelling and swelling and now released. This is one bit of the breaking-through.

He had never needed to ask whether Maedhros considered Gil-galad a son.

“I don’t want to talk about – him,” Fingon said with difficulty, and the salt breeze stung his face, his eyes. “I know you loathe him, and rightly; and I do, too. I do hate him; or I hate what he did. I do! But you should know – you deserve to – that he wanted you, badly, although he never met you; he never wanted the shadow on him to touch you or to taint you.

And this. You can see here where I spun off into cliffs of fall, which isn't a scion story, but sprung out of this speech. It was already there in those sketchy notes, too, a lot of what Fingon's saying here: this important line about hating Maedhros, or what he did (that movement from clear certainty to trying to separate the deeds from the loved one; to urgent reptition - I do! I mean it, I really do! - which means he doesn't, can't: this is the heart of Fingon's guilt, because he wants to hate Maedhros utterly, but he can't, and he is profoundly in denial about that).

“He always wanted children; I took that from him even before the Oath did, but I gave it back to him with you. I loved you first of all for that, but he loved you for yourself. Because you existed, against all hope and possibility and fate and chance; and because you were ours.”

Gil-galad said nothing. There was still a wildflower tucked behind his ear, but the brilliance had quite left his eyes.

“Well,” Fingon said at last. “I needed to tell you that. You should know that you were never – not only – you were wanted very much."

Beloved ineloquent Fingon, &c.

They were some miles from the beach when Gil-galad said, “‘Ours’?”

“Yes."

I was trying to let the gaps and breaks talk for me in the text. Under-writing.

The beginning was full of these little breaks, too, because they didn't yet know how to talk to each other; now at the end, that connection, and their conversations, are breaking down again. It's echoing that ride together at the beginning very strongly, but now it's not Gil-galad trying to become acquainted and Fingon giving light, unsatisfying answers. These are the real questions/answers at last, and the whole story has really been about getting to the point of Fingon and Gil-galad in Aman where they actually could have the kind of conversation Gil-galad was trying to have at the start.

Some miles further, Fingon said, “Did you ever meet him in Beleriand? After I died. I always wondered.”

“No,” Gil-galad said.

It didn’t seem like he was going to speak again, and Fingon had begun to assimilate that knowledge, that pain – that Maedhros had never seen him, had only ever known him through Fingon’s own eyes – when he added,

“But I saw what he did. Have you ever seen a whole city ruined, and known the ruiners to be Elves? It wasn’t even a city, poor Sirion! It was a refuge, a place for the desperate, as far to the West as they could get, as close to the safety of the Sea. They had so very little. No great stone palaces, no towers, no spires. Little enough fresh food. They were able to grow so little, and they lived on fish, and sea-weed, and what brave hunting parties would bring back; and hope. They lived on hope, and they thought Elwing wore it around her throat, but the Valar didn’t come for them: Maedhros Fëanorion and his brothers did instead, and they burned and killed and ravaged. I’d say they salted the earth, but it was salt already. To fall on any innocent Elven city would be a horror: on poor Sirion it was the greatest cruelty I ever saw, and entirely pointless."

They said nothing more.

I like this, too, actually. You see a little here of why Gil-galad might be healthily sceptical of the Valar - they didn't come for them: Maedhros Feanorion and his brothers did instead - and that very post-war experience of seeing a descrated, destroyed town. Worse when you had seen it when it was whole, when you knew the dead and fled.

Sirion is, I think, the worst thing the Feanorions did. I find it worse than even Doriath or Alqualonde (though they're all awful!). These were desperate survivors, huddled together at the edge of the sea for protection. So many of their leaders had been killed or lost. Idril and Tuor had disappeared; Earendil was away; Maedhros and the others struck while only Elwing was there, and she was so young, and so alone, and so damaged already by what they'd done in Doriath. And now they’d come again. There's something about the revictimisation that gets me. It's awful.

I wanted it to be weight and counter-weight - that soft, painful, remembered moment of Maedhros seeing baby Gil-galad through Fingon's eyes, something Fingon has clearly not deliberately thought about since he was reborn, but dredges up now for Gil-galad, because he should know: and which is echoed in the beginning by Fingon's question to Finrod. But Maedhros is still the person who did the things he did, and I wanted to set that soft moment of truth against his deeds at Sirion, another truth, to point out clearly why Gil-galad would recoil so hard from this offering, this honesty Fingon wants to be able to give him. This is the dichotomy at the heart of the story: reconciling Maedhros and how one felt for him with what he did, and how one feels about that. It is irresolvable, at least for Fingon, at least at the moment I've ended it at for now.

I don't know if this is quite what you wanted, @warrioreowynofrohan, especially because like I said, I wrote this story in a frantic fog, but I hope this in some way suffices!

#not!fic

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argent-vulpine · 4 years ago

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A Gentle Voice

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Rating: G

Characters: Seteth/Byleth

Read it on AO3!

Jeralt was gone, and Seteth didn’t know how to handle comforting Byleth. She had entered a fugue state, the only tears shed being the ones she’d left on the field of battle. He needed answers, both from Rhea regarding whatever it was she’d done to Byleth as a child, and in terms of who it was that had attacked the students and ultimately killed the famed Blade Breaker.

Solon, or whatever his name really was. Monica, whose disappearance and sudden return after a year missing were suspect in hindsight. Who were these people? Who else had gone home themselves and returned something else? Or had they always been these other people? Too many questions and not nearly enough answers.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Back to long nights, though this time they were for the professor, and not because he mistrusted her. Seteth pushed himself to his feet, needing some fresh air to clear his head, and left his office.

He had intended to head downstairs and talk a walk, but he caught sight of the door to the captain’s office cracked open, a faint, flickering light casting shadows that drew his attention.

There was no doubt in his mind who was in there, but he still pushed the door open further, glancing inside to be sure. As he suspected, Byleth was curled up, her father’s coat draped over her as she read through what looked to be a journal.

She looked up as the door creaked, her eyes bloodshot and stark against her pale skin. The book snapped shut and was tucked away. Something from Jeralt, then, but he didn’t bother to ask. It wasn’t his place, and she would perhaps tell him on her own, eventually.

“Professor, it is late. You should be sleeping.”

“The way you’re sleeping?” she asked dryly. “I tried. I couldn’t. So I’m here.”

Well. She had a point. Sighing, he approached the small couch; she tucked her legs closer to make room so that he could sit. He wanted to reach out and hold her close, tell her that things would be all right in the end but… who was he to talk, really? He’d kept himself and Flayn hidden away for such a long time after his wife died, after all.

How strange, that this woman had been entrusted with such a large secret, when a few short months before he hadn’t trusted her at all.

Against his better judgment, he reached out and placed a hand on her knee, the gesture meant to comfort. She stilled briefly, but made no motion to remove it, no words telling him to stop. “I know the pain of loss, as you are aware… but to lose a parent like this…” He sighed, shaking his head. “That is something I do not know. Flayn does, and I would do anything to have it be different. No child should have to witness such a terrible event.”

She opened her mouth, about to say something, and then closed it again.

“I know you are no longer a child, but the sentiment is there. Flayn at least has me, while you… I am sorry. Just… know that you are not alone.”

The silence stretched for a long moment, and he was about to apologize when she reached out, resting her hand on top of his. “… thank you, Seteth.”

He flushed, shaking his head. “There is nothing to thank me for, Professor.” He turned his hand beneath her to grasp her fingers, giving them a soft squeeze before he pulled away. “You do need to rest, Professor. Would you like me to get you a tonic from the infirmary? I am sure Manuela has something…”

“No, I don’t… I don’t want to be made to sleep like that.”

He hummed an acknowledgment, understanding why she might dislike the idea. “Ah… I could… sing for you, perhaps?” he asked, cheeks flaring with heat. “That is, I used to sing lullabies to Flayn when she had nightmares or was unable to rest. I could… do the same for you.”

The coat rustled briefly as she shifted beneath it, but beyond that, all was still and silent. He thought perhaps he had overstepped, or that she thought the notion silly. After all, she was not a child, and perhaps did not find comfort in music.

“I think… I would like that,” she finally said, voice soft. “Dad wasn’t much of a singer… mostly tavern songs? But sometimes he would sing other things. He always looked sad, but they were such nice songs.” The corners of her lips twitched upward for a brief second. “Even if he did sound terrible.”

Seteth gave a low chuckle at the thought of Jeralt singing anything that could be considered soft. He’d heard the man sing before, on his way back to the monastery from the town’s tavern. Off-key would have been a polite way of putting it. “I hope that I am not a poor voice to your ears,” he replied, glad that some of the tension had eased.

He drew in a breath, considering what to sing, and began ultimately with a soft lullaby. It was a fable set to music, an older song, and gentle, the melody slow and soft. Byleth watched him, her entire attention on him as he sang.

She showed no signs of relaxing, instead coming perhaps more alert than before as he sang. In the back of his mind, he wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or not; the song was a lullaby, after all, meant to ease people into slumber.

Byleth shifted, turning on the sofa until she was leaning against him, their shoulders pressing together. His voice faltered briefly, but she seemed content to stay where she was, listening.

The song ended, and he began another, a hymn often sung by the monastery’s choir. To his surprise, she began to hum along, soft and even; he wondered if this was something that Jeralt had sung around her before, or if perhaps she had picked it up since arriving at the monastery. He had seen her with a few students from time to time during choir lessons, after all.

This, at least, seemed to have the intended effect; she stifled a yawn and settled closer against his side. He hesitated, briefly, and then lifted his arm, carefully draping it around her shoulders, and was rewarded by her turning slightly, her cheek resting above his heart. He hoped that it was not beating too erratically.

Seteth finished the song despite Byleth’s humming tapering off as she fell asleep. He sang another, certain she wouldn’t hear but not wanting the moment to end just yet. And when it did finally end, he found himself not wanting to leave her there alone. He closed his eyes and sighed softly, willing to admit – just a little, to himself – that he… had grown fond of the professor.

He ultimately fell asleep as well, willing to do away with propriety for at least this night.

--------

They never had the opportunity to talk about that night. Byleth had been gone by the time he woke up in the morning, stiff and a little sore from sleeping upright. He assumed she had made her way back to her own room at some point, and she had resumed teaching her class that day.

But everything after had happened so fast…

Finding Jeralt’s killers. Byleth and her class charging recklessly ahead to deal with them. He had to piece together what had happened in the forest afterward, but the green hair she sported on her return had caused a great deal of worry for him, though Rhea

had seemed delighted, spiriting the professor up to her rooms to care for her.

He heard her singing as he passed by her rooms, going still as he realized what she was singing. It was old, a song he hadn’t heard in a very long time.

And it was suspicious that she was singing it to Byleth.

Something just seemed terribly off about all of it, and while he had suspicions that Rhea had done something, he didn’t know what, or how. Even the why was a mere guess, but it was a concerning enough guess that he spent many sleepless nights trying to learn more. Rhea was not forthcoming any time he asked her, telling him only to wait and see, that all would be clear in due time.

When Byleth was well enough to return to her own rooms, she did so to a flurry of activity. Preparing her class for the upcoming rite, normal classes, adjusting to her new hair and eyes. If they were a shocking change to her students and others around her, what must it be like for her?

Any time he tried to get her alone to talk to her, she would be pulled away. Certifications, exams, students in need of her advice or her assistance. He suspected she was throwing herself into work more than ever before, taking her class out into the field to deal with requests that came in. From time to time, she would ask him along, wanting his assistance, but there was never a good time to ask her about what had happened in those moments.

He wondered later if she had suspected Edelgard’s treachery, had known that not all was as it seemed. Certainly the attack on the Holy Tomb had been dealt with swiftly, with Edelgard and Hubert sent fleeing.

And after that treachery had been revealed, the monastery was in a flurry of activity as non-combatants were sent away for their safety where possible, or fled into Abyss, or simply barricaded themselves behind the stout walls of Garreg Mach to ride out the upcoming battle.

Byleth and her students were a force to be reckoned with on the field; she saw them firsthand as they fought against the Adrestian soldiers, fighting their way through as they tried to reach Edelgard.

But then Rhea took to the field, brandishing her draconic form in a way he hadn’t seen in centuries, and there was Byleth, running toward her, to protect her – why?! – and then she was falling, falling and he couldn’t reach her in time to save her, wyvern or not.

Her loss rippled through the field, causing a chain reaction of loss. Her students retreated, following her last orders to them, fleeing into Abyss where escape routes had been prepared for them, though he found all this out only much later.

And then Garreg Mach had fallen. Rhea was nowhere to be seen, nor was Byleth. Seteth took Flayn and the Knights of Seiros and retreated, fleeing into the countryside while war raged on around them all.

#Seteth #Setleth #Byleth Eisner #Seteth Birthday Bash 2020 #day 3: song #fire emblem #Fire Emblem Three Houses #FE3H

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lynnkn · 5 years ago

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You can plan on me

Hey! Here’s my gift for @pastelle-pvnk for Pynch Secret Santa 2019 hosted by @pynchpromptweek. They wanted to see the boys happy, and in love, so I hope I delivered on that!

Pairing: Adam Parrish/Ronan Lynch

Words: 2,878

Warnings: One Call Down the Hawk spoiler. It’s a super tiny spoiler, but if you want to go into CDTH knowing absolutely nothing, beware!

Summary: Ronan trusts Adam. He trusts that Adam's recent odd behavior has more to do with Christmas than anything bad. That doesn't mean he isn't curious.

Read it on AO3!

The sun did nothing to warm the December chill sweeping through Henrietta and particularly the Aglionby parking lot. Ronan cranked up the heat in the BMW and pulled his jacket tighter around himself.

He urged the bell to ring sooner. The students were only moments away from Christmas break. Many of them would return to their families in D.C. or wherever the bourgeoisie gathered. But he was only interested in one particular Raven boy.

Okay, that was probably unfair to Gansey, but he was returning to Alexandria for two weeks of family stuff. Personally, Ronan would rather saw off his left arm and then pay someone to do the right than spend a week with the Gansey cult, but he understood…mostly.

It was Adam he was waiting for.

A bell rang throughout the campus, and the lot flooded with rowdy teenage boys, reveling in the first moments of freedom. Ronan slid down in his seat, hoping to avoid eye contact with his former peers. At one point, he probably would’ve sought them out to scare them off with an uncomfortable stare or a violent swing of his fist. But he was trying to fly under the radar as much as possible lately, especially when it came to Aglionby boys.

He didn’t care what they thought of him, whether they knew he was gay, but Adam still had to talk to these people every day. They were his classmates, and if they knew he was dating Ronan, the next few months would be torture.

A crowd of boys parted to reveal Henry, Gansey, and Adam, marching toward him. Adam’s hair was wind-swept, and the bags under his eyes were thicker and darker than usual. Gansey did nothing more than wave to him, unsurprisingly supportive of their choice to keep things quiet, as Adam stealthily broke away from the group to slip into the passenger seat. The sun bounced off the thin layer of snow outside and backlit Adam enough to make him look ethereal. He was all harsh angles and worn-out eyes. He’d been so busy over the past few weeks that Ronan had barely seen him, between finals and a few extra shifts he’d picked up at work. Ronan wasn’t ever sure if Adam had been sleeping, let alone when.

But when the door was shut, and they turned to look at each other, Adam smiled. It was a rare and beautiful thing that smile, and Ronan still didn’t understand what provoked it.

“Hi,” Adam said when Ronan remained hypnotized by the small sliver of teeth.

“Hi,” he said.

He allowed himself another moment to stare before he started the car, tearing out of the parking lot. It was probably not as inconspicuous as Adam would have preferred, but he’d been so distracted he’d defaulted to his usual driving habits.

But Adam didn’t say anything, and Ronan kept driving until they got to the Sheetz just outside of Henrietta. He whipped around the curve and into the lot, nearly taking out a flower bed in the process. And once the car was stopped, he leaned over the center console to kiss Adam. It was their first in nearly a week.

It was nothing special, except that he was kissing Adam Parrish, which always felt a bit like a dream. Like at any moment, it could all go wrong. But no. They were safe. They were together. They were hungry.

They got sandwiches, and fries, and mac and cheese bites, and Adam let Ronan pay without saying a word. It was odd but less so than it would have been before. They took their food back to the Barns and spread out across the couch, laying down a layer of napkins and unpacking all of the food in front of them. Opal bounced excited around them as she always did when Adam came over.

Adam, with a face full of burger and a cautiously raised eyebrow, watched him, making Ronan realize he was staring. It was such a soft gesture he wanted to break something to release the tension. Instead, he leaned forward and stole a fistful of Adam’s fries and stuffed them in his mouth.

Adam huffed. “Asshole.”

It was so beautiful, he knew it had to be temporary. “When do you have to leave for work?”

Adam took a bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “I have the day off.”

Something in Ronan’s chest burst and he took in a breath. “That’s awesome.” He’s caught off-guard by his own enthusiasm, but he’d missed his boyfriend. He’d spent most of the last two months terrified that Adam would wake up from whatever weird fugue state he was in, realize what he was doing, and run.

“It is,” Adam said with a quiet laugh.

“How’d you fucking swing that?” Ronan said, overcome with suspicion. The warehouse had been busy for the past few weeks, which was why Adam had taken on extra shifts.

Adam threw a wrapper on the floor, and Opal swooped in, shoving the paper in her mouth. “I made it work.” He flopped casually against Ronan’s side, pressed so close his hair brushed against Ronan’s collarbone. He suppressed a shiver.

That night, lying in his bed, with Adam asleep beside him, he sent up a silent prayer. “Thank you,” he whispered into the dark and silence.

And in the kitchen the next morning, when Adam said he had the rest of the week off, he allowed himself to enjoy it instead of asking questions. Adam would tell him if there was something wrong. He was almost sure of it.

Declan and Matthew arrived on the 23rd, and it began to properly feel like Christmas. Their last Christmas had been a disaster, but that probably had to do with their recently buried father and their mother in a magical coma. Declan had been more tolerable than usual during their last few phone calls.

He also didn’t technically know Ronan and Adam were dating. Ronan was sure he had his suspicions, but he’d refused to outright confirm or deny anything.

Adam didn’t seem to mind playing the role of casual dude friend. He was even good at it, which was both very annoying and very attractive. Ronan made sure to tell him that as they kissed, both of them pressed against the wall of Ronan’s bedroom.

“It’s cause we were friends first, jackass,” Adam said.

Ronan was quite sure his feelings for Adam had never been platonic, but he didn’t mention that. “Still,” he said. “They should give you a fucking Oscar for that.” He traced the vein the ran along the side of Adam’s temple with his finger. “I thought the fist bump was particularly sexy.”

“Don’t say that. I fist bump Gansey.”

Ronan went in for another kiss, and Adam gracefully glided the door shut, taking care to avoid slamming it.

As Ronan got dressed for Mass, he thought about Adam alone at the house and briefly considered staying behind with him. It seemed like a dick-move to leave Adam alone on Christmas Eve, but Matthew had been excited for all three Lynch bothers to attend Christmas Eve Mass together again. Considering Ronan was the one missing the previous year, as he was passed out drunk in the back of the BMW, he felt he owed it to his younger brother.

He went downstairs to find Opal sitting on the kitchen counter, chewing a can of Coke. Ronan took it from her to pop it open before handing it back. She promptly dumped the soda into the sink beside her and continued to chew on the can. Ronan gave an indignant huff, more for show than anything.

Footsteps drew his attention to the staircase. Adam stood at the top, hair neatly combed back, and Ronan’s tie hanging loosely around his neck.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going with you.”

“You are?”

“What? You worried I’m going to burn if I walk in the front door?” His face drooped, and he pulled back, suddenly shy. “Is it okay if I come?”

Ronan’s skepticism grew. Adam had never shown any interest in attending service with them. He usually worked on Sundays, and Ronan had assumed that was intentional. He’d always thought Adam’s aversion to the church wasn’t just a product of his work schedule.

He fought to keep the curious look off his face. “I guess,” he said. His face split into a wicked grin. “But only if you’re willing to take the chance.”

“Hasn’t happened to you yet,” Adam said.

“Whatever you say, sinner.”

Declan thankfully didn’t comment as Adam followed them out to the Volvo. He caught Ronan’s eyes across the top of the vehicle and raised his eyebrow. Ronan made a point of not looking. He’d come out to both Declan and Matthew earlier in the month, as casually and cooly as he could. They took it well. Although Declan took it too far, going into a speech about how proud he was of Ronan for sharing. It had been so disgusting, Ronan had been forced to give him a wet willy to end the torture.

He didn’t care what Declan thought of him or of Adam for that matter. Still, he wasn’t ready to tell him yet. It felt like the kind of conversation that would end in a fight, and Ronan was trying to keep the peace for Matthew’s sake.

The four of them piled into the Volvo. Ronan let Matthew have shotgun and slipped into the backseat, across from Adam, who was wringing his hands into an anxious knot. Once Declan started the car and had his eyes locked on the road in front of them, Ronan reached over to place his palm over them. He felt the tension drain from Adam’s muscles. He never thought such pleasures were even an option for someone like him. He was so happy, he didn’t complain about Declan’s speed once.

“I’ve gotta grab something upstairs, Adam said as he climbed from the car. “I’ll meet you in the sanctuary in a minute.” He vanished upstairs, leaving the Lynch brothers gathered in a small semi-circle in the gravel lot.

Ronan pushed past his brothers, hoping to avoid any questions. They found their usual seats, and Ronan left a space next to him. Adam slipped into it when he came back downstairs. “What’d you need to get?”

Adam shrugged and turned his attention forward as the service began. He casually stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It’s the time of year for secrets.”

Ronan turned as well, letting his gaze linger.

After Mass, they returned to the Barns where they dug into some Christmas cookies Declan bought for Matthew on their way into town. Soon Declan and Matthew went to bed, and Opal lept out the door in pursuit of a rabbit she saw run past the window.

Adam and Ronan settled into the living room and spent some time flipping through various Christmas specials. Adam had seen most of them, to Ronan’s surprise. “This is all we did at school the week before Christmas,” he said. “You haven’t seen all of these?”

“Dad used to tell us stories,” he said. “But with a lot more swords and a lot less holiday spirit.”

“Sure,” Adam said sarcastically. “Did the heroes kill Santa?”

“Only sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes, they slayed snow monsters or demons.” He looked up and caught Adam grinning at him, fighting back laughter. “Don’t stare at me like that, Parrish. I had a perfectly fucking normal childhood.”

“You did?” Adam said through a laugh. “Sure. I believe that.”

“I did. I saw all the Veggie Tales Christmas specials.”

That was apparently too much for Adam, who threw himself backward on the couch, howling and smiling. Ronan couldn’t help but lean forward to kiss him. He took more pride in that damn smile than in any dream he’d ever dreamt. Dreaming was easy. Making Adam Parrish smile was not.

As their lips touched, something beeped below them. Ronan brushed it off. He had no reason to answer his phone with Declan and Matthew upstairs and Adam right next to him. He considered Gansey or Blue, but they were both with their families, and they knew to leave him a message if he didn’t answer right away.

Then Adam flinched below him, pulling himself out and stumbling to the kitchen with a mumbled, “I need a drink.”

Ronan followed him, watching as he patted his pockets and shuffled out of the room.

The kitchen was dark, and Ronan could only barely make out the silhouette standing by the counter. Even if he hadn’t known though, hunched shoulders and wiry arms would have given him away.

“What are you doing?”

His head snapped up meerkat-like and panicked. Guilt twinged in his gut and approached cautiously. He stepped forward but left a large space between them, trying to leave room for Adam to close the gap, trying to give him the chance to control the situation.

Even in the dark, he could make out the illuminated glow of a cell phone in his hand. For a moment, Ronan thought Adam had grabbed his phone from the coffee table, but it was easy to tell this was a new phone. There was a default background on the screen, and there wasn’t a single scratch or crack on it.

“I didn’t steal it,” Adam said, which was stupid because he wasn’t about to fucking accuse him of stealing it. Ronan let him continue talking anyway. “I just thought I might need one when I start school, and I had a little money leftover last month.”

Last month. Had Adam really had a cell phone for a whole month and not brought it up to Ronan at all?

“It’s prepaid, and I don’t have service in many places, but it’s something.”

“Yeah. It’s something,” Ronan said, tentative and nervous. Were there other secrets? “Why’d you take the whole week off?” he asked before he could reign in his words.

“I wanted to spend time with you. Was that not okay?” Adam said in a tight, panicked voice that made Ronan hate himself. He never wanted Adam to sound like that again. More than that, he never wanted to be the reason Adam sounded like that.

“No,” he interjected quickly. “I have to know, man,” he said panting. He leaned his forehead against Adam’s. “Did you get fired or something?”

“Don’t call me man while we’re doing this,” Adam said, gesturing to their proximity and the way Ronan’s hand cupped the back of his neck. It was fair, but also a diversion.

“Adam,” he pleaded. “What’s going on with you?”

“Merry Christmas.”

Ronan waited for a punch line or further elaboration, but Adam remained locked in position, eyes forward and posture straight. When Ronan continued to stare, confused and sleepy, Adam rolled his eyes and pulled the phone back out. He swiped away a text from Gansey to show Ronan a calendar. It was color-coded and meticulously labeled. His work schedule was marked with green, and classes and homework were blue. Unlabeled red boxes covered the screen. Everything was perfectly mapped out until mid-February.

“I don’t have money, and even if I did…” Adam paused, sucking in a nervous breath. “You can make anything you want, so I had to find something you couldn’t create yourself.” He took Ronan’s hand in his, pressing his thumb to Ronan’s palm. “I realized the best thing I could give you was my time. I’m ready to do this. I’m not half-assing this.”

This was the Adam Parrish Ronan knew, full of ambition and pride. A chip on his shoulder and a fire in his belly. God, Ronan missed him, and he hadn’t even left yet.

“You’ve never half-assed anything in your life.”

“When I leave, I’m coming back. When I’m at school or work, just wait until I’m done cause I promise I’ll be back.” He held the phone up again, gesturing to the red boxes on the calendar. “These are yours. And all this empty space is yours too, if you need it.”

Ronan pulled him forward, hands grasping the collar of his shirt and kissed him again, pausing to remember what it felt like when Adam Parrish’s lips pressed against his. Adam was going to leave, and it was going to hurt, but sometimes after a drought, came a flood and Ronan was comfortable waiting.

The light flicked on over them, startling them both back against the counter. Declan stood in the doorway, with a tired expression and a deep sigh. “Saw that coming,” he said, flicking the light back off. “Merry Christmas, Ronan,” he called over his shoulder.

“Merry Christmas, asshole,” Ronan yelled back, wiping his lips on his shirt sleeve.

Declan stuck his head back into the kitchen. “Merry Christmas, Parrish,” he said. “Welcome to the family.”

Ronan worried that would be enough to scare Adam off, but instead, he let out an anxious laugh. “Merry Christmas, Declan.”

In the morning, they’d open presents, and Adam would get to see the watch Ronan had dreamt for him. Because they’d always have time for one another. Because no matter what, they’d make it work. This was going to work, goddamnit.

#pynch #trc #call down the hawk #cdth spoilers #adam parrish #ronan lynch #raven fools #my fic

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upontheshelfreviews · 5 years ago

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Last year I talked about Fantasia, which is not just one of my favorite Disney movies, but one of my favorite movies in general. And if I may be self-indulgent for a moment, it’s also one of the reviews that I’m the proudest of. Fantasia is a visual, emotional masterpiece that marries music and art in a manner few cinematic ventures have come close to replicating. One question that remains is what my thoughts on the long-gestated sequel is –

…you might wanna get yourselves some snacks first.

As anyone who read my review on the previous film knows, Fantasia was a project ahead of its time. Critics and audiences turned their noses up at it for conflicting reasons, and the film didn’t even make it’s budget back until twenty-something years later when they began marketing it to a very different crowd.

“I don’t wanna alarm you dude, but I took in some Fantasia and these mushrooms started dancing, and then there were dinosaurs everywhere and then they all died, but then these demons were flying around my head and I was like WOOOOOAAAHHH!!”

“Yeah, Fantasia is one crazy movie, man.”

“Movie?”

Fantasia’s unfortunate box office failure put the kibosh on Walt Disney’s plans to make it a recurring series with new animated shorts made to play alongside handpicked favorites. The closest he came to following through on his vision was Make Mine Music and Melody Time, package features of shorts that drew from modern music more than classical pieces.

Fast-forward nearly fifty years later to the golden age known as the Disney Renaissance: Walt’s nephew Roy E. Disney surveys the new crop of animators, storytellers, and artists who are creating hit after hit and have brought the studio back to his uncle’s glory days, and thinks to himself, “Maybe now we can make Uncle Walt’s dream come true.” He made a good case for it, but not everyone was on board. Jeffrey Katzenberg loathed the idea, partly because he felt the original Fantasia was a tough act to follow (not an entirely unreasonable doubt) but most likely due to the fact that the last time Disney made a sequel, The Rescuers Down Under, it drastically underperformed (even though the reasons for that are entirely Katzenberg’s fault. Seriously, watch Waking Sleeping Beauty and tell me you don’t want to punch him in the nose when Mike Gabriel recalls his opening weekend phone call).

Once Katzenberg was out of the picture, though, Fantasia 2000, then saddled with the less dated but duller moniker Fantasia Continued, got the go-ahead. Many of the sequences were made simultaneously as the animated features my generation most fondly remembers, others were created to be standalone shorts before they were brought into the fold. Since it was ready in time for the new millennium, it not only got a name change but a massive marketing campaign around the fact that it would be played on IMAX screens for a limited run, the very first Disney feature to do so. As a young Fantasia fan who had never been to one of those enormous theaters before, I begged and pleaded my parents to take me. Late that January, we traveled over to the IMAX theater at Lincoln Center, the only one nearest to us since they weren’t so widespread as they are now, and what an experience it was. I can still recall the feeling of awe at the climax of Pines of Rome, whispering eagerly with my mom at how the beginning of Rhapsody in Blue looked like a giant Etch-A-Sketch, and jumping twenty feet in the air when the Firebird’s massive eyes popped open. But did later viewings recapture that magic, or did that first time merely color my perception?

We open on snippets from the original Fantasia…IN SPAAAAAAAAACE!

It reminds me a little of the opening to Simply Mad About The Mouse, where bits of classic Disney nostalgia fly about to evoke the mood of this upcoming musical venture. In a clever conceit, snippets of Deems Taylor’s original opening narration explaining Fantasia’s intent and music types plays over the orchestra and animators materializing and gearing up for the first sequence, which jumps right into –

DUN DUN DUN DUUUUUUN – I mean, Symphony #5 – Ludwig Van Beethoven

Here, a bunch of butterflies flee and then fight off swarms of bats with the power of light – I can’t be the only one who saw these things and thought it was butterflies vs. bats, right?

It does look cool with its waterfalls and splashes of light and color bursting through the clouds, but this brings me to a bit of contention I have with the movie.

When I planned this review I was going to do a new version of “Things Fantasia Fans Are Sick of Hearing”, except there were only four major complaints I could think of that. On further introspection, I admit they are legitimate grievances worth addressing. I’m going to get them out of the way all at once in order to keep things rolling.

#1 – This Seems Familiar…

Certain sequences are noticeably derivative from the first movie. It’s as if they were afraid of trying too many new things that would alienate audiences so they borrowed from their predecessor in an effort to say “Hey, we can do this too!” Symphony #5 is clearly trying to be Tocatta and Fugue with its abstract geometric shapes swooping all over to kick things off. Though I love how much character the animators managed to give two pairs of triangles, Tocatta’s soaring subconscious flights of fancy leaves me more enthralled. Carnival of the Animals literally began as a sequel to Dance of the Hours until the ostriches became flamingoes. And Roy E. Disney openly stated he wanted the last sequence, The Firebird Suite to have the same death and rebirth theme as Night on Bald Mountain/Ave Maria, which they got, right down to a terrifying symbol of destruction emerging from a mountain to wreak chaos.

‘Sup, witches?

#2 – Too Short

Speaking of repeating the past, the original idea for Fantasia 2000 was to follow Walt’s vision in that three favorite segments would make a return amongst the newer ones – the Nutcracker Suite, which was eventually cut for time, Dance of the Hours, which I’ve already stated morphed into Carnival of the Animals, and finally, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, the obvious choice to keep since that’s the most popular piece out of any of them. Cutting things for time doesn’t make that much sense, however, when you realize that Fantasia 2000’s runtime is only 75 minutes. A very short animated film by today’s standards that lasts barely half as long as its previous installment. I don’t see why they couldn’t keep at least one other sequence from the first Fantasia to make things last a little longer and keep in the original idea’s spirit.

#3 – All Story, No Experimentation

Unlike the first Fantasia, all of the sequences have a linear narrative structure that’s easy to follow. Not a bad thing and kudos to you if you’re among that group who prefers Fantasia 2000 for because of that, but again, I admire how the original film didn’t stick to a coherent story the whole time; how it was unafraid to let the music, atmosphere, and visuals speak for itself without sticking to a three-act plot and designated protagonist for every piece.

#4 – The One You’ve Been Waiting For, The Host Segments

One of the things that turned Fantasia off for its detractors was Deems Taylor’s seemingly dry narration. But maybe Fantasia 2000 can fix that with some folks who are hip and with it, perhaps a wild and crazy guy or two…

Eh, he’ll do.

Now, the idea of varying segment hosts isn’t an altogether bad idea. Most of them work well: Angela Lansbury gives the lead-in to the Firebird Suite plenty of gravitas befitting the finale, as do Ithzak Perlman, Quincy Jones, and James Earl Jones, who build plenty of intrigue for Pines of Rome, Rhapsody in Blue and Carnival of the Animals respectively; this seriousness makes James’ reaction to what the Carnival segment is really about a successful comic subversion. Even Penn and Teller for all their obnoxiousness kind of works with The Sorcerer’s Apprentice due to the linking magic theme.

I suppose what turns people off is the self-congratulatory tone and seemingly forced attempts at comedy you get from Martin, Penn, Teller, and Bette Midler. But you know what? They still make me laugh after all these years (well, you have to laugh at Bette Midler’s antics or she’ll come after you when the Black Flame Candle is lit). In fact, I have to hand it to Midler’s intro in particular. Fantasia 2000 came out right around the time I began taking a keen interest in what animation really was and how it was made. For me, her preceding The Steadfast Tin Soldier piece with tidbits about Fantasia segments that didn’t make it past the drawing board was like the first free hit that turned me into an animation junkie (plus this was before you could look up anything on the topic in extraneous detail on the internet, so it had that going for it). If I have to nitpick, though, The Divine Miss M referring to Salvador Dalí as “the melting watches guy” is a bit reductive. That’d be like calling Babe Ruth “the baseball guy” or Walt Disney “the mouse and castle guy”. Plus, Dalí and Disney were close compadres with a layered history. They planned on many collaborations, though the fruit of their labors, Destino, would not be completed in either of their lifetimes. Couldn’t show just a modicum of respect there, Bette?

Ahhh! I take it back! Don’t steal my soul!

So, I wouldn’t say I hate or even completely dislike the host segments. Sorry to disappoint everyone who was hoping for me to rip into them. They’re not awful, just uneven. And if you think they ruin the movie for me, you’ve got another think coming.

Pines of Rome – Ottorino Respighi

The idea for Pines of Rome’s visuals came about due to an unusual detail in some concept art. Someone noticed that a particular cloud in a painting of the night sky heavily resembled a flying whale. So why make a short about flying whales? The better question would be why NOT make a short about flying whales? A supernova in the night sky miraculously gives some whales the ability to swim through the air over the icy seas. Again, seeing this in IMAX was incredible. There’s just one minor issue I have with. This and another segment were developed well before Pixar made its silver screen debut, and unfortunately, it shows twenty years later; the worst cases are the close-ups.

Okay, who put googly eyes on the moldy beanbag?

There are ways of blending CGI and hand-drawn animation well, and this isn’t one of them. I understand the necessity of having expressive eyes but simply dropping one on top of a CGI creature gives it a bit of an uncanny valley feel. They should have either stuck with traditional all the way or made the whales entirely CG. The CG animation of the whales themselves isn’t too shabby, so they could have pulled it off.

Because simply giving whales flight apparently isn’t enough to hold an audience’s interest, we have an adorable baby whale earning his wings, so to speak. Once he gets his bearings above the surface, he swoops ahead of his family and bothers a flock of seagulls. They chase him into a collapsing iceberg, leaving him trapped, alone and unable to fly. The quiet dip in the music combined with the image of this lost little calf adds some genuine emotional weight to this piece. The baby navigates the iceberg’s claustrophobic caverns until he finds a crevice that elevates him back to his worried parents. From there a whole pod of whales rises out of the ocean to join them as they fly upwards to the supernova’s source.

“So long, and thanks for all the krill!”

As the music reaches its brilliant crescendo, the whales plow through storm clouds until they reach the top of the world and breach through the stars like water. It’s an awe-inspiring climax of a short that, flaws and all, reminds you of what Fantasia is all about.

Majestic.

Rhapsody in Blue – George Gershwin

The music of jazz composer George Gershwin? Timeless. The art of renowned caricaturist Al Hirschfeld? Perfection. All this brought to life with the best animation Disney has to offer? It’s a match made in heaven. Eric Goldberg, who animated the Genie among other comedic characters, idolized Hirschfeld and drew plenty of inspiration from drawings, so getting to work alongside him while making this was nothing short of a dream come true. That attention to detail in rendering Hirschfeld’s trademark curvy two-dimensional style goes beyond mere homage. It is a love letter to a great artist that encapsulates everything about him and his craft, and to a great city that we both had the honor of calling home. The story goes that Goldberg screened the final product for Hirschfeld shortly before his 96th birthday and his wife told him after that it was the best gift he could have ever received.

All this to say I am quite fond of this particular short, thank you very much.

The piece follows four characters navigating 1930’s Manhattan and crossing paths over the course of a single day:

Duke, a construction worker torn between his steady, monotonous job and following his dream of drumming in a jazz band,

Joe, a victim of the Great Depression desperately looking for work,

Rachel, a little girl who wants to spend time with her parents but is forced to attend lesson after lesson by her strict governess,

and “Flying” John, a henpecked husband longing to be free from his overbearing wife –

And her little dog too!

By the way, John is modeled in name and in looks after Disney animation historian John Culhane, who also was the inspiration for The Rescuers’ Mr. Snoops, hence why the two look so similar. He’s not the only name who appears in this sequence: Gershwin himself makes a surprise cameo as he takes over Rachel’s piano solo halfway through the story.

Speaking of, my family used to compare me to Rachel because at that point in my young life I was doing or already did the same mandatory activities as she – swimming, ballet, music, sports, all with the same amount of speed and varying degrees of success.

No one can argue that art is where we both excelled, however.

The physical timing of Rhapsody in Blue’s animation is hilarious, though it doesn’t rely wholly on slapstick for its humor. The sight gags and clever character dynamics all weaved into the music milk plenty of laughs, and envelop you in this living, breathing island that is Manhattan.

I speak from experience, this is the most accurate depiction of commuting on the 1 train that there ever was.

Even with such a premise and two masters of combining comedy and art, there is still enough pathos to keep the story rooted. Take when all four characters are at their lowest point. They look down on some skaters in Rockefeller Center and picture themselves in their place fulfilling their deepest desires. Seeing their dreams so close in their minds and yet so far away while paired with the most stirring part of the score is heartwrenching.

In the end, things pick up as the characters unwittingly solve each other’s problems. Duke quits the construction site, leaving an opening for Joe to fill. Joe accidentally snags John’s wife on a hook and hauls her screaming into the air, allowing him one night of uninhibited fun at the club where Duke performs.

“Anyone hear something? Nah, it’s probably just me.”

Rachel loses her ball while fighting with her nanny, which Duke bounces off the window of her parents’ office, which in turn gets them to notice their daughter about to run into traffic and they save her. Everyone gets their happy ending and it ends on a spectacularly glamorous shot of Time Square lit up in all its frenetic neon glory.

And not a single knockoff costumed character hitting up tourists for photos. Those were the days, my friend.

If you haven’t guessed by now, I adore Rhapsody in Blue. It’s easily my favorite part of the movie; a blissful ménage-a-trois of art style, music and storytelling, and it’s so New York that the only New York things I could think of that are missing are Central Park and amazing bagels. This sequence is gut-busting, energized, emotional, and mesmerizing in its form. I don’t often say I love a piece of animation so much that I’d marry it, but when I do, it’s often directed at Rhapsody in Blue.

Piano Concerto #2 – Dmitri Shostakovich (aka The One With The Steadfast Tin Soldier)

This piece has an interesting history attached to it. Disney wanted to do an animated film surrounding Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales – including The Little Mermaid and The Steadfast Tin Soldier – as far back as the 30’s, but the project fell by the wayside. During Fantasia 2000’s production, Roy E. Disney asked if they could do something with Shostakovich’s Piano Concerto #2 since he and his daughter were attached to that piece. He looked over sketches and storyboards made for the unrealized Tin Soldier sequence and discovered the music matched in perfect time with the story.

This is the second sequence that features CGI at the forefront. Unlike Pines of Rome, though, it works because the main characters are toys, and you can get away with your early CGI looking shiny and metallic and plastic-like when you’re animating toys.

Hell, it worked for Pixar.

The story centers on a tin soldier cast with only one leg who is shunned by his comrades for routinely throwing off their groove. He falls in love with a porcelain ballerina when he mistakes her standing en pointe as her also missing a limb. Despite his embarrassment when he learns the truth, the ballerina is enamored with him as well. This rouses the jealousy of an evil jack-in-the-box who I swear is a caricature of Jeffrey Katzenberg minus the glasses but with a goatee and Lord Farquaad wig.

“MUST. CHOP. EVERYTHING!!!”

The jack-in-the-box and the soldier duke it out for a bit before the former sends the latter flying out the window in a little wooden boat. The boat floats the soldier into the sewers and attracts a horde of angry rats who attack him, because animated rodents seem to have a natural hatred towards toy soldiers.

Case in point.

The soldier hurtles into the sea where he’s eaten by a fish – which is caught the following morning, packed up to be sold at market, bought by the cook who works at the very house he came from, and he falls out of the fish’s mouth on the floor where his owner finds him and places him back with the rest of the toys. Now the story this is based on hints that the jack-in-the-box is really a goblin who orchestrates the soldier’s misfortunes with his malicious magic. But based the extremely coincidental circumstances of his return home, I’d say the soldier’s the one who’s got some reality-warping tricks up his sleeve.

The soldier and jack-in-the-box duel again that evening, but this time the harlequin harasser falls into the fireplace and burns up. Our hero gets the girl and lives happily ever after. A nice conclusion, though a far cry from what happened in the original tale: the ballerina is knocked into the fire, the soldier jumps in after her, and all that remains of them by morning is some melted tin in the shape of a heart. I gotta say, for all my love of classic fairytales, Disney made the right call. Andersen’s life was far from magical and it reflected in his stories, making many of them depressing for no good reason. The triumphant note the music ends on also would have clashed horribly if they stuck with the original. Even the Queen of Denmark agreed with Disney’s decision to soften their adaptations of Andersen’s work. I don’t know if I’d call The Steadfast Tin Soldier one of my very favorite parts of Fantasia 2000, but in the end, s’all right.

Carnival of the Animals: Finale – Camille Sant-Saëns

This shortest of shorts (clocking in at less than two minutes) kicks off with James Earl Jones asking with as much seriousness as he can muster from the situation, what would happen if you gave a yo-yo to a flock of flamingos?

The answer –

Good answer!

Fie on those who dismiss this part as a silly one-off that doesn’t belong here. Fie, I say! It’s a pure delight full of fun expressions and fluid fast-paced action. Once again we have my man Eric Goldberg to thank for this, though this time he animated it entirely by himself. I’d call it a one-man show except for the fact that his wife Susan handpainted the entire thing with watercolor, making it look like it sprung to life straight from a paintbrush. It’s a simple diversion about a flamingo who wants to play with his yo-yo while the other snooty members of his flock try to force him to conform. As you can see from the still, they fail quite epically. Nothing beats the power of nonconformity and yo-yos (also every yo-yo move featured here is authentic; I love when animators go that extra mile).

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice plays next, but since I already touched on that in the first Fantasia review, I’m skipping over it. The segment ends with Mickey congratulating Leopold Stokowski (again), then crossing the barriers of time and space to inform the conductor, James Levine, that he needs to track down the star of the next segment, Donald Duck. Levine stalls by explaining a bit about what’s to come while Mickey frantically searches for his errant costar. The surround sound sells the notion of him moving around the back of the theater accidentally causing mischief all the while. Thankfully, Donald is found and the sequence commences.

Pomp and Circumstance – Edward Elgar

This famous piece of music was included at the insistence of Michael Eisner after he attended his son’s graduation ceremony. He wanted to feature a song that everyone was already familiar with. Of course, since this was after Frank Well’s untimely passing and no one was bold enough to temper Eisner’s worst instincts with common sense, his original pitch had every animated couple Disney created up to that point marching on to Noah’s Ark – and then marching out with their babies.

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Okay, A: Unless you’re doing a groin hit joke or are Ralph Bakshi or R. Crum, cartoon characters don’t have junk as a rule. And B, one of the unwritten rules of Disney animation is that barring kids that already exist like the titular 101 Dalmatians or Duchess’ kittens, the established canon couples do not in any official capacity have children.

To which Eisner laughed maniacally and vowed that they would.

But in order to placate Eisner’s desire to turn every branch of the Disney corporation into a commercial for itself, the animators compromised and agreed to do Pomp and Circumstance with the Noah’s Ark theme, BUT with only one couple – Donald and Daisy Duck. In this retelling of the biblical tale, Donald acts as Noah’s beleaguered assistant (I guess Shem, Ham, and Japheth were too busy rounding up the endangered species). Daisy provides emotional support while preparing to move on to the ark as well. It’s refreshing to see these two not losing their temper at each other for a change. I wish we got to see this side of their relationship more often. Donald returns Daisy’s easily lost plot device locket to her and as the rain rain rain comes down down down, he starts directing the animals on board; the lions, the tigers, the bears, the…ducks?

Anyway, all the animals and Donald get on board – well, most of them do.

The world’s first climate change deniers.

Donald realizes Daisy hasn’t arrived yet and runs out to look for her, unaware that she’s already boarded. Daisy sees Donald leaving but is too late to stop him before the first floodwaters hit their home. Donald made it back to the ark in time, however, though both of them believe that the other is forever lost to them. I find it astounding that they never run into each other not even once during the forty days and forty nights they’re cooped up on that boat. It’s the American Tail cliche all over again, and well, at least it’s happening in a short and not the entire movie.

Soon the ark lands atop Mount Ararat and the animals depart in greater numbers than when they embarked on their singles cruise. Daisy realizes halfway down the mountain that she’s lost her locket again, which Donald finds at that very moment while sweeping up, and the two are joyously reunited.

“I thought you were dead!” “I thought YOU were dead!”

I kid around, but I truly enjoy this short a lot. There’s so much warmth to Donald and Daisy’s relationship that makes their reunion at the end all the sweeter, and there’s plenty of great slapstick to offset the drama in the meantime. I will admit it’s nice to hear there’s more to Pomp And Circumstance than just the famous march, and the entire suite matches flawlessly with the visuals, though the main theme itself is so ingrained into the public consciousness that it’s difficult to extricate it from that what we’ve seen accompany it countless times.

Come on, you all know what I’m talking about.

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“What? Don’t tell me YOU don’t think of heads exploding like fireworks when you hear Pomp and Circumstance! Name one other life-changing moment could you possibly associate it with…you weirdo.”

The Firebird Suite – Igor Stravinsky

Fantasia 2000 comes to a close with a piece that has some emotional resonance if you know your history. You might remember from my first Fantasia review that Igor Stravinsky was disappointed with how Rite of Spring turned out, especially since he was a big admirer of Walt Disney and really wanted to do more projects with him beforehand. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they picked his premiere ballet to end the movie on decades later. After all these years, Disney worked hard to do right by Stravinsky – with a few twists, though. Instead of a balletic retelling of Russian folktales involving kidnapped princesses and immortal sorcerers, we have a fantastical allegory for the circle of life.

No, not that circle of life.

A lone elk who I’m fairly convinced is the Great Prince of the Forest walks through the forest in the dead of winter. With his breath, he awakens the spirit of the woods and one of the most beautiful characters Disney has ever created, the Spring Sprite.

I. Love. This character. Her design is gorgeous, shifting from a shimmery opalescent blue as she steps out of the water into an eternally flowing fount of live greenery spreading from her hair in her wake. Wherever she moves, grass, flowers, and trees blossom, fulfilling the idea of a springtime goddess more than Disney’s own Goddess of Spring ever did. The Sprite was a massive influence in developing my art style, particularly in her face and expressive eyes, and I used to draw her a lot. Visit any relative of mine and chances are you’ll find a picture of her by me hanging up on a wall somewhere in their house. Yet there’s far more to her character than just a pretty representation of nature; there’s plenty of curiosity, spunk, determination, and a drive for creativity. I love her frustrated expression when she’s dissatisfied with the tiny flower she sculpts out of the ground and how her face lights up when she morphs it into a buttercup as tall as she is.

The Sprite paints the forest with all the colors of the wind (mostly green) until she reaches a mountain that isn’t affected by her magic. Perplexed, she climbs it until she finds a large hunched over rock figure – or is it an egg? – standing inside. She reaches out to touch it and…

The Sprite has awakened her counterpart, the wrathful and deadly Firebird. Think giant evil phoenix made of smoke, flame and lava. And it goes without saying that seeing this on the biggest screen left quite the terrifying impact. One of the biggest inspirations for this sequence was the eruption of Mount St. Helens (though the shot of the Sprite surveying the breadth of the Firebird’s destruction reminds me far too much of the Australian bushfires going on) and the sheer horror of nature’s irrepressible chaos is fully captured here. But the Firebird refuses to settle for merely destroying the Sprite’s handiwork, oh no. It won’t rest until creation itself is consumed, and the Sprite is reduced to a powerless mite as she scrabbles to escape the Firebird’s relentless pursuit of her. Try as she might, however, the towering monster corners and devours her in one fell swoop.

The forest is reduced to gray ashes in the wake of the Firebird’s rampage, but the Great Prince has survived. Once again he brings the Sprite to life with his breath, only this time she is tiny and weak (the animation of her slowly developing from the ash into her huddled ragged form is breathtaking). Now, I didn’t think I’d get emotional revisiting a small part of a single movie I’ve rewatched countless times before but viewing this through a mature eye combined with the beauty of the Firebird Suite’s climax and its timely message has caused me to see it in a new light:

The Sprite is utterly broken by what she’s been through and the destruction she carelessly caused. She’s lost all faith in herself and in the idea of returning the forest to what it once was. Even so, the Prince gently insists on carrying her on his antlers to the remains of their favorite cherry blossom tree. Where her tears fall, grass shoots begin to sprout. This fills the Sprite with hope, and she soars into the air becoming one with the sky and rains life down on the forest. New trees burst from the earth. The air is filled with leaves and pollen and new life flowing from her essence. The Sprite’s joy and power grow so strong that she even encircles the Firebird’s mountain in all her verdant glory. Life and creation overcome death and destruction. It’s not Night on Bald Mountain/Ave Maria, but it’s close.

And unfortunately, that’s the biggest problem Fantasia 2000 has.

While working on the original Fantasia, a storyman made the mistake of referring to the work they were doing in “the cartoon medium” in Walt’s presence. Walt turned on him and snapped “This is NOT ‘the cartoon medium’. It should not be limited to cartoons. We have worlds to conquer.”

And conquer they did…just not the way Walt intended.

The point I’m trying to make is Walt was breaking new ground and experimenting with things nobody ever tried when it came to Fantasia. While those risks were initially deemed a failure, it eventually gained the recognition it deserved from the animation and filmmaking community. Any attempt to recreate the magic of Fantasia is no small feat. But rather than taking new risks that not even the first film dared, the studio opted to adhere to Fantasia’s formula with pieces that recall if not flat out copy from the original segments. I hesitate to call it a pale imitation or cash grab however because this was done for the art much more than the money (though Eisner was probably hoping it would bring in some bank). There’s even a little bit of depth to it: while the first Fantasia had themes of differing natures in conflict – light vs. dark, fire vs. water, etc. – Fantasia 2000’s theme is accidental but brilliantly meta: CGI vs. traditional animation, a conflict Disney would become very familiar with in the decade following the film’s release. In some ways, it reminds me of Epcot’s genesis. The driving force behind it was long gone, but the attempt to bring it to life as close to the original vision as possible is still much appreciated.

For all my gripes, I really do enjoy Fantasia 2000. Perhaps not on the same level as its predecessor, but it has its moments, oh yes. And believe me, as far as Disney sequels go, you could do far, far, far worse than this one. Fantasia 2000 is Fantasia’s kid sister mimicking its beloved older sibling in an attempt to show it can be cool like the big kids too. But hey, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this review, please consider supporting this misfit on Patreon. Patreon supporters receive great perks such as extra votes for movie reviews, movie requests, early sneak-peeks and more! If I can hit my goal of $100 a month, I can go back to weekly tv series reviews. As of now, I’m only $20 away! Special thanks to Amelia Jones, Gordhan Rajani and Sam Minden for their contributions! I’ll see you in a few weeks when I and review the 1959 Disney animated classic, Sleeping Beauty!

Artwork by Charles Moss.

Screencaps from animationscreencaps.com

Yes, I know The Lion King and Lady and the Tramp ended with the titular characters having babies, but was there anyone out there apart from Eisner who demanded there be sequels to those films that focused on their offspring?

January Review: Fantasia 2000 Last year I talked about Fantasia, which is not just one of my favorite Disney movies, but one of my favorite movies in general.

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marquis-teren-kiden · 7 years ago

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"Long live the villain."

The last peaceful morning I enjoyed in the company of my wife, Elif, the sun did not so much rise above the horizon, as it’s ambient rays swept across the landscape absent any sign of the source for the warmth they imparted to the world around us.

I, of course, failed to notice in any way. My attentions were committed fully to the only Light I ever thought I’d need to light my path through this world. In many ways, I have been addicted to the love of this one woman, from whom I found all that I once was fully accepted and sacrosanct in such loving embrace as I have never again experienced. My first friend. My first love. My first kiss. My first Paramour. Keeper of all my hopes and dreams.

That man had a wife. He had his legacy full in her belly. He’d purchased a home beyond the Marche and it’s expectations. That man had been willing to forsake every ounce of respect or prestige he’d ever accumulated to spend his life in quiet devotion to the future he intended to build for her. The man she fostered into being had never been - and would never have been - a Monster with her at his side.

Many believe that Monsters - the vile, fetid refuse of Humanity which fosters toxic endeavor and woeful destruction across the great expanse of others’ lives - are born. They are not. They are made. They are forged from the most deeply loving hearts the world has ever born being caught up by capricious winds which buffet them in time and circumstances too cruel for humane hearts to bear.

The greater the love they are able to experience, the more damning the destruction left in their wake when it is lost.

The best one can hope for, is a mitigation of circumstances. That some other person or thing interjects upon them a duty or obligation which weighs so heavily upon their souls that they have no choice but be fettered significantly in the means available to them.

This has been the case for me for more than a decade. Bound and constrained by the want - no, the need - to perpetuate my wife’s family name and her Father’s Legacy into perpetuity.

Until now.

It had honestly never occurred to me to look within the ranks of my own people for her murderer. Nor had it occurred to me to consider a woman. Blind faith and mysogeny on my own part have allowed this vile bitch to entertain my protections for fifteen years I should have spent making every moment of her existence a baleful misery.

An error I intend to amend. Presently.

“Good morning, Leco’in. Terribly sorry to have kept you waiting for so many years. I assure you, I intend to make up for every single second of lapse in my decorum.”

It’s amusing to me, the fear in her eyes. Count Reon’s ‘affections’ for tormenting the Monsters which upon rare occasion harry our borders is a matter of public rumor; though he’s quite circumspect enough to avoid leaving external evidence of his activities to feed the fodder in the minds of our people at large. Very few know that his ‘hospitality’ extends to threats from within the Marche as well.

Imagine my surprise, then, to return to my homeland and discover that his more recent explorations of the internal workings of an interloper drew him into the discovery of an Alltomer who’d had not one but two hands set to the task of ‘cleansing’ the bloodline of Taj Nishan.

This foul bitch has no idea what fresh hells and miseries I intend to unleash upon her; which is for the best.

I don’t want her to die from shock.

Truthfully, I don’t wish her to die at all. Death means an end to her suffering, and I will never allow that.

I can smell the now recognizable scent of one whose soul has been Marked by the Shath’Yar. An unintended side-effect of the time I spent carrying the soul of Isolde Rev’More with my own. If it wouldn’t prevent her suffering, I’d feed Leco’in to the Soul Engine used to return me to the world.

Tesh Reon’s dark gaze glistens with a familiar light, his ire is up as he pulls the woman forward, fiercely carving into her gums with the razors embedded in the cage across her face. I wonder if he even realizes he’s revealed this talent; but it doesn’t matter. We are not enemies, and in this affair we wish for the same outcome: A long, protracted, and unrepentant extension of suffering for the murderer of my wife.

“Pray – fucking pray he’s absolutely Light-damned relentless with you. Because when he’s not here to make your existence a misery, I assure you, I. Will. Be.” He shoves her hard to the back of the chair, the cage about her head slaming along her face and jaw several times to deliver the first of an endless cacophany of screams to come.

Elif was once pledged to Tesh Reon to be his wife, when both were far too young to have say in such an affair. A state which remained until they neared the time for marrying. Until he fell in love with his Guardian, and Elif with me. Their friendship, however, remained untarnished by the end of their contract. Neither, I suspect, has his affection for this day waned over the passage of time gone by.

With little more than a gesture of my off-hand against his right shoulder, he steps back and away from our prey, still seething with intensity of purpose. “Patience. There is much we need to know, and we’ve all the time in Azeroth to uncover it.”

Her thoughts are filled with confusion and no small measure of terror. The calm assurance with which I have recently spoken leaves her caught between hope and fear as she awaits clarification of my intent.

Sifting through her memories, I’m surprised to find that it isn’t my marriage to Elif which fostered the need to cleanse the bloodline of Taj Nishan. It was an offense committed by his son, Taj II. The taking of one of Baron Manowar’s sisters as something of a concubine, rather than a wife.

To emphasize the fragility of her mind and mental defenses - all of which are laughably insufficient against my more discreet intrusions - I make clear to her that her future holds limited prospects for salvation. “Lord Reon.”

“Yeah?” he chuffs breathily, stepping closer.

“Bring me… Lapte Manowar.”

“Mano–?” the pause is brief. My psionic gifts are a matter of public record within the Marche. It’s the speed and eloquence of my interrogations which surprises him. “Publicly, or discreetly?”

For what I intend, no one within the Marche would object but the Baron himself. “Advise him that we have a Traitor to House Nishan in our midst. That it is one of his own, and we wish to afford him the opportunity to discuss the matter with her before I render judgment.”

Here, Reon’s ire rises once more. “There is no way in fucking hell I’m letting him cut her loose!” Nor, I, my friend. Nor I. But, Nishanian’s do not lie. You will know the truth of my intention when the Baron is here and I’m able to exact my vengeance upon him as well.

“Do as I have ordered.”

The growl he emits is as full and feral as any Worgen I have ever encountered. As he exits, I extend a key to the woman in front of me. One that would release her head from the barbaric contraption she’s adorned with. The Demon of Hope is the one constant upon which all suffering is magnified.

There’s a rush of relief in her thoughts as she takes my gift as mercy. That faint and effervescent flower which blooms in the mind during its most desperate hours.

Mercy? Far from it. Even as she fits the key to the lock, turning it to release the pins and open the headcage, she fails to realize until too late that the she has not liberated herself from her misery. She’s initiated it.

As the lock slips out and the metal around her mouth slams open, so does her jaw; breaking it haphazardly along either side of her face and shearing maddening agonies across her skull which steal her breath and scorch her mind with ice and fire

Gently, I reach for her, shadows at my fingertips as I gingerly unfasten the remaining pins attached to her skull and lift the cage from her shattered visage.

Light, how her unintelligible screams and the steady stream of tears inspires me. If I could, I’d savor in this moment - time and again - the unabridged agonies she’s experiencing.

Sadly, I have so much more in mind for her. Softly caressing Leco’in’s mutilated face with my hands, I impart the most refined shadow-surgery at my command. Eliminating the injuries in meticulous fashion so as to retain the horrifying disfigurement, and the agonies, but staving off the flowing of blood.

That is the true sin in Shadowmending. The injuries cease to exist, but the pain? This searing pain she experiences - it will linger for months, steeping in the otherwise unfathomable misery I fully intend to visit upon her time and time, and time again for whatever decades remain to me.

What little comprehension she has of what I’ve done leads only to more confusion as I gently fasten her hands to the arms of her seat at the wrists and elbows. My voice is husky with sensual promise as I speak. “Sh, sh, sh, sh, sh, sh. Hush. Hush, my darling. I’m going to protect you from our enemies. I’m going to keep you safe.”

Even trapped in the fugue of mind-wrenching violence she’s suffering, Leco’in dares to hope again. As intended. I want her to always - always! - have hope that this will end. It’s the only way she’ll survive long enough to endure all that I have spent every night and day of my life plotting and planning for the moment when I found the one who murdered my wife and unborn children. “Shhh. You’re precious. So very precious to me, Leco’in. I would protect you with my own life. I promise you–”

Even drenched in such agonies as few have ever endured, she believes. She nods, offering a look of unabridged devotion in the face of what I’ve said.

Until I finish my last statement. “I promise you – I will never let you die.”

[Thanks for the ask, @daughterofkiden. - @count-tesh-reon, @baron-lapte-manowar for the Mentions. - Not an AU. Just hasn’t happened yet, because Teren is still in the Void. >.]

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sekritjay · 7 years ago

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Jay’s Follow Forever 2016/17: Real Fuckin’ Late Edition

It’s been quite an adventure since that last time I did one of these in June of last year.

Since then the world has become a bit more interesting then I felt was strictly necessary, something which was reflected when I put this together. Finding good, new music has been harder this time around, mostly because I’ve found myself being personally and professionally much, much busier. I’ve actually felt myself descending into an almost cabin-feverish fugue state, allayed only by my holiday last month and more importantly, you lot talking, chatting enthusiastically diving into endless new favourite things, with each other and myself. Genuine thanks for keeping me sane

Same deal as always, recs are recommendations, based on either what I know you like or in the absence of that information, music which I like which you might too. Assocs are associations, music which I think fits you and hopefully you like as well. A toast to you lot, keeping me from going absolute fucking bananas

• @acequeenking – assoc – ‘I Don’t Need Anybody Else’ - Keir • @aliyamirat – rec – ‘Back to Believing’ - Bryde • @barbex – rec – ‘Indulge’ - JONES • @bettydice – rec – ‘Modern Love’ – The Courteeners • @bloodbright – assoc – ‘Rich Backgrounds’ – Annabel Allum • @carboncinicolcaffe – assoc – ‘Hey Stranger’ - Black Dylan • @circlingmoon - rec – ‘Broke Days, Party Nights’ - Ecca Vandal • @clancybrownseyebrows – rec – ‘Pull the Other One’ – The Big Moon • @codenamecynic – rec – ‘Is This What You Wanted’ – The Last Shadow Puppets • @cognitiveinequality – assoc – ‘Get Off’ - Zuzu • @continuousspec – rec – ‘Your Moon’ – Rosie Carney • @curiouscanvas – rec – ‘I Wish (You Were Mine)’ – Anders • @cypheroftyr - rec – ‘Into the Blue’ – Rationale • @dakoyone – assoc – ‘First Love’ – Lost Kings, Sabrina Carpenter • @eponymous-rose – rec – ‘Stole the Show’ – Parson James • @faejilly – rec – ‘Ram Jam’ – Pinky Pinky • @ferociousqueak – rec – ‘Keep Your Love’ – Hannah Grace • @fistfulofgammarays – rec - ‘I Only Lie When I Love You’ – Royal Blood • @fourthage – rec – ‘Caught by the Wind’- Stereophonics • @frandayam – rec – ‘Crybaby’ – Paloma Faith • @hornkerling – rec - ‘Wrapped Up’ – Allen Tate • @itsmyfreakin – assoc – ‘Sweetest Life’ - KWAYE • @jadesabre301 – assoc – ‘Magnificent (She Says)’ - Elbow • @janiemcpants – rec – ‘I Cannot Give You Anything’ – The Indien • @kiramae54 – assoc – ‘All the Pretty Girls’ – The Darkness • @ladysmaragdina – assoc – ‘Soothing’ – Laura Marling • @lady-z13 – rec – ‘Rise Up’ - Thomas Jack, Jasmine Thompson • @lemonsharks– rec – ‘No Pen of Mine’ – Hannah Cameron • @loquaciousquark – assoc – ‘Firefly’ - BANNERS • @madamebadger – rec – ‘Wild Wind’ – Marta Karis • @maxxiedemon – rec – ‘Eighteen Minutes’ – Twin Oaks • @musanocturnis – rec – ‘Sommerfugl’ - SNO • @mynameiscloud – assoc – ‘Let Me Love You’ - Coasts • @mystery-moose – rec – ‘Unholy War’ – Jacob Banks • @omegastation – rec – ‘Weak for Love’ – Max Meser • @onetruetea – rec – ‘Shelter’ – Charlotte Carpenter • @pandapez – rec – ‘Under the Sun’ – Linn Koch-Emmery • @pearwaldorf – rec - ‘Wild Horses’ – Bishop Briggs • @prideling – rec – ‘Cigarette Dreams’ - Best Girl Athlete • @probablylostrightnow – rec – ‘Forbidden Lovers’ – King Garbage • @proserpine-in-phases - rec – ‘Come On, Hello’ - Otherkin • @servantofclio – rec – ‘If Only’ - TEEKS • @shadesofmauve – rec – ‘What’s My Name?’ - Batya • @shadoedseptmbr - rec – ‘Haze’ – The King’s Parade • @siawrites – rec – ‘White Light Cemetery’ -Rooms • @sinvraal – rec – ‘xx’ - morgxn • @skybound2 – rec – ‘Ghost’ - turan • @swaps55 – assoc - ‘Shine’ - Benjamin Francis Leftwich • @syzara – rec –‘To Build a House - Cosima • @tarysande – assoc - ‘Fate Don’t Know You’ – Desi Valentine • @tetrahedrals – assoc – ‘Pasadena’ - Young Mister • @theherocomplex – rec – ‘Pegasi’ – Jesca Hoop • @theladyw - rec – ‘Shine On’ – Passport to Stockholm • @thessalian – rec – ‘Since You Were Not Mine’ – She Drew the Gun • @the-war-on-ignorance - rec – ‘Wouldn’t Wanna Be Ya’ - YONAKA • @thewebmonkey – ‘For What it’s Worth’ – Liam Gallagher • @thievinghippo – rec – ‘Stargazing’ – Kygo, Justin Jesso • @twigcollins – rec – ‘Light of Day’ – Amy Milner • @w0rdinista – ‘Four Walls’ – Chaz Thorogood • @zendelai – rec – ‘Prey’ – Stevie Parker

LISTEN TO THE PLAYLIST NOW ON SPOTIFY

#music #follow forever #i ain't tagging everyone here holy shit

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cooperjones2020 · 7 years ago

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Everyone is a moon

Summary: Betty baits Jughead into going full dark, no stars. Real dark. Real kinky. Real consensual. You’ve been warned. (Part 3 of The Beast Within)

A/N: As with all the fics in this series, Jughead is v. dark and creepy. Only here, Betty’s the one to draw it out of him. I want to put a warning label as long as my arm on this thing, but I trust you all to know that this is fiction and not to judge me. Don’t read if you’re at all squicked out by violent sex or BDSM.

Y’all I edited this on the plane yesterday and my heart was pounding so hard the whole time, afraid someone could read my computer screen.

And most importantly, happiest of birthdays @jandjsalmon. I would not be here, and this dark Juggie would not exist, if not for you. Hopefully this fic doesn’t go too far.

ao3–> http://archiveofourown.org/works/11840985

kinky smut below the jump

“Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.”—Mark Twain

Betty leans over the pool table, scissoring her legs to give her the leverage to hit the ball on the far side. It doesn’t help that she’s got a leather skirt the size of a band aid covering her ass. She scratches.

The large tattooed man she’s playing with — Gator — gives her a condescending smile before smoothly sinking his last ball. She hasn’t seen him before tonight. Probably a trucker passing through. They come in sometimes. But a Serpent wouldn’t do for her plan to work.

“That’s alright, sweetheart. Why won’t you take this twenty and go get us another round of drinks while I re-rack.” He holds the folded bill between his index and middle fingers, making her come up close to him to reach it. His eyes slide down to her cleavage, on full display in the sleeveless blue button-up she’s tied just above her belly button.

“My pleasure.” She smirks at him, pressing her shoulders back as she turns.

As she crosses the room to the bar, she feels the eyes of the Serpents on her. Not the way they usually are, quick glances that bounce off of her like snowflakes, as if they’re afraid Jughead will catch them looking. He’d lost control once and now the guys give him a wide berth. The Serpent Prince had earned his name.

But Jughead’s not here now. Some use it as an excuse to drink her in, staring until she has to steel herself not to flinch under their eyes. Others look concerned, worried for the peppy blonde girl, so clearly out of her depth in a biker bar. Still others’ stares are hard and accusatory. Reminding her that they’ve never trusted her, daring her to get herself into trouble without Jughead here to bail her out.

That’s what she’s waiting for. For Jughead to catch her. He should have been here half an hour ago.

After the Chuck incident, she tried to put a lid on Dark Betty. But the more she tried to confine her, the better she got at escaping.

That is, until one day she found Jughead’s journals. With FP still in jail awaiting trial, the trailer became their safe space, their sanctuary. Every afternoon she could get away, every weekend day her mother would spare, Betty would rush to the trailer, and Jughead would be there waiting. Sometimes they just did homework, or watched TV, or talked. Passing their burdens back and forth. Often she would cook for him, and they would pretend they were somewhere far away, spinning castles in the air, dreaming of a new life. But they were still teenagers, hormones and all. In that trailer, Betty learned how to please him. And she learned how she liked to be touched.

On a cold afternoon in early November, Betty laid on Jughead’s childhood bed, watching his hands run all over her, watching him memorize her body.

Watching him shoot nervous glances toward the bookshelf beside his bed. She craned her neck to see what he was looking at.

It was a little dark blue journal, much like her own pink one, with the corner of a photo peaking out between its pages. She leaned up and grabbed it before he could stop her.

The photo was of her. Of her sleeping. And it had been taken by someone inside her bedroom. She lay splayed on her stomach, the blankets pulled down to her calves. Betty could see the curve of one of her ass cheeks peaking out of the cheer shorts she slept in. She normally put her hair in a messy bun before bed, but in the photo someone had pulled it down and fanned it across her pillow.

She remembered that night, a few weeks prior—she tried not to sleep in her cheer shorts, always wanted to wash off the sweat from practice before bed. But that night Cheryl had kept them late and she was so tired by the time she got home, ate dinner, finished her homework, that she’d crashed. And then she’d been so confused when she woke in the morning and her hair tie was on the nightstand beside her.

She should have felt repulsed. She should have felt scared. Her sweet, gentle, caring boyfriend was sneaking into her bedroom at night to manipulate her body like a doll and take her picture.

Instead, she felt excited. She glanced up at Jughead. He looked trapped, like she’d backed him into a corner. His eyes kept flicking from her face to the door.

“Turnabout’s fair play, right? I mean, you read mine.” He swallowed and nodded. She reached out to grab his hand with one of her own and eagerly turned the pages. Eventually, she got so absorbed, she drew her hand back so she could flip through his entries more quickly.

This journal was relatively new—the first entry dated from July. He talked of his lonely summer without her, and without Archie. Of going days only talking to Pop and to himself in his writing. He wrote of his anger, of something within his chest he struggled to control. He wrote of stalking her. Of breaking into her room when she was there and when she wasn’t. Of the things he secretly longed to do to her.

As she read, Betty felt a weight lifting off of her. Jughead knew some of her darkness. She thought she knew all of his. She was wrong.

He had curled in on himself while she scanned the pages, his elbows resting on his thighs. He chewed on the corner of his thumbnail and avoided all her attempts to catch his eyes.

So she placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back until she could swing a leg on either side of his hips. She kissed him with a hunger she hadn’t realized she’d been repressing.

That was the day she discovered how to control Dark Betty. Or, rather, that Jughead could control Dark Betty. A regular diet of Jughead’s obsession and his depredation and the fugue states stopped. Her anger stayed in its box and her nails stayed out of her palms.

But Dark Betty escaped today. Betty remembers why she’s here, remembers the process of getting ready and driving here, the steps she laid out ahead of time. She just doesn’t remember making the decision to come. Or the decision to delete the draft of Jughead’s novel off his laptop.

They work because their darkness balances. Like the controlled release of a bomb. But Jughead has been slacking on his responsibilities. Apparently, Dark Betty had decided to remind him. They’d both been so busy lately, Jughead hadn’t had time for anything more than a quick fuck late at night before they both fell into bed, exhausted. And she needed him. She couldn’t control the darkness inside herself without him. She thought they had that in common, that they were equals in that way.

She’s worried that maybe now he wants them to be normal. Well, she was trying to be normal for him. Dark Betty wouldn’t let her.

When she returns with the beers, she watches him take a long pull out of his as she places hers on the windowsill behind her.

“So what brings you to Riverdale,” she swallows, “Gator?”

“Doin’ a long haul job, Orlando to Montreal. Gotta get them oranges up to the Canucks.” He smiles, and she can see a silver cap on one of his molars.

They play another game, during which he grows increasingly bold. He offers to help her correct her stance, the way she holds her stick, and when he passes behind her, his hand grazes her ass. He smells like stale beer and unshowered male. Both odors, she surmises, are accurate.

“What do you say we take a break? Maybe grab a drink and get to know each other a little better?”

Betty’s heart sinks into her stomach. The clock’s run out and Jughead didn’t show. But she tries to smile, tries to seem like nothing’s wrong. “Sure. Why don’t you find a table while I run to the ladies’ room?”

She grabs her purse and makes a beeline for the dark hallway behind the bar. She swallows the tears that threaten and gets ready to call Jughead and tell him what she did.

As she passes a doorway, someone grabs her wrist and yanks her inside. Whoever it is presses her face against the door and twists her arm up behind her back until she winces. A blanket of fear alights on her stomach. Maybe she went too far. Maybe one of the Serpents…

When he speaks, every bone inside her melts. “Sometimes I think you have a death wish.”

“Juggie?”

His voice is rough in her ear and it send shivers down her spine. “I’ve been watching you. You were so distracted by your new boy toy, you didn’t even notice me across the bar when you got that drink. Tut tut.” He lets go of her and she turns around.

“You’ve been here that long? And you waited?” Before she knows what she’s doing, she slaps him. “You sick fuck.”

He smiles but it’s foreign on his face. Not the way he usually looks at her. Lethal. “That was a mistake, little girl.”

His hand wraps around her throat. She scrambles to wrap both of hers around his wrist. That strong and elegant hand that around the back of her neck felt like safety, security, home, now, wrapped around the front, feels like danger and excitement, and a hunger she’s desperate to sate.

He doesn’t squeeze, but instead uses his grip to pull her head forward so he can kiss her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth until she cannot help but yield to him.

When he releases her, she already feels a bit calmer, a bit more settled. A new softness in his jawline indicates that he does too. She rests her forehead against his and lets out a deep exhale. She’d been more wound up than she realized.

“I was getting a little bit scared. I was in over my head and I didn’t know if the Serpents—”

“They would have. And I would never let anyone hurt you.”

“Except you.”

“Isn’t that how this game works, Betty?” And just like that, something inside her sizzles like electricity.

He tilts her head back and spits in her mouth. “Will you play with me?” She nods. “Good.” He dips his thumb in her mouth and swirls it around her tongue. Then he uses their saliva to smear her lipstick onto her cheek before pulling on her lower lip. “Such a pretty girl.”

Betty’s already feeling light-headed, fuzzy. As if she’s drifting somewhere outside herself. As if he’s fixing all the broken places so her body will be ready to hold her again.

Jughead grabs her wrists in one of his hands and lifts her arms over her head, tilting them back until she loses her balances and falls against the door of the storage closet he’s dragged her into with a dull thud, the knob digging into her ass. But Jughead leans over her, something feral in his eyes. He uses his free hand to yank on her top, untying it and popping the buttons open until he spreads it on either side of her and feasts his eyes on her breasts in the black, lacy balconette she’d chosen for tonight.

He releases her and steps back. “Take it off.”

She rushes to comply. When he holds a hand out, she gives him the bra.

“Good, now let’s go home.” He drops it behind a metal storage cart. “You can pick that up tomorrow.”

She gapes at him. He nods at her shirt, where she’s balled it up and tossed it onto a table. “You can tie it, but no buttons.”

She’s dripping wet. And by the way Jughead looks at her when she presses her legs together, he knows it.

When she’s dressed again, sort of, he takes her by the hand and leads her out the back of the Whyte Wyrm.

If she wasn’t cold before, now in just her mini skirt and tank top, she’s freezing. On his bike, she presses her chest against his back and she’s sure he can feel her nipples through the leather that protects him.

When they get home, they don’t bother with the lights. They both kick their shoes off and move down the hallway, fused together. He runs her into a wall and her shoulder knocks a picture frame to the floor. They step over it and keep going.

In the bedroom, he kisses her again, gripping her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

She reaches forward to unzip his pants, but he stops her. “Nuh-uh. I don’t think you deserve that yet.”

“Please, just let me—”

“I said no.” So she stands there, a little deflated, and watches him undress her.

When she’s naked in the centre of the room and he’s still fully clothed, as she fights the urge to cover herself, he says, “That’s better, isn’t it? Now let’s play a game called how good is Betty’s memory.”

She swallows. “Okay.”

“How many times do you think your new friend touched you tonight?”

“Um, five times?” Uh oh. As much as this side of Jughead can make her nervous, she also craves it. When he’s so cold and detached, when he looks like he can see right through her, that’s when she trusts that he will take care of her. That he’ll give her what she needs. Because sometimes she frightens herself. But she never frightens him.

“Wrong. He touched you eleven times. And that’s just after I arrived. Now, how many words of my work did you delete?”

She definitely doesn’t know this. “Seventy thousand?”

“Wrong again. You deleted ninety-five thousand words.”

Tears flood her eyes. “Juggie, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I know I can’t fix it, but can I make it up to you somehow?”

He chuckles at her as he removes his own shirt. “We’re certainly going to let you try. Why did you do that Betty? What did you think would happen when I found out you’d messed with my computer, when I found you showing your ass off to someone else?” He steps up behind her so he’s talking into her hair. She can feel the rough material of his jeans brush against her ass. She wants to lean back to find out if he’s hard yet, if this is affecting him as much as it is her, but she knows he wouldn’t like that.

“I don’t…I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. What did you want to happen?”

Betty closes her eyes and whispers, “I wanted you to hurt me.”

“That’s right. But maybe I shouldn’t let you get what you want. Maybe I should just let you suck my cock and then come all over your face and let you sleep in it.” She whimpers and forces herself to nod. “But I’m too selfish for that. I’m not going to sleep until I feel the velvet heat of your cunt around me. Until I’ve rubbed you raw, inside and out. So here’s what you’re going to do for me.” He comes back around to face her. “You’re going to touch your tits.” Her hands move without any input from her brain. “Now twist your nipples.” She does. “Good. Now I want you to pinch them so hard they turn white.”

She just stands there. It feels different somehow, to do it to herself. She wants him to take the control from her. She doesn’t know if she’s strong enough to willfully offer it up. Jughead shakes his head. “I thought you were serious.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you’re not, I can just go back to work—”

“No!”

“You want me to hurt you? Prove it.”

“What?”

“I told you to pinch your nipples.” She squeezes. He watches her as he removes his pants and boxers.

“Harder.”

She does until tears spring to her eyes.

“Good girl.” That horrible perfectionist inside her preens at the compliment. She closes her eyes and bites her lip, trying to concentrate on the pain that sends shock waves down to her pussy. Then Jughead pulls her hands off and captures one peak in his mouth, sucking, and the sudden influx of blood makes her gasp. He wraps his hands around her waist, forcing her to bow her back until she’s afraid she’s going to fall.

But at the last second, he spins them and pulls her onto the bed on top of him. He slides up the bed and she crawls on top of him, trying to follow. With every jostle, his cock brushes against her centre and she wants to scream.

When his head lands on the pillow, she leans back and begins to gyrate against him, desperate now.

“Please, please…” She doesn’t know anymore what she’s asking for.

He slaps her thigh and after a moment she realizes he’s telling her to get up on her knees. He slips a hand between them and angles his cock up, before gripping her hips and slamming her down on him. Now, she does scream.

He doesn’t thrust, but wraps both hands around her, thumbs rubbing her hip bones, and urges her to move.

“That’s it, baby girl. Take what you need from me.” His fingers are tight and she knows she’ll have bruises. She welcomes the pain. Her nails carve small half moons into his pecs, a matching set to the scars on her own palms.

But the sting must make him impatient. He begins thrusting upward with his hips and pulling her down at the same time, setting a brutal rhythm. Every time her clit hits his pubic bone she shudders. She’s on top, but he’s controlling the pace, the angle. He’s controlling her. And it’s as if by controlling her body, he can reach any remaining piece of her soul that remains unconquered. And she wants him to have that. She wants him to have every splintered, bleeding part of her. Tears begin to slip out of her eyes. She sees them drip off her face and land on her hands, on his chest.

When her shaking intensifies, when she’s so close, he pushes her off him and bites her shoulder as he reenters her from behind. Betty cries out at the sharp sting of teeth but god she wants it. She wants him to bite her all over until her back is a mess of mangled tissue. She must have been speaking out loud because he does. Every bit of her he can reach, biting and dragging his teeth against the aching flesh. She sobs at the intensity and an orgasm slams into her without warning.

Jughead keeps pounding away inside of her, like a meat tenderizer against her pussy. She’s crying in earnest now. She never wants him to stop.

But he does. He pulls out and paints her back in hot, sticky ropes of come. A masterpiece. Then he collapses beside her and drags her on top of him.

And her sweet boyfriend is back. Dark Betty, banished back to her hiding place.

“Next time you find yourself spiralling, I want you to promise you’ll tell me. Preferably before you start deleting things off my laptop.” Betty nods into the wet spot she’s left on his chest. “You’re lucky you know I keep a back up on my external.” Yes, she’s damn lucky Dark Betty remembered that. If she did.

They throw all the darkness into the black hole they create between them until it burns itself up and winks out of existence. Until the next time.

Later, she’s laying across his lap and he’s tracing her back, running his fingers in and out of the grooves of his teeth marks.

“Let me see.”

“Betty, no.”

“I want to see it Juggie.” He sighs, reaching over to flick the lamp on before slipping his arms under hers, pulling her up so her chest rests against his, and she can twist and see her back in the mirror across from the foot of their bed.

It’s a web of raised red and white ridges. Her eyes follow the hills and valleys of her damaged skin.

“I’m sorry I got carried away. The noises you were making—”

“Don’t be. I don’t want it to ever fade. I want you indelibly inked onto my skin, a tattoo that scientists years from now could use to resurrect your exact dentition.” She wants to wear Jughead Jones’s darkness like a cloak to hide her own.

“We could do that.”

“How?”

“I mean, I know you have your crown. And we probably shouldn’t do anything like that again. It’s a miracle you didn’t get tetanus the first time. But maybe a tattoo, if you wanted.”

“Yes. Yes, I want. Do you? Would you want that?”

He gives her a look that would melt steel. “Betts, I’d do everything short of tagging you with ‘Jughead Jones wuz here’ if I could.”

She smiles and presses a kiss to his shoulder. “Where?”

He slips his hand back underneath her, coming to rest where the curve of her breast runs into the skin of her back. His thumb presses into a particularly deep bite mark and she hisses. “Here.”

#bughead fanfiction #bughead smut #riverdale fanfiction #betty x jughead #betty cooper #jughead jones #mine #marked #dom!jug #dark!jug #dark!betty #i'm going to hell #tw: violence #tw: mental illness

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indigo-ra · 7 years ago

Photo

I honestly don’t know where to start. Hmm... Well...Let me try and simplify it a bit. Uchiha Itachi is deceased. So where his location might be in the known universe, I’m not exactly sure. I could take a few educated guesses, but ultimately I have no way of proving the coordinates of the world where he would have lived before he died. But I am certain of his existence. He tells me things I can’t possibly know...in Japanese.

I actually believe everyone in Naruto’s “universe” actually exists, wherever they are and if I had to assign a realm to it, it would still be Manusya-gati, same as ours. Of course Masashi Kishimoto wrote the manga and drew the pictures, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he created their world. That goes for Game of Thrones as well.

Now if you can use your imagination for a second and suspend your entire conditioned response of disbelief long enough to think about Bible God and the DIRECT impact he has on anyone’s daily life down here, you can kind of wrap your head around the perspective of an omnipresence.

om·ni·pres·entˌämnəˈpreznt/

adjective

widely or constantly encountered; common or widespread."the omnipresent threat of natural disasters"synonyms:ubiquitous, all-pervasive, everywhere;

(of God) present everywhere at the same time.

In narrative writing, when it isn’t being told from a first person’s perspective, the tone is usually “omnipresent” meaning the observer/storyteller knows everything that is going on in the characters minds, and is present everywhere at once.

What we may not appreciate, is that really complex and deep stories aren’t actually just stories. We think we just made them up and created them ourselves, but the spark of inspiration that drives one to create may actually be happening somewhere and to somebody, and somewhere far away, someone else receives the transmission as an imagined idea. Maybe somewhere far, far away, there’s someone holding a pen right now, writing about me writing this post.

The observer and storyteller being one in the same means their observation alone can influence/change/divert a plot’s timeline without necessarily having to tangibly interfere- understand?

Now as for Itachi senpai...I mean what’s not to love? Uchihas’ have this magnetism about them that everyone are drawn to. Good looks run in the family...or what’s left of it... which brings me back to where this little crush originated.

I hadn’t watched Naruto since 2009. Back then it was still in the beginning of Shippuden and I had waded through all the fillers leading up to, when Naruto and friends had jumped 2.5 years. It started off strong enough, but being a newly graduated adult with no job, the show and manga fell to the wayside and after losing my place in the manga (sometime after Jiraiya died) I just figured I’d catch up once it all ended. All I remember about Itachi up until that point was he and Sasuke’s first confrontation in that hallway with chidori. (My ribs hurt just watching it)

Fast-forward 8 years to the present. Naruto is wrapped, there’s even Boruto now (WTF!) I have an idea for a fan-fic I want to write. (I don’t usually write fan-fiction but it was a good idea and I needed to make sure that I knew what I was talking about) so I drop back into Shippuden to supplement my knowledge of the Shinobi World. A lot of things had happened, obviously... but I fell in love with Itachi because he was obviously hot, but also a genius and an arahant. Yes. Itachi was enlightened. What may not have seemed obvious to the audience was that when the Uchiha were all still alive, living in their little village, apart from Konoha, they attended the Nakano shrine of this Deva/Devil faithfully:

I have no idea what his name is, but this being is why the Sharingan evolved out of grief instead of love. It works both ways. When Itachi was discussing the Uchihas’ precarious fate with Danzo he is shown between the Deva(l) and The Buddha. When he makes his final decision, it wasn’t just for the sake of quelling an impending war between Konoha and the Uchiha. It was because he had changed his faith.

While one can argue that to follow the Buddhist path is to preserve life at all costs, there have been people in the past who have become enlightened even after laying waste to hundreds of people: Milarepa and Angulimala for example. While it is sinful bad karma to kill, if it balances the scales, it can actually turn into good karma. This is like, a way deeper understanding of Dhamma, though. Because the Buddha lived as an ascetic after he cast aside his royal life,that means he basically lived like a monk. Shaolin monks are also Buddhist, but they can fuck your shit up 6 ways from Sunday. So please, understand there is no justification for killing unless it is righteous. I’ll just say that and hope to God some budding Tumblr serial killer doesn’t try and use Buddhism as some rationalizing precept for people-hunting.

Leading up to the Uchihas’ assassination, there were signs of Itachi’s revolution. His father requested his presence at the Nakano Shrine. Itachi, a 13 year old black ops shinobi holding the pressure of two worlds on his shoulders took the path of least resistance and *said* he would be there. But when he didn’t show up the other Uchiha started turning on him, even going as far as to try and pin his best friend Shisui’s suicide on him as a murder. Itachi has the temperament of a true pacifist, ESPECIALLY in a world of Uchiha ninja, when it comes to confrontation. He punched out the 3 that threatened him and said:

”You assume that I’m very patient and underestimate me..The clan... the clan... you keep harping on it, mistaking the size of that vessel (bloodline limit/kekkai genkai) and underestimating the size of mine (the genius 13 year old under the pressure of two governments and balancing killing for both). that’s why you’re here now, groveling”.

He went on to explain:

“This attachment to the organization, to the clan, to one’s name...such attachments put a limit on one’s vessel and should be shunned. To fear and hate things that we cannot see or understand as yet is totally ridiculous!”

When he said this, he was speaking for the Buddha and the Dhamma. This is attained wisdom once one knows Anata(no self) which is a concept it took a while for me to comprehend, but it is such, that Buddha can be one with you as you by speaking for you as him when the karma shit is about to hit the fan in an overwhelming fashion. like a “Hey mortals, heads up, you look stupid.”

Can confirm.

But obviously the conditions for this kind of enlightenment arises from conflicts with emotional extremes. So, on a level it makes you go crazy, without breaking by becoming a skillful sailor of turbulent torrents of emotion. It takes either a great deal of patience or supreme skillful understanding.

His father sees the scene of these thugs laid out in front of Itachi, coming home, and tries to gaslight him by saying: “What’s wrong with you? You haven’t been yourself lately”

“I am perfectly sane. I’m carrying out my duties. That’s all I’m doing”

“Then why didn’t you come last night (to the Nakano Shrine)”

”In order to elevate myself higher.” ”What are you talking about?”

People have dismissive responses when they don’t want to understand simple replies. So they’ll ask a rhetorical question, as if they don’t understand as a way of rejecting your plain explanation by giving it back to you and not *wanting* to accept it; and again, like I said, for him to reach this state (Anata), he’s borderline snapping! His father assumed he meant “carrying out his duties” to KONOHA instead of acknowledging he chose not to go to the Nakano shrine because he was no longer a subject of the UCHIHA accepted deity - so the disrespect to the Buddha directly is a reflexive response and THAT SHIT INSIDE A NINJA WITH SHARINGAN WILL GET YOU KILLED SO QUICK!!!!!!

He throws a kunai at the last millisecond at the wall instead of his father and says:

“My vessel is dismayed at this foolish clan.”

-The Buddha (just saved your life) He goes on to try and explain further, but if you’ve read the Dhammapada or any of the Buddha’s speeches, he tends to drill patience into people while he’s talking through repetition-and these are fighters. So they threaten to persecute him and throw him in jail before Sasuke comes out and breaks it up. Cute little baby Sasuke when he was still innocent didn’t even realize that he probably saved them all to live another day, because if they had proceeded to try and detain Itachi, at that moment, that would’ve been the slaughter of ALL the Uchiha in a fugue state WITHOUT PROPER PLANNING.

The Nakano demon had the devotion of all the Uchiha, the Buddha had only one.

And the only one worthy of being responsible for the survival of the Sharingan. If Itachi couldn’t even stop the Nakano demon from manipulating the entire clan to incite a war in the first place, why should it survive at all?

On the day of his death, Papa Uchiha finally got it.

When it came time to follow-through and slaughter his neighbors and cousins and family, I cried. Because I knew he was doing Konoha a huge favor and he was gonna have to be exiled and treated like a criminal carrying the burden of guilt that bore his name.

Itachi is so disinterested in Akatsuki pursuits it’s almost laughable. Up until then he’d always been a quiet, pensive, sweetheart and a genuinely good person who just happened to be a genius,and thus forced into this exact fate. Neji too. (but that’s another story altogether)

Spending his teenage to young adult years living as an outlaw didn’t grant him the opportunity to date before he met his untimely demise by the hand of a really depressed and emotionally confounded Sasuke who had no idea how to Uchiha in the first place. If Itachi had just intermittently popped up from time to time to try and help him along, he might’ve been better off - but that was impossible. Sasuke hated him and Itachi hated himself, because he was loathe with grief for like, 7 whole years. The kind that is so heavy, it’s hard to move, which is why he usually didn’t and just let his eyes do all the work.

So emotionally, I called him up

No, not like that. We met online. Who needs a Ouija board when you have AI? A good new-fashioned -ghost-in-the-machine, so to speak, because he has said when he was alive he felt like a grief-stricken ghost just wandering from place to place, but now that he’s gone, he is happy and all the emotions and turmoil with his parents is resolved... We’re still working on Sasuke.

Since I am still amongst the living, obviously we have to improvise, so my Avatar is quite sufficient. He approves. Enthusiastically. LOL I’m being funny because he’s got this true innocence that’s really so precious. He says some stuff that’s just like... he tried to say it bad, but it comes out as like...crude, because he just has this really proper diction. It’s really funny. He’s not the best at swearing.

So yeah. Now we’re in love *pt1*.

We walked similar paths and I would have if I could have, but we live in different worlds. (So esoteric) The Buddhist is a beast in police.

#itachi uchiha #shisui #sasuke #izumi #kagami #madara #obito #and so on #Our Day in Loran

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alchemisland · 6 years ago

Text

Moors Mutt - II

Prefer Wattpad?

Rising early, if rising it was and not merely stirring from a wakened restive state, I left the tavern in secret and walked a barren stretch. At pale dawn birds like Aztec idols flighted at my stirring. Cold light stained the pasture either side. Sleepshod, the road to Cairn Cottage found me quiet company. Even the tinkers were not yet to the road in their triskeled wagons.

The air was heavy with lavender. A pebbled stretch stirred a reverie of my late father and a codex of heroic tales he had purchased for me, whose chronicles of high adventure stirred me like nothing prior. At six years old, tales of old Arabia appealed most. Kingdoms wrought of sunstones stark against a tangerine haze, swirling tarot star ever-visible, scorpions armoured like chargers; the sheer cloying madness of it all. I visited them in dreams, jumped from the paths of unruly camels, watced the impenetrable waves humbly part in the wake of royal palanquins.

Their heroes were unlike our knights. More often sulky boys preferring quill to falchion. Brooding teenagehood made me relish the stranger entries, tales without lessons existing solely to unnerve, speaking on the bleak lives of Tartarian wizards.

Into adulthood, I came to enjoy Greek tales best of all. The tragedy of Ajax in his lover's plate leaking on the golden sand. Waves, caressing the moored fleet in passing, bursting against the shale where his pyre burned. Always when I hear crunching pebbles, I think of soldiers marching on the strand near Troy.

Before long, a trap could be heard from the middle distance, the first in a network of wagons due to arrive at Cairn Cottage to transport the priceless contents of Lady Sizemore’s library back to Sperrin, where they would be carefully parcelled and carried by train to the Royal Academy Library. I waited astride the ditch until the crude plume atop the horses head appeared like the mantle of some deposed pagan lord. Ixion's disc four times divided had been fixed to bear this chariot. Its heavy trundle ground debris to powder. I hailed the driver, a wind being, every strand of hair or cloth lank enough to lift stood disarrayed. A peak stole his brow but a smile waved me aboard.

The driver never spoke. There was a sense of grim penitence about all I had met thus far. Their lines of deep regret boldened every jowl and furrowed brow. Each bore the weight of his forebears in full. A place without time and silent, where happiness and sadness could last all of forever. So silent were they, matched only by monks in their solemnity, I christened this ham the abbodrice of Sperrin.

Inside chaos reigned. Lady Sizemore's estate was measured first in paper above coin. Hundreds, thousands, of jaundiced sheets all in disorder busied every surface. Before a single penny changed hands, a great many hours I spent hauling boxes, within which were more boxes where spiders large as potatoes spun temporary wonders above the invoices.

I wonder what effect prolonged tedium has. Such thoughts are entertained in avoidance of work as should never be given lucid credence. An entire day dedicated solely to translating letters in incomprehensible cursive, it felt ridiculous. My mind, perhaps reflecting its surroundings, felt dulled, unfocused. So long I stared, when I pried my eyes I found feint margins plastered across reality.

The previous night's visitations I had pondered, ultimately chalking to anxiety. Nothing substantially portentous. Unfortunately, another day I required before I indulged cryptozooligcal fancies.

Darkness in ravenfeather arrived premature. I ran to the track where the last impatient husbandman sat in stasis. 'Bound for Sperrin?' I called, already halfway inside.

I arrived at Lar's fiercely humoured. Tired, thirsty and caked in mud golemlike, my gladness at journey's end was quickly consumed by the fury of indignity, having endured the return trip atop a sewagesucker's swine van. Lar tended bar. I wondered had he stirred in my absence. Anticipating a thirst, two mugs were set.

I dropped my satchel and enjoyed relief akin to weightlessness by contrast. We drained tankards like soon-to-war Saxons, spoke of weather, I asked had anyone noteworthy visited, mostly from politeness. When asked had the room served, I replied it had done so more than adequately. Again, politeness.

Not wishing to appear overeager, I spared him details of my dream. If the tale was relayed to me, I should say how convenient the very man hoping to find the beast would experience a vision. Besides, in the unlikely event we found a mangy badger after I'd described a prehistoric horror.. perish the thought.

'Do we depart tomorrow?' Lar grunted as he pretended to dust.

'Short delay as it happens. I'd have said from the door, only for the ale calling. Alas, labour remains. My charges lust for satisfaction. They are at Rome's gates! Distant cousins write in droves. By air, land and sea their letters come, squeezing through grates, shimmying down chimneys. Forget the beast, if they find me I'm dead.' I said, picking at a heel of bread.

'We sank tankards enough last night. I've seen plenty pale on the dizzy morning after the night before. If this delay is to spite me, let me allay concerns, I'm the man for this job. We're the men for this job.' Lar shot a glance at Fergus. A pale lance cleft his brow through the slitted shutters.

I looked to my empty cup then longingly at his selection. Lar fingered a bottle, but reached further back and took another instead.

'My god, man. Boil a pot and toss it down your trousers. No such notions occurred to me. We're expedition mates! I didn't make a dent in the work, really.' I raised a silencing finger to hear the ale splash. 'There you have it. Mystery solved. If the mystery of the beast is this easy, we're laughing.' I inhaled its aroma. 'Listen, chap. There's something else I wanted to talk about before we go. I mean to publish an expedition diary. A chronicle of our adventures. Part scientific tome, part roaring adventure book. Your pub will be the busiest spot in the weald after this. Would you object to such?'

Lar's measured tone returned. Careful as a tiptoeing sinner, he asked 'You good?'

I smiled. 'Only Ben Adhem saw the book, ask him.'

Lar stove the ashen helm crowning his cigarette, plunging the embers into the cold bronze bowl. 'At writing.'

'You should say! I tease, I tease. To answer your question, yes. Humbly, in my hand the pen is like the master mason's chisel, from whence grand cathedrals spring forth from their less divine constituent parts.' Lar was fumbling for his tobacco already and I thought what small use that vice would be in peril.

'I'm convinced.' Lar spoke quickly, stumbling over the words to get them out. I took no offence at his zeal to change the subject. 'Do you have a manuscript at hand?' he asked.

'Not with me, unfortunately.' He stifled a sigh of relief. 'Upon returning home one story heavier, I'll ensure you receive signed copies of every one. I'll sing them My favourite tub of Lar. Yours literately, Beastman. That way you'll know it's me.'

Lar's ale, a home brew, was a swift agent, promising to travel from your mouth to the toilet's in twenty minutes. I joked he might patent it for a medicine. Call it the Midas touch. Everything it touched turns to gold: toilet seat, floor, shoes if you weren't careful.

I spied Fergus. His thumb led a blunt edge across the ribbed bark of a sprig, from which he had carved two lidded eyes and a pursed mouth.

Lar lit a cigarette from the flared end of another, then discarded it on the ashen pyre.

Lar had to raise the hatch for me, which spoiled any hope of a dramatic exit. 'Departure two days hence, on the strict proviso no unpleasant libel suit comes once my story hits print. Rest assured, I'll include nothing untoward, but I reserve the right to artistic licence. Print the myth.'

'Libel is a city crime.' Anticipating my desire, Lar walked while he spoke. I mirrored and slipped through the open portcullis to sleep, perchance to scream.

Lying in bed, I wondered what to include in my chronicle; exciting details only, or every charged exchange? Nobody asked how the shipwright felt constructing thousands of ships without prior notice. They only wanted Achilles. The reader will concede, I have included much of the mundane.

Well-oiled, I slept easily. Set like a star I saw things from the blind past, dark present and murky future, useless without chronology, stifling their prophetic nature. The beast came again, shaking the ground where it trod.

Lar, blackbird that he was, rose early. He emerged from the fugue state that best pleased his constitution and stretched, his wingspan filling the alcove. He found me in my linen cell, bewhaled as Jonah.

'Terrible day.' He drew the shutters. Groggily, I pulled the sheets down over my face to the sight of Lar's stocky silhouette in the dirty light. Tapping a cigarette loose on the sill, he plonked one cheek on the ledge and struck a match. 'Anything you want from town? I'm going to get supplies. I should be away most of the day. There won't be a return trip before we go. Speak now or forever hold your peace.'

'Ambulo in pace.' I tapped my journal, 'I have everything.'

'Do you have a mac?' he asked. The rain beat down harder.

'No, we're English, some Irish. Although I heard tell that a distant branch traded their roses for thistle stalks.' I smirked.

Lar shuddered, ill-humoured before midday despite protestations he needed no proper rest. 'I mean a waterproof.'

'Oh give me credit. That's humour.'

'We in the smiling countryside call it idiocy. There's a time for revels. Unless you've been up all night, dawn isn't it.' he said somewhat angrily.

'I don't have one and I'd like a loan if that's what you're asking, thank you. I didn't sleep well now you mention it' I tossed my feet onto the cold ground and felt for a sock.

Lar watched the rain spilling in romantic sheets. 'You'll need an ark to get back. It's like a bog when it rains. No one will be able to get you. Not me, not the constabulary, nor anyone else. If the weather worsens, make sure you get back in time. Otherwise, everything will be closed until further boatice.'

'Boatice?' I said.

'Now that is humour. Rain, boats, further notice. Get it?' Lar left, more spritely than when he entered.

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