#i have not drawn pyotr in so long

[furbs-and-prayers]

old trend my beloved suggested i should do with these horrible blond guys when i showed them this image:

[dreamerwitches]

Thas a lot of Pyotr and Polina..! Specil friends from Mobcast!

We have new long eared Pyotr and a heckin' chonker!! As well as the concept art Polina..! You know I love her. I think this is her first media appearance ever?? (excluding concept art)

So for recolours we have a yellow and teal Pyotr, a white regular Polina (and my god, I love her, look at her adorable socks!!!) and a blue and yellow/green version of candy wrapper Polina.

This boy's orange-y spots and rotund shape seem to take from this art although it has the bonus uhh bow(?)

Ice cream boi seems to take its colours from this one. A shame it wasn't matched fully with the skirt and halo

These are definitely the anime appearance though the face isn't the right colour. The shape and posing matches perfectly though, doesn't it?

Kinda sadly, none of the Polina perfectly match the concept art... but I still love her. White Polina isn't from concepts and I don't think I've ever seen her drawn with socks? So she's new!

[rosentraume]

https://www.tumblr.com/rosentraume/735615442063966208/happy-birthday-to-my-cutest-and-most-disappointing

ur oc is sooo fine i love him i want him what’s he like

Oh thank you so much! I’m glad you took interest in my OC! His name is Pyotr and I’ve created him in 2019 so he’s been with me for a long time and his story has changed a lot since then, I couldn’t sum it all up in a single post, but I guess I can tell you a little bit of his personality!

Pyotr can come off as aloof and rude at first, but he’s can show a very soft side of him when you get to know him better. He’s sarcastic, blunt, witty, but sometimes lets his emotions and fears get the best of him and cloud his judgement… Thus is known for not making the best decisions.

Some random facts about him:

- he has a sweet tooth

- his birthday is the 2nd of December

- he’s scrawny and kind short (only 172cm tall… still taller than me though 🤧)

& the most recent picture I have drawn of him!

[qqueenofhades]

im crying reading your ask replies tonight because Ivan really went into the Second Army with the mindset to not ever allow himself another weakness because he’s already lost too many people he cared about to the war and then somehow, even though Ivan held him at a distance and probably pushed him away at first, Fedyor wheezled his way into Ivan’s heart. And Ivan has literally had to read the “On behalf of King Pyotr, our deepest condolences…” for literally every single person he’s cared about and he cannot, absolutely cannot have Fedyor share a similar fate. Fedyor is this one weakness, this one good thing, he’s selfishly allowed himself and he’s absolutely terrified that he’ll lose Fedyor too. ivan is fragile™️

im fine. everything is fine. i am not in a glass case of emotion over two background characters with 6 mins of screentime. Your ask responses caused these feels 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Me? Have approximately 500 feelings over the fact that Ivan, the boy who had lost or was in the process of losing all of his male family members to the war by the time he became a fully fledged Grisha, then started being drawn to/falling in love with Fedyor and it definitely scared the shit out of him? Maybe. Because it would be one thing if Fedyor was safely back in the Little Palace and away from the front lines, but nope, he is doing the exact same hard and dirty job as Ivan, there is no safety for him, he is exposed to the exact same risks, and Ivan has already seen his father/uncle/brothers die like flies? WELP. Sure, Fedyor is Grisha and they were otkazat'sya, but does that really make him any safer?

So yes. I have written about it in headcanons and fic prompts and ask responses, but it makes SO much sense that Ivan would be incredibly loyal to the Darkling, as long as he was promising to keep Fedyor safe. (I am weak for this theme in my OTPs as a rule, but yes.) Loving Fedyor is the single good thing that Ivan has allowed himself, which makes Simon Sears' comment about Fedyor being his soft spot hurt even more. Because Ivan's worst fear at this point is definitely that he is just on borrowed time with Fedyor, because he has been with everyone else. Another reason why the writers will receive personally delivered flaming bags of crap on their lawns if they kill them or break them up, IVAN ALREADY LOST EVERYONE ELSE OKAY, YOU DO NOT NEED TO MAKE IT MORE TRAGIC FOR OUR GRUMPY GARBAGE BOY. And it explains why he would be fine with pretty much whatever the Darkling does, if only he doesn't have to give Fedyor up too. He knows that he is literally setting himself up for this exact thing, but he just can't help it.

So yes. Fedyor is this ray of sunshine in Ivan's life and literally the only thing/person he has allowed himself to love despite losing literally everyone else (/hums "if there's a reason I survived when everyone who loved me has died, I'm willing to wait for it") and I truly don't know how we are all suffering this much over said background six-minutes-of-screentime-as-a-couple characters, but HERE WE FUCKING ARE. God dammit.

[whumping-to-conclusions]

So I lost the ask where I received this prompt, but it was from @ironwhumper359. She had given multiple options, but I decided on 14 +28!

14. cottage, 28. poisoned blade

This is another installment in my whump fics centering around Pyotr, a Kvani man from the world of a Victorian-equivalent supernatural detective novel I'm working on. I'll be making a masterlist soon, but you can find my first Pyotr fic here.

Enjoy!

CW: Burn scar, fever, past whumper (assassin) reappearing, poison, restrained with ropes, gunshot, character death (from gunshot)

Pyotr stepped into the cottage, shaking off his rain-soaked coat and hanging it on a hook by the door. This should be a safe enough place to spend the night. Shining his oil lantern around the place, he saw that it was small, but blessedly dry. Large windows gave a view of the woods surrounding the house, darkened by the rainstorm, and a small cuckoo clock made a gentle tick-tock, tick-tock in the background. A wooden rocking chair sat in front of the hearth. It was draped in colorful quilts and, upon closer inspection, exquisitely carved with flowers and vines.

Stepping into the adjacent room, the golden ring of light from his lantern shone on a bed--a real bed!--piled with more quilts. Oil paintings hung on the walls, and white stone vases on the windowsills held dried flowers. This place would be the first real comfort he’d seen in weeks.

Glancing around the cottage, the place looked abandoned--the bedsheets were rumpled, but the fireplace in the main room was ashy and cold. Probably sometime in the past week, since not much dust had collected anywhere yet. The poor soul who owned this cottage must have gone off and died in the woods. Bear attack, maybe. Pyotr had heard there were bears in this part of the country.

One night here couldn’t hurt. He hadn’t seen Briar in weeks, since he’d given her that terrible burn back in the hotel. There wasn’t any way she would find him now, especially now that he was tucked away in the woods like this, right?

Pyotr strode over to the hearth and struck the flint and steel he kept in his pack, setting the ashy logs ablaze. As the flames crackled to life, he crouched and warmed his hands in front of the fire, feeling the molten heat glow on his rain-drenched skin. Gods above, that felt good. He straightened up, stripped down to his wool drawers, and curled up in the rocking chair, wrapping the quilt around his soaked, freezing body. He watched the flames for a while. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The cuckoo clock made a rhythmic, soporific beat in Pyotr’s ears. How warm it was here… how lovely it would be to rest….

A shadow passed in his periphery. Pyotr’s eyes snapped open and he slowly rose from the chair, letting the quilt fall onto the ground.

“Thought I couldn’t find you here, didn’t you?”

The rough burr of Briar’s voice still sent a chill of dread down Pyotr’s spine. He’d heard it in his dreams, every night since their first encounter.

“I told you I wouldn’t rest until you were dead. I’m not the kind to give up. I’m not the kind to flee, unlike a certain man that I know. Deserter.” She spat out the last word like a curse.

Pyotr didn’t dare move, even as he heard Briar step closer. “Kill me,” he rasped. “What are you waiting for? Put your knife in my heart. I’ve got nowhere to go.”

“That would be far too quick for you, deserter. You left the Styx, and I want you to suffer for what you did to me.” Briar stepped in front of him. In the dying firelight, the twisted burn on her cheek was a livid scarlet. “I killed the little old woman who lived here, you know,” Briar crooned, her lips curling into a smirk. “She’s buried in the garden, being eaten by the insects and birds she loved so dearly. Funny, isn’t it? How we’re all eaten eventually?”

Pyotr couldn’t stop his breath from hitching. What was Briar going to do to him? Burn him? Torture him?

Pyotr raised his fist to punch Briar in the ribs, but Briar was prepared. She slugged Pyotr in the gut and twisted his arm behind his back. Pyotr howled in pain as he felt something in his arm pop.

A few minutes later, Pyotr was tied up in the rocking chair, hands bound tightly together. Briar crouched beside him and raised a knife. Its cruel, curved edge glistened a strange green in the firelight, like it had been dipped in….

“That’s right,” Briar whispered. “Poison. I’ve been saving it for this moment. You’ll be in pain for hours until you finally drop dead.”

Fear burned with cold fuel in the pit of Pyotr’s stomach. Though he clamped his mouth shut tight and closed his eyes, he could not stop his limbs from shaking as he waited for the slash to come. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The sound of the cuckoo clock was the slow, hard beats of Pyotr’s heart, pulsing in his heaving chest.

There it was―a sharp, efficient slit in the crook of his arm, a viper’s bite. Pyotr grunted as he felt a drop of warm blood roll down his arm.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. How long until the poison took effect? How long until he started to shiver and scream as it made its course through his body?

A few moments passed before the pain began. A dull, aching throb in his arm that spread as the minutes went by. Soon, his whole body hurt. Pyotr tried to move into a more comfortable position, but he was bound so tightly to the chair that he could barely move a muscle. All he could do was sit, enduring the ache in his bones, breathing deeply and trying not to groan, trying not to let Briar know how much pain he was in. At some point, the shivering started. Then the sweating. Even as he had resolved to stay strong, the ache worsened until he couldn’t help but cry out. Sweat trickled down his temple and dripped onto his clavicle.

“Doesn’t feel good, does it, deserter?” Briar said. “Imagine how I felt after you stuck that poker in my cheek. That took weeks to heal.”

Pyotr could only whimper in response.

As the hours went by, the cottage echoed with his screams, but Pyotr found no relief. His body was an enemy, a trap that he could not escape. Briar watched on, occasionally whispering gloating comments in Pyotr’s ear.

“No one is coming for you, Pyotr,” Briar crooned at some point. “Your friends are long-gone. They think you’re dead, left in a snowy grove with your chest split open.”

“Someone will come for me,” Pyotr panted. His mouth was dry, his skin pulsing with heat. “If not them, then someone else.” The words were achingly naïve, he knew, and he wasn’t even sure what “friends” Briar was talking about, but saying them brought him comfort, however small, something to cling to.

Briar gave a long, slow smile, saying nothing.

Pyotr lost track of the time he spent in that dark cottage. Briar had closed the curtains over the windows, so no daylight found its way into that foul place, letting Pyotr know that morning had come.

At some point in this feverish haze, Pyotr heard the door crash open. He lifted his head as Briar rose from his side and stepped towards the door. No sooner had he heard the shink of a dagger being drawn before a gunshot cracked the air, making Pyotr jump.

Briar’s body thudded to the floor not three feet away from him, a trickle of blood trailing from her mouth, eyes open and glassy, her knife clattering to the ground.

A pause, before a low, feminine voice broke the silence. “...is she dead?”

A tall man knelt beside her and pressed two fingers to Briar’s throat. “Yes. She’s gone.”

The floorboards creaked as someone knelt down in front of him. A woman―sable-skinned, with a tumble of dark braids and a tattoo of a rattlesnake coiling around her shoulder. Something about her seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it. The room was spinning.

“Pyotr,” she said. Another wave of pain racked Pyotr’s body and he cried out.

“Pyotr, are you okay?” She reached out and felt his burning forehead with a cool, slender hand. “Pyotr, answer me!”

More voices rang out in the cottage. “Pyotr! Pyotr!” So someone had come for him after all.

Their voices chased him into the dark.

[barbicha-imaginaria]

The cycle of Villanelle: an essay

In this essay, I will delve into Villanelle’s mental state and study the cyclical patterns of behavior that she seems to exhibit in relation to the emotional attachments she forms. All information taken from the show will focus on Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s version of Killing Eve (the first season), to maintain coherence. I will also consider events in Villanelle’s past that are uncovered in later seasons, as it has been stated several times that PWB already had Villanelle’s backstory defined and so it is likely that she contributed her vision to the events of, for example, S03E05.

“I know you’re a psychopath” - definition of psychopathy

First of all, a disclaimer: mental disorders are not neatly compartmentalized things, where someone is diagnosed when they fit every single criterium. These disorders manifest differently in each person, and often combine (for example, there are several disorders that increase the likelihood of developing anxiety) to form a set of symptoms that will resemble the “ideal” profile of a disorder but usually deviate in one way or another. This is why a diagnosis typically occurs when at least a certain number of the total symptoms is present, rather than only when they all occur. This is not a deviation from how the disorder manifests, but rather one of the many ways in which it can manifest.

This is particularly evident in the case of personality disorders, characterized by enduring maladaptive patterns of behavior, cognition, and inner experience, exhibited across many contexts and deviating from those accepted by the individual's culture. You will notice that there is a large internal component to this, a necessary internal logic, coherent to the individual but not consistent with social norms, which will of course be very difficult to define objectively by an external observer.

Psychopathy, which would be such a personality disorder, is not an actual diagnosis sanctioned by any psychiatric or psychological organization. In the DSM, we have its counterpart in antisocial personality disorder (ASPD), whose criteria for diagnosis focus more on behaviors than personality traits, as the former are easier to identify objectively. ASPD is characterized by a long-term pattern of disregard for, or violation of, the rights of others, a low moral sense or conscience, as well as a history of crime, legal problems, or impulsive and aggressive behavior. It seems pretty clear that Villanelle would perfectly fit this profile.

As psychopathy isn’t an actual diagnosis, we find that its definition is subjective and in fact, there are several different tests, checklists and definitions for it. One particularly interesting definition in this case is the separation of primary and secondary psychopaths. Taken directly from Wikipedia, and based on the paper [Vaughn, M. G., Edens, J. F., Howard, M. O., & Smith, S. T. (2009). An Investigation of Primary and Secondary Psychopathy in a Statewide Sample of Incarcerated Youth. Youth Violence and Juvenile Justice, 7(3), 172–188]

The subtype known as "primary" psychopathy refers to individuals who are completely rational, lack anxiety and have high levels of interpersonal charm. Whilst these behaviours appear incredibly adaptive, primary psychopaths are also prone to dysfunctional and pathological traits such as an inability to learn from past mistakes and a lack of responsibility

"Secondary" psychopaths are individuals not dissimilar to primary psychopaths in the sense that they still share many of the same characteristics and traits. However, unlike the primary psychopath, the secondary psychopath is more likely to suffer from intense emotional arousal and psychological issues. As well as this, research conducted on adult psychopaths has suggested that secondary psychopaths are more prone participate in drug abuse, suicide and interpersonal aggression. Overall, what differentiates secondary psychopaths from primary psychopaths is their destructive behaviour as well an increased reactivity and impulsivity and an inability to control their emotions effectively.

Recalling that Villanelle is a fictional character and we can assume a certain leeway to her characterization in the name of entertainment, as well as the vague nature of all psychopathy diagnoses that has been established, we can arrive at a tentative description: Villanelle is mainly a primary psychopath, with diminished emotional reactions and a comfortable, stable personality, but a secondary psychopath pattern of behavior can be triggered by specific conditions. These triggers are studied in the next section.

“I know something happened to you” - timeline of Oksana / Villanelle

Based on the information given to us over the course of the show (under the conditions mentioned in the introduction above), we can establish a timeline for Oksana’s (and later, Villanelle’s) life.

1) Early childhood

Spent with parents and brother. Clearly already exhibited traits of psychopathy, as evidenced several times in S03E05. 

Tatiana (mother): “The orphanage phone me and say… you burn place down.”

Oksana: “Why didn’t you leave [Pyotr at the orphanage]? All he did was cry.”

Pyotr (brother): “Look, Oksana. You punching me in face.” 

Showed no affection for her mother or brother, but seemed attached to her father.

P: “What was he like?” O: “Funny. Strong. Taught me how to fight. He was much better.” P: “Than what?” O: “She was mean.” P: “You were mean.” O: “You were annoying.”

Villanelle believes she had a good relationship with her father, but her mother saw it differently.

T: “You took everything from me. You took him. You could control him. He would do anything for you because you had a darkness! (...) He thought you would do something to us.” 

O: “You are the darkness. You have always been the darkness. He wasn't scared of me. He was sick of you.” 

Seems to have been left in an orphanage by her mother after her father left the family in some way. Her brother believes that he died, but it is never mentioned how. In S01E07, Anna mentions that “Her mother was dead. Her father was a drunk”, which suggests he never died but rather became an alcoholic and left the family, but in S02E08, Villanelle says that her family "are all dead". In the orphanage, she was later told the rest of her family died. 

2) Adolescence

Spent the next years getting into trouble with the authorities. Arrest sheet (seen in S01E05) shows that she was in a juvenile delinquents centre, 2001-2006 (ages 8-13). After this, she entered the school where Anna taught. Their history is revealed mainly in S01E07 and S01E08

Anna: “We were told a new student was coming. History of violence. Antisocial behavior. (...) She arrived at the school and… everyone stepped back. Everyone. So I stepped forward. Extra time. Extra lessons. Extra love.”

Oksana exhibited typical manipulative behavior in getting more and more attention from Anna, moving on to demanding time alone with her and becoming jealous of her husband, who was seen as a rival for Anna’s affection. 

Eve: “This... isn't "a few" letters, Anna. This is…” Anna: “She had a... fixation.”

A: “Well, then she wanted more lessons after school. She was good at making you feel bad, so she was here a lot. And it was clear that she didn't like Max, but I thought it was because she didn't trust men.”

A: “No, but she sent me gifts. Clothes, perfume. She must have stolen them. Expensive French designers.”

Anna presents this as one-sided fixation in her conversation with Eve in S01E07.

A: “He said he was aware of my relationship with Oksana - she had been spinning lies again.”

E: “Did you ever have sex with Oksana?” A: “No!”

However, in her confrontation with Villanelle in S01E08 it becomes clear that the feelings were reciprocated in some way.

Villanelle: “The best sex we ever had was on that chair.”

Irina: “Did you two use to go out?” V&A: “She seduced me.”

Eventually, Oksana removed the obstacle in their relationship, Anna’s husband, by castrating and killing him. She expected this to be taken well, but it naturally led Anna to turn on her and she was arrested.

Anna: “There were balloons everywhere and a huge cake, and she was jumping around and... then she showed me what she had done. And she said it like it was a good thing. I went mad. I told her she was evil and crazy and... and then she was picked up by the police... and arrested.”

3) Rebirth as Villanelle

After 3 years in jail, Oksana was recruited by Konstantin to work for the Twelve (revealed by Nadia in S01E06). The organization faked her death and she moved to Paris to work as the assassin Villanelle. Konstantin became her handler, the only person with whom she had a continued relationship. This seems to have created a sort of attachment that differs from the usual fixation by being much less intense, becoming rather the psychopath’s version of a friendship.

In the course of her work, Villanelle met Eve. At first, her obsession with her seems caused by transference: her hair, very similar to Anna’s, caused the woman to fixate, as seen in S01E02.

Jerome: “So, Villanelle... [in Russian] Do you still have dreams about Anna?” Villanelle: (distressed) “That’s not Anna.”

As Eve is revealed to be in charge of the task force devoted to finding her, Villanelle became more interested, and over the course of Season 1, Eve’s actions further fueled her fixation. Eve clearly admired her, wanted to become closer to her and was able to surprise and challenge her. This both fed her ego and maintained her interest.

The season comes to a close with their confrontation in Villanelle’s Paris apartment. When Villanelle was certain that she had drawn in Eve, as she did with previous fixations, she was instead stabbed in the stomach. In a rage, she fired her gun at Eve then ran away.

“I think about you too” - Villanelle and emotional attachment

Circling back to the first section, where we established that there are certain triggers that lead Villanelle to a more emotional and unstable psychopathic profile, the timeline of the previous section seems to establish quite clearly that these triggers are the rare emotional attachments she forms: to her father, to Anna and then to Eve. These attachments take the form of a deep and obsessive fixation, which is still marked by lack of remorse or empathy, but which causes her to feel emotions deeply.

Either because the emotions are indeed felt to an extreme, or because she is simply not experienced with emotions and thus is easily overwhelmed, anything she feels due to these attachments is felt too intensely too ignore or process healthily, and in this way, she comes closer to the behavior of an extreme narcissist, in that she considers herself and her feelings as the most important thing at all times. This can also lead to a feeling of insecurity in the relationship, or like she isn't getting what she deserves, a fair treatment. Because she still lacks empathy and remorse, she will lack intrinsic motivation to make her attachment happy, and will only try to do so when not distracted by her own wants and desires in the relationship. She will also usually act from her own perspective, rather than try to think of what the other would want. 

Actions which a neurotypical individual clearly sees as wrong and to be avoidable, on one level because it would hurt their partner, and on another because it is simply not ethical, seem perfectly fine to her if motivated by her own internal logic. For example, hurting the members of the family that she doesn’t care about or forcing them away so that they won’t compete for her father’s attention, stealing expensive clothing to offer it as a gift, killing Anna’s husband or Eve’s partner Bill. Not only is she not bothered by guilt or remorse over it, she most likely sees nothing wrong with it in the first place: if she is as important to her attachments as they are to her, they won’t have a problem with her actions, as they only serve to deepen their bond. If her attachments react negatively, due to concern for other people, she will be hurt and betrayed, and feel that her deep feelings are not returned.

In this way, Villanelle is indeed capable of feelings, and of being hurt and even crying, but she will most likely never make a healthy partner, and will have no problem engaging in toxic and manipulative behaviors if they are in line with her goals. 

“I really liked you” - the cycle of Villanelle

Now looking back on her past relationships with her father and Anna, we find a common evolution in all of them: Villanelle develops an interest, which is returned. Her obsessive attachment grows, which puts a strain on the relationship. She is possessive, needs all her gestures of affection to be appreciated and returned. At some point she crosses a line which pushes the other away, and on both cases this leads to her being forcefully separated from them. 

This creates in her mind a narrative that the people she loves disappoint or betray her, so that every time she opens her heart, it leads to heartbreak. Add to that the fact that she gets no closure (or, more likely, revenge) and you get someone who is very volatile around love, liable to explode at any rejection, but also insecure from past experiences and thus more likely to see something as rejection.

Part of Oksana's rebirth as Villanelle, which marked her escape from her troubled past and transition to a life where she is in control and wants for nothing, was to bury the part of herself that “fell in love”. Oksana was fragile and Villanelle is not, and this is one of the ways in which Villanelle wants to manifest that. In the terms we use in this essay, she wants to fully become a primary psychopath, finding refuge in the stability of that unemotional mindspace. 

Unfortunately for Villanelle, she does not actually have control over which facet of her psychopathy manifests. Thus, when her attachment to Anna (never resolved, as mentioned above) transfers to Eve and is then reinforced through several interactions and encounters, Villanelle doesn't really seem capable of or interested in resisting. Rather, due to Eve's particularly reckless behavior, she is more encouraged than ever before, and will easily be given to believe that Eve will be "different" - a belief that the audience is more and more likely to share as the season progresses and especially towards the end of S01E08.

The end of Season 1 completes the cycle of Villanelle's emotional connections by having Eve do the same as her past attachments: betray her. As they come to a moment of intimacy, where Villanelle has let her guard down, Eve stabs her. The shock of the rejection is compounded with past experience and trauma to create an instant and intense feeling of betrayal that does not allow for any form of reasoning or further processing. Thus, it makes perfect sense that Villanelle would then revolt against her, try to shoot her, and finally run away, regardless of the fact that Eve immediately regrets her actions and tries to help her. 

“I want to kill her” - the aftermath

The case of Eve has one crucial difference from those of Villanelle’s father and of Anna. As mentioned in the previous section, in both cases, Villanelle’s attachment was forcefully ended and she was immediately removed from the situation. She has never been able to avenge herself of the wrongdoing she suffered, or come to terms with the situation in any way. She claims to move on, and later on seems perfectly capable of killing Anna, saying that she no longer loves her, but it is more likely that she has simply internalized both rejections rather than processed them.

In this case, breaking the pattern, she has not been taken from Eve and Eve has not been taken from her. She can get her closure as soon as she is recovered. This would be a way to step away from her cycle of emotional attachment and possibly set free some hangup in Villanelle's mind that has lingered since her childhood, and so it is very probable that Villanelle herself would latch on to the idea. In addition to the desire for revenge naturally originating from Eve’s betrayal, which would most likely be enough to make her fixate on returning to Eve, there would also be the desire for recovery, fueled by the belief that she can become a better version of herself (more Villanelle-like, less Oksana-like) by going through the ritual of closure, not only from Eve, but from all past rejections.

This leads us to the final conclusion of this essay. At the end of Season 1, we are at the final and lowest point of Villanelle’s cycle, and through analysis of the character of Villanelle, find a strong prediction for how she would behave in the aftermath: to seek revenge as soon as possible, almost as a fixation, due to past trauma on the subject. The way in which this revenge is sought would define Villanelle’s trajectory for the rest of her life, determining in one way or another the end to the pattern of behavior and experiences that has marked her first 25 years.

In this way, the narrative followed in Season 2 becomes unsatisfying in two ways: its beginning and its end. 

The beginning: Villanelle does not desire revenge, but instead believes that Eve hurt her because she loves her. This deviates from a pattern of 25 years for no evident reason, and thus seems to hinge on a lack of internal consistency of the character of Villanelle. However, we have established that even someone with a personality disorder will show this consistency, although in a way that isn’t compatible with the outside world. Psychopaths are not erratic, and would not change their minds on something as fundamental to their development, and a belief so emotionally charged, unless they were significantly challenged.

The end: As the season progresses, Eve and Villanelle are pulled tighter and tighter together, until the explosive finale, when Villanelle opens up in a moment of vulnerability and Eve rejects her. Then, she does seek revenge as soon as possible, by shooting Eve. You will notice that, thematically, this is the exact same progression as the end of Season 1. Inevitably, the viewer is left with the feeling that the showrunner simply ran the plot line of Season 2 through a loop to finish the season at the same point as it started, in order to avoid having to deal with the fallout of such a confrontation.

[thesilverdawns]

Flight of the Five

“Come and see the newest sensation ever to hit this side of Orologio- the Great Symphony of the Five Famous Airships orchestrated by the up and coming artist and pianist, Sascha Malikov! Come, come! Take one! Tell your friends! For you can only see him here, tonight at the Grand Theater in Saint Pyotr’s square!”

That teenager, barking in front of the theater and passing out fliers.

Vsevolod saw him there every single time he passed by the theater. He must have worked there. If anything, he looked more like a street urchin than someone who belonged at such a prestigious place. What, with his too-big ears and his sloppy stance as he towered over everyone so rudely-

“You there small sir!!”

Oh no-

There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide-

A flier was shoved into his face, and he pushed it down aggressively, lips curling back into a hiss.

“Flier sir??? Come see Sascha Malikov! I can tell already that a man of your stature would find the experience to be absolutely enjoyable!”

Vsevolod pushed him away from his personal space, furrowing his penciled in brows as he stared towards the theater’s entrance.

He had been planning to visit anyway… He reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch, snapping it shut after just a moment.

It would be fine. He would be back home in a while anyway.

And so, he ventured across the street towards the ticket booth, paid for a seat, and entered with a cluster of people who had arrived to see the show.

They moved single file down the row once they’d come to the correct aisle, and took their seats.

The velvet curtains were drawn, and the orange and yellow lamp light above was dim and easy on the eyes.

The inside of the theater never ceased to amaze him. With its beautifully painted ceiling and its very particular and fascinating architecture, to all the warm colors of the walls, the furnishings, the seats even.

It was warm and inviting, because of course it was. With the sheer number of performances they had weekly? They brought in people from miles around, from all walks of life, all over the city and beyond-

His seat jostled as someone behind his hit it with their foot. His ear twitched in annoyance, but he refused to turn around.

Instead, he glanced to his side to see a flier stuffed in between the seats. The same as the ones outside.

It was a simple illustration of silhouettes of the five famous airships, with a radiant dawn colored gradient behind it.

THE FLIGHT OF THE FIVE stretched across the bottom in big bold letters, along with the program for the remainder of the night directly under it.

He set it aside, resting his hands in his lap and waited.

Half an hour passed before the lights began to dim into darkness and a spotlight appeared on the curtains, pulling everyone’s attention to the announcer walking across the stage.

“A fine evening to you all, ladies and gentleman, and especially to our active and brave soldiers who sit among us tonight! We thank you for your continued service to Death, as well as to our beautiful and mighty city of Orologio! May she stand for ages yet to come!” The sound of applause gently rose from the civilians. Vsevolod sat up a little straighter and only clapped several times for the sake of it, despite being in full uniform.

“Tonight we’ve a special feature. One of our newest artists who’s become quite the sensation overnight! His hands have been said to fly down the keys of a piano as swiftly and gracefully as the Messenger himself. And perhaps, after tonight, you will be in agreement!

Not only an accomplished, master pianist at such a terribly young age, but also in possession of a brilliant mind! The Flight of the Five being his first published orchestral piece! Of which, my friends, will grace your ears on this very night, with its powerful leads and winding transitions- truly, truly a remarkable set…

Ah- but, don’t take my word for it!

Now, without any further ado, the Grand Theater of Saint Pyotr’s Square proudly brings to you Sascha Malikov’s Flight of the Five, The Black Fury.”

As the announcer shuffled off stage, the curtains lifted to reveal the conductor and his orchestra. Off to the side sat a piano and an empty seat.

Vsevolod shifted his weight and kept his hands in his lap. He could feel his palms sweating underneath his gloves.

Waiting for the orchestra to begin was always a tense moment, and an exciting one.

The audience never did know what was to come. And the anticipation was killing him. He kept his eyes on the violinists in particular.

The conductor took his position and waited, before lifting his arms in a swift motion. And as they came down, an explosion of noise assaulted everyone’s ears, and no doubt jostled their hearts.

It sounded like cannon fire.

Vsevolod gripped the seat instinctively and clenched hard, not having expected the sudden burst. It wasn’t chaotic noise or nonsense either. It was a note. A note that carried dread and wrath in its wake.

There was a rise that followed. Soft at first, with strange and ghostly sounds, giving the impression something much larger than the theater would be on the horizon soon. It grew louder and louder, drum beats only amplifying the largeness of it, until it began to rise again, higher and higher until the noise broke into recognizable, proud brass.

The anthem of the military, played triumphantly and boldly.

Vsevolod’s heart was already pounding in his ears, and his grip on the seat’s arm rests only tightened as the melody progressed, decorated by loud noises from drums that sounded so much like artillery-

He shut his eyes for a moment, breaking out into a sweat.

Thankfully, the drums died down somewhat, as the piece came to a close, giving the mental image of the Black Fury passing overhead and leaving them.

Then, just as all seemed quiet once more, there was a crack of sound more akin to lightning, as the next swell of music hit them again.

The Blue Lightning. Sharp, fast, strong. The tempo increased considerably as more types of drums joined the fray.

It was over as soon as it had come, dying down again and leaving them in the dark.

What kind of symphony was this? It was nothing like he’d ever heard before. Nothing like anyone had ever heard before.

It was experimental, daring, new. Exciting.

Despite all, he was excited.

Then came the Double-Edged Victory, bringing with it another uplifting and glory-ridden tune, carrying them along through the performance.

And then the howling and phantom sounds of the final push of the Tempest’s Howl, swirling and rising and falling from chaos into order, and then into more chaos, like a fearsome storm.

All the while, no one had come to sit at the piano. Not until the very end.

He could see someone walking to it from the side of the stage in the dark, taking their seat gently as the fourth piece slowly came to a close.

The audience was silent, and rattled. No one dared make a sound, and held in their coughs.

It was then that the spotlight came off the orchestra and the conductor, instead moving to the piano set off to the side.

The first thing Vsevolod saw was a mop of red hair, styled quite unusually. It was certainly popular with the younger crowd, he thought to himself.

Sascha Malikov looked like such a pushover. He was thin, almost lanky, and tall, and despite holding himself up as professionally as possible, he still looked like he could be snapped in half at any moment. It was an odd sight to behold.

This was him? The great, masterful symphony writer and pianist being bragged so much about?? He was so YOUNG…

He raised his hands and gently set them on the keys, inhaling slowly before beginning.

The notes that flowed from the piano were light.

Light and delicate, and almost floaty.

Strings faded in from the orchestra into an almost melancholy tune that eventually transformed into a bleak, yet hopeful sunrise.

The flight of the Silver Dawn. The smallest of the five, and Vsevolod’s favorite. It was not fierce like its counterparts, not swift, nor strong, but it was the first among them.

Despite all the glory and victory the others brought with them, the Silver Dawn carried with it the very beginning of it all.

The strings began to take on a haunting sound as the piano accompanied them in a sort of dance that was almost tangible on the stage. He couldn’t quite explain why, or what it even was.

There was…something about it…

All to soon, it ended, as silently as it had begun. And once the final dying whispers of the strings faded away entirely, the audience began to clap and stand, and clap harder. Some even whistled.

They were going absolutely ballistic.

Vsevolod on the other hand felt as though his legs had turned into jelly. Noisy…

Too noisy…it was too loud here…

He quivered as he stood from his seat, clapping a few times as the orchestra stood and bowed.

When Sascha Malikov did so as well? He clapped harder.

Before he knew it, people began to file out of the theater, no doubt awake and alive after listening to such a dramatic set.

He wasn’t quite sure where he was. Everything was swirling and disorienting, and his ears were still ringing. It was…

Amazing.

Scary, but amazing.

This Sascha Malikov…he was absolutely brilliant. The way everything happened… He couldn’t even put it into words. Not even in his head.

The pavement around the square shimmered and reflected the street lamps light. It had rained briefly while they were inside, and the sky was dark and cloud ridden.

It would take far too long to get home walking. And it was too cold. The wind was biting.

Somehow Vsevolod found his senses enough to hail a cab to take him home. He was very, very tired.

But not so tired as to not daydream about that mop of wild red hair during the entire ride back.

[rvrik]

 ––– MAY I PRESENT ALEKSANDR PETROVICH OF HOUSE RURIK, THE TSAR OF RUSSIA. THEY HAVE JUST CELEBRATED THEIR TWENTY EIGHTH NAME DAY AND ARE KNOWN TO BE VERY GENEROUS & DISSOLUTE . WE HOPE THEY ENJOY THEIR TIME IN ENGLAND.

(  hi!! I’m Fortune (or Fortie if you’re feeling bold), I’m 22, and I’m hyped to bring you this chaotic good absolute mess of a boy who should never ever have ended up in charge of anything in his life. my discord is fortvne#5450 if you wanna plot !!  this is basically just a quick rundown with a tl;dr so if you want to hash anything out I’m very much here for it. )

––– * stats

NAME. Aleksandr Petrovich Rurik

TITLE. Tsar (Emperor) and Autocrat of all Russia

NICKNAMES. Sasha, Sanya (close family only), Sashura (his parents, his sisters if they’re trying to make him feel like a little boy again).

AGE. 28

BIRTHPLACE.  Kolomenskoye, Moscow, Russia

SEXUAL ORIENTATION. Bisexual

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION. Biromantic

MARITAL STATUS. Married to Yelena of House Zopolya

FATHER. Tsar Pyotr Alekseyevich, Autocrat of all Russia

MOTHER. Tsarina Yekaterina Dmitrievna, Empress of all Russia

SIBLINGS.

Anastasia Petrovna, 26

------ Petrovich, --

Tatiana Petrovna, 19

RELIGION. Russian Orthodox

VIRTUES. Generous, fierce-willed, pragmatic and confident, extremely charismatic, likeable, protective

VICES. Selfish, dissolute, brash, irresponsible, short-tempered, violent, careless, reckless

––– * biography

He’s the spare: that’s clear from the very beginning. Three years his brother’s junior, when Sasha was born the palace heaved a great sigh of relief, the news travelling quickly, as such things do, through the packed corridors of the court, passed from whispering lady to lady, hiding their pert mouths behind fur muffs. It was the depths of January; conditions outside were treacherous, and the Tsarina’s six doctors had been trapped inside the palace for two months, terrified to leave in case her pains started early and they were trapped. It wouldn’t just mean the end of their careers -- the Tsar was not forgiving. The Tsarina laboured for only six hours; she was a strong woman, and would have been well enough to attend the christening, if tradition allowed it; as it was, she had to be content with the knowledge that the entire Empire, great swathes of land that featured on European maps as an intimidating mass, was praying for her son.

The Tsar was not a warm man, but Sasha knows very well that he was lucky. His brother was his constant, closest companion, and their father loved to watch them together; it softened the harsh edges of his nature, and made him - if gruff and reluctant to express how he felt - a visibly affectionate father. They were rambunctious boys, brash and confident, raised not only in privilege but on display. The Russian court was one of mobility; life was spent on the road, in rumbling carriages or smooth sledges, or great slender boats pulled along the rivers by teams of snow white horses. The children of the Tsar were raised to see their country as something living, breathing; dangerous, like standing atop of a volcano and feeling the warmth of the fire beneath your feet, but with the comfort of knowing that any explosion, if it comes, will be centuries ahead.

The mysticism and ceremony that cloaked the royal family made them seem, to the uneducated peasants that they passed, like deities settling on earth. The truth was that they were flawed, all of them, and Sasha was no different - in fact, he always thought, he was more flawed than most. His brother would rule one day, and knew it: there was a streak of stern responsibility in him that Sasha envied painfully, and so mocked mercilessly. He has a sense for the ridiculous, and can’t let it pass without comment; his humour, prodding and poking with a good-natured grin at people’s serious natures, wins him friends, but never marked him out for great things politically. As a young Grand-Duke he threw himself into physical activity - fighting, brawling, riding and drinking; all common at the Rurik court. He was hugely popular amongst men and women, and there was a glint of pride in his father’s eyes even when he was forced to scold him - this, his expression seemed to say, is a son. He had been blessed by God: an heir with a grave personality and a firm hand on the tiller, and a spare who made the whole court laugh and smile fondly and forgive him any trespass.

He has a gambler’s instinct for risk, and a liar’s knowledge of where the boundary is: when to push and when to withdraw. His scandals were talked of, but in light tones, fond chatter, even as he grew older, even as the responsibility should have settled on him like snowfall. He was so easy to love. The common people adored him; the soldiers roared for him on parade. His brother was loved as a father even before he was crowned; Sasha was always the people’s son. God looked down at the Ruriks, who had been so careful not to involve themselves in Europe’s military earthquakes, who were so lucky, their two beautiful daughters, their three handsome sons, and snipped the thread that held them upright.

When the Tsar died, it wasn’t wholly unexpected; they had prepared, and Sasha knew his brother would make a good ruler - an excellent one, if fate was kind. They knelt for hours and hours on the stone floor, the interminable ceremonies so precious to the Orthodox church, so long that the incense was embedded in their skin, their hair, their teeth. Sasha’s brother rose, and just like that, he was a God. He would be immortal, and Sasha would be left to the life he was so comfortable with - flying visits to his sisters laden with frivolous presents; hunting at break-neck speed with his group of rowdy, like-minded nobles; women on his lap in the evening and the occasional man in his bed at night. Sex as laughter and poetry; fighting to relieve grief. The great Russian bear, which had stirred at the death of Tsar Pyotr, sighed, rumbled, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

And then - and then.

They were still falling, they just hadn’t realised it yet. Sasha arrived in a flurry of snow and fur, terrified, furious; he was in time, but only by minutes, and his hands were still cold when he kissed his brother’s ring for the last time; his brother’s were colder. He went through the next month in something of a state of shock. The world had shifted incomprehensibly, and Sasha, who had always preferred simplicity, who found the intrigues of the court irritating, whose preferred method of political intimidation was barely veiled threats and liberal use of almost-violence, was adrift and at sea. He married his brother’s widow without thought; his actions were commanded by stronger souls than his, his brother and father’s advisers, the great Princes and Counts. The endless prayers of his coronation passed in three blinks: blink, he was in the ancient, creaking cathedral; blink, the sword was in his hand, the ruby fitting smoothly into his palm; blink, a great sweeping movement, like the unfurling of wings, everyone kneeling.

This journey to England has been a godsend; the Almighty making up, perhaps, for the blows he’s been sending their way lately. So much to organise, to decide; it’s drawn Sasha out of his fury and grief, and in glimpses he’s his old self again, flirtatious, charming, practical. There are few attending countries he likes, and even fewer he trusts; Russia is a terrible enemy to have, and he expects respect. Perhaps in this new environment he and his family can finally begin to recover.

––– * wanted connections

young nobles/royals he might have met before he ascended to the throne - I imagine he travelled a fair bit in his twenties, and was something of a playboy Prince lmao

speaking of which; ex-affairs? Sasha is totally the sort of terrible person to sleep with a Duchess and then abandon her - Princesses might be a bit out of his reach, but he still likes to flirt. He’s got a new wife and things are complicated af to say the least.

RUSSIAN POLITICS! THANKS! Who hates Russia? Who desperately wants Russia’s protection? Who thinks Russia under a bold new monarch with a reputation for starting brawls is a major threat to Europe? Gimme!

uhh everything else xox

[obduratemoon]

Sedimentary City 15: DESCENT

Rehabilitation Systems, also known as the ‘Gulag’, is Sedimentary City’s prison system, located on a level known only by a few elite members of the Oligarchy. As such, it is a closely guarded secret. Prisoners, along with guards, wardens and other employees, are transported there unconscious and in sensory-adiabatic pods. No hint or clue as to its form or topology exists. Hardly any prisoners are allowed back, the few who do return remain tight lipped, perhaps a condition of their release or, more likely, conditioning upon release. It is estimated that perhaps as much as one-fifth to a quarter of the population has been sent down there, a large quantity of people vanished into that undescribed blackness.

The haze of sleep released its grip upon him and like crushed fresh grass, Jan found his awareness slowly arising to once again form himself.  He woke up, languid and quiet, into a place so black and anechoic that it hardly felt like wakefulness, only a shining crystalline ipseity assured him that he was in fact no longer asleep.

The hatch opened and two guards dressed with black on black All-Suits stood by with truncheons in their hands. The All-Suit hoods formed into a visored helmet that was scaled like a pangolin with intermeshed hard plates. They seemed anonymous except for their body shapes, one much taller, the other stocky and thick. Where the visor met the top of their helmet headlamps glowed brightly making it hard to gaze upon them. Jan stood on a dim platform where everything was poorly lit. The only things that he could see were circumscribed within the headlamps’ pools of light.

The tall guard flicked his wrist and his truncheon was brought to life as it arced electricity, a tacit warning.

“Get out and follow us.” he said, not unkindly. Jan did as he was told and they walked off the platform and into a long corridor, almost like a tunnel. At the end of it was a door.

“When you go through this door, take off all your clothes and throw them into the bin. The room is a hygiene chamber, so it will clean you up and then you can put on the provided All-Suit. All prisoners wear it. Just listen to the instructions and make sure you follow them. Failure to do so means that the room will eventually run an execute-and-dispose procedure which, I assume, you do not want.”

The stocky one chuckled.

The tall man leaned in closer and said in a conspiratorial tone. “Mr. Kavfryd, I am also instructed to tell you that after you go through intake, you will meet two men. Go with them. They will take care of you.”

Both the guards raised their visors and looked at the wall on either side of the door, eyes open and revealed for the retinal scan. There was a beep and a click after which the tall guard then opened the door. Jan peered inside: it was minimal and grey, a small box plumb in its utilitarianism.

“Have a good life!” said the tall guard in parting as Jan walked across the threshold. The door closed behind him, irrevocable as death or birth.

As instructed, Jan stripped naked and threw everything into the bin. He was bereft now of all things, the clothes on his back the last artifacts which connected him to his past life. He stepped into the hygiene area and soon a mechanical voice instructed him through the procedure.

“Please stand here, please stand here.” 

Jan moved to stand over a glowing circle on the floor. There was a woosh of air and the air shimmered as nanobots flooded the chamber. They accreted upon Jan’s skin, inside his nose and ears, underneath his cuticles, scraping and collecting dirt and dust. Once begrimed, they fell to the ground, another whooshing sound vacuumed them out.

“Please spread your legs.” Two foot shaped lights glowed to indicate where Jan should put his feet. He did so, his legs now spread out to form something close to a 90 degree angle at his taint. Very quickly, a hole opened up directly underneath him followed by an abrupt pneumatic sound. Jan felt something hard thud and attached itself right near the lip of his anus. Before he could scream or contract his sphincter, the thing had crawled inside and he felt it wriggling up, a cold metallic bolus, impossibly high into his guts. Jan let go of his breath and he gasped for air panting fast, eyes wide with alarm and horror. It was an alien feeling, excruciating and exquisite, which sent him reeling.

“Please be calm,” the room said matter of factly, “that is a tracker bot which will live just above your rectum for the duration of your stay at Rehabilitation Systems. Please step forward and put on the regulation All Suit.”

Jan took a long time gathering his wits and calming his breath again. But now that the thing had stopped moving and had been warmed up to be the same temperature as his body he could not feel it anymore.

He walked awkwardly and delicately into the next room which had a small bench and on the wall across from it was an All Suit, bright and pink. Jan declined to sit. The All Suit was made from coarse materials, pocketless and plain, hardly more than a jumpsuit. Jan wondered at how -- even now, in the pits of despair and nadir of his life, just moments before he was to be ingested into the Gulag and ejected from all life as he knew it -- it was possible that some part of him still managed to react with visceral disgust at the ugliness of this particular All Suit. How could it be that he still noticed or cared? It worried Jan that the perhaps at the core of himself -- basic, immutable, and constant -- was nothing grand nor poetic but instead merely a collection of capricious whims. Perhaps man’s recalcitrance at introspection has nothing to do with a fear of some chthonic and unholy monsters, but rather dread at finding nothing there besides baubles, vanities, and comic trifles.

Jan zipped up the suit and the voice then began to list all the rules and regulations within the Rehabilitation System, the gist of which was that there were many rules to follow but it was well known that only a few of them mattered. The state hardly cared what happened in the Gulag as long as the prisoners never made it out, a fact assured by the tracker. The tracker could be used to locate anyone, but it also doubled as a tiny internal bomb if anyone left a certain perimeter away from the Gulag. It was a small detonation, just enough to turn a person's lower intestines and rectum into a morass of carnal destruction as if meat pushed through a grinder. It was a drawn out and horrible death, the victims allowed to slowly contemplate their mistake as chunks of innards fell out of a horrendously expanded anus. Few attempted escape.

Finally the voice proclaimed, “Now you are ready to go inside.” And a door slid open to reveal a portal into a dark and enclosed world. The Gulag lived in constant subterranean twilight, the amount of electricity supplied to it was strictly limited and controlled.

Jan walked out and looked around, blinking his eyes as they adjusted to the dimness. Out from the shadows a voice called out.

“Jan? Jan Kavfryd, yes?”

“Yes.” Jan replied.

“Very good.” The man turned on his headlight and approached Jan. He was average in stature, his posture slumped as he walked with a slow saunter of arrogant dejection. The light of the headlamp threw out a weak trickle of tarnished yellowed light which jumped and moved with a life of his own, but in fact a function of his strange gait and gaze.

When he got closer Jan noticed that behind him, half hidden in penumbra, was another man, a giant, as wide as two people with prominent muscles noticeable even in all this darkness. Jan could not help but noticed that their All Suits were not pink but rather a dark grey. Each wore an arm band, light grey with a circle half black and half white described within.

The man who spoke was close to Jan now and he saw the pallid face of an older man, pale as paper. He extended a hand, “Pyotr. It’s a pleasure. The Boss and your father have done some business, on your behalf. So here we are. The guards must have told you as much. The Gulag is abuzz with the news of a Kavfryd, but no need to worry, you will be safe with us.”

Jan shook his hand, which was rough and calloused. He did not feel particularly assured by what Pyotr had to say but what choice did he have? 

“Jan,” he said although they knew who he was already, “and thank you.”

The man jerked a hand over his right shoulder at the subsequent shrouded giant who stood behind him.

“That’s Rollo. Not much of a speaker, but capable and strong! Before he came here he was an Enforcer for the State, if you can believe it. But one day he went on a rampage, killed a crowd. Not that it  should matter for an Enforcer, they usually get away with most murders. But one of the victims happened to be a high level Processor. Bad luck. I heard you off’d a Processor as well, eh?”

At this Pyotr emitted a slow chuckle. “I must say, I am surprised. You don’t look like the type.”

Jan remained quiet, gave a small shrug. What could he say?

“Well, it’s like they say, the only good Processor is dead one right? Rollo! Shake Mr. Kavfyrd’s hand already, don’t be impolite.”

The gargantuan man moved forward like a Rhino, placid and menacing at the same time. Close up his size was even more impressive, bulky and yoked up with trapezius so large as to make his neck delible. His hand was meaty and large and it enveloped Jan’s the way an adult's hand consumes a small child’s, yet his grip was gentle, almost delicate.

“A pleasure.” Rollo’s voice was low yet somehow sonorous and resonant. Up close Jan could see that he was as pale as Pyotr, as if carved from ivory, with strikingly sad eyes. Jan thought of the Elephant in the zoo, and felt that similar sensation of having a huge animal come forth and approach. A bit astonished and intimidated, Jan nodded his head in reply.

“Well, no point in standing around here talking by the intake portals, we should get you back. The Boss is excited to see you Mr. Kavfryd, and we mustn't keep him waiting. But we can’t travel with you looking like that. Here, put this one on instead.”

Pyotr reached into a duffle bag that Rollo had been holding and pulled out a dark grey All Suit. In the large man’s hands it almost looked like a mere handbag.

“And you’ll need this headlamp as well. It’s one of the brighter ones, just for until your eyes adjust.”

After changing Jan stood holding the pink All-Suit, his erstwhile garb, looking a bit lost.

“Ah, just leave that here,” Pyotr said, “no one wears that pink shit except the chattel. Ok, now come with us.”

[readbookywooks]

They Arrive at the Monastery

IT was a warm, bright day the end of August. The interview with the elder had been fixed for half-past eleven, immediately after late mass. Our visitors did not take part in the service, but arrived just as it was over. First an elegant open carriage, drawn by two valuable horses, drove up with Miusov and a distant relative of his, a young man of twenty, called Pyotr Fomitch Kalganov. This young man was preparing to enter the university. Miusov with whom he was staying for the time, was trying to persuade him to go abroad to the university of Zurich or Jena. The young man was still undecided. He was thoughtful and absent-minded. He was nice-looking, strongly built, and rather tall. There was a strange fixity in his gaze at times. Like all very absent-minded people he would sometimes stare at a person without seeing him. He was silent and rather awkward, but sometimes, when he was alone with anyone, he became talkative and effusive, and would laugh at anything or nothing. But his animation vanished as quickly as it appeared. He was always well and even elaborately dressed; he had already some independent fortune and expectations of much more. He was a friend of Alyosha's. In an ancient, jolting, but roomy, hired carriage, with a pair of old pinkish-grey horses, a long way behind Miusov's carriage, came Fyodor Pavlovitch, with his son Ivan. Dmitri was late, though he had been informed of the time the evening before. The visitors left their carriage at the hotel, outside the precincts, and went to the gates of the monastery on foot. Except Fyodor Pavlovitch, more of the party had ever seen the monastery, and Miusov had probably not even been to church for thirty years. He looked about him with curiosity, together with assumed ease. But, except the church and the domestic buildings, though these too were ordinary enough, he found nothing of interest in the interior of the monastery. The last of the worshippers were coming out of the church bareheaded and crossing themselves. Among the humbler people were a few of higher rank - two or three ladies and a very old general. They were all staying at the hotel. Our visitors were at once surrounded by beggars, but none of them gave them anything, except young Kalganov, who took a ten-copeck piece out of his purse, and, nervous and embarrassed - God knows why! - hurriedly gave it to an old woman, saying: "Divide it equally." None of his companions made any remark upon it, so that he had no reason to be embarrassed; but, perceiving this, he was even more overcome. It was strange that their arrival did not seem expected, and that they were not received with special honour, though one of them had recently made a donation of a thousand roubles, while another was a very wealthy and highly cultured landowner, upon whom all in the monastery were in a sense dependent, as a decision of the lawsuit might at any moment put their fishing rights in his hands. Yet no official personage met them. Miusov looked absent-mindedly at the tombstones round the church, and was on the point of saying that the dead buried here must have paid a pretty penny for the right of lying in this "holy place," but refrained. His liberal irony was rapidly changing almost into anger. "Who the devil is there to ask in this imbecile place? We must find out, for time is passing," he observed suddenly, as though speaking to himself. All at once there came up a bald-headed, elderly man with ingratiating little eyes, wearing a full, summer overcoat. Lifting his hat, he introduced himself with a honeyed lisp as Maximov, a landowner of Tula. He at once entered into our visitors' difficulty. "Father Zossima lives in the hermitage, apart, four hundred paces from the monastery, the other side of the copse." "I know it's the other side of the copse," observed Fyodor Pavlovitch, "but we don't remember the way. It is a long time since we've been here." "This way, by this gate, and straight across the copse... the copse. Come with me, won't you? I'll show you. I have to go.... I am going myself. This way, this way." They came out of the gate and turned towards the copse. Maximov, a man of sixty, ran rather than walked, turning sideways to stare at them all, with an incredible degree of nervous curiosity. His eyes looked starting out of his head. "You see, we have come to the elder upon business of our own," observed Miusov severely. "That personage has granted us an audience, so to speak, and so, though we thank you for showing us the way, we cannot ask you to accompany us." "I've been there. I've been already; un chevalier parfait," and Maximov snapped his fingers in the air. "Who is a chevalier?" asked Miusov. "The elder, the splendid elder, the elder! The honour and glory of the monastery, Zossima. Such an elder!" But his incoherent talk was cut short by a very pale, wan-looking monk of medium height wearing a monk's cap, who overtook them. Fyodor Pavlovitch and Miusov stopped. The monk, with an extremely courteous, profound bow, announced: "The Father Superior invites all of you gentlemen to dine with him after your visit to the hermitage. At one o'clock, not later. And you also," he added, addressing Maximov. "That I certainly will, without fail," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, hugely delighted at the invitation. "And, believe me, we've all given our word to behave properly here.... And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, will you go, too?" "Yes, of course. What have I come for but to study all the customs here? The only obstacle to me is your company...." "Yes, Dmitri Fyodorovitch is non-existent as yet." "It would be a capital thing if he didn't turn up. Do you suppose I like all this business, and in your company, too? So we will come to dinner. Thank the Father Superior," he said to the monk. "No, it is my duty now to conduct you to the elder," answered the monk. "If so I'll go straight to the Father Superior - to the Father Superior," babbled Maximov. "The Father Superior is engaged just now. But as you please - " the monk hesitated. "Impertinent old man!" Miusov observed aloud, while Maximov ran back to the monastery. "He's like von Sohn," Fyodor Pavlovitch said suddenly. "Is that all you can think of?... In what way is he like von Sohn? Have you ever seen von Sohn?" "I've seen his portrait. It's not the features, but something indefinable. He's a second von Sohn. I can always tell from the physiognomy." "Ah, I dare say you are a connoisseur in that. But, look here, Fyodor Pavlovitch, you said just now that we had given our word to behave properly. Remember it. I advise you to control yourself. But, if you begin to play the fool I don't intend to be associated with you here... You see what a man he is" - he turned to the monk - "I'm afraid to go among decent people with him." A fine smile, not without a certain slyness, came on to the pale, bloodless lips of the monk, but he made no reply, and was evidently silent from a sense of his own dignity. Miusov frowned more than ever. "Oh, devil take them all! An outer show elaborated through centuries, and nothing but charlatanism and nonsense underneath," flashed through Miusov's mind. "Here's the hermitage. We've arrived," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. "The gates are shut." And he repeatedly made the sign of the cross to the saints painted above and on the sides of the gates. "When you go to Rome you must do as the Romans do. Here in this hermitage there are twenty-five saints being saved. They look at one another, and eat cabbages. And not one woman goes in at this gate. That's what is remarkable. And that really is so. But I did hear that the elder receives ladies," he remarked suddenly to the monk. "Women of the people are here too now, lying in the portico there waiting. But for ladies of higher rank two rooms have been built adjoining the portico, but outside the precincts you can see the windows - and the elder goes out to them by an inner passage when he is well enough. They are always outside the precincts. There is a Harkov lady, Madame Hohlakov, waiting there now with her sick daughter. Probably he has promised to come out to her, though of late he has been so weak that he has hardly shown himself even to the people." "So then there are loopholes, after all, to creep out of the hermitage to the ladies. Don't suppose, holy father, that I mean any harm. But do you know that at Athos not only the visits of women are not allowed, but no creature of the female sex - no hens, nor turkey hens, nor cows." "Fyodor Pavlovitch, I warn you I shall go back and leave you here. They'll turn you out when I'm gone." "But I'm not interfering with you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. Look," he cried suddenly, stepping within the precincts, "what a vale of roses they live in!" Though there were no roses now, there were numbers of rare and beautiful autumn flowers growing wherever there was space for them, and evidently tended by a skilful hand; there were flower-beds round the church, and between the tombs; and the one-storied wooden house where the elder lived was also surrounded with flowers. "And was it like this in the time of the last elder, Varsonofy? He didn't care for such elegance. They say he used to jump up and thrash even ladies with a stick," observed Fyodor Pavlovitch, as he went up the steps. "The elder Varsonofy did sometimes seem rather strange, but a great deal that's told is foolishness. He never thrashed anyone," answered the monk. "Now, gentlemen, if you will wait a minute I will announce you." "Fyodor Pavlovitch, for the last time, your compact, do you hear? Behave properly or I will pay you out!" Miusov had time to mutter again. "I can't think why you are so agitated," Fyodor Pavlovitch observed sarcastically. "Are you uneasy about your sins? They say he can tell by one's eyes what one has come about. And what a lot you think of their opinion! you, a Parisian, and so advanced. I'm surprised at you." But Miusov had no time to reply to this sarcasm. They were asked to come in. He walked in, somewhat irritated. "Now, I know myself, I am annoyed, I shall lose my temper and begin to quarrel - and lower myself and my ideas," he reflected.

[readbookywooks]

The Old Buffoon

THEY entered the room almost at the same moment that the elder came in from his bedroom. There were already in the cell, awaiting the elder, two monks of the hermitage, one the Father Librarian, and the other Father Paissy, a very learned man, so they said, in delicate health, though not old. There was also a tall young man, who looked about two and twenty, standing in the corner throughout the interview. He had a broad, fresh face, and clever, observant, narrow brown eyes, and was wearing ordinary dress. He was a divinity student, living under the protection of the monastery. His expression was one of unquestioning, but self-respecting, reverence. Being in a subordinate and dependent position, and so not on an equality with the guests, he did not greet them with a bow. Father Zossima was accompanied by a novice, and by Alyosha. The two monks rose and greeted him with a very deep bow, touching the ground with their fingers; then kissed his hand. Blessing them, the elder replied with as deep a reverence to them, and asked their blessing. The whole ceremony was performed very seriously and with an appearance of feeling, not like an everyday rite. But Miusov fancied that it was all done with intentional impressiveness. He stood in front of the other visitors. He ought - he had reflected upon it the evening before -from simple politeness, since it was the custom here, to have gone up to receive the elder's blessing, even if he did not kiss his hand. But when he saw all this bowing and kissing on the part of the monks he instantly changed his mind. With dignified gravity he made a rather deep, conventional bow, and moved away to a chair. Fyodor Pavlovitch did the same, mimicking Miusov like an ape. Ivan bowed with great dignity and courtesy, but he too kept his hands at his sides, while Kalganov was so confused that he did not bow at all. The elder let fall the hand raised to bless them, and bowing to them again, asked them all to sit down. The blood rushed to Alyosha's cheeks. He was ashamed. His forebodings were coming true. Father Zossima sat down on a very old-fashioned mahogany sofa, covered with leather, and made his visitors sit down in a row along the opposite wall on four mahogany chairs, covered with shabby black leather. The monks sat, one at the door and the other at the window. The divinity student, the novice, and Alyosha remained standing. The cell was not very large and had a faded look. It contained nothing but the most necessary furniture, of coarse and poor quality. There were two pots of flowers in the window, and a number of holy pictures in the corner. Before one huge ancient ikon of the virgin a lamp was burning. Near it were two other holy pictures in shining settings, and, next them, carved cherubim, china eggs, a Catholic cross of ivory, with a Mater Dolorosa embracing it, and several foreign engravings from the great Italian artists of past centuries. Next to these costly and artistic engravings were several of the roughest Russian prints of saints and martyrs, such as are sold for a few farthings at all the fairs. On the other walls were portraits of Russian bishops, past and present. Miusov took a cursory glance at all these "conventional" surroundings and bent an intent look upon the elder. He had a high opinion of his own insight a weakness excusable in him as he was fifty, an age at which a clever man of the world of established position can hardly help taking himself rather seriously. At the first moment he did not like Zossima. There was, indeed, something in the elder's face which many people besides Miusov might not have liked. He was a short, bent, little man, with very weak legs, and though he was only sixty-five, he looked at least ten years older. His face was very thin and covered with a network of fine wrinkles, particularly numerous about his eyes, which were small, light-coloured, quick, and shining like two bright points. He had a sprinkling of grey hair about his temples. His pointed beard was small and scanty, and his lips, which smiled frequently, were as thin as two threads. His nose was not long, but sharp, like a bird's beak. "To all appearances a malicious soul, full of petty pride," thought Miusov. He felt altogether dissatisfied with his position. A cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and served to begin the conversation. "Precisely to our time," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, "but no sign of my son, Dmitri. I apologise for him, sacred elder!" (Alyosha shuddered all over at "sacred elder".) "I am always punctual myself, minute for minute, remembering that punctuality is the courtesy of kings.... "But you are not a king, anyway," Miusov muttered, losing his self-restraint at once. "Yes; that's true. I'm not a king, and, would you believe it, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, I was aware of that myself. But, there! I always say the wrong thing. Your reverence," he cried, with sudden pathos, "you behold before you a buffoon in earnest! I introduce myself as such. It's an old habit, alas! And if I sometimes talk nonsense out of place it's with an object, with the object of amusing people and making myself agreeable. One must be agreeable, mustn't one? I was seven years ago in a little town where I had business, and I made friends with some merchants there. We went to the captain of police because we had to see him about something, and to ask him to dine with us. He was a tall, fat, fair, sulky man, the most dangerous type in such cases. It's their liver. I went straight up to him, and with the ease of a man of the world, you know, 'Mr. Ispravnik,' said I, 'be our Napravnik.' 'What do you mean by Napravnik?' said he. I saw, at the first half-second, that it had missed fire. He stood there so glum. 'I wanted to make a joke,' said I, 'for the general diversion, as Mr. Napravnik is our well-known Russian orchestra conductor and what we need for the harmony of our undertaking is someone of that sort.' And I explained my comparison very reasonably, didn't I? 'Excuse me,' said he, 'I am an Ispravnik, and I do not allow puns to be made on my calling.' He turned and walked away. I followed him, shouting, 'Yes, yes, you are an Ispravnik, not a Napravnik.' 'No,' he said, 'since you called me a Napravnik I am one.' And would you believe it, it ruined our business! And I'm always like that, always like that. Always injuring myself with my politeness. Once, many years ago, I said to an influential person: 'Your wife is a ticklish lady,' in an honourable sense, of the moral qualities, so to speak. But he asked me, 'Why, have you tickled her?' I thought I'd be polite, so I couldn't help saying, 'Yes,' and he gave me a fine tickling on the spot. Only that happened long ago, so I'm not ashamed to tell the story. I'm always injuring myself like that." "You're doing it now," muttered Miusov, with disgust. Father Zossima scrutinised them both in silence. "Am I? Would you believe it, I was aware of that, too, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, and let tell you, indeed, I foresaw I should as soon as I began to speak. And do you know I foresaw, too, that you'd be the first to remark on it. The minute I see my joke isn't coming off, your reverence, both my cheeks feel as though they were drawn down to the lower jaw and there is almost a spasm in them. That's been so since I was young, when I had to make jokes for my living in noblemen's families. I am an inveterate buffoon, and have been from birth up, your reverence, it's as though it were a craze in me. I dare say it's a devil within me. But only a little one. A more serious one would have chosen another lodging. But not your soul, Pyotr Alexandrovitch; you're not a lodging worth having either. But I do believe - I believe in God, though I have had doubts of late. But now I sit and await words of wisdom. I'm like the philosopher, Diderot, your reverence. Did you ever hear, most Holy Father, how Diderot went to see the Metropolitan Platon, in the time of the Empress Catherine? He went in and said straight out, 'There is no God.' To which the great bishop lifted up his finger and answered, 'The fool has said in his heart there is no God and he fell down at his feet on the spot. 'I believe,' he cried, 'and will be christened.' And so he was. Princess Dashkov was his godmother, and Potyomkin his godfather." "Fyodor Pavlovitch, this is unbearable! You know you're telling lies and that that stupid anecdote isn't true. Why are you playing the fool?" cried Miusov in a shaking voice. "I suspected all my life that it wasn't true," Fyodor Pavlovitch cried with conviction. "But I'll tell you the whole truth, gentlemen. Great elder! Forgive me, the last thing about Diderot's christening I made up just now. I never thought of it before. I made it up to add piquancy. I play the fool, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to make myself agreeable. Though I really don't know myself, sometimes, what I do it for. And as for Diderot, I heard as far as 'the fool hath said in his heart' twenty times from the gentry about here when I was young. I heard your aunt, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, tell the story. They all believe to this day that the infidel Diderot came to dispute about God with the Metropolitan Platon...." Miusov got up, forgetting himself in his impatience. He was furious, and conscious of being ridiculous. What was taking place in the cell was really incredible. For forty or fifty years past, from the times of former elders, no visitors had entered that cell without feelings of the profoundest veneration. Almost everyone admitted to the cell felt that a great favour was being shown him. Many remained kneeling during the whole visit. Of those visitors, many had been men of high rank and learning, some even free thinkers, attracted by curiosity, but all without exception had shown the profoundest reverence and delicacy, for here there was no question of money, but only, on the one side love and kindness, and on the other penitence and eager desire to decide some spiritual problem or crisis. So that such buffoonery amazed and bewildered the spectators, or at least some of them. The monks, with unchanged countenances, waited, with earnest attention, to hear what the elder would say, but seemed on the point of standing up, like Miusov. Alyosha stood, with hanging head, on the verge of tears. What seemed to him strangest of all was that his brother Ivan, on whom alone he had rested his hopes, and who alone had such influence on his father that he could have stopped him, sat now quite unmoved, with downcast eyes, apparently waiting with interest to see how it would end, as though he had nothing to do with it. Alyosha did not dare to look at Rakitin, the divinity student, whom he knew almost intimately. He alone in the monastery knew Rakitin's thoughts. "Forgive me," began Miusov, addressing Father Zossima, "for perhaps I seem to be taking part in this shameful foolery. I made a mistake in believing that even a man like Fyodor Pavlovitch would understand what was due on a visit to so honoured a personage. I did not suppose I should have to apologise simply for having come with him...." Pyotr Alexandrovitch could say no more, and was about to leave the room, overwhelmed with confusion. "Don't distress yourself, I beg." The elder got on to his feeble legs, and taking Pyotr Alexandrovitch by both hands, made him sit down again. "I beg you not to disturb yourself. I particularly beg you to be my guest." And with a bow he went back and sat down again on his little sofa. "Great elder, speak! Do I annoy you by my vivacity?" Fyodor Pavlovitch cried suddenly, clutching the arms of his chair in both hands, as though ready to leap up from it if the answer were unfavourable. "I earnestly beg you, too, not to disturb yourself, and not to be uneasy," the elder said impressively. "Do not trouble. Make yourself quite at home. And, above all, do not be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all." "Quite at home? To be my natural self? Oh, that is much too much, but I accept it with grateful joy. Do you know, blessed father, you'd better not invite me to be my natural self. Don't risk it.... I will not go so far as that myself. I warn you for your own sake. Well, the rest is still plunged in the mists of uncertainty, though there are people who'd be pleased to describe me for you. I mean that for you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. But as for you, holy being, let me tell you, I am brimming over with ecstasy." He got up, and throwing up his hands, declaimed, "Blessed be the womb that bare thee, and the paps that gave thee suck - the paps especially. When you said just now, 'Don't be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all,' you pierced right through me by that remark, and read me to the core. Indeed, I always feel when I meet people that I am lower than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon. So I say, 'Let me really play the buffoon. I am not afraid of your opinion, for you are every one of you worse than I am.' That is why I am a buffoon. It is from shame, great elder, from shame; it's simply over-sensitiveness that makes me rowdy. If I had only been sure that everyone would accept me as the kindest and wisest of men, oh, Lord, what a good man I should have been then! Teacher!" he fell suddenly on his knees, "what must I do to gain eternal life?" It was difficult even now to decide whether he was joking or really moved. Father Zossima, lifting his eyes, looked at him, and said with a smile: "You have known for a long time what you must do. You have sense enough: don't give way to drunkenness and incontinence of speech; don't give way to sensual lust; and, above all, to the love of money. And close your taverns. If you can't close all, at least two or three. And, above all - don't lie." "You mean about Diderot?" "No, not about Diderot. Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than anyone. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offence, isn't it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehill - he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offence, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness. But get up, sit down, I beg you. All this, too, is deceitful posturing...." "Blessed man! Give me your hand to kiss." Fyodor Pavlovitch skipped up, and imprinted a rapid kiss on the elder's thin hand. "It is, it is pleasant to take offence. You said that so well, as I never heard it before. Yes, I have been all my life taking offence, to please myself, taking offence on aesthetic grounds, for it is not so much pleasant as distinguished sometimes to be insulted -that you had forgotten, great elder, it is distinguished! I shall make a note of that. But I have been lying, lying positively my whole life long, every day and hour of it. Of a truth, I am a lie, and the father of lies. Though I believe I am not the father of lies. I am getting mixed in my texts. Say, the son of lies, and that will be enough. Only... my angel... may sometimes talk about Diderot! Diderot will do no harm, though sometimes a word will do harm. Great elder, by the way, I was forgetting, though I had been meaning for the last two years to come here on purpose to ask and to find out something. Only do tell Pyotr Alexandrovitch not to interrupt me. Here is my question: Is it true, great Father, that the story is told somewhere in the Lives of the Saints of a holy saint martyred for his faith who, when his head was cut off at last, stood up, picked up his head, and, 'courteously kissing it,' walked a long way, carrying it in his hands. Is that true or not, honoured Father?" "No, it is untrue," said the elder. "There is nothing of the kind in all the lives of the saints. What saint do you say the story is told of?" asked the Father Librarian. "I do not know what saint. I do not know, and can't tell. I was deceived. I was told the story. I had heard it, and do you know who told it? Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miusov here, was so angry just now about Diderot. He it was who told the story." "I have never told it you, I never speak to you at all." "It is true you did not tell me, but you told it when I was present. It was three years ago. I mentioned it because by that ridiculous story you shook my faith, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You knew nothing of it, but I went home with my faith shaken, and I have been getting more and more shaken ever since. Yes, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you were the cause of a great fall. That was not a Diderot! Fyodor Pavlovitch got excited and pathetic, though it was perfectly clear to everyone by now that he was playing a part again. Yet Miusov was stung by his words. "What nonsense, and it is all nonsense," he muttered. "I may really have told it, some time or other... but not to you. I was told it myself. I heard it in Paris from a Frenchman. He told me it was read at our mass from the Lives of the Saints... he was a very learned man who had made a special study of Russian statistics and had lived a long time in Russia.... I have not read the Lives of the Saints myself, and I am not going to read them... all sorts of things are said at dinner - we were dining then." "Yes, you were dining then, and so I lost my faith!" said Fyodor Pavlovitch, mimicking him. "What do I care for your faith?" Miusov was on the point of shouting, but he suddenly checked himself, and said with contempt, "You defile everything you touch." The elder suddenly rose from his seat. "Excuse me, gentlemen, for leaving you a few minutes," he said, addressing all his guests. "I have visitors awaiting me who arrived before you. But don't you tell lies all the same," he added, turning to Fyodor Pavlovitch with a good-humoured face. He went out of the cell. Alyosha and the novice flew to escort him down the steps. Alyosha was breathless: he was glad to get away, but he was glad, too, that the elder was good-humoured and not offended. Father Zossima was going towards the portico to bless the people waiting for him there. But Fyodor Pavlovitch persisted, in stopping him at the door of the cell. "Blessed man!" he cried, with feeling. "Allow me to kiss your hand once more. Yes, with you I could still talk, I could still get on. Do you think I always lie and play the fool like this? Believe me, I have been acting like this all the time on purpose to try you. I have been testing you all the time to see whether I could get on with you. Is there room for my humility beside your pride? I am ready to give you a testimonial that one can get on with you! But now, I'll be quiet; I will keep quiet all the time. I'll sit in a chair and hold my tongue. Now it is for you to speak, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You are the principal person left now - for ten minutes."