#its like the homoeroticism of a right hand man means NOTHING to you people !!

[vigilskeep]

we need to start romanticising the dwarven concept of seconds. NOW.

[scarletjedi]

Sangcheng Time Travel Fix It Chapter 1

I think I *might* have figured out how to end the outline, so that will hopefully be posted in the next day or so, in the mean time, have the first chapter. This is all but a rough draft, and unbetad, so bear with me people. I *think* I’ve used the correct terms for everything, and I think everything and everyone is decently named, but if you notice any glaring errors, please let me know!

Notes at the end of the chapter

Rated M for the inherent homoeroticism of wound care (ie, a sex scene no more graphic than I’ve read in mainstream media, but if you want to skip it, cut to the very end once they kiss)

Jin Guangyao was dead, and for the first time in years, Nie Huaisang had no idea what expression was on his face. His fan was tucked into his belt, his hands full of blood and sand and Jin Guangyao’s ever-present hat.

He didn’t know why he had grabbed it. A token? A reminder? Proof? Of what, he wasn’t sure. That it was over, maybe.

He really didn’t know.

Lost in thought, he wandered away from the steps, leaving Lan Xichen to his own grief. It would be a while before Nie Huaisang was truly welcome in Lan Xichen’s presence, if ever. Lan Xichen always was forgiving, right up until he wasn’t.  

Huaisang’s vision, hazy and unfocused as it was, suddenly filled with purple and deep indigo, and he stopped just short of collision. Blinking, he raised his head to meet Jiang Wanyin’s eyes.

It was well known that the legendary Sandu Shengshou had only one expression – a harsh, disapproving scowl. It was certainly the only expression he ever wore at discussion conferences. Huaisang remembered differently, however. He remembered surprisingly soft smiles, eyes that widened with wonder as a deep flush crawled across his cheekbones. He remembered, too, the way tears would glisten as they fell, his face twisting—

Jiang Wanyin’s mouth scowled, yes, but his eyes were red-rimmed and soft, and Huaisang wasn’t sure he’d ever actually seen the look in them before. Considering everything he had learned tonight, Huaisang wasn’t sure that Jiang Wanyin had looked that way before. Perhaps when Lotus Pier fell.  

Oh. He was talking.

“—ack to Lotus Pier.”

Huaisang blinked. “I am sorry, Jiang-xiong. I’m afraid I didn’t hear you.” 

The scowl deepened, though Huaisang was pretty sure it was concern rather than anger.

“I said, ‘Come back to Lotus Pier.’ You’re in no condition to make the trip back to Qinghe right now.” Even now, his requests sounded like orders. Da-ge had been like that, too, showing his care the only way he knew how. As a teenager, Huaisang had found comfort in the ways he pushed those boundaries. “Rest before you head back North.”

But Huaisang wasn’t a teenager anymore.

“Ah,” Huaisang said, pulling on a watery smile, raising Jin Guangyao’s hat like it was a fan and catching himself only at the last moment. “Sect Leader Jaing—”

“Nie Huaisang,” Jiang Wanyin said, cutting off his protests. He must be so very tired, the way his voice crackled like the lightning that he had chained to his hand. “Enough.”

Huaisang closed eyes that burned from the dust still wafting around them. The last thing he wanted was to be Sect Leader Nie right now, and no matter how Jiang Wanyin might insist otherwise, Huaisang wouldn’t be able to put that mask down anywhere but The Unclean Realm. 

His hand tightened on Jin Guangyao’s hat. That was <i>before</i>. The whole point of tonight was to make things different, moving forward. “Alright,” he said. “Yes.”

Jiang Wanyin didn’t move for a long moment, long enough for Huaisang to realize, to open his eyes again, feeling frozen by the intensity of that look. He couldn’t for the life of him decide what it meant. 

Jin Ling’s voice rang across the courtyard, and Huaisang startled, but it was enough to break the moment. Jiang Wanyin stalked off, corralling the chaos by pure force of will.

Huaisang looked around. It would be easy enough to disappear, to slink into the morning crowd and find a room in an inn to hide and break-down like the disreputable sect leader everyone knew he was – until he could reaffix his own mask and return home with what passed for dignity these days.

But if he was anywhere in Yunmeng, Jiang Wanyin would simply find him and drag him to Lotus Pier himself.

A small smile curled the corner of his lip. If he had more energy, he might do it anyway, simply for the chance to rile his old friend.

If they were still friends. Huaisang wasn’t sure he had any of those anymore.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Huaisang leaned back against a pillar and waited. His disciples found him not long after. They are a good group, he thinks. Young. Very young. They would have been just barely juniors when Huaisang became sect leader, old enough to remember Da-ge, but young enough to be Huaisang’s. It was why he had chosen them for this, after all.

The future of the Nie sect. Looking into their concerned faces, he wondered how many he would have to bury himself.

…Perhaps Jiang Wanyin was right about him needing rest. He was getting maudlin.

“Sect Leader?” Nie Zonglin, the most senior disciple of this group, asked in a voice pitched to not carry, and Huaisang realized his frown had made it to his face.

He almost pasted on a smile. “We will be returning to Lotus Pier for the next few days, to recover from the recent—” he waved his hand, Jin Guangyao’s hand circling in front of him. “…excitement. When we return, send word home not to expect us before the end of the week.”

Nie Zonglin nodded in understanding, and Huaisang’s eyes fell to his hands again.

He lifted the hat.

“And do something about this, won’t you?”

~*~

Lotus Pier was as Jiang Cheng left it, rushing out into the storm after Fairy and Jin Ling. He was a necessary presence, of course, but he’d be damned if his sect couldn’t mind itself for a few hours.

He had rushed out  in the middle of the night, and had turned homeward as the sun crested the horizon. The sun was now high enough in the sky to call the time “morning” rather than “dawn.” They had been out all night. He was tired in a way he hadn’t felt since the worst days of the Sunshot Campaign, the skin of his face taught with dried tears.

Several of the sects that had sought shelter in Lotus Pier after the failure at the Burial Mounds had already left, having been able to sleep through the night, unaware that the cultivation world had been spun on its head. Again.

He turned to his seneschal, informing him that those who had stayed to take advantage of his hospitality (minus, of course, Jin Ling and Nie Huaisang) were to be subtly but firmly told to get the hell off his pier.

“I have a private meeting with Sect Leader Nie,” he said, not reacting to but very aware of the way Nie Huaisang’s focus burned on the back of his head. “Bring a meal. And wine.” It was too early for wine. They were going to need the wine. “Other than that, see to it that we are not disturbed.” His seneschal bowed, moving quickly to fulfill his tasks.

“A-Ling,” Jiang Cheng said, turning. His chest was throbbing painfully, as if the damning red line still bright against his nephew’s neck had reminded him that he, himself, was injured. “See a healer, and then get some rest.”

Jin Ling looked blank for a moment; shock, grief, exhaustion. Jiang Cheng knew it well, the way it was far too much when your world had collapsed and you were faced with the reality that nothing stops for your own grief. “I have to…” he started, trailing off.

As heir to the Lanling Jin Sect, Jin Ling had to return to Koi Tower, had to claim his birthright, had to spin the damage caused by another Sect Leader killed during their own immoral dealings.

At least Jin Ling wouldn’t have to deal with being Chief Cultivator. There was no way the world would follow an untested teenager. There would be elections, then. Soon. But not yet.

“You have to sleep,” Jiang Cheng said, firmly but without much of his customary coarseness. That, too, seemed to have been stripped away in that temple. He braced his hands on Jin Ling’s shoulders. It was enough to break Jin Ling from his stupor and he scowled at his uncle. “Listen to me, for once,” Jiang Cheng said, shaking him gently. “Eat. Sleep. Cry if you need to.” He shook him once more, when it looked like Jin Ling might interrupt. “When you wake, we will plan your next steps. We are family,” he said, his sister’s voice echoing in his ears. “We must stick together.”

At his side, Fairy whined. Still, she was the only exception to Lotus Pier’s ban on dogs, and that’s only because it was Jin Lings, and Jiang Cheng was never going to take his nephew’s puppy from his care. Jin Ling’s hand trailed down to bury itself in Fairy’s run, and Jin Ling nodded.

He stepped back, bowing too low for courtesy between sect leaders, but Jiang Cheng wasn’t going to correct him now, like this. It could wait for the pain to pass.

Jiang Cheng waited until Jin Ling was out of sight before he said, barely turning: “Sect Leader Nie. If you’ll follow me,” and let his feet take him down the well-familiar path to his personal quarters. They could talk in his reception area there, and he would be that much closer to his own bed. Nie Huaisang would be father from his guest quarters, and it may be considered ruse, but Jiang Cheng didn’t have it left in him to care. If Nie Huaisang wanted that kind of consideration, he wouldn’t have…

Even in his head, the threats failed to take root. He could threaten all he wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that he lacked information about tonight’s…production.

Jiang Cheng nearly stopped walking, several pieces falling into place. He had interrupted a production, tonight – a stage show performed to capture, expose, and execute the man who had killed Nie Huaisang’s brother, before a captive audience.

And here he had Nie Huaisang, famed patron of the arts.

Shaking his head to dismiss the thought, Jiang Cheng opened the door to his quarters, looking at Nie Huaisang who dismissed the two disciples who had followed him with a wave of his fan, held unfurled in his hand, before preceding Jiang Cheng into the room.

It was not  the first time Jiang Cheng had hosted Nie Huaisang in his private suite. In the early years, before he had become Sect Leader Nie, he had traveled often – mostly to Lanling, but not infrequently to Lotus Pier, appearing often with only a few days notice (if any), to wander the markets and drink Jiang Cheng’s wine. (Truthfully, those days were one of the few fond memories that Jiang Cheng had that weren’t tainted by loss, even if the nights themselves were fuzzy from drink).

It was on his last visit before his brother’s death that Nie Huaisang had gifted Jiang Cheng one of the fruits of his labors, a fan depicting, in loving detail, Lotus Pier in full bloom. Jiang Cheng had displayed by his desk where he could see it while answering his correspondence and dealing with the never ending paperwork of running a sect. Nie Huaisang hadn’t been in his rooms since, and now he stared at that fan with an unreadable expression on his normally expressive face.

Or, seemingly expressive. How many of those familiar expressions were real? The true mask behind that prop of a fan?

The food arrived then, and they both stayed where they stood, not moving as the table filled and the servants quietly bowed out.

It smelled delicious, but Jiang Cheng’s stomach turned sour.

“Did you mean to involve Jin Ling?”

It wasn’t how he had planned to start, but now that he was here, it was as good a place as any, being the brightest flame to his fury.

“No,” Nie Huaisang said quietly, simply, but firmly.

Jiang Cheng turned to him, saw the way he was standing – arms down, hands open, all but showing this throat—

A deliberate message, but an honest one?

“No?” Jiang Cheng asked, zidian sparking as his fists clenched. Nie Huaisang’s eyes flickered closed for a moment, as is bracing himself.

“I don’t know what kind of power you think I have—”

Jiang Cheng’s eyebrows rose, incredulous. He thought it was rather obvious the kind of power Nie Huaisang wielded. Nie Huaisang winced, acknowledging the point before pressing on.

“If I was the great mastermind Wei-xiong painted me as, Jing Ling never would have been involved. Do you know how many times I had to make sure I was there just to run damage control? He was a complication, not a game piece.”

“He is my nephew.”

Huaisang drooped, as if weary, as if Jiang Cheng had missed the point. “You were not the only one who watched him grow,” he said. “I did everything I could to keep him safe.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw twitched where it was clenched. “Except keep him out of it. Except tell me.”

“Yes,” Nie Huaisang said, deceptively mild. “Except that.”

“You—” Jiang Cheng cut himself off, turning away abruptly, not knowing where he was going himself, rage like lightning running down his arms, swirling in his chest.

“Yes, me,” Nie Huaisang said, and how dare he sound so calm! “Whatever it is, I am that and more.” How odd it was to see him without his fan; Jiang Cheng had never fully seen the man standing before him. “But I am not complicated, Jiang-xiong,” he continued, neither pleading nor conciliatory — simply presenting truths. “My brother was betrayed, and in such a way that not only killed him, but unmade him, tearing through everything he had built for our sect. He was murdered,” and there were the teeth that Nie Huaisang would not show at the temple, the teeth that had been behind every move he made. “And in return, I unmade his murderer, stripping him of any scrap of dignity or legacy he had built. I watched him crumble like a house of cards, killed by the one he loved and trusted the most, the way he used me to kill my brother.” Nie Huaisang paused, breathing heavy, before continuing, lower. “I got my revenge, Jiang Wanyin. Let’s leave it at that.”

And…Jiang Cheng understood that. Understood it well enough to breathe, to let the rage leave with each exhale, to remember that satisfaction as nothing more than masked grief. To need to move past it.

“Or should we talk about what you learned tonight?” 

“Or let’s not,” Jiang Cheng countered. “That is between me and my brother, and in the past besides.” 

“Oh yes, because the past has never come back to bite us all on the ass.” 

Jiang Cheng let out a bark of shocked laughter. It was enough to take the edge off his anger, but instead of the hollow it usually left, he found himself — fond. He considered Nie Huaisang through narrowed eyes. 

“You know, you lied to me before,” he said, his voice light enough to make Nie Huaisang blink at the sudden change in tone.

“I lied to a lot of people,” Nie Huaisang said, guarded, and then more quickly. “When do you mean?”

“When you said you had to be there because Jin Ling was there,” Jiang Cheng said, pointing at Nie Husaisang in victory. “You absolutely wanted to be there tonight, to watch him die.”

Nie Huaisang considered him again, face once more wearing that strange blank look – or, perhaps it wasn’t blank. Perhaps Jiang Cheng just wasn’t used to reading honesty on his friend. Nie Huaisang lowered his eyes, but when he brought them back up, it was with a small, sharp smile that Jiang Cheng had never seen, that made something inside him shiver. “I never actually said I didn’t.”

That made Jiang Cheng laugh in truth, and he waved his hand at the table in invitation.

Hesitating only for a moment, Nie Huaisang sat in a bit of a sprawl, casual in a way that reminded Jiang Cheng sharply of their youth. Following old habits, Jiang Cheng poured wine while Nie Huaisang served them both food, and further concerns were put on hold as they ate and drank, what little exhausted conversation passed between them never deeper than the quality of the food.

At length, Huaisang placed his chopsticks across his bowl and tucked his hands into his sleeves. “You can ask your questions. I promise, no falsehoods, no misdirection. Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

And that made Jiang Cheng pause. Of course he had questions, but at the same time, he didn’t – Nothing that he was entitled to. 

“Alright,” Jiang Cheng said. “Are you going to eat the last bun?” He reached for it without waiting for an answer.

“Jiang Wanyin!”

“Is that a no? I’m assuming that’s a no,” Jiang Cheng said, smirking as he took a large bite. Nie Huaisang watched him, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and his heart beat faster, alert.

“You’re not one for such games,” Nie Huaisang said. It was an obvious statement, Jiang Cheng had never pretended to have patience for them.

“No,” Jiang Cheng said. “But apparently, you are.” He downed the last of his wine, considering the way Nie Huaisang seemed to shrink into himself. 

Jiang Cheng signed. “You said it yourself,” he said. “I understand revenge. I heard enough to know that Jin Guangyao earned whatever you put him through.” He paused. “And, he directly threatened Jin Ling, so I would understand if you resurrected him, too, just for the pleasure of killing him again.” Nie Huaisang huffed, and for the first time flicked open his fan, hiding the bottom half of his face. Jiang Cheng let him hide, for the moment.

“If you need to talk, to tell me details, I will listen. If you think there’s something I need to know that I have not already learned, I want you to tell me, but it’s enough for me, for now, to know that you never made Jin Ling a target.” He considered. “And you were there each time he was in trouble, weren’t you?”

“Except for Yi City,” Nie Huaisang confirmed. “And then, he was with the other juniors.”

Nie Huaisang still wasn’t meeting his eyes, seemingly lost in some memory, and Jiang Cheng didn’t think before he reached out, hissing when the move pulled the wound in his shoulder.

“Oh, you’re still wounded!” Nie Husaisang exclaimed, eyes suddenly clear as they snapped to him. “Forgive me, Jiang-xiong, I had forgotten.”

“It’s fine,” Jiang Cheng said, easing back and not wanting to admit that he had forgotten, too. His disciples had fussed over him at the temple, not letting him leave until it had been seen to, and his cultivation was high enough (and didn’t that send a jagged twinge through him), that he wouldn’t have to deal with the wound for long. As he had moved, however, he could feel the bandage slipping, jarred loose, and he pressed his palm to it.

“No, no, please, let me help,” Nie Huaisang fluttered, robes flapping like bird wings, but Jiang Cheng still found himself pulled up with deceptive strength, and he let himself be led, unresisting but protesting, to sit on his bed.

“Move your sleeve,” he instructed, reaching into his own to pull out a silver pouch with green and bronze embroidery in the shape of summer branches, from which he pulled bandages and several small bottles which he lined up on the low table next to the bed.

Rolling his eyes, Jiang Cheng stood, batting away Nie Huaisang’s hands before undoing his belt to remove his outermost layer of robes. They were heavy, thick with embroidery, and hard to work around – not to mention the fact that he had been stabbed through them meant that they were damaged and not a little bit bloody. He smirked when Nie Husaisang stilled, swinging the robes over his head to lay at the foot of his bed to be cleaned and repaired, if possible, or repurposed if not. He hoped they were fixable. They were one of his favorite sets.

His under-robes fit more loosely, their material lighter, and it was easier to push them aside, revealing the wound with its loose bandage. Luckily, from what he could see, no blood that seeped through the bandage.

Nie Huaisang’s fingers were gentle, pleasantly warm where they touched him softly callused from his favored brushes. Gingerly, he pulled away the bandage, tisking softly when it was clear the bandage had stuck and easing it loose.

Jiang Cheng opened his mouth, maybe to comment on how unnecessary this all was. It had all but stopped bleeding, barely hurting. Maybe he meant to offer comfort – Jiang Cheng was fine, past any danger.

But there was something brittle in Nie Huaisang’s eyes, in the line of his mouth, that stilled his words and stole his breath. Nie Huaisang’s hands didn’t shake as he plucked a bottle from the collection, shaking its powdered contents on the wound before wrapping a clean bandage, tying it securely.

Nie Huaisang’s fingertips lingered, sending a small, tingling stream of qi, and when he looked up, eyes meeting Jiang Cheng’s, they were wide and dark. 

“Huaisang,” Jiang Cheng said on his next breath, raising his hand to cup Huaisang’s cheek and run his thumb softly over the tender, bruised skin beneath his eye. Huaisang’s eyes fluttered but didn’t shut, peering at Jiang Cheng from behind shadowed lashes. 

“You weren’t supposed to be there, either, you know?” Husaisang said, his jaw brushing the palm of Jiang Cheng’s hand as he spoke. “It was inevitable the minute Jin Ling showed up, but you weren’t supposed to be there, and he nearly killed you too—”

“Who nearly killed me?” Jiang Cheng scoffed, but it was quiet, meant for the space between them. “What nonsense is this, now?” 

“Don’t—” Huaisang said, his hand tightening over Jiang Cheng’s wound, fingers digging into the surrounding muscle, and Jiang Cheng raised his other hand to cradle Huaisang’s head, and his eyes slipped closed at last, lashes wet. 

Jiang Cheng brushed his fingers across Huaisang’s eyes, chasing away the tears before they could shed, and leaned in, kissing his mouth. He pulled back, tapping  his fingers on Huaisang’s neck until Huaisang opened his eyes. “I’m right here,” Jiang Cheng said, and then smirked. “But you’re willing to check for yourself.” 

Huaisang made a needy sound, whining high in his throat as he swayed forward, pressing kiss after kiss to Jiang Cheng’s cheeks, his chin, his nose – until Jiang Cheng turned his head and captured his mouth, not calming but giving direction to his fervor.

This between them wasn’t new either. Teenage fumbling had given way to an easy friendship that tumbled them into and out of one bed or another. It was…fun. Not simple, but tolerably complicated. Necessary.

Huaisang tasted like wine and sweet chili from their meal, and Jiang Cheng chased those flavors until he tasted of nothing but himself, so familiar that it made Jiang Cheng’s heart pound. He had missed this. Him. Them.

“Wanyin,” Nie Huaisang moaned against his mouth, trembling.

“Yes, Huaisang,” Jiang Cheng answered, but it must have been obvious when Huaisang pressed against him. Jiang Cheng lay back, pulling Huaisang by his robes even as he climbed to his knees, crawling over him, hands wandering as if to be sure that Jiang Cheng was here, was real.

Pressed together, chest to knees as Huaisang rocked against him, Jiang Cheng wrapped his arm around Huaisang’s lower back, drawing him close as he rolled his hips. He was hard, a desperate edge to the heat building between them, a needful urge to prove himself here and alive, and he grinned when his next thrust made Huaisang’s breath stutter.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” Jiang Cheng said, voice low, his cheek pressed to Huaisang’s temple. Huaisang breathed sharply through his nose, eyes closed, but he pushed up, swatting at Jiang Cheng’s chest until he let him go, laughing, hovering above Jiang Cheng as he undid his belt with deft fingers.

Jiang Cheng let his eyes wander, taking in the hair escaping the usually immaculate and intricate braids, the flush high on Huaisang’s cheeks, the way his lips were kiss-swollen. He couldn’t help himself from running his hands up and down Huaisang’s thighs, slipping under the many robes, so only his pants were between his palms and warm skin. 

Arching his back as he peeled away his robes, Huaisang’s eyes locked on Jiang Cheng’s own, even as each layer removed prompted Jiang Cheng’s hands to creep higher and higher, the back of his hands brushing the hard heat between his thighs. 

Huaisang moaned, the sound hitting Jiang Cheng deep in his gut and Jiang Cheng pulled him down again, hands slipping on the fabric as he tried to grab skin. There were still too many layers between them — any layer would be too many, but neither was pausing to take them off an option, not any more — but they were thinner, soft enough for Jiang Cheng to feel the hard, heat of Huaisang as he ground it against Jiang Cheng’s own. His hands mapped the feel of the muscles in Husaisang’s back flex beneath that soft, supple skin. 

Jiang Cheng always liked that softness, wanted to sink into it and never leave, let his focus be consumed by cushioned warmth and wet heat and leave the world behind. 

Despite his efforts to linger in desire, Jiang Cheng felt his pleasure racing to peak, the aftermath of excitement coupled with how very long it had been since anyone had touched him with intent. 

That, too, had been Huaisang. 

He refused to feel shame for it, not when Huaisang was gasping so prettily in his ear, his hips stuttering, chasing his own pleasure. Jiang Cheng ducked his head to give attention to Huaisang’s neck. 

Jiang Cheng bit gently, holding the delicate skin between his teeth as he sucked, and Huaisang came with a soft cry, warmth spreading between them. A few more thrusts had Jiang Cheng following, groaning his completion into Huaisang’s hair where it lay damp with sweat at his temple. 

Huaisang went limp, laying across and atop of him, breathing heavily. Jiang Cheng was little better, especially with the weight of him on his chest, but he wrapped his arms around him anyway, not ready to lose this yet. 

“How is it,” Huaisang said breathless into the hollow under Jiang Cheng’s jaw. “That I never seem to anticipate you.” 

Jiang Cheng hummed, pressing a pleased smile into Huaisang’s hair, already feeling sleep creep in at the edges. He knew they had to get cleaned up, not the least for if someone came to find them, but the longer he lay there the less he felt inclined to move. 

“Jiang Cheng, you need to get up.” 

“I will, I will. Soon.” 

“Well, fine, if you want to be late to Old Man Lan’s lecture,” Wei Wuxian drawled. 

Lecture? 

Wei Wuxian?!

Jiang Cheng snapped awake, shooting up to stare at a face he hadn’t seen in twenty years. Wei Wuxian, dressed in his white GusuLan student robes, stumbled back a step, laughing carelessly at Jiang Cheng’s shock. 

“Oh, fuck me,” Jiang Cheng said.  

Notes: This “chapter” is part of a longer writing project that will be eventually be posted to AO3. 

This chapter contained a moderately-explicit and possibly ill-conceived sex scene between two consenting adults and frank discussion of a lack of regret over revenge killing. 

[notbecauseofvictories]

inablazeofglory replied to your post: �� + Harry Potter

I really kinda wanna hear more about dumbledore fucking over europe for his fascist boyfriend and hating himself about it… Thats an interesting take i hadnt thought of to explain his actions in the series… Any fanfic recs!?? (Things i like: treating morally complex characters as actually morally complex)

It’s really nothing more than a pet theory, not something I’ve read or even....terribly closely related to JK’s conception of the characters. Nevertheless, I just really like the idea that Dumbledore starts out by, like most Gryffindors, trusting his internal moral compass above all else. And that guides him through his mother’s death and his sister’s retreat and his brother’s own, relative disengagement from the world to tend goats and their sister. Albus hates all of it, being the Man of the House when the house is awful Dumbledore Manor at too young an age; he feels trapped and confined and miserable (his professors say he could be Supreme Mugwump! his friends owl all the time to ask why he isn’t at this club, or that salon!) but his sense of duty and loyalty carry him---even those first months of Gellert Grindlewald making his rounds through the neighborhood.

(PS, I would also pay a lot of money for an Evelyn Waugh-Nancy Mitford-Jules Feiffer-style riff on Godric’s Hollow and its particularly fetid, incestuous brand of society---@nimmieamee I know you’re into Riverdale now, but I love “Romance of the Age” an unholy amount, please come back to hp for a hot second and give me some great WWI homoeroticism pastiche.)

.............anyway, of course Albus Dumbledore is tempted away from pure duty and responsibility and pure virtuous care by something else: the intellectual, carnal, and fundamental temptation of Gellert Grindlewald. After all, Gellert isn’t just an intelligent young man, he and Albus share ideals, They have a sense of duty to the world---duty to enact their vision, and bring Good. Bring order, and reason, and logic. Together, they could build a truly shining empire, which is what Albus Dumbledore has always wanted, in his secret heart of hearts, this whole time. To destroy death, and misery, and bring about triumph. 

He doesn’t necessarily agree with Gellert’s perspective on Muggles, or non-wizarding species like werewolves or giants, but these seem lesser points of contention. He lets them pass by, unremarked-upon. (There is no place for his needy, clinging, hard-to-understand sister, or his unambitious, pathetic, perverse brother either, but these are even less significant than the other points of potential contention.)

Gellert is where Albus’ internal moral compass, honored above all else, seems to be pointing. He is happy, dreaming of that perfectly just world with Gellert.

Of course, correspondingly, there is a hugely traumatic and disastrous incident proving to Albus that he can’t trust that internal moral compass: Ariana’s death. When Ariana dies, by Gellert’s hand or Albus’ or Aberforth’s (none of them are ever quite sure) it is wrong, it flies in the face of the shining, idealistic world Albus and Gellert have built. It drags into question everything Albus thought he believed: Might Makes Right and power, and what will make Albus Dumbledore happy---The Greater Good, always the greater good. (He’s not selfish. He just also....is.) For Albus it’s the breaking point. It rattles him enough to let Gellert go, not to follow him to the Continent, not to become embroiled in a war.

(He spends the whole rest of his life punishing himself for this slip of conscience. He never trusts that internal compass again, and punishes too many people for it.)

But---all of this, though it shocks and horrifies him, doesn’t change Albus Dumbledore’s most closely-held beliefs. And sometimes, alone, he wonders if he’d followed, if he’d tempered some of Gellert’s fanaticism---if Albus had been there for the assault on Verdun, or the Plot for Bohemia---he might have corrected for the insanity and all-means-acceptable methods of Gellert. He was always the more cautious and wiser of the two of them. But only because he disagrees with the means, not the end.

The Ministry comes to him early on. They ask, but he rejects them---softly, since it is not even a war yet, not then. He has obligations at Hogwarts. He has papers to publish with Nicolas Flamel. (He does not want to see Gellert again. He is afraid to face him. He is not sure whether....he will capitulate and rush forward, catching Gellert’s face in his hands, or if he will remember Ariana’s face and hold back. He does not know.)

The French Assembly comes to him in the first part of the second century, ringing in the new year. It’s 1914 and then 1915, and Albus has been trying to ignore the news of the wizarding war and the Muggle war colliding, combining forces in their reign of destruction. Everything on the continent is chaos, and furor, and fury, and they are asking---

“I am sorry,” he says. His hand is very tight around the stem of the champagne saucer. “But I am needed here, in England. Happy New Year.”

(He toasts 1915 with strangers, feeling somewhat nauseated. Afterwards, he goes to the Hog’s Head and silently nurses a drink, watching Aberforth out of his eye. When he stares deeply enough into his mug, he can see Gellert’s pale, handsome face. Thinks of Gellert saying, We could. We could rule the world, you and I.)

The Germans and Ottomans he hears about before they come. It’s a particularly awkward week---trying to appease the Prussians and the Danish and also the Baghadi assembly, all of whom sent their own representatives to beg for Albus’ intervention with Grindlewald’s revolt. He remembers coming out of his offices one evening to find Tom Riddle sitting beside a Bulgarian ambassador, and having to tamp down on a lash of frantic terror. (The last thing Tom Riddle needed was friends beyond Britain’s borders; Albus strongly suspected he would use them ill.)

Once, when it is just the two of them in a private room at Albus’ club, Elphias says, “Can I ask...? You’ve kept yourself back from the front lines for so long...and I---a brilliant mind like you...”

Albus immediately makes some inadequate answer, out of terror that he might answer honestly---but it is a lie, what he tells Elphias. The answer is something more complicated, about how he would hare for Gellert’s side, fight beside him, if for a moment he could trust himself. He can’t, but. If he could. 

(The ghost of Ariana comes to him at night, sometimes. Just out of reach, pale-red as a flame through ice. If Albus ever thought that he could yield, he could give in to the longing to be with Gellert, to be for the Greater Good, Ariana comes to him, and reminds him that that way lies only grief.)

It’s Aberforth, in the end. 

Aberforth, who hasn’t spoken a whole sentence to Albus since the funeral (and even then it was a snarled, don’t speak to me, don’t owl me, I never want to see your face again, after he’d punched Albus in the teeth) says, “Stop being a damn coward.” Then he slams a pint down on the surface of the bar.

Albus drinks it slowly. Leaves a generous tip.

Forty-eight hours later, he is in the Rhine District, striding between tents and pretending not to hear how they gather and whisper in his wake. He does not want to be here. He does not think this is right. But his moral compass has been broken for almost twenty years, pointed due Gellert, For the Greater Good---he’s learned not to trust that ill-formed thing. He is here for Ariana, and for Aberforth. He is here for the dead, and to end this monstrous thing. To kill his love, and ambition, and sense of glory dead.

...........and Gellert, too.

[mst3kproject]

Bloody Pit of Horror

Full points to the title guy!

Bloody Pit of Horror stars Mickey Hargitay from The Loves of Hercules, and like The Horrors of Spider Island it has a plot that goes out of its way to put a bunch of attractive women in a contrived situation of peril.  Also like The Horrors of Spider Island, it has a person stuck in a giant spiderweb and a hilarious fake spider, although these are less integral to the storyline. It furthermore claims to be based upon the writings of the Marquis de Sade, which is about as believable as Village of the Giants’ claim to being based on H. G. Wells.  It is a very silly, often self-defeating movie and yet one I very much enjoy.

Four hundred years ago, a man who called himself the Crimson Executioner was put to death for the torture and murder of innocents. Naturally he swore he would return and have his revenge.  In the 1960’s, a group of models show up at his castle, looking for a place to hold a spoopy photoshoot.  When nobody answers the bell, their manager Mr. Price assumes the place is empty and they break in, only to find that there is an owner, Travis Anderson, who is understandably upset about the intrusion. He almost throws them out, but then changes his mind when he realizes Price’s assistant is his ex-wife, Edith. The group gets started on their photography, and it doesn’t take long before the Crimson Executioner is back from the grave, picking them off one by one with a series of complicated death traps!

Nobody goes into a movie called Bloody Pit of Horror expecting it to be good, or even particularly scary, and sure enough it’s not.  Since most of the characters are only here to die, they don’t have much to them.  The models stand around and scream a lot and the men all kind of look and sound alike, and the actors were pretty lousy even before they were dubbed into English.  The sets representing the castle interior are okay even when they don’t make a lot of architectural sense, but the torture dungeon looks like cardboard.  The last thirty minutes or so are mostly a series of incompetent fight scenes in which the camera stays perfectly still while two guys grapple with a minimum of choreography.  Attempts at mood lighting are completely undermined by the bright 60’s technicolour.

Yet for all that, Bloody Pit of Horror still makes more of an attempt to be an actual movie than The Horrors of Spider Island ever did.  If you remember my review, I complained that Horrors of Spider Island was nothing but a series of thin excuses to show us half-naked women.  Bloody Pit of Horror is kind of the same, but it pays far more attention to its story.  The opening sequence, in which the models wander around the castle bickering a little, at least tries to sketch personalities and relationships – the audition scene in Spider Island didn’t bother.  The sequence in which they do their photography is leering but only in a PG sort of way, and is also pretty funny – it’s even funny on purpose, enjoying its own absurdity (there’s a reason I described it as ‘spoopy’).  As much screen time is spent on trying to solve the mystery as on watching the women posturing, and while you can see the ‘twist’ coming from a mile away I still enjoyed the over-the-top reveal of it.

There’s a lot of unintentional humour in the movie as well, and a few things I can’t decide whether they were supposed to be funny or not.  Mickey Hargitay’s over-acting is hilarious, even with his voice dubbed, and the torture scenes earn laughs from their obvious fakeness. The characters’ decisions make no sense at all: one of the male models is killed when a torture device they were using as a prop is sabotaged, and the only thing Price does is call a ten-minute break before they have to get back to work!  In another jaw-dropping bit, Rick (why is there always a Rick?!) and Edith discover Kinuyo in a ridiculous death trap involving spring-loaded bows and a mechanical spider, and never think to ask her who put her there or how.  My favourite moment of unintentional amusement is the corpse driving around in circles because its foot is still on the gas pedal – that’s the stinger right there.

And of course there’s the Scooby-Doo twist, in which we learn that instead of a vengeful ghost it was just Anderson in a costume.  Normally that sort of thing annoys me, because it feels like the movie has promised us something supernatural and then chickens out at the last minute, but in Bloody Pit of Horror it actually works.  This is partially because Anderson himself really seems to believe he’s the reincarnation of the Crimson Executioner, and partly because the revelation comes not at the end of the movie, but with half an hour yet to go in which the characters can try to do something with this information.  Another factor is that unlike in movies such as The Beast with Five Fingers, we’re never actually shown anything that can’t be explained by saying ‘Anderson did it’.  His death traps are ludicrous, but they’re not ghostly.

Insofar as the movie has an intentional theme, it is the idea of purity or virtue.  It’s easy to predict which of the characters are going to die, especially if you’re familiar with the conventions of slasher movies: ‘sluts’ must be punished while the virtuous get to live.  The ‘sluts’ here are the models in their skimpy outfits, while the virtuous one is Edith, who wears a high-necked blouse, a past-the-knee skirt, and minimal makeup.  A lot of slasher movies try to make this a little more subtle but in Bloody Pit of Horror it’s quite explicit.  Anderson has isolated himself in the castle as a sort of monastic cell, where he can escape the temptations of the world.  When these provocative women intrude upon his solitude, he feels he must kill them in order to restore his own spiritual and physical purity.

(Speaking of things that are not subtle, there is also a very strong thread of homoeroticism in Bloody Pit of Horror.  Anderson abandoned Edith and went to live in contemplation of the ‘perfect’ male form.  His minions are a couple of muscular guys who dress like bottles of Le Male cologne.  And we can’t forget the scene of Hargitay standing in front of a mirror wearing spandex, oiling himself up while talking about his obsession with the harmony of his perfect body.)

The unfortunate thing about movies like this, in which those who have sex or do drugs or play pranks have to die while the well-behaved people get to live, is that they are essentially victim-blaming. If the models dressed more like modest Edith, maybe they would have lived!  Anderson reveals at the end that Edith herself was his target all along, because his lingering love for her represented more of a threat to his chastity than the scantily-clad models ever could, yet he still saves her for last so she can try to escape or be rescued.  This is actually sort of worse, because it seems to mean a higher force has intervened to save her, but couldn’t be bothered to do so for the others.

I think we are meant to believe that the medieval Crimson Executioner, whoever he was (the movie never gives him any other name), sought purity of the soul and killed those he believed to be sinners.  Anderson, on the other hand, is obsessed with the purity of his body, although he’s never very clear about what that means, and has projected this idea onto the Crimson Executioner.  The movie doesn’t trust us to figure this out for ourselves, of course, but has Rick calmly talk about it as he carries Edith out of the torture chamber at the end.  For poetic justice to occur, Anderson must die with his body polluted – he runs into a dummy covered with poisoned nails, which corrupts him with poison but also by penetration.  In case we didn’t think the latter is a purposeful metaphor, the name of this contraption is ‘the lover of death’.

The idea that beauty of the body and beauty of the soul are inextricably entwined goes back to the ancient Greeks – outstanding citizens were described as καλοι κ'αγαθοι, ‘the beautiful and the good’.  Philosophers believed that the gods rewarded beautiful souls by incarnating them in beautiful bodies.  A woman named Phryne is supposed to have been acquitted of a charge of impiety after she stripped in the courtroom, because the jury could not believe a sinner would be so beautiful.  The Greeks themselves were already questioning this idea and in modern times we tend to be very suspicious of it, although the trope of the deformed villain persists. Although Anderson himself espouses the Greek idea, claiming his ‘pure’ body needs to be inhabited by a ‘pure’ soul, he is a perfect example of the opposite: it is his very beauty, and the narcissism that goes with it, that makes his soul so ugly.

These themes of beauty and purity don’t really go very deep in Bloody Pit of Horror.  As I already noted, Anderson never even clarifies what the ‘harmony of his perfect body’ really means, and it’s possible even he doesn’t know.  Really we’re just here to look at pretty girls getting tortured and murdered in a very tame fashion, but the movie has enough of a sense of humour about this to make it fun instead of boring, and you don’t leave feeling like a sexual predator.  It’s nice that Rick and Edith survive, but they’re not interesting enough that you ever actually rooted for them.  All things considered, Bloody Pit of Horror was never going to be good but probably turned out as entertaining as it could with the script and cast it had.