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butterflies-dragons · 4 years ago

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Do you have any theories/predictions/headcanons about post resurrection! Jon? Especially how he'll treat Sansa?

Hello Anon,

I have read some theories and predictions about post-resurrection!Jon but I’m not a fan of any of them. I don’t think that “Jon will come back a bad boy to fit in Dany’s taste of men” for example. And some other speculations sadden me because they say Jon will come back sterile or having lost his memory.

About Jon and Sansa reunion tho... I've thought about it a good deal. Especially about these passages:

Robb took them all the way down to the end, past Grandfather and Brandon and Lyanna, to show them their own tombs. Sansa kept looking at the stubby little candle, anxious that it might go out. Old Nan had told her there were spiders down here, and rats as big as dogs. Robb smiled when she said that. “There are worse things than spiders and rats,” he whispered. “This is where the dead walk.” That was when they heard the sound, low and deep and shivery. Baby Bran had clutched at Arya’s hand.

When the spirit stepped out of the open tomb, pale white and moaning for blood, Sansa ran shrieking for the stairs, and Bran wrapped himself around Robb’s leg, sobbing. Arya stood her ground and gave the spirit a punch. It was only Jon, covered with flour. “You stupid,” she told him,“you scared the baby,” but Jon and Robb just laughed and laughed, and pretty soon Bran and Arya were laughing too.

The memory made Arya smile, and after that the darkness held no more terrors for her. The stableboy was dead, she’d killed him, and if he jumped out at her she’d kill him again. She was going home. Everything would be better once she was home again, safe behind Winterfell’s grey granite walls.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya IV

***

The noise receded as she moved deeper into the castle, never daring to look back for fear that Joffrey might be watching … or worse, following. The serpentine steps twisted ahead, striped by bars of flickering light from the narrow windows above. Sansa was panting by the time she reached the top. She ran down a shadowy colonnade and pressed herself against a wall to catch her breath. When something brushed against her leg, she almost jumped out of her skin, but it was only a cat, a ragged black tom with a chewed-off ear. The creature spit at her and leapt away.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II

***

Myranda gave her a shrewd little smile. "Yes, she was the very soul of wisdom, that good lady." She shifted her seat. "Why must mules be so bony and ill-tempered? Mya does not feed them enough. A nice fat mule would be more comfortable to ride. There's a new High Septon, did you know? Oh, and the Night's Watch has a boy commander, some bastard son of Eddard Stark's."

"Jon Snow?" she blurted out, surprised.

"Snow? Yes, it would be Snow, I suppose."

She had not thought of Jon in ages. He was only her half brother, but still . . . with Robb and Bran and Rickon dead, Jon Snow was the only brother that remained to her. I am a bastard too now, just like him. Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again. But of course that could never be. Alayne Stone had no brothers, baseborn or otherwise.

"Our cousin Bronze Yohn had himself a mêlée at Runestone," Myranda Royce went on, oblivious, "a small one, just for squires. It was meant for Harry the Heir to win the honors, and so he did."

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

The first passage could be a foreshadowing of Sansa being the first Stark to meet post-resurrection!Jon:

“There are worse things than spiders and rats,” he whispered. “This is where the dead walk.”

When the spirit stepped out of the open tomb, pale white and moaning for blood, Sansa ran shrieking for the stairs (...) It was only Jon, covered with flour.

It happened the same with the second passage:

When something brushed against her leg, she almost jumped out of her skin, but it was only a cat, a ragged black tom with a chewed-off ear. The creature spit at her and leapt away.

In some sense the black tomcat of the Red Keep could be a representation of Jon, the cat is even called “black bastard”, and when the cat brushed Sansa’s leg, it scared Sansa in a similar fashion than Jon playing to be a Ghost back in the Winterfell Crypts. We can even say that the black tomcat acts like a ghost wandering around the castle reminding some people of Rhaeny’s kitten Balerion.

And in the third passage we see how the true Sansa Stark slipped out from the Alayne Stone persona at the mere mention of “some bastard son of Eddard Stark's.” And at the mention of a member of her family safe and sound, Sansa thinks how sweet it would be to meet him again:

This is another hint that a first Stark reunion between Sansa and Jon is rather probable.

Another hint is that with Lady’s death and Jon’s death, Sansa and Jon could be each other missing part, since Sansa lost her direwolf and Ghost lost its master. In summary:

Jon’s direwolf name is Ghost;

Jon literally died so he also is a ghost himself; and,

Sansa’s direwolf was killed and is mentioned as a “shade”, which is a synonym of ghost:

Summer’s howls were long and sad, full of grief and longing. Shaggydog’s were more savage. Their voices echoed through the yards and halls until the castle rang and it seemed as though some great pack of direwolves haunted Winterfell, instead of only two … two where there had once been six. Do they miss their brothers and sisters too? Bran wondered. Are they calling to Grey Wind and Ghost, to Nymeria and Lady’s Shade? Do they want them to come home and be a pack together?

—A Clash of Kings - Bran I

This passage about “direwolves haunting Winterfell” is very telling, specially because haunting is what spirits do, and Ghost & Lady’s Shade stand out among the wolf pack.

So all of this could be also a hint of Jon and Sansa retaking Winterfell and start howling calling the rest of their siblings to come back home, to be a pack again.

This imagery of “Ghost and Shade haunting” is repeated in a Victarion’s chapter, as it was pointed out in this post.

Two sleek galleys sail from Meereen and Yunkai south toward New Ghis for supplies and legionary reinforcements, but encounter the Iron Fleet in Slaver's Bay. The galleys evade Woe and Forlorn Hope, but are captured by Iron Wing, Sparrowhawk, and Kraken's Kiss. Victarion Greyjoy beheads their captains because they said that Daenerys Targaryen is dead. Victarion kills their crew aside from the enslaved rowers, who are forced to join the Iron Fleet. Victarion renames the ships Ghost and Shade, believing they will return to haunt Yunkai.

[Source 1] [Source 2]

***

The galleys he renamed Ghost and Shade. "For I mean them to return and haunt these Yunkishmen," he told the dusky woman that night after he had taken his pleasure of her. They were close now, and growing closer every day. "We will fall upon them like a thunderbolt," he said, as he squeezed the woman's breast. He wondered if this was how his brother Aeron felt when the Drowned God spoke to him. He could almost hear the god's voice welling up from the depths of the sea. You shall serve me well, my captain, the waves seemed to say. It was for this I made you.

—A Dance with Dragons - Victarion I

And curiously enough, it is vastly speculated that Victarion may have died and came back to life thanks to the Red Priest Moqorro. The same way it is vastly speculated that the Red Priestess Melisandre will perform some fire ritual to make Jon come back to life. So we can say that Victarion is also a ghost. And both Jon and Victarion have a hand burned.

So, I’m sure that Jon and Sansa will meet again and we have textual evidence that they will team up to retake Winterfell. How will Jon come back to life? It is not certain. Some theories say that he will be more beast than man for a while, since his soul will inhabit inside Ghost until he resurrects. And since Sansa has a long training in taming beasts, she will do well with post-resurrection!Jon. There are also some theories about Sansa taming Beast!Jon with her singing and helping him heal and bringing back his humanity. I agree with those theories.

Good night.

Thanks for your message.

#anon ask #jonsa #post-resurrection!Jon #beast!jon #ghost and lady's shade #ghost and shade #direwolves #victarion greyjoy #moqorro #melisandre of asshai

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hello-robin-goodfellow · 4 years ago

Text

SHAKESPEARE AND THE PRETTY SPEECHES OF A KING

@ardenrosegarden @amalthea9 @lioness--hart @princesssarisa @hmmm-what-am-i-doing @suits-of-woe @malvoliowithin @noshitshakespeare

I was once watching Brows Held High review of Laurence Olivier’s Henry V (1944), where the reviewer, Kyle Kalgreen, analized how it faired in the context of British World War II Propaganda Machine, as a Shakespeare film adaptation and in comparison to the Kenneth Branagh 1989 Film Adaptation.

There is a moment he pauses to analyze the most popular speech of the play, wich is the Saint Crispin’s Day Speech:

What’s he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland?

No, my fair cousin.

If we are marked to die, we are enough

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honor.

God’s will, I pray thee wish not one man more.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honor,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.

God’s peace, I would not lose so great an honor

As one man more, methinks, would share from me,

For the best hope I have.

Oh, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it,

Westmoreland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart.

His passport shall be made,

And crowns for convoy put into his purse.

We would not die in that man’s company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is called the feast of Crispian.

He that outlives this day and comes safe home,

Will stand o' tiptoe when the day is named

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall see this day, and live old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors

And say, “Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.”

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,

And say, “These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.”

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot

But he’ll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day.

Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words,

Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,Warwick and Talbot,

Salisbury and Gloucester,

Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.

This story shall the good man teach his son,

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be rememberèd—

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he today that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition;

And gentlemen in England now abed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

(William Shakespeare. Henry V: Act IV, Scene III)

Beautifull. Powerfull. Lie.

Because, as Kyle Kalgreen apoints, while the Laurence Olivier had to cut it to make Henry V more simpathetic, the original Shakespeare text and the Kenneth Branagh Film Adaptation have this scene following the Saint Crispin’s day speech, where the young king reads a list of the english man who died in battle:

Edward the duke of York, the earl of Suffolk,

Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire;

None else of name, and of all other men

But five and twenty. O God, thy arm was here,

And not to us but to thy arm alone

Ascribe we all! When, without stratagem,

But in plain shock and even play of battle,

Was ever known so great and little loss

On one part and on th' other?

Take it, God,For it is none but thine.

(William Shakespeare, Henry V: Act IV, Scene VIII)

The death nobleman are named, while the death common soldier is just ‘None else of name’. The death nobleman is ‘so great loss’. The death common soldier is ‘so little loss’. Contrary to what King Henry V promissed, not everybody who died fighting on his name in France will be considered his brother, remembered and mourned by him.

And them later, we watch the consequences of the reign of his son in the Henry VI trilogy of plays, and in Henry VI Part III, our new protagonist gives this beautifull speech about the blessing of a commoner’s life while sitting over a molehill:

This battle fares like to the morning’s war,

When dying clouds contend with growing light,

What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,

Can neither call it perfect day nor night.

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea

Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;

Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea

Forced to retire by fury of the wind:

Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;

Now one the better, then another best;

Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,

Yet neither conqueror nor conquered:

So is the equal of this fell war.

Here on this molehill will I sit me down.

To whom God will, there be the victory!

For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,

Have chid me from the battle; swearing both

They prosper best of all when I am thence.

Would I were dead! if God’s good will were so;

For what is in this world but grief and woe?

O God! methinks it were a happy life,

To be no better than a homely swain;

To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,

Thereby to see the minutes how they run,

How many make the hour full complete;

How many hours bring about the day;

How many days will finish up the year;

How many years a mortal man may live.

When this is known, then to divide the times:

So many hours must I tend my flock;

So many hours must I take my rest;

So many hours must I contemplate;

So many hours must I sport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;

So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean:

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:

So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,

Pass’d over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!

Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,

Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy

To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery?

O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.

And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds,

His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle.

His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade,

All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,

Is far beyond a prince’s delicates,

His viands sparkling in a golden cup,

His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.

(William Shakespeare. Henry VI Part III: Act II, Scene V)

Also a beautifull and powerfull speech, if a bit revealing of a romanticized view of the poverty that Henry VI never lived. And also a lie, or, at least, a half truth for Henry VI himself.

By contrast to the Molehill Speech, here is the dialogue exchange between him and two keepers, in the next act:

Second Keeper

Say, what art thou that talk'st of kings and queens?

Henry VI

More than I seem, and less than I was born to: A man at least, for less I should not be; And men may talk of kings, and why not I?

Second Keeper

Ay, but thou talk'st as if thou wert a king.

Henry VI

Why, so I am, in mind; and that's enough.

Second Keeper

But, if thou be a king, where is thy crown?

Henry VI

My crown is in my heart, not on my head; Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, Nor to be seen: my crown is called content: A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.

Second Keeper

Well, if you be a king crown'd with content, Your crown content and you must be contented To go along with us; for as we think, You are the king King Edward hath deposed; And we his subjects sworn in all allegiance Will apprehend you as his enemy.

Henry VI

But did you never swear, and break an oath?

Second Keeper

No, never such an oath; nor will not now.

Henry VI

Where did you dwell when I was King of England?

Second Keeper

Here in this country, where we now remain.

Henry VI

I was anointed king at nine months old; My father and my grandfather were kings, And you were sworn true subjects unto me: And tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths?

First Keeper.

No; For we were subjects but while you were king.

Henry VI

Why, am I dead? do I not breathe a man Ah, simple men, you know not what you swear! Look, as I blow this feather from my face, And as the air blows it to me again, Obeying with my wind when I do blow, And yielding to another when it blows, Commanded always by the greater gust; Such is the lightness of you common men.

(William Shakespeare. Henry VI Part III: Act III, Scene I)

We can perceive here a condescending tone that King Henry VI has when he talks with two members of the people. He is surprised to see that they don’t believe in a divine right that gives him a “natural kingly aura”. They don’t see him as a superior, wise and benevolent saviour, but only as a man who once weared a crown, but now, without the crown, they don’t have any obligation to obey him.

And Henry VI can’t accept that.

Later, he is rescued by Clifford, Warwick and Clarence from imprisoment under King Edward IV’s rule. And when those three man offer him back the crown and title of king, he don’t refuse it to live the simple commoner life he described as more beautifull in the Molehill Speech. He accepts it. Even if he intends to let the actual work of ruling to Warwick, Clarence and Queen Margaret, he still wants the sense of superiority, the privileges and the confortable life offered by the title of king that he grew accustomed to since he was nine months old.

By justaposing those speeches and scenes, Shakespeare pulls us of the rug in our view of those two characters, who want the people to believe they are good, heroic and chivalrous kings, anointed by God himself, when in reality what anoints them is their money and their armies.

Intentionally or not, with those plays, Shakespeare was at the same being a precursor and subvertor of the Relatable Royal Trope, showing that those people with the title of kings are like us... but not really.

They feel sadness, fear, anger, love, envy and jealousie like us, but they are more rich, powerfull and privileged then us.And they don’t really want to renounce that power, because it will take away their sense of being superior to us.

To paraphrase Kyle Kalgreen:

Beware pretty speeches

(Kyle Kalgreen. Brows Held High: This Day is Called the Feast of Crispian, a review of Laurence Olivier’s Henry V. October 26th, 2018)

Specially if they come from a person that wears the crown of a king.

#history plays #theater #literature #tragedies #shakespeare #william shakespeare #will shakespeare #henry v #henry vi #the wars of the roses #bardolatry #brows held high #kyle kalgreen #cinema #laurence olivier

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sansacherie · 4 years ago

Text

Friends in Bravvos

It might never have happened at all, if she hadn’t always felt a little lonely.

It wasn’t fair. It was not as though Helaena lacked for siblings, being the tenth-born. But by the time she is born Aegon and Daenerys are long dead, the would-be heir and the beloved first daughter; who did not live long enough to fall short in their parents’ eyes. The others- Aemon, Baelon, Alyssa, Maegelle, Vaegon, and Daella are men and women grown by the time Helaena is a maiden flowered at twelve. They led their own lives, and had as custom decreed married appropriately to preserve their Valyrian bloodline – Baelon to Alyssa and Aemon to their half-aunt, Jocelyn. Maegelle and Vaegon took vows too, but not to each other. Maegelle became a Septa, and Vaegon had chosen life at the Citadel. Little Daella, as Jaehaera had always thought of her, for her small stature and fragile but loving spirit, might have had a happy life as Lady of the Eyrie, but Daella is dead. The same as Alyssa and Viserra. The former had none of Daella’s timidness but in the end both sisters met their end in the birthing bed. Of her siblings, Helaena had been the closest in age to Viserra, but it still felt like there was a world between them. Helaena always felt a little imitated by Viserra. She was hardly the loving older sister in the way Maegelle or Daella or even Alyssa at times, but Helaena had trailed after her as a little girl, hoping to win her favour. Viserra could be as cruel-tongued as she was beautiful sometimes- but she had been her sister, and it was remembering the way Viserra would sometimes allow her to come into bed, or occasionally indulged her in a game, or told her a wicked joke, that Helaena wanted to remember.

Or it might not have happened if she hadn’t been always a bit careless. Forgetful, absentminded. She was always misplacing things. Perhaps if she had been better, she would have remembered to take the moon-tea. She had once misplaced a book of Vaegon’s, and he had stopped talking to her for a month. Her Maester had told her she needed to be more careful with her work- but honestly what was the point, when she is neither the heir or the oldest daughter? She is a princess, is a Targaryen. She might be the tenth-born, and not as brave as Alyssa or beautiful as Viserra or bright and diplomatic as Maegelle but she is the blood of the dragon. Targaryens were special. They weren’t like other men – because the gods had deemed only them fit to mount dragons. Such a power was the very reason Jaehaera was a princess – her great-grandfather Aegon the Conqueror hadn’t simply asked nicely to have control of the seven kingdoms; which back then truly was seven kingdoms before it was formed into one. It was part of the reason why she couldn’t understand at times why Maegelle wanted to be something as ordinary as a Septa.

Perhaps it was just always meant to happen.

II.

It was her maid who noticed the suspicious curve of her stomach as she prepared Helaena for her bath, and thus went to the queen. Alysanne comes to her, white-faced and grips Helaena by the arm. “Please, Helaena.” Her voice is tight, almost as if she is crunching on broken glass. “Please, tell me you have not laid with a man.”

Helaena wrenches free. “I have not laid with anyone.” She hates the tremor in her voice. But she is frightened. She remembers Viserra, and even Viserra hadn’t done what she had. Helaena wants her mother to take her into her arms and whisper that it will be all right. Had Viserra secretly hoped for the same thing, that their mother would tell her she did not except her to go through the match with Theomore Manderly anymore?

Alysanne shakes her head. “You and I both know that is not the truth.” “You did not ask for the truth. You wanted me to tell you that I am a maiden still. So, I did.” Viserra was always truthful about wanting to be a queen.

III.

Her father’s anger is a storm. “Helaena, do you realize what you’ve done? If this gets out- do you understand what it will mean for you, in terms of getting a match?”

King Jaehaerys is breathing heavily, his arms crossed. Even afraid, Helaena wants to laugh. “I’m the tenth-born. I’m so far down the succession line I might as well not be in it at all. What match were you going to get me, Father? Were you going to marry me to lords who already had children of their own like Viserra and Daella? At least Alyssa’s children would have been their own heirs.”

Her mother, who is standing beside him flinches at the vehemence in Helaena’s voice. Her father’s mouth remains a taunt line. “Your match was mine and your mother’s concern, girl.” He sighs. “There is only one thing to be done.” “You will be sent to a mother-house to have the child.” It is her mother who speaks, gentle and soft, as if they think it will be easier to hear from her. “Once you have given birth, if the child lives arrangements will be made for them. If you have a girl, she will be promised to the Faith. If a boy, he will be sent to the Citadel.”

“Will I be able to write to them? Visit them?” Helaena whispers. “It is my wish that you do so, but your father….” “It is better that you do not.” Jaehaerys interrupts.

“Why?” Helaena wails. “First you decide my child’s future- what if they don’t want to be a bloody Septa, or a Maester? But now I can’t – I can’t…” Helaena is crying, and she furiously wipes her tears away. She had promised herself she would not cry. “Your child is a bastard and will count themselves fortunate to have stability.” Jaehaerys snaps. Then, his voice softens. “If they do not take to the Faith or the Citadel, I promise that other arrangements will be made to make sure they are taken care of. As for you, you will be married to someone I deem appropriate.”

Appropriate. What they had thought appropriate for Viserra was an old Northern lord who had already lost four wives in childbed.

IV.

Of all the septas at the Mother-House in Old-town, only Septa Alerie was different. Septa Alerie was once Alerie of House Rosebud. She even looks rosy, with bright red cheeks and a rosebud mouth. When Helaena had first arrived, she had refused to speak to anyone. The other septas had said nothing, perhaps thinking that she needed to be alone in her thoughts. Septa Alerie is unperturbed and happily chatters away.

“I was promised to the Faith, like many other girls.” She says, while Helaena pretends not to listen. “You see, my older brother almost drowned as a boy- and it happened to be our Septa who saved him. My mother was so grateful she promised herself that she would give one of her children to the Seven when the time came. And well, because I was the third-born- it came down to me. Leo was the heir and it is easier to find matches for an elder daughter than a second-born.” If Alerie feels any sense of resentment over this, she does not show it. By all accounts, she seems happy enough. Maybe Helaena’s daughter will be the same- if she has a daughter. Perhaps Helaena is being stupid.

Over time, Alerie breaks down the wall Helaena has carefully built. “I don’t want to give away my baby.” She whispers tearfully to Alerie. Alerie bites her lip, and turns away. There is a sad, far-away look on her face; as if she remembering something, she wishes she didn’t. “It will be all right. You will have other children.” Alerie tries to assure her, but her voice is doubtful.

“I don’t want some stupid old lord’s children! I want the child I already have!” She is sobbing, now.

“I don’t want my child to not know who I am.”

Her despair must have touched Alerie so deeply that when her sister visits them, she gives Helaena hope. “My sister was wed to wealthy lord, and she has a generous heart.” She tells the princess. “For the years I have been here, she has sent me some gold each month. I’ve been using it to help the Mother-House and our services for the small-folk. My sister and I have talked, and we have decided to give you some gold, and send you to some trusted friends in Bravvos.”

Helaena’s heart flutters, but she is still afraid. “But if my father finds out…”

“Acts worth doing sometimes mean there’ll be terrible consequences.” Alerie locks eyes with Helaena. “I do not make this decision lightly. And neither should you. You realize what this means, don’t you? If you go through with this, you cannot go back. Our friends will care for you, but not always- you will put your talent with a needle to good use and an apprenticeship will be found for you. It will not be easy, sweetling. I ask again, are you certain princess?”

She is right- if Helaena does go through with this, then she is entering a life when she will be a princess just in name. Her life will be filled with uncertainty, in an unfamiliar place, with unfamiliar people.

Viserra died because she wasn’t careful.

No, Helaena thinks furiously. Viserra died because she wasn’t given a choice. Helaena wants her choices, whatever they may be.

“I’m certain.”

Helaena will never be able to repay Alerie’s kindness, but Helaena promises herself as she sails away on a ship with gold and a guard (“I trust Byren with my life” Larissa tells Helaena, “So I trust him with yours”) towards Bravvos, that one day she would pass on the kindness that Alerie and her sister had shown her to someone else. Helaena feels ashamed for her feelings of superiority, for thinking she was better because she was born a Targaryen. Alerie’s actions is proof that she isn’t – proof that her father isn’t, in his unthinking cruelty. Neither is her mother, who makes promises that fall through.

Helaena loves her parents, still. She loves all her family; she does not want to leave them – but she wants her child more.

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #got #house targaryen #fire and blood #anti jaehaerys i targargaryen #anti alysanne targaryen #self indulgent writing #alternative universe

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janiedean · 6 years ago

Note

What do you think about all those dudebros talking about how BRieNNe ARc Is NoW COmPlEte and she can rest in peace? Please, send help. =__=

well.

*deep breath*

first thing to be entirely truthful I would like to broaden that statement to ‘people in general who say that’ because from what I’m seeing it’s hardly a dudebro exclusive and it’s been a pseudo anti-brienne argument for ages around here (ie the SHE’S A KNIGHT SHE CAN ONLY BE A KNIGHT THE MOMENT SHE’S ONE HER ARC IS OVER) so like.... I wish it was just one category X°D

second thing: nope.

nooowwww, here goes the rant.

I would like to start by pointing out that this episode was named a knight of the seven kingdoms. and what’s the point, you will say. well:

now: who is the protagonist of AKOTSK?

and what’s the point, you will tell me?

well, half of it is that he’s most likely brienne’s great-grandfather:

which is not just because of that but also because he’s basically genderswapped brienne:

or better, he’s genderswapped brienne except that he’s Hot For Regular Standards but like if you read those novels he’s so much like her it hurts and actually... THICK AS A CASTLE WALL?

The wench has built a fortress inside herself. They will rape her soon enough, but behind her walls they cannot touch her. But Jaime's walls were gone. (asos, jaime iv)

"Do you mock me?"That pricked him back to anger. "Are you as thick as a castle wall? That was an apology. I am tired of fighting with you. What say we make a truce?""Truces are built on trust. Would you have me trust—" (asos, jaime v)

I’m not gonna go into how the most important romance dunk has in those novels is with a great-great-aunt of jaime’s and how those two have actual jb imagery in their novel because that’s not the point of this rant, but my point is: while obviously this is book canon, in the show they called her the way her ancestor is called in the collection of novels about his adventures and both brienne and duncan are 100% what you’d want in real knights, like dunk is 100% True Knight TM material if jaime had run into him instead of arthur dayne he’d have gotten an even worse mancrush.

now, dunk starts the novels as already knighted (even if no one gives him much credit for it), but what happens to dunk is that before going into the kingsguard he has a very long time of going around westeros with egg doing good deeds and establishing his name to the point that when he goes into egg’s kg everyone recognizes him as a paragon.

now: brienne has strived all her life for that validation of being knighted and recognized as such and she’s spent all her life dreaming of not only being a knight but to be seen as one and respected as one, she gets her wish with the man she’s in love with (because she is) and that she respects and whose worth and honor and bravery she sees to the point that she’s willing to put her own reputation on the line for him in front of people who might not take her seriously actually knighting her, in an episode titled after her ancestor who’s a true paragon of knighthood and who’s known for having been a knight for years and for his quests, and I’m supposed to think that the coronation of her arc is that.......... she dies not even twelve hours after that? it’d be cheap, it’d make no sense and it completely would kill the importance of the moment. if she’s been recognized as one after years of efforts and eating shit for it, it means that now she a) gets to prove it, b) gets to go around and say well fuck you I’ve earned that title, c) gets to come into herself fully and she can be whoever and whatever she wanted to and if she dies that gesture and that moment are worth shit because what was it that for? the last hurrah so she can die happy? fuck that, brienne worked her entire life for it, she got it and now she’ll damn well make use of it, and sorry but if gwendoline is going around talking about how this season she takes her decisions, she goes beyond serving others and does finally things for herself that include embracing her womanly side which she denied until now there is really no way that this is it. this is the premise brienne needs to get the push to actually see herself as not just someone whose worth is tied to her being in service of someone else, and the fact that jaime basically pledged his service to her even before knighting her should say everything about where the priorities lay here.

brienne’s arc isn’t complete for shit. brienne’s arc has just started and it’ll be complete when she’s lived a long fulfilling life in which she’s been a knight, saved people, held up that paragon of virtue thing she has going for her, didn’t do it sacrificing her own wants and needs but along with that and doing it with people who finally see her for the amazing person she is. and like.... ‘okay but grrm is evil’ and ‘okay but people die on got’ aren’t Actual Objections because grrm is hardly as bad as everyone thinks he is and he actually does like a good love story himself and he said he wants the bittersweet ending like lotr, not a bloodbath, and I would like to remind everyone that lotr ends with sam gamgee going back home to his wife and children and living a happy life before going off to join frodo in valinor, not with middle earth being razed to the ground by sauron.

also: the fact that she’s directly paralleled with dunk doesn’t mean that she’s ending up in a kings or queensguard whatsoever. the point is that *dunk* being in the kg was something he’d never even dream of and his coronation of his journey, brienne being paralleled with him means that she most likely has to get what *she* wants full package after being denied it for all her life and I’d like to remind everyone that brienne of tarth actually never said she never wanted a husband or a family case in:

Brienne had been betrothed at seven, to a boy three years her senior, Lord Caron's younger son, a shy boy with a mole above his lip. They had only met the once, on the occasion of their betrothal. Two years later he was dead, carried off by the same chill that took Lord and Lady Caron and their daughters. Had he lived, they would have been wed within a year of her first flowering, and her whole life would have been different. She would not be here now, dressed in man's mail and carrying a sword, hunting for a dead woman's child. More like she'd be at Nightsong, swaddling a child of her own and nursing another. It was not a new thought for Brienne. It always made her feel a little sad, but a little relieved as well. (affc, brienne iii)

never mind that she is attracted to men and she does suffers knowing it’s Not For Her To Be In Love With Guys Who Respect Her.

well, guess what, she has one now riiiight there who has just knighted her. *shrug* and okay, you’ll say, that’s book canon and not show canon, but ffs since this season it seems like they remembered proper characterization and the endgame should be roughly the books’s....... well. my money is that she gets to have the cake and eat it after all the metaphorical (and not) shit she had to wade through for years to get it and that’s my two cents.

#brienne of tarth #jaime x brienne #duncan the tall #oops my hand slipped SORRY #game of thrones spoilers #sorry guys but like I Don't Agree ;)#janie writes meta #i said what i said see you on may 20th #Anonymous #ask post

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whattimeisitintokyo · 5 years ago

Text

I Could Never Hate You (Part 2)

Heeeeeeey, did you miss me? Probably not. I have no excuses, but here’s the rest of the chapter. Bleep!

“Im… Imelda?”

“Héctor!” Imelda reached over and cupped his face with her hand, looking deep into his blurry eyes. “Are you here with me? Do you understand me?”

“S-si… I can’t… I can’t move my arms. Agh, Dios, my head!”

“Hold on.” Imelda made quick work to unlatch the thick straps wrapped around his wrists, and once one was free his hand immediately went up to his forehead to try to soothe the pounding ache. When she had finished with the other one she was back close to his face. “Héctor, I need you to relax and tell me what you remember last.”

It took a few seconds, as Héctor gazed dully at his wife, before the memories started to flood back. “Ernesto…” he choked out, lowering his hand over his eyes as he bitterly wept. “I saw him… He’s-”

“Okay.” Imelda shushed him and ran a hand through his dirty hair. “Okay, you don’t need to say anything else.”

Héctor blinked up at the harsh lighting and his gaze went around the room, recognition settling in and disgust coming in quickly. He recognized this place. This was where his little girl had wasted away into nothing while he foolishly believed that she was getting the help she needed. And anger was a much better feeling to have than despair. It helped him, gave him strength. It would do. “Why am I in this hospital?” he growled. “Why am I here?”

Imelda’s face hardened and she looked at him with exasperation and anger, making him shrink back. “Why are you here? Héctor, you… You brought yourself here! You’ve been drinking so much that your body nearly shut down when you stopped. You haven’t been eating, you are ten pounds underweight! Your lungs are so congested that I-… I watched you nearly choke to death Héctor! How could you have neglected your health so much?! Were you trying to kill yourself?!”

Did you try to kill yourself Ernesto?

With a shake of his head he turned away from his wife with a snarl as he focused on anything else but her and that horrible thought of his brother. “Of course not! I would never do anything so… so cowardly! What do you care anyway?”

She didn’t answer, but Héctor heard the sharp inhale before there was a quiet still. It lasted far too long, until finally the metallic screech of the chair she was sitting on startled him into looking at her again. Imelda had stood up and patted her dress down, refusing to look at him, and cleared her throat. “I must tell the doctor that you are awake and aware.”

As she quickly walked towards the door, each click of her heels sent a sharp stab of pain directly into Héctor’s heart. She was leaving him. Again. And this time he knew why. He shouldn’t have snapped at her. But his head was throbbing just as terribly as the ache in his chest, and he had lashed out in his pain and suffering. But it wasn’t just this. The past few years of distance, that had eventually grown into separation, had been on him.

It was all his fault. It had to be.

“I’m sorry Imelda.”

His desperate, whimpering voice reached her just as she had opened the door, making her pause. She turned her head towards him so he could see her beautiful profile, but still wouldn’t look him in the eye. Still, he had gotten her attention, and he could work with that.

Make her listen.

“This is all my fault… Not yours.” Héctor said softly, his vision slowly becoming even more blurry with tears. His head only felt worse, and it hurt to breathe, but he continued anyway. “I’ve been a t-terrible husband… and father, and a… a terrible friend. I couldn’t see how bad Ernesto was because I was only caring about myself, and now he’s… He’s gone. And it’s all my fault.”

It was at this point Héctor had dissolved into sobs and what he was saying could easily be described as blubbering. But he couldn’t stop. “I should have been stronger, I should have made him go to a doctor, or just have kept him in the room, just not on the stage. But I was too weak. I’m too weak. It’s all my fault. He’s dead… I couldn’t keep him off the stage, and I couldn’t make Matty stay at home, I couldn’t make you-… I’m so sorry, Imelda!”

He broke off into a fit of weeping, trying and failing to keep it at a low volume. Trying not to look as truly pathetic as he felt. With his eyes still squeezed shut in misery he heard the door solidly close, and his heart shattered. It didn’t work. He had poured his heart out to Imelda, and she still left him. He had finally talked to her, tried for one last time, and he had still failed. Curling as much as his IVs would allow, he buried his face into his pillow and continued to cry. So lost in his misery he didn’t even realize that he wasn’t alone, until a soft voice startled him.

“Who said that you were a terrible husband and father?”

With a gasp he looked up and saw Imelda staring down at him, with an unreadable yet soft expression. His breath stuttered to halt at seeing her look at him like that, and for the life of him he couldn’t answer her. His voice was stuck in his throat as he gaped at her with tears still spilling silently down his cheeks. Luckily for him Imelda continued on her own.

“You have been nothing but a loving and devoted father.” Imelda said as she sat down on the side of the bed, and now that she was closer Héctor could read the expression past his blurry gaze. She looked so… sad. “Our children couldn’t adore you more if they tried. Never think differently.”

With a sniffle, Héctor smothered a cough as he swiped at his eyes. “But… But Matty. I let him go. If he dies…”

“Then it will be the fault of whoever kills him. Not his, not yours.” With a bowed head she looked down at he clasped hands in her lap. “And you didn’t let him do anything. Mateo does what he wants.” Then, suddenly, Imelda did something that Héctor had not seen from her in quite some time and made his heart flutter. She smiled. “Remember when he wanted to join the fútbol team, and I was afraid that he would fail, or hurt himself? I refused to sign the permission slip, and what did he do?”

Héctor was surprised when, despite all his sorrow, the corner of his mouth twitched upward at the memory. “He forged your signature.”

“And despite my concerns, he surpassed my expectations an succeeded in it. Even kicked the winning goal in his first game. Probably just to prove to me that I worried over nothing.”

“This isn’t a fútbol game.” Héctor whispered, the fleeting lightness of mirth vanished. “I sent him off to war.”

“No.” Imelda shook her head firmly. “No he was already going, you sent him off with a lighter heart. With the knowledge that you didn’t hate him for his decision. I… didn’t realize that until afterwards. It’s what I should have done.”

“That’s why you sent him boots?”

“Si.” Imelda nodded and smiled again. “He is still an idiota, but I wanted him to know that I still love him with all of my heart… Like you did. I am sorry Héctor. I never should have said those things to you when it happened.”

Héctor sniffled again, the tight vice around his heart lessening just a little at her words. Knowing that she didn’t blame him for Matty’s actions made him feel a little better, but he still had to know the full truth. “But… you said it. Because you… wanted me to leave… Didn’t you?”

“…Si.”

Héctor sank deeper into the pillow and turned his gaze away from her. He knew it. She didn’t love him anymore. She truly didn’t want him with her. That was it. It was over.

“It’s for the best. You deserve so much better.”

Héctor’s head snapped back to stare at Imelda in confusion. A little too fast as his aching head protested against the harsh movement, but he struggled through the pain just as he struggled through his confusion. “Better?” he whispered. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

Imelda looked away and crossed her arms across her chest tightly, almost as if she was hugging herself. Or maybe to prevent herself from touching him. “You’re a successful man, Héctor. And you’re still young. Young enough to find another woman who would be more than happy to start a new life with you.”

“Y-young?!” Héctor choked out in disbelief. “Imelda, I’m a grandfather.”

Imelda waved a hand at him dismissively. “That means nothing to a man. You’ll be as virile now until the day you die. You can expand your legacy even more with someone else. I’m finished Héctor. I have nothing more I can give you.”

Héctor’s brow furrowed in utter confusion, his weakened mind slowly trying to piece together what Imelda was saying. “What are you talking about? Imelda, you’ve given me so much. How can you say you have nothing-”

“I am old, Héctor.” Imelda cut him off, and for the first time Héctor saw her cold façade crack into something vulnerable. “I am sagging and wrinkled. And not only that I am broken. Everything that made me worthy of being your wife is gone. Cut from me never to be replaced. I am a shadow of what I once was, and I am no use to you anymore.”

With a slow blink, Héctor suddenly understood. “Imelda… Are you talking about the surgery?” She didn’t answer, but her silence was answer enough. “Imelda! You nearly died! The surgery saved your life!”

“And it ruined my body!” Imelda choked out, and she finally started to cry. “I see that scar everyday Héctor. It’s hideous and it’s disgusting. I’ve never felt so disgusted, and so… So embarrassed! And ashamed! I am not a woman anymore, at least not one that can bear you children!”

“I don’t want more children!” Héctor shouted, and the strain of the outburst proved too much as his chest was seized with a fit of deep hacking coughs.

Imelda was at his side in a second pressing a soft rag against his mouth as the violent coughs shook him. After what seemed like too long, to the point she was afraid that he would pass out again, Héctor finally drew in enough air to gasp and collapsed back onto the bed in exhaustion. As she wiped at his lips gently and shushed him, Héctor locked eyes with her and held her gaze.

“Imelda, I love you.” He whispered, his voice rough from his fit. “I’ve loved you since I was eleven years old… The angelic girl in the creek who sang La Llorona so… hauntingly beautiful… You’re all I ever wanted. But I wanted you for you, not as a… a baby factory.”

Imelda laughed softly, bitterly, as she stood up to walk towards the trash bin. “Some factory!” she sneered as she tossed the soiled rag into the bin. “I couldn’t even carry our child to term. I was just too old, and Miguel nearly died before he had a chance to live.”

“But he is alive! You’re alive! Everything is fine!”

“And I gave you the most beautiful little girl.” She whimpered and lowered her head into a dry sob. “Leticia… with flowers in her hair… and in the end she rotted away.”

Héctor choked on tears as he struggled to sit up. “No. Imelda, that’s not true.”

“And I made you give up on her!”

“That’s not true!”

“How could you love a woman who killed her own daughter?!”

“Enough! Imelda, I –UGH!”

It wasn’t until he had crashed to the ground did Héctor realize that he had forced himself out of the bed, desperate to reach his hysterical wife. His weakened limbs couldn’t bear even his own meager weight and landed heavily on his knees and arms in an awkward, painful kneel. He hissed as sharp pain shot through him and collapsed to his side, his ringing ears preventing him from hearing Imelda’s terrified gasp.

“Héctor!”

And then suddenly he felt her hands on him, pulling him up into sitting position and muttering frantically that he had to get back into bed. As the pain slowly subsided he managed to grab her hand with his, squeezing hard and trying to draw strength from her. When she stilled and looked at him, he brought her hand up to his face and nuzzled it. Dios, he missed her. And being so close to her he could actually smell her again. And her kiss her palm, and-

Ay, mierda. I kissed her palm!

With a start he looked up at Imelda, expecting to hear a barrage of curses or maybe even being on the receiving end of a few indignant slaps. But what he saw stole his breath away. She just looked at him with profound sadness in her eyes, tears still running down her cheeks, and there was something else. Something that pulled at his heart and gave him the courage to keep pressing forward.

It was longing.

“Imelda.” Héctor whispered as he again pressed her hand against his face. “You didn’t kill her. She was too sick, and you did not make her sick. And you didn’t make me give up on her. You were right. All I was doing was hurting Leti. And you… You did it first.”

Imelda blinked. “Did what first?”

Héctor smiled. “You said I let Matty go with a lighter heart. Well… You did it first, to our little girl. She didn’t have to fight anymore. She died peacefully with her family at home. That was because of you, and I am forever grateful for that.”

“And I don’t want more children, or a young mistress, or anything like that. All I ever wanted was a real family. Ever since I was a little boy, after realizing that my Mamá and Papá were never going to come back for me. And when I saw the bossy, snooty girl who always made fun of me for being too short, sing my favorite song in the most beautiful way… I knew I wanted to start one with you. I don’t care if you can’t have any more children. I just want you to be healthy, Imelda. And no matter how many scars or wrinkles or gray hairs you’ll get, you will always be the most beautiful girl in the world to me. I don’t want you to hate yourself Imelda, and if you do I’ll just have to love you twice as much to make up for it. Because, when I married you… I was ready to be with you… for life.”

Imelda closed her eyes and nodded, fresh tears falling and a trembling smile suppressing her weeping. With a shaking hand Héctor wiped the tears off of her face, and soon she too was nuzzling his hand. Slowly they came closer together until their foreheads were resting against each other, noses barely touching, and they just stared at each other and cried.

“Imelda… Mi amor… Mi diosa… Please tell me you still love me… Por favor…”

…

“You are the love of my life.”

When the nurse came in several minutes later for a routine check on her patient, she was startled into a near heart attack and horrified at what she saw: Héctor Rivera, the man who all of Mexico had been waiting on with bated breath to wake up from Death’s door, and Imelda Rivera, the fashion mogul and shrewd businesswoman who had been coldly separated from her husband for months, were on the cold hard ground in a twist of IV tubes and blankets. Laughing, crying hysterically, and kissing each other with intense fervor.

The nurse frantically called for orderlies and doctors to come lift Héctor of the floor and back into the bed, difficult to do when he and his wife couldn’t stop clinging to each other. Once he was settled back into bed, and the doctors tried to treat him and question his wellbeing between all the kissing a crying, did they finally leave them alone again.

Ernesto was dead. He would have to be buried. Héctor would have to watch his friend be placed into his eternal resting place. It was the lowest he had ever felt in his life. But as his wife peppered his face with kisses and whispered words of love and apologies, that she did love him, that she wanted him to come home as soon as he was well, that she missed him and that Miguel missed him too, Héctor finally started to feel himself slowly rise from the pit of rock bottom.

It was a tragedy, but things couldn’t get worse than they were now.

Now it was time for things to start looking up.

“I can’t believe you’re kissing me!” Héctor said as he giggled.

“I can’t help it.” Imelda said as she kissed him for what seemed like the thousandth time in the last hour. “I love you. And I miss you. Anyone would kiss their husband in this situation.”

“No, I meant that I’ve been the hospital for days! I must stink and taste too terrible to kiss!”

“I don’t care.” Imelda kissed him again, this time on the brow, and nuzzled his forehead. “I want you to come home Héctor.”

“Si, of course.” Héctor whispered. “I’ve wanted to come home for so long.”

“As long as you don’t mind sharing the bed with someone else… Someone younger. Like I have for the past few months.”

There was a beat of silence, before Héctor leaned back to look Imelda in the eyes again, a cold feeling of dread starting to creep back into his heart. “What?”

Imelda held his gaze for a second, before a sly smile curled her lips. “I got a new cat… Her name is Pepita.”

“….. You are so lucky I’m in a hospital right now. I think I just had a stroke.”

Imelda laughed again, with Héctor joining her, and they resumed kissing, and crying, and kissing some more. When the nurse came back in again later, she was once again shocked and exasperated at the sight of the both of them, cramped together on the small hospital bed, sound asleep in each other’s arms.

————————————————————

Ay! AY! This is terrible! Mierda! Basura! I can’t eat any more of this!

It had been a week since Héctor had woken up in the hospital and it had been a week since he had regained the love of his wife. With the promise that they would be together again, that he would finally get to go home, that he would get be with his adorable Miguelito and that that Coco would also be coming back with him, Héctor was ready to leave the hospital as soon as he had showered and shaved. The doctor, however, had abruptly dashed those hopes away.

‘Well Señor Rivera, I must say that you have some amazing lungs.’

‘Ha, you see Imelda? I’m fine! When can I-’

‘Amazing due to the fact that they’re both so full of fluid it’s a miracle that they’ve been able to absorb as much oxygen as they have been.’

‘… Ah…’

‘I’m sorry señor, but it’s going to be a while until you are properly discharged. But if you want to get out of here faster I suggest you rest as much as you can and eat everything that is put in front of you. You need to put on some weight.’

And so he had. It wasn’t hard to sleep; he was so weak nowadays that he could fall asleep at the drop of a hat despite the glaring lights and sunny rays pouring through his window. The eating, on the other hand, that was the challenge. Granted, since he had finally finished enduring a painful withdrawal from the alcohol and he was finally back with his family, Héctor had gotten back his appetite tenfold. He was still gaining weight painfully slow, which had always been a problem for him, but he had become a bottomless pit.

There was just one problem.

Hospital food was made in Hell by el Diablo himself.

With a hard swallow Héctor gulped down the mouthful of food he had been chewing on for two full minutes, and with a pleading whine and smile he held out the bowl to his two judges sitting on either side of him on the bed. Said judges being his youngest son and his granddaughter.

Miguel looked into the bowl and then shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

“There’s still some left.” Victoria piped up. “Finish it, or no dessert.”

Héctor groaned and looked up for any potential allies in the three adults sitting in the room with him. But Imelda, Coco and Vicente just stared at him with crossed arms and hard expressions, silently demanding that he finish his meal. Except for Coco. No, fire flashed in her eyes and Héctor shrunk away from her intense gaze, combining the last two bites into one huge glob and shoveling it into his mouth. He gagged a little at the taste and struggled to chew the large mass, but he did it. Anything to placate his sweet, terrifying little Coco.

Coco had always taken after him in temperament. Kind, motherly, always willing to help out others, and very gentle. But when she got really riled up, that was when the Imelda in her rose to prominence and blasted her ire at anyone in the wrong. So when Coco had visited him after he had woken up, had seen both him and her mother together and happy again, and was reassured that he would be all right, she had sighed in relief and smiled with happy tears.

‘Ay, gracias a Dios. I had prayed for so long… that you two… IDIOTS!… WOULD STOP THIS FOOLISHNESS!’

And so Héctor and Imelda had sat there in shocked silence while their little girl screamed and bellowed at them, and called them names, and shamed them to the point where in the end they could do nothing more than slump in pure dejection and just accept everything their daughter yelled at them like she was their own mother and they were the naughty children.

‘For months! NO! For years! YEEEAAARS! I have watched you sulk and whine and piddle and cry and not even try stand up for yourself while Mamá treated you like dirt! No, instead you drank yourself into a hospital bed and made all of us worry for your health when you didn’t care at all! What an wonderful example you’ve set for your son and granddaughter! No, you’re not a grandfather! You’re just a kicked puppy trailing after Mamá! And you Mamá, are the puppy kicker! Imelda Rivera, kicker of puppies! You should be ashamed of yourself! And why?! Because you were depressed about the surgery! All- of-this-could-have-been-prevented-if-you-had-just-TOLD-US!’

After she had finished, and making her parents vow that they would never do this to her or the family again, she had dragged an amazed Julio off by the wrist and had gone back to the mansion for the night. When they had returned the next morning to visit, no one mentioned the fact they both had suspicious marks and scratches on their necks and arms or that they were wearing the same clothes from the previous day.

With a heaving gulp and a disgusted groan, Héctor collapsed back onto the propped up pillows and let the bowl clatter to his side. Miguel picked the bowl up to inspect, and then held it up triumphantly. “It’s empty!”

Everyone cheered and clapped in such a patronizing way that Héctor growled and rolled his eyes in annoyance. “That was the worst one yet.” He groaned and held onto his gurgling stomach. “How can you screw up corn and beans so much?” He watched a Miguel curiously ran a finger through the lingering blob of gravy left in the bowl to taste it, smiling as the little boy’s face screwed up in disgust.

Vicente chuckled , stood up and walked over to the huge pile of flowers, balloons, gift baskets and presents that took up the whole side of the room. It had taken him and Julio several trips to bring up all of the gifts from the fans and Mexico’s elite, and the room was so overpowering with the scent of flowers. “I don’t think hospitals put seasoning in their food. It’s to nourish you, not upset a weak stomach. However, I think a little treat won’t hurt you.” He picked out an ivory box and brought it over to the bed. “Esther Fernández sent you a box of chocolates from Switzerland, along with a sweet note to get well soon.”

“Chocolate!” Miguel shouted and reached for the box, Victoria preventing him from flinging the lid away and placing it gently next to her. “Can we have some too, Papá?”

“Of course, but save some for me!” Héctor said as he plucked one out of the box. “Anything to get the taste out of my mouth.”

Vicente went back over to the pile of gifts and pulled out another, wooden box and handled it nervously. “Also, Emilio Fernández sent you this box of cigars. Very poor taste for someone getting over pneumonia, and… I thought since you don’t smoke I could give them to a friend of mine who would appreciate them more?”

Héctor waved him off and stuffed two chocolates in his mouth. “Take them, they’re yours. I can’t stand the smell of them.”

“Gracias, Señor.” Vicente said and sat back down with a drawn out sigh, rubbing the back of his neck and closing his eyes.

His exhaustion wasn’t unnoticed by the rest of the adults in the room, and when the three of them exchanged knowing looks Coco reached out to touch his arm gently. “Chente, you look so tired.”

Vicente blinked his eyes open. “Me? No no, I’m fine. It’s just… been very hectic for everyone this past week. We’ve finally settled on a burial site for Señor de la Cruz in Santa Cecilia and construction of a tomb for him is underway, but… there’s still so much to do. Like canceling the production on the movie, sending back the funding to the investors, a massive retooling for the new year’s schedual, and worst of all… I can’t find Señor de la Cruz’s Chihuahuas anywhere!”

Victoria gasped. “Oh, poor puppies!”

Héctor listened to Vicente’s woes in silence, nodding and smiling solemnly. “I’m sorry Chente. You’ve been under a lot of pressure for a long time.”

Vicente shook his head. “It’s all right. You’ve been sick.”

“Not just now.” Héctor said. “The whole time you’ve been my assistant you’ve been doing my workload as well as your own, while I’ve been wallowing in my own self-pity. I didn’t realize it but I took you for granted, and for that I’m truly sorry. You’ve been absolutely wonderful and I am very grateful for it.”

Vicente’s face flushed red at the praise, and he bowed his head humbly. “W-well… Gracias Señor Rivera. I would do anything to help you and your company. When you’re well again everything will be waiting for you back in tip top shape, I promise.”

Héctor smiled. “Oh, I’m not coming back.”

“… Que?”

Héctor looked at Imelda, who took his hand lovingly and nodded encouragingly, and continued. “I’m not an executive, Chente. I have no talent for business, and numbers. You do. Now I’ll still be the sole head of the company, but I’ll be leaving all those boring aspects to you. I’m retiring and going home to live with my family, and you’ll be the new CEO of Rivera de la Cruz Productions and Records.”

“… Que?”

“But don’t panic, Chente. It’s not going to be overnight. You’re going to get all of the training you need, set you up with an excellent team and board, get you all nice and settled in. You won’t be alone in all of this.” Héctor smiled warmly and held out his hand to the poor man. “You’ve helped me and the company so much this last year, it’s high time you get the right pay and a title to go with it. I hope you say yes, because there’s no one else I trust more than you.”

Vicente sputtered for a few seconds, his face turning from a burning red into a pallid white, before with a jerking nod he robotically grasped Héctor’s hand and shook it once. “Yeah… Yes! S-si! Gracias, Señor Rivera! Héctor! I won’t let you down- AY! What am I saying?! Yes I will! How can I run a company when I can’t even find four dogs and make sure that you eat?!”

“Don’t you worry about him, Vicente.” Imelda said as she squeezed Héctor’s hand. “I’ll make sure that he eats. You take care of the less important stuff.”

“O-kay. Okay, okay, okay, okay…” Vicente mumbled, standing up on shaking feet and walking over to Héctor’s unused oxygen cylinder. “Please excuse me. I think I’m going to pass out.” With trembling hands he strapped the mask over his face and cracked the valve open to full blast, taking in deep gulping breaths and sliding down onto the floor.

Miguel jumped off the bed and walked over to where Vicente laid slumped against the wall, gently patting his head. “You’ll be okay.” Miguel reached down, pried open Vicente’s shaking hands, and placed a half melted piece of chocolate into it, smiling sweetly.

A few minutes later, once it was determined that Vicente definitely would take the promotion and definitely wouldn’t throw up, Julio walked in with a large wooden box under his arm. “Hola Papá Héctor. How are you feeling? Did you eat?”

Héctor rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, I ate! Dios mio, I’ll eat mud if it means these quacks will just let me out of here.”

“Well, I know how bored you are, so I brought you this!” Turning the box over, Julio showed everyone that it was in fact a small radio. “I thought that maybe if you could listen to the news or some programs it’ll make your stay seem shorter.”

“What a wonderful idea, mi amor.” Coco said.

“Gracias. It’s a wireless one and portable too!” Julio said as he tried to find a place to set it down amongst all of the gifts. “Ay… Chente, can I just move some of these on the ground?”

Vicente, staring off into space, barely acknowledged him with an affirmative grunt.

Once a spot had been cleared and the box switched on, Julio fiddled with the knobs until the radio static finally began to tune into a station. “Alright then, just a few more adjustments and here… we… go!”

“-you cry!”

“For even if I’m far away I hold you in my heart”

“I sing a secret song to you-“

Julio sighed. “Ay, they’re still playing his songs nonstop. It’s understandable, but still.”

Coco nodded. “Si, Tio Nesto endeared himself to a whole nation. It warms my heart to know how much he’s touched everyone so-”

“Héctor?!”

At Imelda’s cry, both Julio and Coco turned to see Imelda hovering over the bed as Héctor was… rocking back and forth, trembling violently and cramming the heels of his hands into his ears as hard as he could. His breathing became labored and a low, keening sound was coming out of his throat. His eyes were so wide and pinpricked, and even though the others couldn’t see it, all Héctor could see was red.

Blood! So much blood!

It’s all torn up! What happened?! Where are you?!

Ernesto!

The song won’t stop playing!

The bell won’t stop ringing!

It’s all over me!

STOP THE SONG! STOP THE SONG! STOPTHESONGSTOPTHESONGSTOPTHESONGSTOPTHESONG

“JULIO, TURN IT OFF!”

STOPTHESONGSTOPTHESONGSTOPTHESONGSTOP THESONGSTOPTHE-

“HÉCTOR STOP! Héctor, stop! It’s off! It’s off! Cálmese, mi amor. Cálmese… Shhhhh….”

With a sharp gasp, Héctor found himself lying back down of the bed. Imelda was hovering over him with a terrified expression, and the doctor was next to him drawing back an empty syringe and checking his pulse. As his eyes roamed around the room he saw Coco holding onto Victoria as the little girl cried into her mother’s shoulder, and Vicente was holding onto a wide-eyed Miguel.

As a wave of drowsiness started to engulf him, Héctor turned back to Imelda and stared up at her in anguish.

“It’s alright, Héctor.” Imelda said gently.

Héctor shook his head slowly as the sedative took effect, tears falling down his face. “No… it’s not… No more… ’Melda… no more… mu-…”

As he drifted off into a drugged state of unconsciousness, he didn’t notice the worried looks that the adults exchanged with one another, and he didn’t hear the innocent question his son asked them all. A question they couldn’t really answer.

“No more what, Mamá?”

———————————————————————

“~MEEEEEEEEEE!~”

“AAAAAARGH!”

Instead of the rapturous applause he was expecting after belting out the last note of his song, Ernesto was startled by the sound of a hoarse, raspy scream of an old man. His eyes shot opened and he flinched back in confusion at his surroundings. The stage, the lights, the orchestra, the audience, the theater! Vanished! In the blink of an eye they were all gone! Instead he was in a rather sterile looking room not unlike what you would find in a hospital, and he wasn’t standing anymore either, but sitting up on a simple fold-out gurney.

Where am I?

“Puta Madre! What the hell?! Who the hell wakes up singing like that?!”

Ernesto turned towards the gravelly voice of the only other occupant in the room with him: a short, stubby old man currently trying to totter over towards his head on the ground, wearing clothes common of either a bank teller or some other kind of office worker-

His head?

…

On the ground?

…

This man’s head was on the ground.

…

How much did I take?!

Finally, when the old man finally reached his head and plopped it back on his neck, Ernesto realized it wasn’t a head at all. It was a skull. A skull currently glaring daggers at him with eyeballs suspended in the inky blackness of his eye sockets. This was no drug trip. This wasn’t even a dream. Ernesto knew himself enough to know that there was no way he could dream up something so ugly or terrifying in his life.

“AAAAH!” Ernesto screamed and scooted himself back as far as he could on the bed, plastering himself to the wall. He continued to scream as the skeleton slowly walked towards his desk with a sigh.

“That’s more like it. This I can work with.” The skeleton said as he held up a clipboard.

“S-stay away! Stay away from me!”

“Please remain calm.” It said in a bored tone as it read from the clipboard. “You are safe now. Rejoice, for all of your worldly pains and ailments are a thing of the past.”

“Wh-what?!” Ernesto croaked out and continued to press against the wall, trying his all to get away from this skeleton. From this monster.

“We welcome you to your final resting place- heh, final, yeah right- where as long as you remain well remembered in the hearts of your loved ones you will live on far longer than you did in lif… Lif? Ay joder, they still haven’t fixed this typo?!”

Ernesto continued to gasp in terror as he stared transfixed at the skeleton before him. “Don’t come any closer!”

It rolled his eyes. “I’m not even moving.”

“Yes, you are! You’re creeping up to me right now!”

“No, you’re pushing against the wall and moving the gurney towards me, cabron!”

Ernesto paused at that and looked down, seeing that the bed was now two feet away from the wall and his hands were still pressed against it. “Oh.”

And then he looked up towards his hands.

…

“Oooohhh…..”

“There ya go.” The old skeleton chuckled hoarsely as he watched Ernesto stare at his new boney appendages in quiet, awed horror and went back to his clipboard. “Bienvenidos, Señor de la Cruz. Welcome to the Land of the Dead. Now, since the requirement to be here is to be dead, I must inform you that that’s what happened. You are now dead. My name is Chicharrón and I will be death counselor for this eve- and there you go, pat yourself down. Down the ribs, to the stomach- ay, no stomach!- and then the face. Every time, just like clockwork.”

Ernesto tore his hands away from pawing at his own cheekbones and glared at Chicharrón. “This is not funny!”

Chich smiled at him. “You know I always thought your bulbous chin was just fat, but nope,” and he smirked and tapped his own protruding chin with a pen. “You’re just as chiseled as I am.”

“How?!”

“How?… Ay, I don’t know. Genetics, I guess? I took after my Papá.”

“HOW DID I DIE?!”

As he cried out that choked, desperate plea Ernesto already knew deep down what had caused his far too early demise. The drugs. What else could it have been? What else could have affected him so suddenly during such an enthusiastic, triumphant performance. As he had belted out that last note, it was obvious his heart couldn’t take the strain. After gambling with his body for so long with copious amounts of drugs and sex, it had finally caught up with him. With one last song to his familia, he had perished right in front of his eyes. It was sudden, but strangely poetic. As tragic and as horrifying as he found his current predicament, he could not ask for a better way to go-

“Oh, that! According to reports, a giant two-ton bell fell from a stage fixture and flattened you into a tortilla.”

“………. What?”

“To save you some embarrassment I took the liberty of putting it down as ‘Acto de Dios’ as the cause of death.” Chich said, pointing it out on the file before placing it in Ernesto’s numb hands. “In hindsight maybe you should have sprung for papier-mâché props, eh?”

When Ernesto continued to just stare at the file in shocked silence, Chich made his way over to the telephone on his desk. “You’ve been dead for about three weeks now, but your body was just now buried. Guess they had to either build a fancy tomb for you or they had to finish scraping you all up. But it’s givin’ me plenty of time to finish the bulk of your paperwork. No deceased blood relatives on this side I’m afraid, they’ve all been forgotten, but I promised your goddaughter I’d call her the second you’d arrive.”

The mention of that word shocked Ernesto out of his stupor, and he glanced at Chich with wide eyes. “M-… M-my… goddaughter?” he whispered breathlessly.

“Uh-huh.”

“… Leticia… She’s dead.”

Chich quirked an eye ridge at him. “Like I said, it’s a requirement for being here.”

“Sh-she’s dead… I’m dead… Oh! Oh no, no!”

With a frustrated sigh Chich placed the phone back on the receiver and rose up to deal with de la Cruz’s breakdown. “Easy, amigo.”

“I can’t die. Not now.”

Chich snorted. “If you’re worried about missin’ out on your fans and fame, don’t worry. There’s plenty of people here just foamin’ at the mouth to see the great Ernesto de la Cruz. A lot of the office ladies here are actually jealous I was assigned to you. You’ll be fine-”

“Héctor…”

Chich blinked at the deep sorrow and pain that he heard in de la Cruz’s voice and frowned. “Your writing partner? Leticia’s Papá?”

Ernesto brought a hand over his mouth and, seemingly to overcome to hold himself any longer, collapsed back onto the dead to stare morosely up at the ceiling. “Héctor… I can’t die. I can’t be dead, not now.”

He had promised. He had promised years ago, as he had looked two little babies in the eyes, that he would never hurt Héctor again for as long as he lived. He had stood by his side throughout all of their successes, fame, riches, pain, loss, suffering. Anything to even try to make up for what he had tried to do.

He had promised.

“… I was going to tell you everything…”

#coco fanfiction #pixar coco #coco pixar #somos familia #hector rivera #mama imelda #mama coco #papa julio #ernesto de la cruz #chicharron #don't matter if you're a celebrity #chich ain't gonna sugar coat your death #deal with it #(•_•) ( •_•)>⌐■-■ (⌐■_■)

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betratyal · 5 years ago

Text

the first clear thought in years: I REFUSE TO DIE.

JACOB BATALON? No, that’s actually PETER PETTIGREW from the MARAUDERS ERA. You know, the child of AMBROSIA PETTIGREW and ALISTER MCALISTER? Only 20 years old, this GRYFFINDOR alumni works as a DISH WASHER and is sided with HIMSELF. HE/THEY identifies as AGENDER and is a HALFBLOOD who is known to be CUNNING, HUMOROUS and ALLOCENTRIC but also OBSESSIVE, PASSIVE and COWARDLY.

LINKS – pinboard, stats, app. CHARACTER PARALLELS – winston bishop ( new girl ), sid jenkins ( skins ), charles boyle ( b99 ), edmund pevensie ( narnia ), eric forman ( that 70s show ), bunny corcoran ( the secret history ) AESTHETIC – ketchup stains on band shirts, an incomprehensible minute long string of curses, tracing the veins in your wrist, the smell of breakfast and fresh coffee, card tricks at three in the morning, freddie mercury impersonations, lying on the floor of the kitchen staring a the ceiling for three hours, trembling hands holding a joint, a guilty grin. HEADS UP – this intro contains mentions of bullying, death, mental illness (eating disorders (bed & bulimia) and depression and anxiety), self destructive tendencies and weed. ive trigger warned each bullet point where it comes up.

history ( 1960 - 1978 )

peter was born to ambrosia pettigrew, a halfblooded scottish-filipino witch. his father -- a muggle -- was not in the picture and hadn’t been ever since he’d learned of ambrosia’s pregnancy; he would sent her money every now and then, in the first years of peter’s life, but was never in the picture. ( and that was for the best, thought ambrosia; she didn’t love him, and he was a muggle, but still --- she was heartbroken and wished that she could give more to her son ).

peter grew up living with his mother in a small flat in glasgow. his grandparents lived nearby, and he spent a lot of time with them. peter learned how to be alone from a young age, with his mother working a lot and he himself lacking friends and peers to waste the days with --- as a child, he delved into fictional worlds ( superhero comics, roald dahl novels, animated tv shows ) and found friends there.

bullying tw / went to muggle elementary as well, but never felt at home there. he was the odd one out: his clothes didn’t fit well, his nervous habits were annoying to his classmates, his words were too clumsy and his eyes too shifty. he didn’t mind not having friends ( or so he thought, until he did have them ) but he did mind being picked on and teased. end of tw

death tw / his grandmother died when he was seven and it was devastating; peter’s family was so small and compact, his social world so limited, that it had a huge impact. his relationship with his grandfather did grow much stronger through it. end of tw

and then peter finally went to hogwarts! and peter made friends for the FIRST TIME. and he found a second home! ah, my god --- peter was so happy, he was really so hyped and in awe of his life and his friends. it all felt a bit surreal; especially because he looked up to james and sirius and remus so much --- james, mainly, but all of them were so amazing, and he was so amazed that they liked him, too.

peter always loved heroes. he loves comic books and people who save the day and get the girl and do it all. i think he kind of … projected that onto james and sirius especially? did not know how to do this friendship thing as an 11 year old tbh, was a mess, was blinded by their amazingness damn, and thus kind of hero worshipped them, didn’t see their flaws and faults.

re: peter being a gryffindor; peter admires heroism and bravery and chivalry, and it’s your values that get you sorted some place. and he always did try to be brave, and he WAS in a lot of moments, because he became a damn animagus for his bud! i mean! he was not a hatstall btw — i choose to ignore that stupid bit of post canon. it took a while for the hat, sure, but no more than two minutes.

peter was a pretty bad student, to be honest. not because he was stupid, but because he’s just not build for school. deadlines? exams? homework? no thank you --- those were both sources of stress and horribly tedious things and peter was much too occupied with shenanigans and having fun. peter learned better in different settings: he got very good at certain charms because they allowed him to be lazy ( hello, accio! ) and was able to put his mind to becoming an animagus because there was a necessity and a proper motivation, and became better at potions because of all the hangover potions he brew.

becoming an animagus for remus was ! important ! to peter ! he did it for remus, not because of peer pressure, or anything else — he did it because it was right, and his friend deserved it and ! he did it, too, because he could. sure, his transfig grades may have been more than poor, but the kid did have some skill. he just needed motivation, which mcgonagall didn’t give (bc. she scared him.) and this situation? motivated the hell out of him.

peter would be lying if he said he wasn’t taken a bit aback when he learned about remus’ lycanthropy — not because he was scared of him, to be honest, but he was just ? shocked ? he was more scared for remus, and so sad? so fucking sad for him? : ( he cried

he also loved spending his time at hogwarts playing games; from muggle card games to chess to gobstones. collected chocolate frogs Very Seriously as well, and still does tbh.

weed & anxiety tw / peter started smoking pot in the summer between his fourth and fifth year, and never really stopped. it made him slack more at school, but also eased his anxiety, which had started to develop in his fourth year. as months passed, peter became more and more of a stoner, which made him both more relaxed and funnier, but also … a whole of a lot lazier. end of weed tw

peter had always been a bit … fidgety, easily on edge, a bit nervous, but he’d never really known anxiety until around fourteen years old. his insecurities grew, as he started comparing himself more to his friends and finding nothing but things he lacked in comparison to them, and questions as to why they put up with him. end of anxiety tw

so his schooldays mostly looked like … doing nothing, playing games, having fun with his mates, getting high, forgetting his homework, stressing about homework, and somewhere, in a tiny corner of his being, worrying about the war. whenever those worries started coming up, though, he was able to push them away, because the war was not yet there, not for him at least. there was graduation to worry about first, and once that was done, then he could worry about the war.

post graduation - now ( 1978 - 1980 )

peter joins the order along with his friends, because it was what was right. peter believes in their cause, hates the death eaters, hates discrimination and racism and terrorism --- of course he fucking does, and so he joins, even though he feels incompetent. i have written a lot about this in his app too, which is linked above!

he starts working as a dishwasher in muggle glasgow, preferring a bit of a break from the wizarding world every now and then. peter’s not unambitious, per se, but he doesn’t have enough faith in himself to try and pursue a career ( and besides, what’s the point in the midst of a war? ). plus, peter doesnt need any more stress on his plate, and dish washing is laidback and at least kind of fun.

depression & weed & eating disorder (bed/bulimia) tw | peter feels useless in the order, though. he seems to lack the skills, the guts, the everything that the people around him have. before, their heroics mightve inspired him; now they just make him feel like a shitty person, like a burden. peter starts secluding himself a little, hiding in his mother’s home. he smokes more pot. he sometimes goes almost week without seeing someone besides his mum and his coworkers. he watches too much telly and reads comics and drowns in fictional worlds and he becomes depressed. he sinks into it without noticing and can’t come back from it. his eating habits ( which have always bordered on unhealthy ) turn worse; peter binges, and then restricts, falls into a cycle. it’s the only routine he has.

when he’s around his friends, he lives up a little. he cracks jokes and wants to play games and laughs and feels a bit more alive, but he always craves his time on his own. that’s his new way to feel safe: to stick to his newly found routine, hidden in his room, away from reality. | end of tw

the idea to join the death eaters comes out of fear. peter feels like the order is losing, and feels like death is inevitable. i dont know how true this is, but the fact is that the death eaters are ruthless and that his life is on the line because of his position. i wrote a Lot about this in his app too, so if u want a more comprehensive explanation i’d def read it here, its the second hc!

he joins, because he thinks it will give him a saver position. play both sides, play for the winning side --- he’s always had a bit of an opportunistic streak, which definitely helps sway his decision. in the end he’s just afraid of dying, and that’s why he joins; he’s twenty, his life has hardly started --- he doesn’t want to die, no cause is worth that, none at all. ( he should have just ran )

he joins in may 1978, for timeline reasons, so he’s been a death eater for only a few months. it’s been a lot different than he imagined ----- peter thought he’d blend in the background quietly, that he’d have to do shitty jobs ( which is true ) and that he’d be left alone. he underestimated it, because well --- he was desperate when he joined, and he didn’t think about the consequences, and he didn’t think about how voldemort’s cruelty wasn’t just reserved for his enemies but for his followers, too. there’s no stepping out of line with the death eaters; mistakes are not treated lightly and peter --- afraid, a bit of a bumbling idiot, learns this quite soon.

his function is mostly just to be a spy; relay information and share plans, name members, etcetera. he’s not very active because he’s a spy, but i imagine that he is present at the bigger meetings. AND FML HE’S GOOD AT IT! he’s good at lying and sneaking and being a sly bastard --- he used those skills for pranks, once. now he uses it to betray his fellow prankers : D

peter, at that point, hates himself. he’s always had a bit of self loathing, but it’s gained the upper hand now and he’s drowning in it; it does allow for him to ignore his conscience, though, for him to ignore the reality and just stew in his negativity. he’s got a woe is me mentality, for sure, and he’s so god damn passive about his situation.

timeclash reaction.

peter’s reaction to the timeclash was ... a lot. i wrote about it in his app, so if u want to read my whole ass rambling, i rec that. but tldr: he’s shocked, at what he becomes. the peter he is now is a traitor, yes, but he’s not yet the person who ends up betraying james and lily and harry, who frames sirius --- and it’s ground shattering to find out that he’s on the road to become such a person.

self destructiveness, weed, alcohol tw / his self loathing grows more. peter wasn’t doing very well before, but the timeclash makes something snap inside him --- he abandons his needs, punishes himself in small ways, loses sight of himself. he drinks and smokes too much. he’s so scared of himself. he’s in hiding, when he first finds out, scared of his friends and the death eaters and the order members and the people from the future who have met a worse version of him end of tws

part of peter is also like “i havent done any of these things yet, i know i am not the BEST person but i am still . not That Bad! stop being mad for something i havent done yet!”

around this time, he’s realising that he can either keep hiding, that he can completely destroy himself and all the ties he has, or he can take this opportunity to change his course. to not become the person all these people from the future know, to change change change, to make up for the wrongs he has committed and the wrongs he will commit if he keeps on going the way he is --- and that’s where he’s at now.

on another hand, he definitely watched all the star wars movies that came out over the past 50 yrs and hates kylo ren and cried when han died!!! he is in awe of the mcu movies but also thinks they did the comics dirty. i wish someone would introduce him to video games bc he would cry from happiness.

personality & details

OKAY onto the fun stuff, that was way too depressing and peter is usually a comedic icon

peter parker is his favourite superhero just because … they share a first name and because peter parker is a bit of an underdog too and peter is just like! amazing! he named his owl parker.

he hates cats. used to love them — he was allowed to take the cat from home with him to hogwarts when he was eleven, but he brought him back home after an unfortunate incident where his cat nearly ate him while he was in his animagus form. “sorry ma, i don’t love him any more. here. have him.”

peter is actually a solid cook. this is because he learned to make some basic food when he was still a kid, first with his grandma, and later on his own. he liked doing it for his mother and he was. .. good at it? peter is also just passionate about food and finds comfort in cooking. breakfast food and baked goods are Prime Food Categories.

he is asexual af, panromantic. has kissed both guys and gals and nb pals but did not like it??? confused. does not understand sexuality and all that jazz but tries not to think abt it because like! he’s got enough stress! doesnt need to think abt this!

peter is also agender, but i think he’s a lot less aware about this, because it’s confusing and so he just tries not to think about it. he does feel okay with he/him pronouns, but just doesn’t feel connected at all to being a boy/man

peter has abandonment issues because his dad, well, never even bothered to be there. not even for a second. he’s just constantly scared that people will leave and it’s funny, because he will probably end up abandoning all of his loved ones KDJFHSDF.

peter is quite non confrontational but also not … meek? he just avoids it, either by physically staying out of people’s way or by dismissing most of the things said and getting out of there. a Passive Kid.

he’s such a fucking dork i swear to god. but he’s funny! peter is really funny. i deeply believe in this. he makes great puns and is able to just come out of nowhere and make a comment that just. hits the nail right on its head.

peter curses a lot and has a scottish accent and sometimes he will have a minute long cursing session that no one rly understands.

#quantum intro #this is . long ig

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jedimaesteryoda · 6 years ago

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#MeToo in A Song of Ice and Fire

A Song of Ice and Fire has become one of the most popular and highly acclaimed fantasy series today. Martin’s magnum opus fits in the pantheon of high-fantasy alongside Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy and Jordan’s Wheel of Time.

It became increasingly popularized after it was adapted into the award winning series on HBO “Game of Thrones.” What helped to make the book series unique when compared to other high-fantasy stories was its deconstructive nature. Viewers of the show note its showing of nudity and gore, which one usually doesn’t see in fantasy on-screen. Many fantasy writers who set their books in a medieval setting, Tolkien included, portray medieval society as idealized and harmonious, but Martin chooses to display some of the harsh realities of a medieval world from the injustices of a society with a rigid class structure to the brutal realities of warfare with atrocities committed by both sides. For all intents and purposes, I am going to be focusing on the book series, and not the show based off it.

The subject I am going to focus on is how the series relates to #MeToo. #MeToo was originally a movement found by social activist and community organizer, Tarana Burke, in 2006 that promoted “empowerment through empathy” among women in underprivileged communities of color who suffered sexual abuse. Tarana was inspired to use the term after a 13 year-old girl confided in her that she had been sexually assaulted, and Tarana had been unable to respond, wishing she had replied simply “Me too.” In 2017, actress Alyssa Milano used the hashtag to spread awareness about sexual harassment and assault during the time victims of Hollywood mogul Harvey Weintein’s sexual abuse started coming out. The hashtag exploded with women coming with their stories of sexual harassment and assault both online and in public. A number of powerful male figures ended up getting outed by the victims of their sexual indiscretions from Hollywood stars and media moguls to politicians and Supreme Court Justice nominees.

I know at first glance for people who just see the show, #MeToo sounds like a weird subject given the amount of sex and cases of sexual assault on-screen (I blame Benioff and Weiss for scenes like Jaime and Cersei in the sept) and some in the text. However, numerous female characters, including point-of-view (POV) characters, are subject to moments that would fit in with #MeToo. The reader gets to see the threats faced by women in a highly patriarchal, restrictive society across age and class lines, and see how instructive it can be with regards to sexual abuse cases in real-life. There are plenty of cases in the series, but I am going to focus on a few.

Sansa Stark

Let us start with the POV character Sansa Stark, especially since the iconic phrase “Me Too” was inspired by the sexual abuse of a young girl. Sansa starts the series as a naïve, eleven year-old girl, who like many girls her age, even in the real world, has dreams of romance and lives in a dream world. She is in love with her betrothed, Joffrey, and has a rivalry with her less-than-conventional sister, Arya. However, her dream world later turns into a nightmare world with Cersei initiating a coup, and her betrothed beheading her father, and having her beaten when she displeases him. Throughout the series, Sansa suffers from numerous acts of sexual harassment, sexual assault and attempts at sexual assault.

As father of the realm, Joffrey took the place of Lord Eddard Stark. Sansa stood stiff as a lance as his hands came over her shoulders to fumble with the clasp of her cloak. One of them brushed her breast and lingered to give it a little squeeze.

-A Storm of Swords, Sansa III

"A king can have other women. Whores. My father did. One of the Aegons did too. The third one, or the fourth. He had lots of whores and lots of bastards." As they whirled to the music, Joff gave her a moist kiss. "My uncle will bring you to my bed whenever I command it."

Sansa shook her head. "He won't."

"He will, or I'll have his head. That King Aegon, he had any woman he wanted, whether they were married or no."

-A Storm of Swords, Sansa III

"Don't be sad, Sansa, once I've gotten Queen Margaery with child I'll visit your bedchamber and show my little uncle how it's done."

-A Storm of Swords, Sansa IV

When Joffrey is unclasping her cloak for her wedding, he takes the opportunity to grope her. When they dance, he forces a kiss on her, and tells her that he would make her his whore. Essentially, he tells her that he plans to not simply sleep with, but rape her whenever he wished. He also makes rape jokes in public to Sansa’s face. Sansa doesn’t retaliate or reprimand him for an obvious reason: he has his Kingsguard beat her whenever she opened her mouth against him or displeased him. Another reason is the same reason no one else present in those situations reprimands him: because he is the king, the head of state, one of the most powerful people in the Seven Kingdoms. However, he is also still a minor under Westerosi laws, and until he comes of age, governance is given to two people: the Regent and the Hand of the King. The Hand, his grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister, has a fearsome reputation that discourages others from reprimanding his grandson for his behavior, and the same could be said for the Queen Regent, his mother Cersei, who would never approve of people reprimanding her son in any way. Neither of the two adults who could reprimand Joffrey really care about Sansa either. Sansa on the other hand has no power as a ward and hostage, or rather prisoner, in the royal court of King’s Landing. None of the adults are willing to help her with the only exception being Tyrion. Essentially, Sansa has little to no protection from Joffrey’s unwanted sexual indiscretions.

Sansa is later rescued from King’s Landing, and is taken to the Vale in hiding by Lord Petyr Baelish, also known as Littlefinger. While no longer having to put up with Joffrey’s sexual indiscretions, Sansa isn’t any safer with Baelish.

"I told you that nothing could please me more than to help you with your castle. I fear that was a lie as well. Something else would please me more." He stepped closer. "This."

Sansa tried to step back, but he pulled her into his arms and suddenly he was kissing her. Feebly, she tried to squirm, but only succeeded in pressing herself more tightly against him. His mouth was on hers, swallowing her words. He tasted of mint. For half a heartbeat she yielded to his kiss . . . before she turned her face away and wrenched free. "What are you doing?"

Petyr straightened his cloak. "Kissing a snow maid."

-A Storm of Swords, Sansa VII

"I did not expect you back so soon," she said. "I am glad you've come."

"I would never have known it from the kiss you gave me." He pulled her closer, caught her face between his hands, and kissed her on the lips for a long time. "Now that's the sort of kiss that says welcome home. See that you do better next time."

"Yes, Father." She could feel herself blushing.

-A Feast for Crows, Alayne II

Petyr, a man aged in his late thirties, forces a kiss on a thirteen year-old girl more than once. The first time she made it clear to him she didn’t like it, and he continues in spite of it. He is Lord Protector of the Vale with the household of the Eyrie under his control, and she has hardly any friends at court. I’m not even mentioning that he is essentially sexually grooming her throughout their relationship. Sexual grooming is the practice where an adult influences a child so they can be able to draw them into a sexual relationship. There are six stages according to forensic psychiatrist Dr. Michael Welner.

Stage 1: Targeting the victim

The offender targets a victim by sizing up the child's vulnerability—emotional neediness, isolation and lower self-confidence. Children with less parental oversight are more desirable prey. Petyr clearly targeted Sansa since they met. Sansa loses her father, her mother is far away and later dies, had her only friend Jeyne taken from her. She is isolated at the Red Keep with no real friends, and the constant abuse from the Lannister family lowered her own self-confidence.

Stage 2: Gaining the victim's trust

The sex offender gains trust by watching and gathering information about the child, getting to know his needs and how to fill them. In this regard, sex offenders mix effortlessly with responsible caretakers. Petyr knows that Sansa is a romantic, and fond of chivalrous knights and uses Ser Dontos as a go-between under the guise of one. Petyr is a member of the Lannisters’ small council, who are her guardians for the first three books.

Stage 3: Filling a need

Once the sex offender begins to fill the child's needs, that adult may assume noticeably more importance in the child's life and may become idealized. Gifts, extra attention, affection may distinguish one adult in particular. Petyr knows that Sansa wants a knight who will protect her, and so uses Ser Dontos to pretend to help her, acting as a “true knight.” He also acts as her protector and savior, taking her away from King’s Landing, and hiding her from the Lannisters. He acts as her guardian as well, knowing she lost her father.

Stage 4: Isolating the child

The grooming sex offender uses the developing special relationship with the child to create situations in which they are alone together. This isolation further reinforces a special connection. Petyr takes her away from King’s Landing to a ship where they share a small cabin, his tower that he rules, and later the Eyrie. As the Lord Protector of the Vale, the Eyrie is under his control.

Stage 5: Sexualizing the relationship

At a stage of sufficient emotional dependence and trust, the offender progressively sexualizes the relationship. Desensitization occurs through talking, pictures, even creating situations in which both offender and victim are naked. When teaching a child, the grooming sex offender has the opportunity to shape the child's sexual preferences and can manipulate what a child finds exciting and extend the relationship in this way. The child comes to see her/himself as a more sexual being and to define the relationship with the offender in more sexual and special terms.

Petyr kisses Sansa in the godswood, and later, kisses her again when they are at the Gates of the Moon. When teaching her about relationships, he also tells her that “young girls were always happiest with older men. ‘Innocence and experience make for a perfect marriage.’”

Stage 6: Maintaining control

Once the sex abuse is occurring, offenders commonly use secrecy and blame to maintain the child's continued participation and silence, particularly because the sexual activity may cause the child to withdraw from the relationship. Children in these entangled relationships confront threats to blame them, to end the relationship and to end the emotional and material needs they associate with the relationship. The child may feel that the loss of the relationship and the consequences of exposing it will humiliate and render them even more unwanted.

Petyr maintains Sansa’s silence through the fact he is providing her a place to hide and protection. If she wanted to run away, where would she go? She is a fugitive wanted for regicide with a large reward posted for her capture, and Petyr’s plan made her an accessory to regicide. Her home of Winterfell is burned and all her family believed dead with the North having come under the rule of the Boltons who are backed by the Lannisters. The need for protection he provides and the potential loss of a sanctuary or place to call home is her reason for not leaving. She was also present when Petyr pushed Lysa out the moon door to her death, again, making her an accessory to murder. Though, he likely won’t, he could always threaten to turn her over to the Lannisters, which would be a death sentence. In other words, Sansa has nowhere else to go, and at Littlefinger’s mercy. She can’t appeal to anyone to stop his acts of sexual assault.

Of course, Petyr wasn’t the first person in the Vale to make unwanted sexual advances to Sansa, that dishonor goes to a singer named Marillion.

"Alayne." Her aunt's singer stood over her. "Sweet Alayne. I am Marillion. I saw you come in from the rain. The night is chill and wet. Let me warm you."

The old dog raised his head and growled, but the singer gave him a cuff and sent him slinking off, whimpering.

"Marillion?" she said, uncertain. "You are . . . kind to think of me, but . . . pray forgive me. I am very tired."

"And very beautiful. All night I have been making songs for you in my head. A lay for your eyes, a ballad for your lips, a duet to your breasts. I will not sing them, though. They were poor things, unworthy of such beauty." He sat on her bed and put his hand on her leg. "Let me sing to you with my body instead."

She caught a whiff of his breath. "You're drunk."

"I never get drunk. Mead only makes me merry. I am on fire." His hand slipped up to her thigh. "And you as well."

"Unhand me. You forget yourself."

"Mercy. I have been singing love songs for hours. My blood is stirred. And yours, I know . . . there's no wench half so lusty as one bastard born. Are you wet for me?"

"I'm a maiden," she protested.

"Truly? Oh, Alayne, Alayne, my fair maid, give me the gift of your innocence. You will thank the gods you did. I'll have you singing louder than the Lady Lysa."

Sansa jerked away from him, frightened. "If you don't leave me, my au—my father will hang you. Lord Petyr."

"Littlefinger?" He chuckled. "Lady Lysa loves me well, and I am Lord Robert's favorite. If your father offends me, I will destroy him with a verse." He put a hand on her breast, and squeezed. "Let's get you out of these wet clothes. You wouldn't want them ripped, I know. Come, sweet lady, heed your heart—"

-A Storm of Swords, Sansa VI

Let’s go through what happened step-by-step. He starts by coming onto her in a creepy, no-so-subtle way, and she replies that she’s tired, basically signaling that she isn’t interested. He then directly propositions her, and responds by inappropriately touching her leg. He then gropes her thigh, which alone is an act of sexual assault. She responds by telling him to stop, and he acts like he doesn’t care. She protests that she is a virgin, and he continues to press, saying that she would like it if she lost her virginity to him. Desperate, she then resorts to threatening him as a way to get him to stop, saying he would be hanged if he tried to force himself on her. He responds by saying that his patrons are the ruling Lady and the young Lord of the Eyrie who hold him high in their esteem, protecting him from punishment and retribution by her father. He then escalates by groping her breast, and is clearly intending to rape her. He doesn’t see it that way; like so many rapists, he is telling himself as well as her that in spite of what she says, she actually wants it and she would like it. It was only Ser Lothor Brune’s intervention that stopped him. Of course, Brune’s protection is selective as he isn’t able to stop Littlefinger’s advances given Littlefinger is his employer, and only protected Sansa that night on Littlefinger’s orders.

Sansa found herself in situations many girls unfortunately find themselves in. Many young girls have been preyed upon by older male figures who have charge over them from male guardians to schoolteachers. The younger they are, the more vulnerable they are, and the more easily they can be threatened and manipulated into staying silent regarding their abuse. Sexual grooming contains one of the largest power imbalances since it is between an adult and a child. There are plenty of cases: serial predator Robert Kelly and Aaliyah (27 and 15 respectively), President Emmanuel Macron and his wife Bridgette (15 and 40, she was his high school teacher) and Jerry Lee Lewis and his cousin, Myra Brown (23 and 13, she still believed in Santa Claus).

Let’s look at the issue in the case of an older, more powerful woman.

Cersei Lannister

Cersei is a POV character by the fourth book, and isn’t a character one would usually call sympathetic. She is narcissistic, cruel and abusive with no qualms about killing innocents, even children. She even went so far as to have Sansa’s direwolf killed for something her sister’s direwolf did. We know that she hated her royal husband, Robert, as he was blatantly unfaithful, not even keeping his affairs discrete, and on their wedding knight he whispered his late betrothed’s name into her ear. However, we later learned of another reason she had to hate him.

use her as a man would use her, the way Robert would use her when the drink was in him, and she was unable to bring him off with hand or mouth.

Those had been the worst nights, lying helpless underneath him as he took his pleasure, stinking of wine and grunting like a boar. Usually he rolled off and went to sleep as soon as it was done, and was snoring before his seed could dry upon her thighs. She was always sore afterward, raw between the legs, her breasts painful from the mauling he would give them. The only time he'd ever made her wet was on their wedding night . . . For Robert, those nights never happened. Come morning he remembered nothing, or so he would have had her believe. Once, during the first year of their marriage, Cersei had voiced her displeasure the next day. "You hurt me," she complained. He had the grace to look ashamed. "It was not me, my lady," he said in a sulky sullen tone, like a child caught stealing apple cakes from the kitchen. "It was the wine. I drink too much wine." To wash down his admission, he reached for his horn of ale. As he raised it to his mouth, she smashed her own horn in his face, so hard she chipped a tooth. Years later at a feast, she heard him telling a serving wench how he'd cracked the tooth in a mêlée. Well, our marriage was a mêlée, she reflected, so he did not lie.

The rest had all been lies, though. He did remember what he did to her at night, she was convinced of that. She could see it in his eyes. He only pretended to forget; it was easier to do that than to face his shame. Deep down Robert Baratheon was a coward. In time the assaults did grow less frequent. During the first year he took her at least once a fortnight; by the end it was not even once a year. He never stopped completely, though. Sooner or later there would always come a night when he would drink too much and want to claim his rights. What shamed him in the light of day gave him pleasure in the darkness.

-A Feast for Crows, Cersei VII

Robert was an alcoholic, and there were times when he got drunk and then forced himself on his wife. The first year of their marriage was marked by Robert’s marital rapes at a frightening frequency of once a fortnight or every two weeks. She couldn’t divorce him, since this is a society where the concept of divorce doesn’t exist, and annulment was also out of the question since neither her husband nor father would allow it. Robert was also king, and being the ultimate authority she couldn’t have him arrested. She didn’t turn to her father given even though he was one of the most powerful lords in Westeros, he was on the other side of the continent, and even so, he had arranged the marriage, and was more concerned with his grandchildren sitting the Iron Throne and the glory of his house than his daughter. She didn’t tell her brother Jaime either given she knew he would respond by trying to kill Robert and that would mean Jaime would die as well.

Even being a powerful figure like the Queen of Westeros who was the daughter of a powerful lord, and the sister of the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms couldn’t protect her from the dangers of rape. Essentially, she was trapped in her abusive marriage. The only way out was by murdering her husband (admittedly not the only reason she had Robert killed, there were clearly other reasons as well).

"Please. Have you given any thought to what Joffrey will do when I tell him you murdered his father to bed his mother?"

"It was not like that!" Lancel protested, horrified.

"No? What was it like, pray?"

"The queen gave me the strongwine! Your own father Lord Tywin, when I was named the king's squire, he told me to obey her in everything."

"Did he tell you to fuck her too?" Look at him. Not quite so tall, his features not so fine, and his hair is sand instead of spun gold, yet still . . . even a poor copy of Jaime is sweeter than an empty bed, I suppose. "No, I thought not."

"I never meant . . . I only did as I was bid, I . . ."

-A Clash of Kings, Tyrion VII

"Did you force her [Cersei]?"

"No! I [Lancel] loved her. I wanted to protect her."

-A Feast for Crows, Jaime IV

Cersei’s relationship with sexual abuse is made complicated by the fact the she abused her position as queen to take advantage of her teenaged cousin and Robert’s squire, Lancel. She proves to be a victimizer as well as victim. It is something not as commonly seen, as it is usually a powerful man using his power over a woman below him in the power structure, but there are cases where the genders in this situation are reversed. Lancel was consenting, but he was no older than sixteen and he was very inexperienced as opposed to Cersei, a woman in her thirties who has more experience. This is shown is his comments on their relationship in A Feast for Crows, where Lancel says that he “loved her” and “wanted to protect her.” Those aren’t the words of a mature man, but a vulnerable, inexperienced teenage boy. She slept with him for both sexual gratification, and as a way to manipulate him into being her pawn, exchanging sex for loyalty. In this world, it would be a clear case of statutory rape, but even if one overlooks the fact that sixteen is considered the age of maturity in Westeros, she is also guilty of professional exploitation and workplace harassment. A CEO would risking losing his position if he did that with an intern, and with one US President, Bill Clinton, it got him impeached.

We saw a similar case in the real-world with Asia Argento, herself one of Harvey Weinstein’s victims, being accused by a young actor, Jimmy Bennett, of sexual assaulting him in a hotel room when he was 17 years-old.

It’s not the only time Cersei commits sexual assault.

She wondered what it would feel like to suckle on those breasts, to lay the Myrish woman on her back and push her legs apart and use her as a man would use her, the way Robert would use her when the drink was in him, and she was unable to bring him off with hand or mouth.

. . .

Cersei cupped the other woman's breast. Softly at first, hardly touching, feeling the warmth of it beneath her palm, the skin as smooth as satin. She gave it a gentle squeeze, then ran her thumbnail lightly across the big dark nipple, back and forth and back and forth until she felt it stiffen. When she glanced up, Taena's eyes were open. "Does that feel good?" she asked.

"Yes," said Lady Merryweather.

"And this?" Cersei pinched the nipple now, pulling on it hard, twisting it between her fingers.

The Myrish woman gave a gasp of pain. "You're hurting me." "It's just the wine. I had a flagon with my supper, and another with the widow Stokeworth. I had to drink to keep her calm." She twisted Taena's other nipple too, pulling until the other woman gasped. "I am the queen. I mean to claim my rights."

"Do what you will." Taena's hair was as black as Robert's, even down between her legs, and when Cersei touched her there she found her hair all sopping wet, where Robert's had been coarse and dry. "Please," the Myrish woman said, "go on, my queen. Do as you will with me. I'm yours."

-A Feast for Crows, Cersei VII

Cersei in this scene is intent on re-enacting her assaults at the hands of Robert, only this time she is the victimizer. One can clearly see this with the line “I am the queen. I mean to claim my rights,” and blame her actions on “just the wine,” using the same terminology she used to describe Robert’s rapes as well as Robert’s excuses for the rapes. She starts when Taena is asleep, and unable to give consent. Taena does give what would appear to be consent when awake, but is she in any position to refuse? Taena had hardly any agency in that situation at all as Cersei clearly wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer, and she is the Queen Regent, the head of government, while Taena is there only at her pleasure. Cersei has Taena’s life and likely that of her family in her hands, and Taena also knows how harsh and unforgiving Cersei can be.

Cersei’s assault of Taena shows that one doesn’t necessarily need to be a man to engage in harassment, and even women can engage in it against other women. There is a case where HSBC executive Eileen Hedges, a heterosexual married woman who like Cersei rose to a high-powered position in a male-dominated environment, systematically harassed her subordinate, Jill. When Jill threatened to quit, Eileen responded that she had Jill’s career in her hands and could respond by telling her potential employers of her affairs at HSBC, hurting her chances of finding work outside her current job. Behavior like the kind Eileen displayed also happens since the people who witness it are afraid to come forward given they could face retaliation as well.

Being a victim of abuse doesn’t stop her from being an abuser. As someone who hasn’t had much control over her life with her father and husband making choices for her, she gets to be the one in control in this situation, and exercise power over another individual. Sexual assault ultimately is about power with regards to who can perpetrate it against whom.

Instances among the Smallfolk

The two people I’ve mentioned, Sansa and Cersei, are both highborn ladies, the daughters of powerful lords who were Wardens. We so far have talked about sexual assault and harassment only through the experience of members of the upper class. When it comes to smallfolk, they are generally more vulnerable to rape than highborn. Highborn ladies of ruling families have swords to defend their honor as well as chivalry while lowborn women don’t.

"Aye. My mother was a washerwoman at Cider Hall till one of milord's sons raped her. Makes me a sort o' brown apple Fossoway, the way I see it."

-A Dance with Dragons, The Lost Lord

Franklyn Flowers’s mother worked at Cider Hall, and was raped by one of her employers. She likely wasn’t able to press charges against him, given the judge who would be presiding over the case would be her liege, the Knight of Cider Hall, who was her attacker’s father. The other judge she could appeal her case to would be the Fossoways’ liege lord, Lord Tyrell. Both her attacker and his father undoubtedly knew Lord Tyrell personally, and Tyrell likely wouldn’t have wanted to alienate his bannerman by punishing his son. It would have been Fossoway’s word against hers, and there is a good chance Tyrell would have been likely to either dismiss the case or acquit him. The Knight of Cider Hall, by virtue of being her liege, is also her landlord, and her rapist could potentially retaliate by having his father evict her family, leaving them unemployed and homeless. He could also visit her home with some of his castle’s garrison to intimidate them.

Warning Spoilers for The Winds of Winter ahead

“I have not been raped, if that is what you’re asking,” the old woman said. “Some of the serving girls have been less fortunate. Married or unmarried, the men make no distinctions. “

“No one’s been doing any raping,” insisted Young John Mudd. “Connington won’t have that. We follow orders.”

Chain nodded. “Some girls was persuaded, might be.”

“The same way our smallfolk were persuaded to give you all their crops. Melons or maidenheads, it’s all the same to your sort. If you want it, you take it.”

-The Winds of Winter, Arianne II

When the Golden Company occupies Mistwood, Lady Mertyns states that serving girls at the castle are raped by some of the mercenaries. Mudd replies to the accusations of rape by denying them, and Chain does the same by saying they were “persuaded.” Well, how hard would it be for an armed man who won’t take “no” for an answer to persuade a defenseless serving girl? Their attackers are literally armed, and could just force the girls at the point of a sword or a dagger. If the girls tried to have their attackers charged, their case wouldn’t be brought to who would usually be the judge in this case, Lady Mertyns, who would undoubtedly have been sympathetic towards them, but the Golden Company who has the estate under occupation and thus, final authority. The officers in the Golden Company would be the ones hearing the case, and if the comments of the serjeants are anything to go by, it would just be dismissed. That is without saying that the girls, like many victims of rape and sexual assault, would have to deal with the fear of retaliation by their attackers and their cohorts for coming forward.

Conclusion:

With all these #MeToo situations in A Song of Ice and Fire, the factor in common that played a huge role in how sexual abuse was perpetrated and the abusers were able to get away with it was power dynamics. The perpetrators of sexual abuse are either powerful men (or women in Cersei’s case) or protected by powerful individuals and/or institutions whether it be the feudal hierarchy or the Golden Company. In Sansa and Cersei’s cases, their abusers were the most powerful figures in a feudal society: kings. No king has ever been arrested for anything. The smallfolk women were preyed upon by either a well-connected, highborn man like Fossoway or mercenaries serving in the company that controlled the area. Just to give one example in how power dynamics works, in the case of Marillion, Sansa was posing as Petyr’s bastard daughter, Alayne, and in the Vale, as the bastard daughter of the smallest of lords, the singer with the support of House Arryn has more power and influence between the two. However, there is a good chance Marillion wouldn’t have tried it if he knew who she actually was. As the trueborn daughter of House Stark and (supposed) heiress to Winterfell as well as niece and cousin to the Lady and Lord of the Eyrie respectively, the power dynamic shifts in her favor.

This is a pattern we can often see in the real world, especially in situations of workplace abuse. Serial abuser Harvey Weinstein was protected by his status as a powerful Hollywood mogul with high-profile connections going as far as the Clintons while the women he preyed upon were generally young actresses whose careers he could threaten. Roger Ailes was the Chairman and CEO of Fox News and Fox News Television Stations where news anchors like Gretchen Carlson, Megyn Kelly and Andrea Tantaros worked (all of whom were harassed by him). Sexual abuse and harassment is very much about power, as in many cases, the abusers have the connections and status to shield them from potential consequences for their actions while the abused are usually deficient in these things when compared to their abusers. It is often perpetrated by powerful individuals against their subordinates, people below them in the corporate hierarchy. The victims are almost never people above the abusers in the corporate hierarchy who could potentially threaten their careers. And like in Westeros, heads of state in the modern world have been abusers, including US Presidents.

The women in the book series were afraid to come forward out of not just the fear of their claims being dismissed by authority figures, but potential retaliation from their attackers and their associates best exemplified by Sansa knowing she would be beaten by Joffrey’s Kingsguard if she did. Tantaros complained about Ailes’s sexual harassment to executives, and it only resulted in her facing retaliation by being demoted and then taken off the air. Eliza Dushku confronted her “Bull” show co-star and lead, Michael Weatherly, over his uncomfortable behavior such as comments about her appearance, a rape joke and a comment on a threesome. It ended up in her character being written off the show and her being fired. Danielle Hartley, who worked as an assistant to Larry Wallace, senior aide for then California Attorney General Kamala Harris, accused him of sexual harassment only to be transferred to another department. Weinstein threatened a number of his victims that he could use his connections and clout as a Hollywood mogul to prevent them from finding work in Hollywood along with threats of violence. People who witness it are afraid to come forward as well. One employee in the HSBC harassment case, Mike Picarella, came forward (anonymously) to protect Jill from Eileen’s harassment, and it just resulted in the executives, looking out for one of their own, destroying his career. He not only lost his job at the bank, but was practically blacklisted from the industry with him having trouble finding work in his field, not even able to get a job as an operations manager at a retirement home.

In short, while the medieval Westeros and modern-day real world are two completely different settings with regards to technological advancement, society and forms of government, both suffer from some of the same shortcomings. They are patriarchal societies where sexual abuse is commonplace, and in too many cases, tolerated. People (mostly men) take advantage of power imbalances to target others for sexual harassment and abuse, relying on their position, wealth and/or connections for protection.

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vulture-jack · 6 years ago

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I always feel like my response to trauma is like. too lukewarm for other people to take seriously? like idk how to explain it.

Talking about trauma and death under the cut

I have SYMPTOMS of ptsd but I dont have ENOUGH symptoms. Or my symptoms arent strong enough.

I had recurring nightmares about the event and sometimes still do but not as often. I don’t experience flashbacks or panic attacks or intense reactions to things I associate with my trauma. Just mild distress and discomfort. I never feel as if the event is reoccurring (its kind of impossible because it was the death of a specific person but I do often fear that someone I care about might die or is in danger)

I have emotional numbness.

I am extremely protective though. Like. at once I have a hard time getting close to people especially if i perceive that person as vulnerable and that I might potentially lose them. My brain shuts off emotion when I experience new trauma and doesn’t let me feel it. I feel like every death I experienced after my moms made me more and more numb and reinforced the the reaction of shutting off emotion as like. A survival tactic.

I feel like I’m always preparing to lose people and unsure whether this time is just going to make me even more numb, or finally break me to pieces. I’m scared of breaking to pieces. I’m scared of becoming more numb. Loving people feels dangerous. Life has only proven to my mind that it is. I didn’t cry when my nana woke me up to tell me that she thought my grandfather was dead. I just calmly checked, confirmed he had died, and told her to sit down while I called 911. I didn’t cry until the funeral. And I cried mostly because people I cared about were sad.

Sometimes I forget my mom died. sometimes this manifests as forgetting that she is dead, and sometimes its struggling to remind myself that she even existed in the first place. my brain doesnt want to think about it. Its too much. That really happened? how could that happen? thats so terrible. How could that have happened to me. Its impossible.

Seeing people who are very sick with cancer distresses me a lot. I don’t experience flashbacks or intense attacks that people can see from the outside. But seeing a frail person with no hair in a hospital gown, especially if its a woman, is really the most...like. Obviously distressing thing.

Ive always been jumpy about phone calls but now every time im at lest a little prepared for it to be “someone died”. Like I’m waiting to hear my grandmother start sobbing and tell me that my father or sister died.

Most of this is internal. Like. I think mostly people just notice that I’m over protective and it probably comes across as annoying. Be careful, wear your seat belt, dad get away from that ledge you can admire the waterfall from back here, did you go to the doctor this year, text me and let me know youre ok, etc.

Often my brain interprets laughter as hysterical sobbing. Ill hear a thump and jump out of bed and run halfway downstairs to make sure my grandmother didnt fall like that one time she fell down the stairs and broke her leg.

Since the numbness set in ive made very few friends and even fewer close friends. (About one in the last 5 or 6 years) and those friends absolutely have to approach me and make themselves a part of my life. And even still I dont feel the fullness in my heart that I used to. Loving people is scary and dangerous and I’m just...waiting to lose one of them.

It sounds dorky as fuck but like. Idk how to love again. Idk how to live again. Idk how to properly balance knowing that life CAN hurt me without wearing heavy armor. I’m scared that when I do feel again its all gonna hit me like a freight train and im gonna crash and burn harder than ever. its just. a lot. i cant really afford a therapist rn either. everything is just. difficult. I’m functioning just enough to seem lazy. I seem fine but I’m only barely ok. Like my stability is built on toothpicks and bubblegum but to everyone else all they see is that im stable.

#trauma/#death/#cancer/

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molicioushat · 6 years ago

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🐲THE TARGARYEN TAG🐲

I thought it would be good fun to come up with a tag for all the Targaryen lovers out there so here it is!

This tag is open to all, so feel free to participate regardless of allegiance!

I was tagged by: @naomimakesart

🐲🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🐲

1. Your favourite/least favourite Targaryen:

This was super hard to narrow down to even a top ten.

Top Ten Favorite: Visenya, Alyssa, Baelon the Brave, Baela, Elaena, Rhaenys the Queen Who Never Was, Baelor Breakspear, Maekar, Daeron the Drunkard, and Good Queen Alysanne.

Least Favorite: Aegon II

2. Underrated Targaryen:

Probably Septa Maegelle. She's smart and she tends to the sick and that's on top of being able to get her parents to reconcile. She's also brave since I don't think many people would willingly tend to people with greyscale. It's such a shame we only see so much of her.

3. Snog/Marry/Avoid Targaryens:

Snog Daemon the Rogue Prince

Marry Queen Rhaella

Avoid Aegon IV

4. A Targaryen who deserved better:

Hard choice, there are so many. But I would choose Princess Alyssa Targaryen because of the way she was written to get her off the stage so to speak. GRRM could have killed her off in multiple different ways (riding accident, a fall, a hunting accident, a sparring accident, an illness, appendicitis, exit pursued by bear, etc) but no she dies by childbirth. Yet another among the disproportionately many other women who died that way.

5. OTP Targaryens:

OTP - Alyssa x Baelon, Daeron x Jeremy, Daeron II x Mariah, Alysanne x Valyrian Scrolls, Aegon III x therapy, Aerea x Life

OT3 - Visenya x Aegon x Rhaenys, and Rhaena x Elinor x Jeyne (that was my secret favorite before Sons of the Dragon came out but then GRRM kinda fulfilled it by a 3rd in Fire and Blood. I'm still disappointed that it doesn't seem like Elinor or Rhaena had any communication after they survived Maegor. *sighing forever*)

6. A Targaryen you’d like to go on holiday with:

I bet Rhaenys and Corlys went on a bunch of fun trips to all sorts of places. Would be fun to go with them to Braavos or one of the other Free Cities.

7. A Targaryen you’d want to be best friends with:

Alyssa. She's described as being all her mother is and more and since Alysanne is a pretty amazing and smart person then it stands to reason Alyssa is as well. She's probably a blast to hang out with if you have similar interests.

8. A Targaryen who just needs a hug:

I would hug Aegon III if he would let me. Alternatively Maekar or Daeron the Dreamer.

9. Problematic Fave:

Saera Targaryen. She's a terrible person but I'm fascinated by her. I'm currently writing a meta piece on her rn.

10. A Targaryen you’d go on a dragon ride with:

Queen Rhaena. She's traveled all over and she's flown with people before. I think if we found something in common she would be a good travel buddy.

11. Favourite Targaryen bastard?

Bloodraven, I mean have you seen him in the Mystery Knight? He's a ... riot.

Non Great Bastards would probably be Gaemon Palehair because he's totally Aegon II's but he had poor Essie tortured till she would say what they wanted her to say. Because honestly he already had 2 bastards born around the same time the twins were and they were called his first bastards, he very likely had more.

12. A Targaryen you’d want as a lover:

Shiera Seastar duh. Less trouble than being one of Prince Daemon's. Mysaria would probably have me killed. Oh sure people fight over Shiera but if she's fine with it then I'm down. Plus, who would fight a person with boobs for her? How embarrassing would it be for them to lose to me?

13. Which Targaryen dragon is your favourite?

Vhagar followed by Moondancer.

14. Bloodraven: fan or ban?

Part of the fan club.

...wait there are people who don't like Bloodraven? Is that a thing? ???

15. Viserys (son of Aerys II): evil twit or mentally scarred victim?

Uh... neither? He's not evil. Abusive yes, evil no. He might have been evil if he was in a position of power but only because of paranoia. I'm not sure he gets enjoyment out of hurting others like his father, Joffrey, Ramsay, Euron, or Aerion do. He hurts Dany because he gets angry and he has power over her.

And he's not a victim. He's a pawn in Varys and Illyrio's game. And while he does have mental issues, but I don't know if that's because he was mentally scarred. I think he's predisposed to paranoia. The situation he's lived in since the war is not helpful and it definitely was a contributing factor when Dany and him were on the streets. But I think it would have happened eventually regardless.

16. Favourite non-Targaryen spouse/consort?

Favorite Consort: Queen Alyssa Velaryon

Favorite Spouse: Ser Michael Manwoody

17. Team Lilac Eyes or Team Indigo Eyes?

Indigo. Everytime I think of Lilac I think of Viserys. I can't help picturing him everytime I read it.

18. Favourite quote by a Targaryen:

It's a tie.

"Your guards are slow and lazy." - Visenya the most badass. No fucking around, straight to the point.

And

"His Grace my brother can command me. You cannot." - Baela also a certified bad ass.

Just realized these both have face slashing before these quotes. I guess it's a theme. lol

19. Most badass Targaryen moment:

When Daemon jumps from his dragon to stab Aemond with Dark Sister. Metal af.

20. Blackfyres: Yay or Nay?

NAY!

Daemon might have been an upstanding guy, but to steal a quote from Ser Eustace Osgrey, "You can know a man by his friend," and Daemon's friends were terrible people.

21. Most touching Targaryen moment:

Bolded for emphasis:

[“We are glad to have you safe home, my brother.”

Mushroom says that Oakenfist was laughing as he climbed back to his feet. “Sire,” he replied, “you have honored me with your sister’s hand, and I am proud to be your brother by marriage. Yet I can never be your brother by blood. But there is one who is.” Then with a flamboyant gesture, Lord Alyn summoned forth the treasure he had brought from Lys. ... The boy threw back his cowl. As the sunlight glittered on the silver-gold hair beneath, King Aegon III began to weep, throwing himself upon this boy in a fierce embrace. Oakenfist’s “treasure” was Viserys Targaryen, the king’s lost brother.]

This scene was so touching it made me cry. First, Aegon calls Alyn his brother which is very sweet. He could have called him his goodbrother, but he didn't. And then Alyn's whole bit how he's proud to be a part of Aegon's family but acknowledging that he can't replace Viserys. And then Aegon finally being reunited with Viserys after so long and how he doesn't have to feel guilty anymore because Viserys can forgive him. Just feels all around.

22. Which Targaryen would give the best life advice?

Probably Baelor Breakspear. He's down to earth and smart.

23. Your favourite Aegon?

Aegon V for now. May change depending on what leads up to the tragedy at Summerhall. Aegon III is a close second.

24. Which Targaryen was the most badass?

Visenya, I mean fuck but she's so boss. She fought to till she was like 74. She was probably one of the best warriors of her time during her prime. Especially since she was key to protecting Aegon during that attempt on his life.

25. Most heartbreaking Targaryen moment:

I'm just going to quote the whole section:

[... of Lady Jocelyn’s empty bed and bitter tears, and the way Princess Rhaenys wept to know that her father would never hold the child she was carrying? Far easier to speak of Prince Baelon’s wroth, and how he came down upon Tarth on Vhagar, howling for vengeance.

...

But it is said that when he saw his mother again, he fell into her arms and wept. “I slew a thousand of them,” he said, “but it will not bring him back.” And the queen stroked his hair and said, “I know, I know.”]

It's just so heartbreaking. Yes it's sad for Alysanne and Jaehaerys to lose their son, because it's always terrible when a parent has to bury a child before them.

But for Baelon, Jocelyn, and Rhaenys, they should have had so many more years with him. Baelon and Jocelyn should have grown old with Aemon! Rhaenys had her father taken from her too soon. Her children will never get to know their grandfather. Jocelyn should have had Aemon by her side to spoil their grandchildren!

And Baelon! No one knows a person as long as a sibling does. Not every siblings are friends but Baelon and Aemon were close to each other, probably each other's best friends. Baelon's grief is one that strikes me right in heart. His pain is so raw. And as an older sibling who is very close to her brother it's also one of my biggest fears. This wasn't the only time Fire and Blood made me cry, but it was the one that really stuck with me. That image of Baelon crying into Alysanne's arms as she says "I know, I know."

Oh, oh, oh...

Please excuse me while I go cry forever after that downer.

🐲🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🐲

Anyone of my followers who sees this and wants to do it, please feel free to do so!! I'm not going to tag anyone directly in case you don't want to do it.

#house targaryen #points if you know what that last gif is from #too many to tag #so many faves #targaryen tag #asoiaf #game of thrones #omg some of these became essays

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krebstar · 7 years ago

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ive been relistening to murder on the rockport limited, and ive been figuring out a backstory for angus that works along with canon since griffin Never Gave Us One (this is going to be a Long Post) + thank you to a few of my friends for helping me with this!!

so without further ado, here’s my hot take on this sweet boy’s backstory:

Her name was.. Elenore, Elenore McDonald. She was the Bureau of Balance’s greatest Seeker, having caught the attention of Madame Director after snooping into something about the relics. Lucretia, she figured she would ask Elenore to join them before she even had the chance to fall under the thrall of a relic from too much snooping around.

Elenore signed up gladly and soon rose to be the great Seeker she was. She took the job despite knowing how dangerous it was. She took the job despite her loving husband her wonderful child. She assured her husband she would be safe and okay, that she was just doing the detective work she always had. She never told her son about her job, too scared to.

Though… there was one mission, that one mission that did her in. She was probably the closest to a relic she had ever been in her work so far, but someone had picked up on her trail and she didn’t know until it was too late. She was one of the countless victims to a relic holder.

Angus McDonald was nine years old when he forgot about his mom- forgot she was ever a person, that she ever existed.

Angus grew up with his mom and dad- No. Angus grew up with his dad who was a single father. His dad never could quite remember how he came to have Angus, and, after a while, he figured he just adopted him- even if the kid sort of looked like him. Either that or his mother died forever ago, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember how she would have died. The only thing he did know was that, for some reason he couldn’t describe, looking at Angus filled him with a strong sense of sadness. Something in Angus reminded him of someone, but he just wasn’t sure who that was or why. He stopped thinking about it, after a while. It only made his head hurt.

Angus was, a lot like his mom, an amazing detective. (Some would even say he was better than her.) He was quite literally the best in the world, even though he was only ten. His father had some sort of connections with the police, one of his childhood friends was a long time police officer, and he was able to get his son working with his amazing talents.

Unlike his father, however, Angus never gave up on the thought of a birth parent. Angus loved knowing, loved learning, and not knowing the parent that gave birth to him- he hated it. It was his greatest mystery of all time. It was the case he was most determined to solve.

He visited his grandpa a few times, knowing that he was on the part of the family of his missing birth parent, confused as to why he knew him and not his parent. They chatted a lot, and Angus happily read in his grandfather’s library and heeded his grandfather’s advice. He was more of a dad to him than his real dad was, really. His real dad was... distant- that sadness taking over him. They didn’t talk very often.

(Though Angus never found out his grandpa’s name. The knowledge of that died along with his mother.)

While he was trying to uncover things about his missing parent, he discovered a... lot of other things. He found out about other people who had loved ones that had gone missing, loved ones that they couldn’t remember anything of, that they weren’t sure where they were. Angus.. he looked into that. And as he looked into it he found there was an organization of some sort, that the workers had bracers, which he eventually figured out were communication devices, and there was... there was static whenever anything was said about the organization or the missing people.

That organization became part of his greatest mystery, along with his missing parent, and he took it upon himself to look for everyone’s missing, forgotten loved ones.

Although, his main job was still working with the police in Rockport, and with his amazing skills, it was no shock to anyone that he was assigned the Rockport Slayer case. With Angus, it would be solved in no time. The fact that the next train that they would send him on would go to Neverwinter where his grandpa lived was a wonderful cover-up in case anyone was catching up to him. (It didn’t really have to be a cover-up, he might as well visit his grandpa and give him his silverware while he was at it- he was going to die soon, that was something he had to accept.)

The mission hadn’t gone at all like he had expected it to go. Well, okay, it had gone half like he expected it to go, but the other half with those three guys... They had been from that organization he was looking as much as he could into. It had been the first time he had been so close to a member, and spent such a long time with one- three of them! (It was sort of funny when they tried to explain things about the organization to him. He already knew about the bracers, and listening to the static was sort of.. commonplace to him, by then. He wasn’t even fazed by it.)

After he finished talking to the officials in Neverwinter, and after he calmed down from his rush after being so close to death, he had a new found purpose of looking into that organization.

Lucretia found Angus not unlike he found his mom, only a little bit after the Oculus mission. She found him snooping too close to something he shouldn’t be snooping into. Though, this time it was closer to home turf.. he was looking into the Bureau, not the relics. She felt a pang of guilt at the thought of why he was- because of his mom.

She thought about it for a while, but she always came to the same conclusion: She was going to let Angus join the Bureau. She couldn’t have him working against her if he somehow found out (even though he wouldn’t) and he would be an amazing Seeker. Just like his mother.

So, she found herself going planet-side so she could collect him herself. She visited him when he was back home, but his father was at work. They talked for a while, Angus was a smart kid who would not stop asking questions, and he eventually came around and agreed to join the organization. Lucretia was half relieved, half adored by this kid.

Though, the bumpy part came when Angus was inoculated with the help of Johann, later, when he was brought back up to the Bureau of Balance moon base.

He had been ecstatic to learn everything about the Bureau he had been trying to figure out for the last year. What he wasn’t ready for was how much information came with it. After he drank the Voidfish.. water, he suddenly knew about all those missing people he had been trying to investigate. Most importantly, he knew about his mom. He remembered her, those nine years of her raising him. Those nine years of her teaching him everything she knew, gifting him his Caleb Cleveland Kid Cop novels, everything. Nine years of the best mom ever, forgotten but remembered again.

It was later that night, after he was shown his new room, that Angus McDonald finally cried, mourning the loss of his mom.

#angus mcdonald #the adventure zone #taz #taz theory #taz meta #i guess #be quiet kool kat #HNNNG IVE WORKED ON THIS LITERALLY ALL DAY #SINCE FUCKING NOON #AND IM POSTING IT AT ALMOST 10PM #GOD #writing tag

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gardenplow3-blog · 6 years ago

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Reading Recap: October 2018

At the end of every month, I take a look back at my reading journal and share the books and my thoughts on them here. The comments below are excerpts from my full reviews on Goodreads; you can always keep up with my reading in real-time over there.

The books I read in October were all over the place—a lyrical, lovely historical novel; a thrilling fantasy-adventure; a collection of moody short stories of the English countryside; two dark and spooky novels, an elegant investigation with Miss Phryne Fisher—plus two thoroughly engrossing audiobooks.

I’m still thinking about the Tiger’s Wife.

In fact, I gave it 4 1/2 stars, but maybe it’s 5. Maybe it will eventually be bumped to my all-time favorites list because I keep thinking about it.

The Tiger’s Wife by Téa Obreht | 4 1/2 stars I don’t want to give too much away about the events of this book because the way it unspools as you read is so… perfect. And it’s a difficult book to explain because it’s definitely a novel, but it’s also a collection of beautifully told, interconnected stories.

The basics are in the flap copy: Natalia is a young doctor in an unnamed Balkan country; from the descriptions, you can sort of figure out that it’s Serbia. She’s dealing with the aftermath of the civil wars when her beloved grandfather dies. As she’s trying to understand the circumstances surrounding his death, she tells stories: about herself, about her grandfather and retells stories that he’s told her… about a magical tiger and the tiger’s wife. As Natalia eventually learns, the stories her grandfather has been telling her are not fairy tales, but true stories of his life and the other villagers in Galina. Just as her grandfather’s youth was shaped by war, so was Natalia’s and her reality as a teenager during the Balkan wars echo the fable-like stories of his past.

This books takes you directly into Balkan villages—to WWI, WWII, as well as the fraught 1990s—and casts a spell while it explores the different kinds of love, secrets and dreams, the way the fallout of war spirals from the past into the present.

Favorite highlight: “Like everyone in the village, he had faith in the rituals of superstition. He gave money to beggars before traveling, put pennies in the shrines of the Virgin at crossroads, spat on his children when they were born. But, unlike his fellow villagers, he was renowned for having a deficit. He had been born in a lean year, without a ducat under his pillow. To make matters worse, an estranged aunt had once allegedly lifted him from his crib and praised heaven for what a beautiful baby, what a gorgeous, fat, blessed, rosy child he was—forever sealing his destiny to be impoverished, crippled, struck down and taken by the devil at some unexpected time, in some terrifying way.”

European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman by Theodora Goss | 4 stars This is a rollicking adventure with lots of feels thrown in along the way, which is my very favorite kind of story. It picks up where The Strange Case of the Alchemist’s Daughter left off. Our five kickass heroines, aka, The Athena Club—all the offspring of literary characters who are… SURPRISE!… real people in this alternate version of London—are off on a mission to rescue Lucinda Van Helsing from an insane asylum. The action involves, in no particular order, a daring asylum escape, sleeper cars on the Orient Express, hiding in a traveling circus, crashing a meeting of the Alchemical Society, and eating cake in the art nouveau cafes of Budapest. I love the Saturday-afternoon-serial feel of the narrative—coupled with lovely writing and characters I want to spend my time getting to know.

There are genuine emotions here among all the action, too. The girls, all technically monsters in their own way, struggle with their humanity and wrestle with what it means to do the right thing, how to find balance between toughness and tenderness, and making peace with themselves and the found-family they’ve formed together.

This would be a fantastic read-along with Dracula because there are plenty of smart, sly references to that novel. I read them back-to-back unintentionally, and it was a brilliant experience.

Favorite highlight: “If you have been up all night, escaping from a burning mental asylum or fighting men who refuse to die when you shoot them in the forehead, or both, coffee is the perfect beverage.”

Help the Witch by Tom Cox | 4 stars This is a collection of short stories from one of my favorite nonfiction writers. Tom Cox is the author of books about cats that are not books about cats—they’re about nature and living in the country and the power of walking and family and basically everything that makes life good. Now he’s written a collection of spooky and eerie, unsettling—not scary—stories that put you right there in the moody Peak District of central England. The writing on his web site is also brilliant.

Favorite highlight: “Outside, the dark is very dark. But in the day, the whiteness is very dark too, sometimes ever darker.”

Melmoth by Sarah Perry | 3 1/2 stars I’ve been thinking about this book since I turned the last page, and here’s where I’ve landed: It has a perfectly spooky gothic tone that I was super into. Throughout there’s some very moody, supernatural-ish stuff going on that was spine-tingly. I read this book in one day because I couldn’t put it down. It was an ignore-everything marathon of reading because I needed to know how it would all play out.

This novel is a series of stories told by different characters about the darkest times in their lives, and the stories they share are DARK, but not in the virginal-maiden-locked-in-a-castle way. They’re dark in a peoples’-lives-were-ruined way that was not fun at all. It was horribly sad. And I feel like that kind of serious subject matter is in direct contrast with the isn’t-it-spooky tone of the novel. Ultimately, I found the whole thing really depressing and when I closed the book, I was sorry that I’d devoted an entire day to it. But it’s so well crafted and well plotted, I feel like a jerk with my criticisms.

And there you have it. I still don’t really know how I feel about this book except that I for-sure won’t be reading it again. But also, I will never forgot some of its scenes.

Favorite highlight: “The Silence is something more than the absence of noise. If it is possible to hear silence, Helen hears it: a thick, soft sensation against the drums of her ears.”

Urn Burial by Kerry Greenwood | 4 stars I adore Phryne Fisher—in print and in the TV series ‘Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries—because she’s a super feminist and her politics—and the politics of the book—are very progressive. The juxtaposition of 1920s slang and fashion with ultra-modern opinions is irresistible, and I cannot resist a found-family. Phryne has created a lovely family for herself with her assistant Dot and her housekeepers, Mr and Mrs Butler. In this particular book, there’s a murder at a manor house, which is like catnip for me: lots of listening through doors, scampering to lovers’ bedrooms in the middle of the night, forced cocktail hour… it’s fab.

Favorite highlight: “It took determination to be really strange. That, or absinthe before breakfast every day.”

The Witch Elm by Tana French | 3 stars I think Tana French is excellent at what she does—I couldn’t put this down because I needed to know what was going to happen, and I had no idea how it was all going to resolve itself. Really, the writing craft should get 5 stars.

But man! this was really not for me. Even though I compulsively turned the pages, I didn’t enjoy the experience or the characters at all. The only character I liked died. I thought everyone else was horrible: duplicitous, selfish, whiny, untrustworthy. I am grateful I don’t know people like this in real life, and I don’t enjoy spending time with them, even if it’s pretend and on paper.

Favorite highlight: “Hugo’s road has that effect; it gives the impression of being there only on alternate Thursday or to people with they mysterious talisman in their pockets, invisible the rest of the time and instantly forgotten when you leave.”

Dracula by Bram Stoker (audiobook) | 5 stars

I’m a sucker for epistolary novels, so before even opening the pages the first time I read this book, I was pretty much on board. Then when I got to know Mina and Jonathan, Dr. Seward and Van Helsing—I was smitten. This is a big, sweeping adventure story, and although it was published in 1897, it’s surprisingly modern. Unlike, say, the Brontës, which require a little work sometimes to get through the prose, this is very readable and the action moves at a good clip. But it’s not all desperate carriage rides and stake stabbings; there are a lot of genuine emotional moments in this book, and I love the way Mina turns out to be the heroine of the whole enterprise.

This audiobook version is fantastic. The voice work is very compelling and really brings the story to life.

Favorite highlight: “It is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles. And yet when King Laugh come, he make them all dance to the tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall, all dance together to the music that he make with that smileless mouth of him. Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come, and like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the sunshine, and he ease off the strain again, and we bear to go on with our labor, what it may be.”

The Shadow Land by Elizabeth Kostova (audiobook) | 5 stars I’ve read this book in print at least once, maybe twice? And I loved it for the reasons the NYTimes review didn’t… the beginning, before it gets into the heart of the story from the past, is a travelogue/love letter to Bulgaria—and that voice is part of what I loved so much about Elizabeth Kostova’s first book The Historian. This one has so many things I love: a mystery, foreign travel, a little romance, the love of a found-family, things that are not what they seem, shocking revelations over food, and regular people following mysterious clues to dangerous conclusions. At every moment I thought, “This is exactly what it would be like if *I* found myself caught up in a mystery” and since I’m always secretly hoping that will happen, I loved this story. There are plenty of surprises—I actually gasped a few times and shed a few tears. The big reveals aren’t obvious, but when they happened, I was, like, “Oh, yeah… that makes sense.”

The voice acting in this audiobook is awesome. Each character gets its own voice and is immediately recognizable. This is particularly effective when a character tells a story from the past—the accents, the aging voices, the emotion… it’s lush and moving and all-together engrossing.

Favorite highlight: “Always thinking. Thinking too much, and then sometimes not enough. You read a lot of books, yes?”

FIND ALL THESE BOOKS AND MORE IN MY AMAZON STORE!

What have you been reading recently?

Source: https://meljoulwan.com/2018/11/29/reading-recap-october-2018/

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elvesofnoldor · 7 years ago

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lmao ok its like almost 1am and i gotta sleep but um ok maybe i shouldnt say the bombings “isn’t entirely justified”, cause it isn’t justified. at all. have to say i didnt make that clear, my fault, but at the same time, lol it isnt the point of my posts. anyways, i dont know their trauma, and i make no attempts talking about their trauma. but ive seen documentaries. ghost of people casted on broken radiated stones cause they are pulverized at the centre of a nuclear explosion, horrific scars on survivors’ bodies, the trauma materializing in popular culture in the form of monster--trauma thats probably never gonna be healed. Japanese folks sure arent silent about their trauma and the horrific aftermath of the bombings, and the world listened. you all sure are passionated abt talking abt their trauma, for some reason. that post about gozilla got like 100k notes lmao. ive seen multiple posts about how unjustified the bombings are during my time here. is it bc u all are into anime and watched grave of fireflies? lol?

u know i know large size national traumas caused by war...are not comparable, i dont wanna talk abt what happened to nanking, or other places or regions during sino japanese war. its not comparable. but u all think i dont know and i dont care what happened to hiroshima and nagasaki? i know and i cared! for the longest time i didnt know how to feel abt it, any of it. but also im tired of seeing japanese folks using their own trauma to play the victim mentality, positioning themselves as victims of WWII when they 100% aren’t lol. I’m tired of nobody caring about that, since while they are playing victim mentality, Japanese war criminals are being honoured as heroes, the Japanese government still refuses to make a apology about the invasion they wouldn’t retract afterwards, and japanese imperalism is still alive in Japan! japanese history textbooks are imbedded with worrying messages, and dude! i didnt came up with these, people whos gone to Japan and studied Japanese history curriculum did! They are documentaries (in Chinese tho) about how Japanese history textbook refuses to call their invasion of China (and probably other asian countries like korea etc), an “invasion”. There are questions asking the kids if Japan would win against China when the country engage China in a 100 years from now. Not IF there would be an engagement. the premise of the question is that there will be another conflict!

i said my great grandpa died in nanking massacre. he most likely did. (u know they spread news abt the massacre after it happened, in America. it probably just helped Americans to justify their ultimate engagement with imperial Japan’s military after pearl harbour happened) idk how long, probably two years ago, my mom told me about grandma. she told me that my great grandpa went to Nanking to run some errands, right after he went, grandma and her sisters lost contact with him and the city’s gate shuts down--the massacre begins. My grandpa was never heard of again. My mom said, “we couldn’t even find his body”. There are too many mass graves in nanking, no one could find anybody’s bodies, esp an insignificant person like my great grandpa who isnt a permanent residence of the city. i asked my mom, “so he got killed by the japanese?”. my mom said “well yeah, probably.” so no, im not sure abt it, but i dont have to have a great grandfather dying in the massacre to justify my anger abt the massacre and japan’s continuous denial of the massacre. It’s national pain, it’s national trauma too. However, for a while i actually like to think that he didnt died at the hands of japanese. I thought that, its entirely possible he just abandoned my grandma and his sisters and run away in the middle of chaos. even now, i thought that, maybe i misheard what my mom said. maybe my mom misheard from grandma. a while ago, folks in China were being foolish and boycotting Japanese products. Irrational and unproductive hate tbh, and boycotting Japanese brands only wreck Chinese economy cause none of these products being sold in China are produced in Japan lol. I didn’t wanna be one of these people giving to unproductive hate and irrational anger. but seems like, thats really above me. Anyways, theres a lot of speculations, but what i do know is that grandma had a hard life without the main financial support (my great grandpa) in her life. she lived in poverty all her life, travelled from shanghai all the way to beijing for work. never get the education she deserves, was a factory worker her whole life.

i thought abt grandma a lot these days. my grandma died on 4th of july, 2006. its been 11 years today (or rather, yesterday, in my time zone). i realize i couldnt even remember much of her voice or face, and that makes me incredibly sad. i was gonna talk abt missing her and about the whole legacy of 2nd sino japanese war during WWII, at one point. But i guess its gonna be today at 1am lol--seems like an awkward time to do that since i just went the fuck off on tumblr dot com lmao. i wanted to go off abt this whole thing for at least a year now tho lmao. hope grandma wouldn’t mind i start thinking about all these after my mom revealed bits of info about her life. i miss her a lot and i wished i could have known her better, but there wasn’t enough time.

this is a mass of disorganized rambling and i dont even know where to begin to tag triggers for this post.....idk maybe dont read idk

#yolanda talks

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justforbooks · 8 years ago

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A Writer to the Very End: Remembering the Great “Gatz”

By Maryanne Vollers

William “Gatz” Hjortsberg had everything going for him except time. Days before the diagnosis in early March—pancreatic cancer, stage IV—Gatz had finished the long-awaited sequel to his groundbreaking novel, Falling Angel. He’d hoped to have enough time to edit it. But the end came faster than anyone expected. He was in hospice care at home in Livingston, MT, and feeling strong enough to entertain visitors, including his old friend, Tom McGuane, who told him how much he liked the new book. Gatz was so encouraged that he decided to try a round of chemo to see if it could give him an extra month or so to get the book to a publisher. That was Thursday, April 20th.

I live around the corner from Gatz and his wife, the artist Janie Camp, so on Saturday morning I knocked on their door with a plate of fresh banana bread, thinking he might be able to eat a bite or two. He smiled when he saw me, but he was done with food or drink.

Gatz—a childhood nickname that evolved from his unpronounceable last name—had a genius for storytelling that he translated into a large and diverse body of work, including essays, novels, screenplays, and a captivating, encyclopedic biography of Richard Brautigan, a former friend and neighbor. Hjortsberg and Brautigan were part of a cohort of writers and actors who adopted Montana as home in the late 1960s and 70s, including McGuane, Peter Fonda, Warren Oates, Jeff Bridges, Tim Cahill, Russell Chatham, and, at least part-time, Jim Harrison. A lot of the ones who survived the gunfire and divorce lawyers stuck around, including Gatz.

William Hjortsberg was born in New York City on February 23, 1941, the only child of a Swedish restaurateur and his Swiss wife. He lived the high life until his father died when he was ten, leaving no money. His mother worked as a hotel maid to put him through private school while they lived in a transient hotel on Amsterdam Avenue. Gatz worked his way through Dartmouth College, attended the Yale School of Drama—where he met McGuane—and spent two years at Stanford as a Stegner Fellow. During the 1960s Gatz and his first wife, Marian, bounced between the United States and various exotic locales, teaching, homesteading, and doing what hippies tend to do while bringing up their young daughter, Lorca. During the 70s they settled in the Paradise Valley, south of Livingston, where a son, Max, was born (and where the marriage eventually ended).

Gatz was an exceedingly original writer, with a passion for history, mystery, and the occult—and a flair for twisting it all into elegant plots with a sense of wicked fun. As John Leonard wrote in a New York Times review of Gatz’s first novel, Alp, in 1969, he was “a satanic S.J. Perelman… by way of Disney and de Sade.”

It was sometimes hard to reconcile Gatz’s gruesome subject matter with his sunny, ebullient personality. He was a mischievous presence, a fascinating conversationalist, and the kindest, most generous of friends. The writer who detailed demonic orgies with the glee of an ax murderer was also a doting father and grandfather who patiently taught children to fish for trout. He kept an extensive collection of antique toys. He loved art. His totem, he said, was the penguin, the most cheerful bon vivant of the animal kingdom. And yet, there was the dark well from which he drew inspiration: “The door to my lower consciousness is always open,” he once said. “And the little lizard people who live down in there are always wriggling out and whispering nasty things.” In 1978 one of those nasty ideas grew into the best-selling Falling Angel, a supernatural detective novel. In 1987 it was adapted into the film, Angel Heart, starring Mickey Rourke, Lisa Bonet, and Robert DeNiro.

Gatz’s focus drifted to Hollywood, where he wrote Ridley Scott’s cult classic, Legend, and countless other scripts, some of which were even made into films. He made a good living from his screenplays, but he returned to letters, pursuing the definitive Brautigan biography with the demented zeal of an Ahab stalking his whale. Happily, Gatz’s obsession had a better ending. Jubilee Hitchhiker, which he labored over for two decades, was well received when it was published in 2012.

His accomplishments were often eclipsed by those of his famous buddies (even at his peak, reviewers described him as “underappreciated”), but Gatz had recently been experiencing late-career revival. He published a new novel, Mañana, in 2015, and was working on some other projects when he had a revelation. The sequel to Falling Angel had been percolating in his mind for years, but he didn’t know how it ended. Suddenly he did. Gatz started writing immediately.

I met Gatz when my husband Bill Campbell and I moved to Livingston 20 years ago. It was easy to be his friend; he was irresistible. And when he fell in love with Janie Camp, who lived practically next door, Gatz became a neighbor, too.

The last time we spoke he joked that we should have installed tracks or, better yet, a zip-line between our yards to make cocktail hour more efficient.

Maybe Gatz was so adept at fantasy and fairytales because he was childlike himself. A friend who grew up around him told me that children loved Gatz because he never patronized them. “He always listened, took you completely seriously. Once you were human you were part of the game,” she said. Gatz embraced his stepsons, Michel Leroy and Jake Camp, as his own. He was close to his daughter, Lorca, who works for a toy company based in Los Angeles, and Max, a poet and conservationist, who lives in Livingston with his wife, Anna (the younger daughter of Jim Harrison) and their son Silas.

After Gatz was diagnosed with cancer, he and his son Max made plans to prepare the Falling Angel sequel for submission to publishers. A few weeks ago, at a memorial for Jim Harrison, Max slipped his old pal Tom McGuane a thumb drive of the manuscript.

On Monday, April 17, Tom popped by to visit Gatz and stayed for a couple of hours. When he left, Gatz was elated. I sent McGuane an email to ask him what he thought of the sequel. He wrote: “It is extraordinarily imaginative and detailed and I think might remind any reader why The Los Angeles Times said that its predecessor, Falling Angel, was an absolute game changer.” He added what he told Gatz: “I intend to help the new book find its way however I can.“

When I walked through the door the next Saturday morning, it was obvious that Gatz wasn’t going to get the time he’d hoped for. The book was his only unfinished business. He had no other regrets, he told his doctor, who had visited him the night before and then placed a call to hospice. He was hoping to have a more festive death, he said, one with music and friends gathered around. But there was no time for it.

I know he would like you to hear this: His last hours on this planet were peaceful. The drugs worked and there was no pain. He was never afraid. Max arrived, and a few friends and relatives came by to help with what was needed. Gatz smiled at everyone. His grip was strong and he knew us all. The last thing I saw him do was put his arm around Janie to comfort her. Courtly to the end. Gatz died at 9:15pm Saturday.

Because this is a very small town we knew that the undertaker, Colin, was asleep, because he lives with his young family right next door to me and Bill and we saw their lights were out. But when Janie was ready to let the hospice nurse call, Colin answered the phone and came by a few minutes later. It was a neighborly affair.

The sad news spread through Livingston before it got out into the world. Glenn Godward opened up the Park Place Tavern on a Sunday afternoon for an impromptu wake. Glenn’s place is a favorite watering hole for local novelists, journalists, artists, ranchers and poets—Jim Harrison used to position himself at the patio entrance like Cerberus with a taste for cabernet. The whole damn town must have been there that day. All that was missing was Gatz’s roaring chainsaw of a laugh, a sound that could cut through any level of pandemonium. Gatz, who never missed a good party, would have enjoyed it. God, I’ll miss hearing that voice. We all will.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS

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strawberryspeachy · 5 years ago

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3 years ago my cat had kittens... i could still talk to my mom kind of.... and... things were ok aside from me being upset over some dumb boy

And i was thinking how i wanna go back. I miss my mom so much i want to go back. And was like. Well that wasnt a good time, a year before was better right?

Leading me to the reason why I was so miserable as a kid.

Look. Im a miserable person - i dont want to blame it all on one person but fuck man...

Everytime i think about times where i was happy, i realize SHE was the reason I WASNT.

Middle school - i had friends. I was smart. I liked school. I had hobbies and dreams. But i never wanted to leave school because i didnt want to come home. I didnt want to come home becauae of HER

I keep saying her like im talkig about my mom. Im not. Im talking about my great grandmother

I just sat here for 10 minites telling myself im stupid and making things up and making things out to be worse than they are.... i bet that thinking comes from her in all honesty

Thinking, “did she love me?” Now. I dont care. I dont miss her. Everytime i think about her its upsetting that i had her in my life... the only good thing i can ever say about her is “i know what its like to have a strict parent” THATS NOT GOOD. like fucking thanks for screaming at me every holiday to eat correctly. Now i know table manners. Thats all you did for me - while making me dread every fucking family dinner which aside from you was wonderful because my family used to be cool.

She ruined every holiday. She didnt want decorations. Were were gonna burn down the house. We were making a mess. We were being loud. She doesnt want this or that in HER HOUSE. She constantly chased everyone out the door because she NEVER had anything nice to say. The second she entered the room everyone made excuses to leave. When shed open her fucking creaking door the laughter would stop, smiles turn to cringes and wed all look at each other with the “welp the funs over” face

She was just so mean. You cant be happy because you’re not doing something she wanted you to do. Or you fucked something up. Theres some reason that youre supposed to be upset or concerned. BUT YOU CANT WIN THAT WAY EITHER - if youre upset - how dare you. You have so many good things you entitled undeserving brat. Fucking appriciate everything. The best way was some mixture where you smile but are ready to be pissed the fuck off in a moments notice. Cause if you wete more pissed off than she was the yelling was cut in half and mostly just her telling you not to give her that attitude - instead of a whole lecture on why you’re a fucking failure.

Everytime i think of a better time in my life. Its not even that much better because of that demon in my life. Constantly teling me shes gonna kick me out of the house. Constantly telling me im a burden to my mom. Constantly telling me im the reason for all her problems and saying that my animals were going to banrupt her.

The only thing i did well in her eyes was that i got good grades in school. She beleived my report card. Thats all. Pretty amazing that she could beleive that but thought i was too damn stupid to graduate college because there was a physical paper in front of her that she recognized

If i cooked or cleaned i did it wrong - if i didnt i should have

Why am i always at my best friends house?! “Her family doesnt want you there!!”

Why dont you play with your animals?!? Stop making noise playing with your animals!!

There was no escaping her. I broke my nose in a car accident and my friends mom took me for surgery. She came running out of the house to complain to my friends mom about how she could have taken me but i didnt ask her and im so awful - right after my surgery. Cause like why dont you want someone whose constantly bitching at you and telling you how shit you are to take you to a stressful surgery?

Conditional love... i already knew that... but its like the first time ive used it myself and havent just attributed the description.

She was my step - great grandmother. Shes all i ever knew but we werent blood related.

She loved my grandfather and my aunt and even my aunts two kids - the way family loves. She was still a bitch but she didnt disown them when they bugged her

The rest of us. Including my mom. Conditional love. Its not like she never did nice things. But she did expecting something in return.

Maybe shes why i dont like dealing with people im not allowed to say no to. Like i have such a deep seeded hatred for that relationship that the second i sense it i just refuse to deal with it again. You couldnt say no to her. You couldnt. If you said no to her about ANYTHING pack your fucking bags and get the hell out of HER HOUSE. that was her favorite two words. She needed my moms and grandfathers help and asked them to move in. But. We were guests in HER HOUSE.

I had some trauma as a kid that I probably would have gotten over if the happy family i knew before we moved to my great grandmothers stayed that way. But my aunt was always miserable. My uncle ran away as fast as possible. And my mom. A people pleaser. You know those old traditions where a man marrys and then he fucks off and does whatever he wants leaving his wife to serve his parents hand and foot. That was my moms life. He cheated on her and the demon made fun of her for everything, apparently constantly telling “dumb poloc” jokes. My mom cleaned everyday and cooked and took care of everyone and took care of our farm basically alone. I tried to help... i was a kid... and she was depressed. You wouldn’t know if you didnt really listen - which no one else in my family did.

And i looked at my mom everyday. I didnt really get it. All i knew was she was a wonderful kind generous happy - all around best human. And yet. Her life sucked. And she was sad. And i wonder if my mom would have been so sad if not for the demon...

My grandfather loved his mom.... but he used to never come in the house. My whole life. He was always out. The moment she died, he was always in the house. Maybe because he missed her and was sad.... but... i dont think so.... he stopped drinking a case of beer every night too

This whole post just to say... im mad that if goven the chance... im not sure if id go back to any of those times where i had to live with the demon... even though everything else at those times were good... the amount of stress and misery she gave me... almost outweigh the good... and. There was alot of good. I miss so many things.

I wanna be with my mom again. Without the dementia. I wanna be with my animals. I wanna be with my friends. I want second chances. I wanna make changes.

I loved her dude...i used to wish good things on her... i beleived she truely cared about me...

When she was dying. She couldn’t talk. Her friend called. I offered to put the phone to her ear. The friend was dismayed when i aswered. The tone of her voice changed. And she went “oh. The granddaughter.” She asked to talk to the demon as though i was holding the phone away from her and like i just wanted to hear whatever secrets she may have and wouldnt actually put it to her ear. She hung up angerly... as though... i wasnt an upset family member... i got preoccupied by the pleading look in my greatgrandmothers eyes. She wanted me to put the phone to her ear... but the woman had already hung up. I told her she had to go but said shes thinking of her. She looked so disappointed that she couldn’t hear it herself. And i felt... still feel bad... for the dying woman in her last days...

But maybe if she hadnt constantly talked about me as though i was the worst person because i dared to live my life the same as my aunt with animals and friends. But then go off to college but take a server job when o couldnt find a better one. Talked about me like i tried to kill her myself and that i was so lazy and rude and terrible. Maybe. Her bitchy friend. Wouldnt have hung up upon even having to interact with me

And then. Even in death. She made sure that i knew my place. she wrote her obituary herself. She put my aunts kids who are 13+ years younger than me, ahead of me, when listing her great grandchildren.

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