#man i liked that book so much. i was disappointed in several aspects of the ending and keep getting more frustrated

[storybook-souls]

finished some desperate glory by emily tesh last night and i literally can't stop thinking about kyr and avi's relationship. externally i'm sitting at my desk doing work but internally i'm pacing in circles muttering things like "she didn't miss the way he'd put the back of the booth between them like a shield" and "you can blame me if you want. i live in trouble anyways, but you--" "i wouldn't." "huh." and "they would execute him. if she left, he wouldn't survive the day" and "i gave you a normal life with a bow tied around it, how did that not get rid of you?" and "nothing's evil if it's on our side" and "the only true thing left, after the rest of it falls apart, is this: there was a war, and we lost" and "I thought we were going to win." "This is winning." and "You did this." "Not even the worst thing I've done today." and "We're friends?" "Gaea's rejects. Commander Jole's embarrassments." and "We've done this before, you know." "What?" "Been friends" and "How can you call me your friend" and "Fuck off, Valkyr, maybe I wouldn't snitch and drop the two of you into hell with me, you don't know me" and "I thought I could get out, I thought I would one day." "I never even thought of getting out, I couldn't even get that far" and "What a waste, what a terrible waste" and above all else "We're here forever, you and me. Like running Doomsday." so you can understand why it's a little hard to focus.

[vor-leser]

Benny now an animal, I knew AM would let him play.

(Stuff about my own version of pre-monkeyification Benny below the cut because i have too many thoughts on this)

It's kind of hard to make heads or tails of any of the ihnmaims characters since the cannons of the different adaptations contradict each other so much, so I reconciled my own version of events in my head as to what I think Benny was like pre monkeyfication. I tried to fit everything from the comic, game and book in though.

Benny was a very masculine guy, excelling in every sport, and despising everyone who did not live up to his standard of what it meant to be a strong man. All his life, he tried to embody this ideal, not only marrying and having two kids, but going on to join the military. When he became general, he was known amongst the soldiers as an authoritarian punitive leader, often abusing those below him to whip the weak ones into shape. His ideals were solidified under the pressure of the continuing third world war, instilling a kill or be killed mentality into him. Eventually, he came to the realization that he was gay. However, because this reality threatened to break apart the way he viewed the world and his masculinity. With the mounting pressures from a chain of losses and his own internal struggles, he reacted by overcompensating and becoming more brutal than ever, leading him to kill multiple of his own men. Returning from the Chinese American War, he developed a severe case of PTSD. Constantly making him feel as if his life was at stake, he found himself unable to show any weakness. He hid his own war crimes thoroughly, all the while continuing to receive accolades from his superiors for his tenure. He constantly felt the need to not only hide his crimes, but also his sexuality, making him paranoid that people would realize he was a fraud. This did not only put a strain on him, but also on his family.

AM specifically chose Benny, because he embodied the many ways in which humanity tore itself apart through war, constantly finding new methods to make their own existence miserable for an imagined ideal.

At first, Bennys presence among the survivors proved very useful. Out of all of them, he had the most experience in dangerous situations and a lot of physical strength. His wisdom and leadership helped them a great deal, eventually though, they would inevitably disappoint him. Falling into his old patterns of behavior, he would berate Nimdok the most for his obvious weakness, saying he was holding them back. With time, he did the same with Ellen, Ted and even Gorrister, which formed a rift between himself and all of them. He felt as if he could rely on no one but himself.

Still, his usefulness irked AM. He had gotten one over on him too many times, but this would make his coming defeat even more crushing. It started with his mental state. Paranoia had already slowly crept up on Benny, but when he was forced to relive his trauma, it spiraled out of control. Being starved, beaten and defeated, he started to lose his humanity. His egoism, distrust and brutality, all born out a desire for survival made him a nightmare for the others. AM found it amusing, how he had turned Benny into a parody of humanity and its worst aspects, seeing it fit to strip him of his last remaining bits of humaneness, breaking his body into the shape of an ape-thing.

His spirits were now completely broken, being reduced to a bumbling fool. Even though his shame mellowed him out, there were still occasional outbursts. Now ironically enough, he had become the survivors greatest liability. Luckily for him, the others pity him and keep him around, a kindness he likely wouldn't have awarded them.

(Also drawing a guy thats canonically supposed to look handsome while making him resemble a monkey is hard :,) )

[lostcauses-noregrets]

By Rafael Motamayor, New York Times, Nov. 5, 2023

On Saturday, the final episode of the anime adaptation of Hajime Isayama’s “Attack on Titan” premiered on Crunchyroll and Hulu, ending an epic tale that started back in 2013.

Like the manga, which ran from 2009 to 2021, the anime was an instant hit, becoming one of the defining shows of the modern anime era, with spinoffs, live-action and video game adaptations, and even a comic book crossover with Marvel’s “Spider-Man” and “Avengers” titles.

Since the fourth and final season started airing in 2020, “Attack on Titan” has been one of the most popular shows on the internet — episodes have routinely trended on social media, streaming servers have occasionally crashed, the opening theme song became a rare anime song to hit the U.S. Billboard charts. Parrot Analytics said it was the most “in-demand” show in the world in 2021, a metric based on analysis of streaming, social media, search and other online behaviors. The manga has continued to be popular as well, selling over 120 million copies worldwide, and several of the published volumes have charted on the New York Times graphic novels and manga best-seller list.

What started as a thrilling yet relatively simple tale of a young boy seeking revenge against the giant humanoid monsters that ate his mother quickly evolved into a thought-provoking war epic. The tonal shift in “Attack on Titan” also came with one of the biggest heel-turns in modern anime, with the protagonist, Eren Jaeger, devolving into a radicalized monster threatening worldwide genocide.

Since the manga ended in 2021, there has been plenty of speculation and debate over Eren’s antagonistic turn and what the story’s ending means. Ahead of the release of the final episode, the manga creator Hajime Isayama, speaking through an interpreter, David Higbee, talks about the restrictive nature of writing and the story’s dark ending. These are edited excerpts from the interview.

The manga ended a couple of years ago, and the anime is just finishing now. How do you feel about the story coming to an end?

For this anime to be made and for that to go beyond the borders of Japan and to reach a worldwide audience is something that’s been a very happy occurrence for me. In a sense, “Attack on Titan” has connected me to the world, and that’s something that I’m very glad happened.

How much of the ending from the manga did you have in mind when you first began writing “Attack on Titan”? And how much did it change along the way?

That was pretty much there from the beginning, the story that starts with the victim who then goes through this story and becomes the aggressor. That is something I had in mind right from the get-go. Along the way, certain aspects of the story didn’t go as expected, and I adapted and fleshed out certain aspects. But I would say the ending of the story didn’t change much

There’s a much-talked-about scene where Armin, who is struggling with Eren’s turn into a mass murderer, seems to thank him for his actions. Can you talk about the meaning behind that conversation?

My thinking there wasn’t really that Armin was trying to push Eren away for the sake of justice or whatnot. It was more that he wanted to, in a sense, take joint responsibility. He wanted to become an accomplice. In order to become an accomplice, Armin had to make sure that he used very strong wording so that he could take those sins upon himself. And so that was the intent behind it.

You have a scene where Eren apologizes to a kid for the carnage he’s going to commit and says he was disappointed in the world he saw beyond the walls. What does that say about his motivation?

I think that refers to the fact that Eren was dreaming of going to this world outside of the walls where there was nobody and there was nothing. There was an excitement about this world that was just empty, a clean slate. I don’t really know whether that’s a good or a bad thing, and I don’t really know why that was the ideal that I set up for Eren as a part of this story. But what I can say is that, when he does get across the wall at that point, he says he sees that the world is really not that different from what’s within the walls in the world that he already knows. I believe that’s probably the disappointment that I’m referring to in that specific scene.

Eren says in the final episode of the anime that he had no choice but to follow the future that he saw, that he was powerless against the powers of the Founding Titan. Armin even asks if he’s really free. Was he telling the truth or do you see this as him telling an excuse?

So the truth is the situation with Eren actually overlaps in a certain sense with my own story with this manga. When I first started this series, I was worried that it would probably be canceled. It was a work that no one knew about. But I had already started the story with the ending in mind. And the story ended up being read and watched by an incredible number of people, and it led to me being given a huge power that I didn’t quite feel comfortable with.

It would have been nice if I could have changed the ending. Writing manga is supposed to be freeing. But if I was completely free, then I should have been able to change the ending. I could have changed it and said I wanted to go in a different direction. But the fact is that I was tied down to what I had originally envisioned when I was young. And so, manga became a very restrictive art form for me, similar to how the massive powers that Eren acquired ended up restricting him.

You have been involved in the anime production for a little while, supervising the adaptation’s storyboards, and have been known for asking for changes to the story in the adaptation. Did you personally ask for anything for the final episode?

Yes. Absolutely. I checked the script, but the main thing was the storyboards. There were different things I suggested. When it comes down to it, it’s really the role of the production to make those decisions. But I wanted to at least give my input so that they could take those into account when they were making the final decisions.

The manga ends with you showing the future of Paradis and sort of the cycle of war continuing. Is there no end to the conflict and the cycle you present in the story?

I guess there could have been an ending where it was a happy ending and the war ended and everything was fine and dandy. I guess that could have been possible. At the same time, the end of fighting and the end of contention itself kind of seems hokey. It kind of seems like it’s not even believable. It’s just not plausible in the world we’re living in right now. And so, sadly, I had to give up on that kind of happy ending.

[New York Times, 5 November 2023]

[jolieblack]

Jolie’s thoughts on Silver Blaze (Sherlock & Co. podcast) Parts 1 & 2

… because I can already tell that this will get too long if I wait for parts 3 & 4 to drop…

I know Joel has said in several places that this case is his favourite ACD story, so expectations are high… and not being disappointed so far!

I already loved this one at 3 minutes in, with the opening montage of part 1 being totally over the top, mega blockbuster crime of the century style, and then the next thing we get is Sherlock practising the clippity-clop thing and looking for a new home for 327 ants.

Sherlock being a train geek (of course he is) and going on about the ghost trains just after John went on about the creepy Dartmoor legends got me, too. In my book, Silver Blaze has never had a gothic horror vibe to it, but it may well have now! Let’s see how that aspect will develop.

Other details I loved:

John‘s mum: "He‘s a very sensitive boy and you need to respect that." - "He’s not a boy, he’s a man… who plays with ants."

John and Mariana pushing Sherlock into the case by threatening him with a party, and John being a gleefully cackling little bugger about it when it works.

"Just trying to understand how your brain works." - "Yeah, you and me both, mate."

Sherlock giving us a whole paragraph straight out of ACD (the "plethora" bit) - I love how well it always works in contrast with how everyone else in this universe talks.

The dodgy SD card, which - I hereby predict - will turn out to be more than a comedy element as the case progresses.

Sherlock deducing the entry code for the cottage, we love to see that kind of stuff, don’t we.

"We’ve got a horse to find. Giddy up."- Love it when Sherlock speaks ordinary colloquial modern English like a foreign language.

"You are a child, a giant crime-solving child!" - Sherlock Holmes in a nutshell.

"I’ve done the washing up - he said, pausing for a thank you - " - "Thank you."

Oh and scrolling on our phone to the point of existential crisis till we pass out is so how we all fall asleep these days, isn’t it. Jonk Watson, the true Everyman for the 21st century.

And then we get feeeeels, too!

Starting with "Talk to me, John." - 🥹🥹🥹 The incredible intimacy of that little moment. Also, another 'John', seemingly out of nowhere - is this Sherlock being incredibly finely attuned to the moments where John's war trauma may re-emerge, such as in this scene where they’re viewing a very badly injured body, ready to step in with whatever emotional support may be needed? If so, our boy has come a long way already since the first sweet but clumsy "Would you like to hold hands and talk about your emotions?" when they were viewing the body in Thor Bridge and I’M HERE FOR IT.

And what was that shower scene??? Things getting very much *less weird* for Sherlock while he stares at his dear companion in the shower (who presumably doesn’t shower fully or even half dressed) and imagines what life would be without him? If this show was heading in an unequivocal Johnlock direction, I‘d say this was an awakening. As it is, I don’t believe for a second that Sherlock was high. He just wanted reassurance that John would stay in the picture forever, whatever exactly you like to imagine the picture to be. 😭

More lovely details:

"Cinderella will go to the ball" - "You stop being so bloody clever, and I will stop with the compliments." And literally two minutes later it’s "I'm not asking you to be comfortable, I’m asking you to help me solve the case!" and John being Sherlock’s literal beast of burden so Sherlock can look over a wall that even little John Watson climbs without any assistance only a minute later.

Sherlock Holmes telling John Watson to get on his knees as if this isn’t the moment the Sherlock Holmes fandom has been waiting for for over 140 years.

Sherlock being gentle and friendly with the horse!

And to wrap up, a few thoughts on the case aspect:

[Warning: Contains spoilers for the original ACD story and may therefore contain spoilers for this version, too!]

*

*

*

*

*

The limping sheep in part 1 had me going 👀 already, and now the cataract knife has made its appearance, I really don’t expect a lot of surprises when we get to the denouement, and I'm assuming that the fact that there is an imprint of the letter S from the walking stick on the head of the murder victim just means that there was a violent confrontation quite some time before June actually died. Why else would Sherlock agree with Inspector Gregory that the imprint is there, but also with John that those extensive and massive injuries could not have been caused by a single blow with a stick? Nope, not sensing any dramatic plot twists compared to the original version this time. Let’s see if I was right!

[elisaintime]

The post-episode 3 shift

FRESH POST!

So we were talking about how AMC's Interview with the Vampire Season 1 handles their choice of making Louis a black man in the early 1900s. This is a really cool change the show made in its AU version of IWTV, and it brought in a whole lot of subjects to explore that didn't exist in the books, making the TV show a very different work of art. But all the initial ideas for this show came from a cishet white man, and while he down the line had assistance from poc collaborators, I still think the show had areas where it could have done better with regards to some of the story beats, character arcs, and plot progression. The other thread got unwieldy with multiple reblog trees, but it's here for reference: https://www.tumblr.com/elisaintime/748738811357462528/woah-i-must-have-missed-something-why-are-people You can see everyone else's discussion in the notes.

I love discussions like this! Please talk to me about vampire chronicles! I live for it! I'm posting this now because I am disappointed that a few people seem to not be understanding several things I said. Maybe I said it unclearly, or maybe they're projecting and jumping to conclusions.

Kind of like how this poster does:

I deleted/banned every single comment on my videos that talked negatively about the show making Louis and Claudia black or deriding it for trying to be woke (and there were a bunch!). I delete block and ban all forms of hate speech. My channel is absolutely not a safe space for racists or bigots of any kind.

As you can see in the screencap, there is nothing in these comments that is about the race changes. These comments are talking about other changes the show made from the books and don't touch on race at all. The poster who screencapped them is jumping to the conclusion that these commenters liking the books better than the show automatically makes them racist, and that these are racist comments. And this screencap is specifically what I was referencing at the beginning of the other thread. Several people have said this now, that my YT comments section makes a safe space for racists. But these are not racist comments, and there is no evidence that the commenters are racist. This is projection and assumption. If you DO ever notice a racist comment on any of my videos, that I somehow missed, please bring it to my attention so that I can immediately delete and ban the user from ever commenting on my channel again.

But back to the show itself and my critique of it. I'm always here for talking about vampire-related writing! Let's go!

I still stand by what I said in my videos about the few issues I had with the show's scripts. If you watched my videos or follow all I've said about the show here on tumblr or elsewhere, you'll know how excited about this show I've been from the very beginning, how obsessively into it I am, following every aspect of production and behind the scenes news. You may even be in one of the multiple discord servers with me where we talk about the show constantly. There was much I really enjoyed about season 1, which I was outspoken about in my videos, and people keep seeming to forget. My videos had a greater percentage of positivity in them than negativity. But yes, I did have critiques as well, just like I do with every single piece of vampire media I discuss on my channel--it's the entire point of my channel!--and those mostly had to do with inconsistency in the writing.

What I've said is that the DRIVING FORCE of the plot wasn’t about Louis's struggles with chafing against society as a black man after episode 3, not that there was no more racism. I said he was obviously still immersed in systemic racism all around him, which the show showed us with visual details in the background, despite no one talking about them. This is fine, we don't need it spelled out for us. TV is a visual medium, and that's what the images are there for. But my discussion is about his character MOTIVATIONS on a writing level. His want vs need. His goal vs obstacle. If you're unversed on the techniques of story writing and plot structure, I recommend Blake Snyder's book Save the Cat as a crash course. In ep 1-3, for Louis, it was about being respected as a man equal to others among his society, the citizens of New Orleans, his colleagues and business rivals. Fighting for social opportunities that were limited to him because he is black. That story ends with episode 3 and a new story begins. I’m not saying this is a bad thing. I just said I NOTICED it.

After it all burns down, Louis stops focusing on society respecting him as a human being (which was ironic to begin with, because he’s not human anymore) and his driving plot becomes about making and keeping a family and such. Obviously race is still an element of that in a mixed marriage, but it’s not about his business or social standing anymore, these parts of his life that were SO IMPORTANT to him in the first three episodes. In the books, vampires stop caring about that kind of stuff the second they are made, but the show changed it to take Louis a few years to get there instead of it happening instantly.

Obviously racism doesn't magically disappear or stop mattering once he accepts his vampire nature (which Lestat kind of promises him it will), but it does shift to being a background element for what we see on screen. He is not focused on it anymore, when it used to be the primary driving force of his plot. We hardly even get to see Louis interact with (racist) society again til the finale (and I made this observation on episode 5, which the end-of-episode credits told us was written by a white person). For example, the police that come to their door are bigoted to him and Lestat because they’re gay, but meanwhile, they act completely colorblind. At this point, Louis’s character motivations are about fear of them being caught for murder, and his emotions regarding how Claudia is struggling with her eternal child body and lashing out--about keeping his family together. Not about his racial struggles as a businessman and citizen in outward society.

Yes, we all know there were non-white people in the writer’s room (thank god! Can you imagine?? If there weren’t any, we’d all have been raging from the very beginning! Did you read RJ’s episode 1 script draft before it got revised with the input of black/queer/female editors? OOF), but the choice to completely shift Louis’s driving character motivations away from his impassioned societal race struggle to something different after 3 episodes was part of the original season outline made by white people before any poc were brought on to the team. 

And again, I didn’t say it was a bad thing, it was just something I NOTICED, and the way the show executed it felt very abrupt and clunky. Did I want the cops to not be colorblind and get in some racial digs and microaggressions while they were at Louis’s house? Ew no. But I did NOTICE that they didn’t do that, and how it was so different from the way Louis was spoken to by white people in the first 3 episodes. Did the white writer of this episode perhaps feel uncomfortable going there?

The season told two different stories for Louis, with an abrupt turn in the arc after episode 3. It didn’t feel like an arc at all, but a sharp angle. Starting with Claudia, Louis’s primary drives and character motivations completely change. He no longer wants to be an important businessman respected in society, he becomes “the housewife,” and never once seems to miss his desperately-fought-for social status at all. This comes back to what I said about the show being weakened by trying to shove in too much book stuff. Ep1-3 were all these cool new original ideas from the show with Louis having entirely new character motivations based on the show's changes to his background. They were naturally driven by what him being black in 1910 now meant. But after that story was done, it abruptly shifts back to more of how he in in the books, and trying to suddenly pull him back to his book personality/motivations/goals after giving us this whole new organically-evolved self in 1-3 was notable. I noticed it.

All in all, I think it probably would have worked much better on a writing level if it was treated as two separate mini seasons instead of presenting itself as an attempt at one coherent whole.  

[checkoutmybookshelf]

You Have My Attention: Dangerous Damsels First Lines

India Holton's Dangerous Damsels books were a DELIGHTFUL discovery for me, and she's one of those authors whose writing style I genuinely adore so much that I caught myself reading for the writing. I would read a paragraph, luxuriate in the way this author constructs a sentence, then realize I got to read that paragraph AGAIN because I was so wrapped up in the technical aspects of the writing that I'd missed the plot. I adore the way these books are written, and they had me at hello. So how did these books catch me? Let's look at their first lines.

There was no possibility of walking to the library that day. Morning rain had blanched the air, and Miss Darlington feared that if Cecilia ventured out she would develop a cough and be dead within the week. Therefore Cecilia was at home, sitting with her aunt in a room ten degrees colder than the streets of London, and reading aloud The Song of Hiawatha by "that American rogue, Mr. Longfellow," when the strange gentleman knocked at their door.

-- The Wisteria Society of Lady Scoundrels

Charlotte could listen no more in silence. For several minutes now a young man at the teahouse counter had been abusing a waiter with language that pierced her soul. She tried to behave as the other customers and look away--after all, who did not understand the pain of being disappointed in one's hopes for a warm current scone? But finally her patience broke, and she simple had to speak by such means as were within her reach--namely a volume of Dickens she had been reading over tea and sandwiches.

-- The League of Gentlewomen Witches

It was the best of dress shops, it was the worst of dress shops. It sold the most beautiful garments, it sold the ugliest scraps, and Miss Primula Tewkes fell in love and despair as she walked amongst its displays. Her maid, Alice Dearlove, followed like a shadow, black-garbed and silent, arms full of hatboxes. Primula declared herself to be in Heaven, but Alice privately wished the lady would go direct the other way.

-- The Secret Service of Tea and Treason

[noahsbookhoard]

📚February 2024 Book Review (Part 2/3)📚

Second batch of books read in February! I have mixed feelings about this one: there's really really good (the 3rd of the book I had a book crush on this month) and there's... less good.

Histoire de coming out by Baptiste Beaulieu and Sophie Nanteuil

A practical and empathic guide for friends and family in the event of a loved one's coming out, full of testimony from LGBTQ+ people and their relatives.

I only discovered Baptiste Beaulieu late last year but I already really admire him: he is a general physician, openly gay man and father of "the most beautiful baby in the world". He is also really funny, caring, and generally a good person who isn't afraid to speak out when he think something is wrong.

He wrote several novels but he also coedited this guide with Dr Sophie Nanteuil, and even though I already came out (non too successfully) to my parents I wanted to see what advice they would give.

They cover pretty much every aspect and every possible reaction to a child's coming out (it is very parent focused but not only). They even have a testimony from a parent who never accepted their child's identity, got angry and cut contact.

I think the strength in this guide is that it only focuses on the coming out part: there is next to nothing on queer history or the subtleties of queer identities, but when your child just came out to you you might not care about Stonewall or the nuances between pan and bi people: what you need and what this book has, is sympathy for the parent's feeling, patient how-to on what (not) to say/do and insight on how your child might be feeling (the statistics on suicide among queer youth without family support are chiling)

A worthy read, even if I don't get to use it I wish I could have.

Harrow the Ninth (The Locked Tomb #2) by Tamsyn Muir

After the events of Gideon the Ninth, Harrow ascended to Lyctorhood. However she lacks many Lyctor's ability and lost part of her memory in the process. Mystery unfurled when she receives letters written to herself before the memory loss and when a newcomer makes Canaan House unsafe.

I absolutely loved Gideon the Ninth so I had really high hopes for book 2 and I am not disappointed!

However I was completely lost when I started reading, as I was expecting to find a narrative style similar to book 1. The second person narration was unsettling enough but it took me a while to understand the when where and what (that was on purpose certainly, but that explains why reviews for this book are either excellent or really bad). Even more confusing to was the chapters with Harrow and her rewriting of the event of Gideon the Ninth: I hadn't read the book that long ago but I felt like it had been ages and I remembered it all wrong!

Had it been any other book I might have thought twice before continuing. But this is Tamsyn Muir, she earned the benefit of the doubt: I read on, quite certain it would eventually make sense.

I won't spoil anything because Harrow the Ninth is best experienced in all its unsettling glory: the tense atmosphere fit really well with both Harrow's discomfort and pain and with the escalating uneasiness in Canaan. The answers to it all treacle down at just the right pace to keep the reader on edge and the more it goes the more in love I fell with the wolrdbuilding.

My only regret was the noticeable lack of Gideon and Palamedes for most of the novel, but with that ending the author is more than forgiven. Also the memes. The only reason I hadn't put Nona the Ninth on top of the TBR right after finishing this on was because I needed to stretch the pleasure while waiting for Alecto the Ninth's release date.

Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros

Violet Sorrengail, daughter of the famed General Sorrengail wants to follow into her mother and sister's footsteps and become a Rider, a soldier chosen by a dragon and flying with them into battle. To achieve this she will have to survive the very dangerous training at the Academy and, even more dangerous, avoid Xaden Riorson, who hates Violet's mother and Violet herself. Or maybe not?

Do I really have to do this?

I read this book because my sister messaged me saying "You HAVE to read it it's GREAT!" So as the loving sibling I am, I put it on top of the TBR and started as soon as I finished Harrow the Ninth.

Let's be diplomatic: this book has an audience since it's been a tiktok succes, taste is subjective and personal and my opinions do no reflect the quality of the book, only my experience reading it. I'm not on tiktok and not into romantasy in general, so I wasn't the target audience. And I did no research before diving in, this book and I started on the wrong foot.

Now to be less diplomatic if it wasn't for my sister this book would have flown through the window after page 42 (specifically).

I found the world building very bland (and was put off by the kingdom being named Navarre: it exists, it’s in Spain and last I checked there's no dragon in Pamplona). The author uses one of the worst way to introduce lore I've ever read: The Protagonist Infodumps When She Is In Mortal Peril. There might have been some interesting details put into the classification of dragons but I can't take any interest in it when the main character is currently dangling from the Climbing Wall of Doom.

The main character, Violet, has plot harmour 5 inches thick: she is supposed to have a physical disability but it only interferes when the plot wants it too and she is always saved in the nick of time (although I do not suffer from EDS, so I can't really judge the quality of the representation). Every little task and exercise in her school is a death trap and at some point I just stopped worrying she might get killed because students can just murder each other in the corridors. There's other way to create tension than "... or you will DIE"

I was uninterested in the character because they have the personality of papier maché. The only ones who are a bit less shallow (yet unterly unoriginal, I felt like reading Twilight but with dragons) are the main love triangle and they are absolutely unsufferable. The characters also all talk exactly the same way: Sarcastic Quipping TM is fun when one or two people at most do it, but they all do dragons included! I couldn't stand any of the character except on and he frickin dies!

I read it all, which proves I love my sister, but definitely not enough to read the sequel. You owe me one, sis.

The Wee Free Men (Discworld #30) by Terry Pratchett

Tiffany Aching always saw things a little differently from everybody else; according Miss Tick, a travelling teacher, that makes her a witch just like her Granny. When her little brother is taken by the Queen of the fairies, the young witch-in-training must save him and in her qusst she can count on the help of the Nac Mac Feegle, rowdy but courageous fae folk.

This is my first time reading the Discword series and contrary to every advice in the entire Terry Pratchett fanbase, I am reading them in chronological order. So far it's been a blast! I do not regret this reading order, even if it's not the best one to start with.

Therefore when my reading led me to the first Tiffany Aching book, I had no doubt it would be a really great young reader book. Still I wasn't expecting to cry but damn, missing your grandma is a universal feeling and Sir Terry Pratchett nailed it.

I would have like Tiffany when I was a kid: she is smart, brave, curious, she sees right through the adults. She reminds me a little of Roal Dahl's Matilda. The Nac Mac Feegle are really funny and endearing: they are just as enjoyable as an adult when you get all the jokes as for children who will find the accent and banter amusing. That makes me want to check the french translation to see how Patrick Couton handled the scottishness.

What I love in the plot is how simple it appears (the quest to a magic world with supernatural allies to save an sibling) yet it has that Pratchett twist, his character's cleverness and the art of the little sentences that have you pause and think for a minute.

I would definitely give it to a child if I ever have any. Even if they start shouting "Craven!" that would be worth it.

[hwaaaeun]

𝖆 𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖘  . . .  have a drink at my table , allow me to tell you stories — stories of dragons and burnt men . tell me about lady hwang haeun  .

(  jeon somin , cis female , she/her  )    : ̗̀➛   twenty-seven years young , a firebender from the noble house of hwang . many know them to be stubborn & judgemental . how unfortunate , truly . . . i’ve always found them to be dedicated & passionate . they oft fulfill the duties of a pianist . oh , i should tell you — they support the rule of house yi . well , you know how every storyteller bends the tale they tell .   ✶   eggie , 27 , she/her  .

          ♡          HISTORY !          ♡         

♡          haeun’s position within her family has created a complex character left to navigate the uncertainty of who she is . the eldest daughter , the middle child – constantly eclipsed by her elder sibling in the eyes of her mother . when once she fought for the limelight , she now prefers the slink around in the shadows , aware that when you’re in the cool shade you’re less likely to burn up .

♡          she was a dedicated student as a child , stubbornly learning as much as possible so that she could never be looked down upon . she took many musical lesson and is adept with several instruments , the piano being her first love .

♡          her piano teacher was a strict and straightforward elderly man who slowly began to fill the father figure in her early teen years , after the loss of her father at seven . while she was very young when he passed , she felt more seen and appreciated by him.

♡          despite being grateful and , of course , loving her father , there is still complex emotions around the man . she had once overheard him make comments about her and her older brother , disappointed that he couldn’t firebend and she was a female .  she had never told anyone about this , especially considering it was so near to his passing , but it left her with an uncertainty – were they loved ? or was being part of a family just fulfilling pre-written roles ?

♡          for this reason , haeun is particularly suspicious of everyone . her eyes are keen and she enjoys watching people expose themselves at moments when they think is safe .  

 ♡         due to her brother’s fame and familial connections , haeun has been given opportunities to play piano at concerts . however , she avoids it as much as possible , only agreeing to when pressured by her family . she much prefers to play as support for singers or just for companions for fun .

          ♡          DIG DEEPER !           ♡         

♡          haeun has a very sweet singing voice , she loves to sing but she will never ( knowingly ) sing to another . sometimes she writes her own music , but once again , it is hidden from the rest of the world.

♡          she is a stark supporter of the house of yi , not because of who they are but because she believes the only way to prosper is to have a strong lead . haeun has an interest in politics  but would rather watch other people’s actions and reactions to see who align with her beliefs rather than be an open book in this aspect .

♡          her stubbornness is both a curse and a blessing – to her , she sees it as determination . but to those who have seen that ugly side rear it’s head , they know sometimes she blinds herself to reality to keep from herself being wrong . at least , the few that she allows close enough know that she would never give them up .

♡          her love for music transcends everything else , as mentioned it’s her true love .

♡          she grows frustrated sometimes with her firebending , as it goes against her nature – it’s offensive rather than defensive . however , she has a good grasp at it , especially as ( for the most part ) she’s got a good grasp at controlling her own emotions and manipulating them to serve her .  

          ♡          PLOTS WANTED !          ♡            

♡          childhood friends – the one person who may have heard her sing/know about her writing music (  ? ) / fluffy crush or first ‘real’ love / frienemies forever / toxic ex who brings out the worst in her / musical lover unites / people she might become fascinated with watching/trying to understand – im open to anything and everything !

[longitudinalwaveme]

Flash #1 (or #801) Review

As I promised a few days ago, here's my thoughts on the newly-released Flash #1.

SPOILERS below the cut.

Let's get the smaller things I noticed out of the way first:

-It's nice to see Max Mercury and Impulse as a pair again. I'm particularly glad to see Max getting some focus, since it's been a long time since he's gotten to do much of anything.

-The art looks good for the most part. I think the panel layouts are interesting, most of the people look okay, and the horror stuff looks really creepy (so the art is accomplishing that goal).

-Gorilla Grodd is back! Hurrah! (Like all those Silver Age DC editors clearly believed, everything is better with gorillas.)

-Having lots of text is nice. I read really fast, so I appreciate comic books with a lot of text. Otherwise, I can burn through an entire comic in seven minutes. (One reason I like Silver and Bronze Age comics so much is because they tend to have a lot of text, so I'm glad to be seeing something similar here.)

-Baby Wade is adorable.

-"As always, it is not until the house is perfectly silent...that the pipe begins to play." Is this a reference to Hartley? Please let it be a reference to Hartley. I miss him.

-Why does Irey look like a teenager? She's only like ten, right? So far, she's the one character whose design really stood out to me as not looking right.

-I am disappointed by the lack of Evan in this comic.

-Good to see that we're maintaining the friendship between Irey and Maxine that Jeremey Adams established during his Flash run.

-I have no idea who this Chad guy is, but he sure did suffer a gruesome fate.

-On the last page: Hey, is that a reference to that time that Wally West became the Porcupine Man during William Messner-Loebs' run? It's definitely got the spikes, and that was also the result of the speed force going out of control.

And now for the major plot points:

-The sudden undercurrents of stress in the West household kind of seem to have sprung up out of nowhere. I'm not opposed to the family going through a rough patch, but I feel as though it would have been better to build up to it a bit. As it stands, the conflict kind of seems to have sprung out of thin air.

-Why is the Speed Force suddenly a massive problem? Where did that come from? Why has it only now started to become an issue? Again, this seems like it should have received a bit more build-up, because right now I feel like I've been dropped into a story that's already in progress, rather than being at the beginning of a new story.

-Is Linda supposed to be suffering from post-partum depression? That could potentially be interesting, but only if it's handled properly.

-Wally's shared his super speed with Linda before (notably, during Mark Waid's run), and she didn't seem particularly upset about not having it afterwards. Granted, that was for a few hours rather than several months, but it does seem perhaps a bit out-of-character for her to be so upset about not having super speed. In fact, Linda's characterization was the biggest sticking point for me in this issue. She just seemed off (something that was also a problem in the story Spurrier wrote for issue #800).

-I can't say I'm super thrilled about having yet another story that focuses on the speed force. I feel like most of the stories that can be told about the speed force have been exhausted at this point. It probably doesn't help that the speed force has never been my favorite aspect of the Flash mythos. Some writers handle it well (Mark Waid and Jeremey Adams come to mind), but I'm much more interested about the Flash, his family, his supporting cast, and his villains than I am in the vaguely-defined source of his powers. Oh, well. At least Evan and the Folded Man are supposed to get involved. That should mitigate the problem somewhat.

-Wally's periodic issues with depression have returned with a vengeance. Spurrier seems to have a better grasp on Wally than he does on Linda.

Overall, I'm curious about where this story is going to go, and I am very eager to see how Spurrier uses characters like Evan and the Folded Man, but I'm not confident about how the run as a whole is going to turn out. While there's certainly room for horror in the Flash, I generally prefer a brighter and more cheerful tone for the book than what Spurrier seems to be going for, and I'm worried about how he's going to handle Linda.

Tentative Rating: 6.5/10.

[atotc-weekly]

Book the Third—The Track of a Storm

[X] Chapter VIII. A Hand at Cards

Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with that Army, or got undeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.

Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted. After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace, once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, attended by her cavalier.

Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth, playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted, bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude, like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached the counter, and showed what they wanted.

As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped her hands.

In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman, evidently English.

What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but, Mr. Cruncher—though it seemed on his own separate and individual account—was in a state of the greatest wonder.

“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream; speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in English.

“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again. “After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time, do I find you here!”

“Don’t call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked the man, in a furtive, frightened way.

“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”

“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and come out, if you want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who’s this man?”

Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. Cruncher.”

“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a ghost?”

Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and pursuits.

“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you want?”

“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away from!” cried Miss Pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no affection.”

“There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross’s lips with his own. “Now are you content?”

Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.

“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, “I am not surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If you really don’t want to endanger my existence—which I half believe you do—go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I am an official.”

“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in his—”

“I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You want to be the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just as I am getting on!”

“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “Far rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me, and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will detain you no longer.”

Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent her money and left her!

He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case, all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder, hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular question:

“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon, or Solomon John?”

The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not previously uttered a word.

“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way, was more than he could do himself.) “John Solomon, or Solomon John? She calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And I know you’re John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that name of Pross, likewise. That warn’t your name over the water.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know all I mean, for I can’t call to mind what your name was, over the water.”

“No?”

“No. But I’ll swear it was a name of two syllables.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. T’other one’s was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy—witness at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to yourself, was you called at that time?”

“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.

“That’s the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.

The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher’s elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.

“Don’t be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry’s, to his surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad was not a Sheep of the Prisons.”

Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy, who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared—

“I’ll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls, an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.”

“What purpose?” the spy asked.

“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your company—at the office of Tellson’s Bank, for instance?”

“Under a threat?”

“Oh! Did I say that?”

“Then, why should I go there?”

“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can’t say, if you can’t.”

“Do you mean that you won’t say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.

“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won’t.”

Carton’s negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind, and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and made the most of it.

“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it’s your doing.”

“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don’t be ungrateful. But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”

“I’ll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I’ll go with you.”

“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city, at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry’s with us. Are we ready? Come then!”

Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney’s arm and looked up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved her affection, and with Sydney’s friendly reassurances, adequately to heed what she observed.

They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr. Lorry’s, which was within a few minutes’ walk. John Barsad, or Solomon Pross, walked at his side.

Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery little log or two of fire—perhaps looking into their blaze for the picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson’s, who had looked into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with which he saw a stranger.

“Miss Pross’s brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”

“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association with the name—and with the face.”

“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed Carton, coolly. “Pray sit down.”

As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted, by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr. Lorry immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised look of abhorrence.

“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, “and has acknowledged the relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.”

Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “What do you tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about to return to him!”

“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?”

“Just now, if at all.”

“Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said Sydney, “and I have it from Mr. Barsad’s communication to a friend and brother Sheep over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no earthly doubt that he is retaken.”

Mr. Lorry’s business eye read in the speaker’s face that it was loss of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was silently attentive.

“Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, “that the name and influence of Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow—you said he would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?—”

“Yes; I believe so.”

“—In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette’s not having had the power to prevent this arrest.”

“He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry.

“But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how identified he is with his son-in-law.”

“That’s true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.

“In short,” said Sydney, “this is a desperate time, when desperate games are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I will play the losing one. No man’s life here is worth purchase. Any one carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr. Barsad.”

“You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.

“I’ll run them over. I’ll see what I hold,—Mr. Lorry, you know what a brute I am; I wish you’d give me a little brandy.”

It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful—drank off another glassful—pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.

“Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking over a hand at cards: “Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer, so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name. That’s a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That’s an excellent card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr. Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom, the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so difficult to find. That’s a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my hand, Mr. Barsad?”

“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.

“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don’t hurry.”

He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he poured out and drank another glassful.

“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”

It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing there—not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern date—he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in France: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen there: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He knew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint Antoine and Defarge’s wine-shop; had received from the watchful police such heads of information concerning Doctor Manette’s imprisonment, release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to familiar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved. He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.

“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatest composure. “Do you play?”

“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr. Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace of which he has spoken. I admit that I am a spy, and that it is considered a discreditable station—though it must be filled by somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean himself as to make himself one?”

“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself, and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”

“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister—”

“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton.

“You think not, sir?”

“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”

The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour, received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,—who was a mystery to wiser and honester men than he,—that it faltered here and failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air of contemplating cards:

“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons; who was he?”

“French. You don’t know him,” said the spy, quickly.

“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; he may be.”

“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it’s not important.”

“Though it’s not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanical way—“though it’s not important—No, it’s not important. No. Yet I know the face.”

“I think not. I am sure not. It can’t be,” said the spy.

“It-can’t-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can’t-be. Spoke good French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?”

“Provincial,” said the spy.

“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”

“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave his aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped to lay him in his coffin.”

Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher’s head.

“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To show you how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will lay before you a certificate of Cly’s burial, which I happened to have carried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and opened it, “ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take it in your hand; it’s no forgery.”

Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the crumpled horn in the house that Jack built.

Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.

“That there Roger Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and iron-bound visage. “So you put him in his coffin?”

“I did.”

“Who took him out of it?”

Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn’t never in it. No! Not he! I’ll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”

The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.

“I tell you,” said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and earth in that there coffin. Don’t go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a take in. Me and two more knows it.”

“How do you know it?”

“What’s that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, “it’s you I have got a old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen! I’d catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”

Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and explain himself.

“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time is ill-conwenient for explainin’. What I stand to, is, that he knows well wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was, in so much as a word of one syllable, and I’ll either catch hold of his throat and choke him for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as quite a liberal offer; “or I’ll out and announce him.”

“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold another card, Mr. Barsad. Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again! A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong card—a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”

“No!” returned the spy. “I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that he never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”

“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentious Mr. Cruncher; “you’ll have trouble enough with giving your attention to that gentleman. And look here! Once more!”—Mr. Cruncher could not be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his liberality—“I’d catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”

The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said, with more decision, “It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and can’t overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it? Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my office, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short, I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate here. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my way through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with me?”

“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”

“I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,” said the spy, firmly.

“Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”

“I am sometimes.”

“You can be when you choose?”

“I can pass in and out when I choose.”

Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he said, rising:

“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”

[renaissanceclassics]

A Tale of Two Cities - Book 3: Part 38

In 45 parts.

A Hand At Cards

CHAPTER VIII. A Hand at Cards

Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers.

It was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with that Army, or got undeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.

Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted. After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace, once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, attended by her cavalier.

Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth, playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted, bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude, like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached the counter, and showed what they wanted.

As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped her hands.

In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman, evidently English.

What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but, Mr. Cruncher—though it seemed on his own separate and individual account—was in a state of the greatest wonder.

“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream; speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in English.

“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again. “After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time, do I find you here!”

“Don’t call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked the man, in a furtive, frightened way.

“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”

“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and come out, if you want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who’s this man?”

Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. Cruncher.”

“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a ghost?”

Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and pursuits.

“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you want?”

“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away from!” cried Miss Pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no affection.”

“There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross’s lips with his own. “Now are you content?”

Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.

“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, “I am not surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If you really don’t want to endanger my existence—which I half believe you do—go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I am an official.”

“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in his—”

“I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You want to be the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just as I am getting on!”

“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “Far rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me, and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will detain you no longer.”

Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent her money and left her!

He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case, all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder, hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular question:

“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon, or Solomon John?”

The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not previously uttered a word.

“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way, was more than he could do himself.) “John Solomon, or Solomon John? She calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And I know you’re John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that name of Pross, likewise. That warn’t your name over the water.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know all I mean, for I can’t call to mind what your name was, over the water.”

“No?”

“No. But I’ll swear it was a name of two syllables.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. T’other one’s was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy—witness at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to yourself, was you called at that time?”

“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.

“That’s the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.

The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher’s elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.

“Don’t be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry’s, to his surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad was not a Sheep of the Prisons.”

Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy, who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared—

“I’ll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls, an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.”

“What purpose?” the spy asked.

“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your company—at the office of Tellson’s Bank, for instance?”

“Under a threat?”

“Oh! Did I say that?”

“Then, why should I go there?”

“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can’t say, if you can’t.”

“Do you mean that you won’t say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.

“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won’t.”

Carton’s negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind, and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and made the most of it.

“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it’s your doing.”

“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don’t be ungrateful. But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”

“I’ll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I’ll go with you.”

“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city, at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry’s with us. Are we ready? Come then!”

Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney’s arm and looked up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved her affection, and with Sydney’s friendly reassurances, adequately to heed what she observed.

They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr. Lorry’s, which was within a few minutes’ walk. John Barsad, or Solomon Pross, walked at his side.

Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery little log or two of fire—perhaps looking into their blaze for the picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson’s, who had looked into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with which he saw a stranger.

“Miss Pross’s brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”

“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association with the name—and with the face.”

“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed Carton, coolly. “Pray sit down.”

As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted, by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr. Lorry immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised look of abhorrence.

“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, “and has acknowledged the relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.”

Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “What do you tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about to return to him!”

“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?”

“Just now, if at all.”

“Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said Sydney, “and I have it from Mr. Barsad’s communication to a friend and brother Sheep over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no earthly doubt that he is retaken.”

Mr. Lorry’s business eye read in the speaker’s face that it was loss of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was silently attentive.

“Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, “that the name and influence of Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow—you said he would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?—”

“Yes; I believe so.”

“—In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette’s not having had the power to prevent this arrest.”

“He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry.

“But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how identified he is with his son-in-law.”

“That’s true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.

“In short,” said Sydney, “this is a desperate time, when desperate games are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I will play the losing one. No man’s life here is worth purchase. Any one carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr. Barsad.”

“You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.

“I’ll run them over. I’ll see what I hold,—Mr. Lorry, you know what a brute I am; I wish you’d give me a little brandy.”

It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful—drank off another glassful—pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.

“Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking over a hand at cards: “Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer, so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name. That’s a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That’s an excellent card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr. Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom, the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so difficult to find. That’s a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my hand, Mr. Barsad?”

“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.

“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don’t hurry.”

He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he poured out and drank another glassful.

“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”

It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing there—not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern date—he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in France: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen there: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He knew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint Antoine and Defarge’s wine-shop; had received from the watchful police such heads of information concerning Doctor Manette’s imprisonment, release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to familiar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved. He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.

“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatest composure. “Do you play?”

“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr. Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace of which he has spoken. I admit that I am a spy, and that it is considered a discreditable station—though it must be filled by somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean himself as to make himself one?”

“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself, and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”

“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister—”

“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton.

“You think not, sir?”

“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”

The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour, received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,—who was a mystery to wiser and honester men than he,—that it faltered here and failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air of contemplating cards:

“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons; who was he?”

“French. You don’t know him,” said the spy, quickly.

“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; he may be.”

“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it’s not important.”

“Though it’s not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanical way—“though it’s not important—No, it’s not important. No. Yet I know the face.”

“I think not. I am sure not. It can’t be,” said the spy.

“It-can’t-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can’t-be. Spoke good French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?”

“Provincial,” said the spy.

“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”

“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave his aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped to lay him in his coffin.”

Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher’s head.

“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To show you how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will lay before you a certificate of Cly’s burial, which I happened to have carried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and opened it, “ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take it in your hand; it’s no forgery.”

Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the crumpled horn in the house that Jack built.

Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.

“That there Roger Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and iron-bound visage. “So you put him in his coffin?”

“I did.”

“Who took him out of it?”

Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn’t never in it. No! Not he! I’ll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”

The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.

“I tell you,” said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and earth in that there coffin. Don’t go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a take in. Me and two more knows it.”

“How do you know it?”

“What’s that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, “it’s you I have got a old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen! I’d catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”

Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and explain himself.

“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time is ill-conwenient for explainin’. What I stand to, is, that he knows well wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was, in so much as a word of one syllable, and I’ll either catch hold of his throat and choke him for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as quite a liberal offer; “or I’ll out and announce him.”

“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold another card, Mr. Barsad. Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again! A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong card—a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”

“No!” returned the spy. “I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that he never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”

“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentious Mr. Cruncher; “you’ll have trouble enough with giving your attention to that gentleman. And look here! Once more!”—Mr. Cruncher could not be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his liberality—“I’d catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”

The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said, with more decision, “It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and can’t overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it? Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my office, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short, I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate here. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my way through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with me?”

“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”

“I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,” said the spy, firmly.

“Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”

“I am sometimes.”

“You can be when you choose?”

“I can pass in and out when I choose.”

Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he said, rising:

“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”

[feelingsmixed]

Books of 2023

At the end of the year, I look through my diary where I note down the books, I have read this year and gather them in a list. I read quite a lot (this year, I’ve read 57 books) – naturally, some are better than others. Here are my favorites from 2023.

Some of the books but not all because this year, I borrowed a lot of books from the library and from my friends who all have great taste.

Janet Malcolm: In the Freud archives (1984) and The journalist and the murderer (1989)

I’ve been introduced to many of my favorite authors by my friend Nanna, who in the beginning of this year lent me In the Freud archives, a journalistic encounter of a conflict in the psychoanalytic milieu in New York about Freud’s legacy, more specifically, about Freud’s relation to the seduction theory. The book reads like a crime novel while also asking fundamental psychoanalytic questions. Why does it matter so much what Freud thought about the seduction theory, I thought to myself at the beginning of the book. Quite a lot, it turns out. The journalist and the murderer changed the way I think about interviewing and representations, and I think everyone who works with written representations of people should read this. I’ve been schooled in thinking about ethnographic representations through a political and decolonial lens but The journalist made me think about it through psychoanalytical terms as well – the impossibility of representing others reflect the impossibility of knowing yourself fully.

Nell Dunn: Talking to women (1964)

I finished this book in January when I was on a writing retreat in Skagen at an old refugium. Outside, it was cold and windy, the days were short, I sat inside by my desk, attempting to finish an article. At night in bed, I read Talking to women, a collection of interviews Dunn made with women she knew about love, work, motherhood – in other words, about life. Although the interviews are from the early ‘60s, they convey recognizable aspects of womanhood, both the pleasures and the pain. Dunn’s interview isn’t the detached style of a journalist or a sociologist but that of a friend: she intervenes, discusses, comforts her subjects, resulting in the interviews also demonstrating female friendships.

Elena Ferrante: Days of abandonment (2002)

This is the first Ferrante book I’ve read outside of the Neapolitan quartet. I think it’s one of the bravest books I’ve read about what love can do to you – I’ve written about the book’s qualities in another blogpost, so I won’t say much more about it, just that it shook me deeply with its painful depictions of betrayal, disappointment, and jealousy.

Henrik Pontoppidan: Lykke-Per (1898-1904)

My stepmum gifted me this book years ago but I’ve never gotten around to reading it until this summer, expecting it to be one of those boring classics you are forced to analyze in Danish class. I never heard much about it what it is actually about: the story’s hero, Lykke-Per, grows up the son of a very conservative priest in Western Jutland but early on rejects his family’s way of living, and decides to move to Copenhagen and study engineering. Here, he befriends several members of the establishment, makes great engineering plans for Denmark, and tries to marry into the bourgeoise and leave his background for good. However, in my opinion, the real hero of the book is Per’s fiancé, Jakobe, the extremely intelligent daughter of a wealthy Jewish family who’s trying to find her way in the man-dominated world she feels uncomfortable in. It's a book both about the modernization of Denmark, as well as an existential story about getting what you want and then not wanting it, about human relationships, about antisemitism, about women’s struggles and a page turner? I think I’ll return to this book in the future.

Fleur Jaeggy: Sweet days of discipline (1991)

I love ominous books about communities of girls and women, and this was no exception. It takes place in a Swiss boarding school and is written in the first person, but the narrator remains elusive, impossible to grasp outside of the group of women. “When you’re in boarding school you imagine how grand and free the world is, and when you leave, you’d sometimes like to hear the sound of the school bell again”. More Fleur Jaeggy in 2024!

Malte Tellerup: Spræng fabrikken (2023)

I couldn’t stop 1) thinking about this book and 2) telling everyone who would listen about it. It’s a very short book which a reviewer called ‘anti-literature’ – it’s about three young people living on a small farm where they experiment with regenerative agriculture when they are told that they will have to leave the land due to the neighboring chemical factory expanding. They give up their farming and instead start making bombs for attacking the factory. I’m planning on writing a separate post on this book, so I won’t say much more other than this being the best piece of ‘climate literature’ I have read.

Asta Olivia Nordenhof: Djævlebogen (2023)

Nordenhof was maybe the first contemporary author I read who demonstrated how literature can be political and personal at the same time with her poetry book “det nemme og det ensomme” (the easiness and the loneliness). I’ve longed for this book, the second in a planned septology, since she published the first one in 2020 and read it in one setting. It’s about the possibility of love under capitalism, about money, sex work, strange encounters and mixes the novel with poetry. Here’s (a badly translated) part of the poem which makes up the introduction in which she describes her troubles with writing the book:

“my motto/which I had forgotten/while I was struggling/to write a/real book/about the inner life of great men/my motto/here it is/it is simple/and great/fuck men!/when I remembered this/I remembered/that I can do/what I want.”

Natalia Ginzburg: All our yesterdays (1952)

Sally Rooney described this as a perfect novel, and I would agree. It’s about a family living in fascist Italy with the youngest girl of the family as the protagonist who however doesn’t take up more space in the novel than the rest of its characters which the novel follows through the Second World War as some of them join the resistance and others find other ways to cope with fascism. The novel explores the impact fascism and war have on different people, without viewing this as a reflection of essential character traits or depicting some as inherently evil and others as inherently good. Ginzburg has an eye for the small things that make up people – certain turns of phrases, bodily manners, temperaments – and the necessarily ever-changing relationships between them, writing about these with great feeling and humour. I enjoyed the way the novel treats politics and politicization not primarily through public life, but in the personal relationships of the characters.

I’m quite satisfied that only one (!) US-American author made it onto this list. Next year, I’d like to read more authors from the Global South and perhaps even more POETRY. I also want to continue reading the same books as my friends because literature is, truly, best when discussed with others. Until then, I’m off to buy champagne and lemons for New Year’s Eve – see you!

[deuslex]

Please know I laughed so RIDICULOUSLY HARD at "my gender neutral brother in christ" oh my god

NO BUT I FEEL SIMILARLY it's been such a delight to talk craft with you and like, really dive into the grit and gears of it?? I love writing so much and I have so many opinions and I learned so much from that big werewolf fic, as well, and getting to share that with someone who's like, able to meet me where I am with it is such a blessing.

AND I'M SO GLAD I COULD SHARE THAT no I fucking, I've gone back and reread chapter 1 several times over just to sort of marvel at it. (Actually in something I wrote recently about my not-D&D character I ended up writing a sentence that was like. Essentially an ~ allusion ~ to how you wrote that section and it was fascinating to like, mimic it for a minute)

On fan entitlement: Absolutely, yeah. And what baffles me even more is that ownership extends not just across fans but also to the original creators? Like, don't get me wrong, I'm as guilty as the next guy of thinking "wow you did this character so dirty, this is a bummer" or "wow you dropped the ball toward the end and the back half of this book/tv show isn't very good" but to me there's a certain amount of… the creator is telling their story. Even if I disagree with their methods or their execution of the story, I don't know how their story better than they do.

And, to come back around, it's so exasperating to see that mindset inflicted on people who are making fan work because-- here's the thing, right, is that at least a creator is getting paid for their story. At least a TINY bit. But fan-creators… don't? There's no paycheck. This is just love. And yet here come other fans to nitpick and scratch at their skin with sans serif claws. So, yeah. Big agree on the "fiction is important and a gift to the fragile psyche of man but also jesus please get some fresh air or something, marasovsleftasscheek or whoever hating your blorbo is not actually going to ruin your life I promise"

BIG agree on the interpretation point, too. There's something so interesting about fanfiction in general, as a concept, and the way it allows us to like, take a character and single out specific aspects of the character to highlight or study? And sure, it's always disappointing to read something that makes you feel like the fan-author didn't like… get the character in question very well, or missed some important-to-you piece of who they've been presented as in the original canon. But it's CERTAINLY not worthy of being unkind to the author about it. I honestly interpret things like that as a lesson in reader like… literacy, perhaps. As someone who hopes to publish original work commercially, there's a certain comfort in seeing that kind of thing happen because it teaches me "You're never going to be able to write a character in a way that 100% of people will correctly interpret. The only thing you can do is write the character as clearly as you can, and let fans be fans."

ok. ok. ok. I would like to ask if the POV switch is what you were talking about the other day, the choice you were gonna make that you were nervous about, because IF SO I have a SPIEL I'mma go on (it's positive, I promise, I just have opinions, bc it was Good but also I don't want to just assume that I've correctly guessed which one you meant)

HFJFHDH YES 😂 I was kinda nervous about these in equal parts:

1) the POV switch itself (even though it's Relevant and It's Time and also I Love Writing Hua Cheng)

2) The Return of the Gratuitous Parentheticals (risk of overdoing it)

3) My portrayal of Hua Cheng?? Like. The man is fucking unhinged, and his inner monologue HAS to be chaotic and self-loathing and missing scenery details to focus on His Highness, but I didn't know if some people would be like "you made my babie hua cheng too weird and stalkery you don't understand him :(" when like, yeah, he's that crazy and obsessed and anxious and SWEET the whole time, and we love him for it. But I guess I was worrying over nothing? 😅 I'm honestly having a great time lol

Thank you so, so, so much for reading and all the good conversation!!! It makes my day!!!

[honeydew-mel0n]

Hi! Can I have HCs w dmc5 boys Vergil, V Dante? Like reader is resting her head on their laps, then suddenly fall asleep while reading books. Tks ^^

Hell yeah, this is such a cute prompt! Also, you cant tell me Vergil wouldn't write poetry about his lover, and then hide it.

Dante, Vergil, V.

Falling asleep on their laps.

Dante

Might be a little hard seeing as how he man-spreads, so just rest your head on one of his thighs.

Depending on his mood he might try to make a suggestive joke. Try.

If you're visibly tired, meaning he watched you tire yourself out, he'll keep quiet.

You are absolutely allowed to fall asleep on him any time, he will try his best to stay quiet and still. No matter how hard it is for him.

He thinks it's cute that you chose to fall asleep on his leg, seeing as you were a few feet from your shared bedroom.

For the most part, he'll continue reading whatever so you can sleep.

However, he cant help but play with your hair (if that's possible), softly stroking your cheek, or resting his hand somewhere on you, one of his fingers tapping lighting against your skin.

If you have anything in your hair or on your face, he'll try to get rid of that without waking you.

One of his love languages is physical touch, and you're right there.

When you finally wake up, prepare for an extra cuddle session. (So long as no one is around.)

If you sleep for longer then expected, he'll slide out from under you, grab your favorite blanket, and tuck you in on the couch, as not to wake you.

__

Dante had watched you clean for the past several hours, both after him, and deciding to sort through the basement. Plopping onto the couch and him when you finally decided it was fine to stop for the day. You'd slurred out something he couldnt decipher before passing out. "G'night babe." He mumbles to let you sleep.

Some time passes, every so often glancing down at you. He watches your lips twitch as you dream, a warm feeling pools in his chest. Licking his thumb he wipes away the smudge of dust and dirt on your cheek. If you were awake, you'd rip him a new asshole for cleaning your face with spit. But you aren't awake.

Vergil

The least likely to let you sleep for hours on his lap.

He will finch the moment you lay your head on his legs, although you won't be able to tell he's bothered.

Vergil is touch starved and the only "touch" he's used to is just torture and attacks from other demons as well as his own family

(That last one is technically his fault though)

He wont be able to tell you to move, he'll hold his tongue.

He'll use some of the time you're asleep to admire you, journaling every poetic thought he has of describing your gorgeous features.

If you continue to do this over time, he will whisper these things to your sleeping form when he knows the two of you are alone.

After about an hour he will lif you up and carry you to bed.

It's not that you inconvenience him, he just thinks you deserve to be comfortable.

Not that he can bring himself to say it, at first.

If he starts up when you're actually awake and you confront him about it later, he will (while flustered and reluctant) admit everything to you.

__

The only sound in the house was the sound of breathing, and his pen scratching on the paper, his eyes switching from the page to your face. Trying to document the peace and beauty he found in your face. Finally he breaks his glancing routine, looking up at the clock as its ticking echos through the quiet house.

It had been an hour since you'd fallen asleep, by now your neck was bound to be tight and cramp when you wake.

A sigh leaves his lungs as he places aside his writing materials. His arms come under your mid back and knees. When you're lifted from the couch and he stands, your head is made sure to rest against his chest as not to roll back and hurt your neck even more. He walks you to your shared bedroom, gently placing your on the bed and pulling to covers over you.

Vergil smiles to himself as you rest onto the bed before leaving and returning to writing. But only about you.

V

He doesnt understand why you'd want to.

Not because he dislikes affection or touch in general, but because of how boney he is.

But you are absolutely welcome to.

He is nothing but the human aspects of Vergil, being touch starved effects V more visibly.

He will flinch and tense up as well, but will calm down quicker then his hybrid whole.

But this time, you can definitely tell.

He'll make sure to ask to do anything before you fall asleep, because he doesnt want to touch you if you dont want to be touched.

If you sleep for a few hours, he'll eventually wake you and take you to bed, he cant lift you, but he will try his best to take care of you just as you take care of him.

When you wake up he'll be so much more disappointed, he was enjoying being close to you, and now you're up and about again.

Seeing as how he's never been hesitant to state what he wants, so expect to be asked for a longer cuddle time.

__

His green eyes scanned your face, taking in little things he loved about you. His knuckles running gently down the side of your face, watching you shift and eyes flutter. It had been a few hours and you were definitely due to wake up. "Dear, I think it's time for you to get up." A whine escapes your lips as your eyes open, taking him in for the first time in hours.

"Hey." You giggled out with a smile, causing a smile to press to his lips. Sitting up, your joints pop. "Thank you for letting me sleep." You get up, stretching your legs, but a grip on your hand stops you from walking away. "Stay." V says in a gentle voice. Nodding, you lay back down, this time with your head on his chest, your arms coming around his waist.

You feel him let out a sigh, an long thin hand resting on the small of your back.

[gunterfan1992]

Episode Review: ‘Together Again’ (Distant Lands, Ep. 3)

Airdate: May 20, 2021

Story by: Jack Pendarvis, Kate Tsang, Hanna K. Nyström, Christina Catucci, Jesse Moynihan, Adam Muto

Storyboarded by: Hanna K. Nyström, Anna Syvertsson, Iggy Craig, Maya Petersen, Serena Wu

Directed by: Miki Brewster (supervising), Sandra Lee (art)

Across Adventure Time’s ten season run, the show explored a bevy of “mature” themes and story ideas—topics, like love, sexuality, depression, and grieving. The show also touched upon death, but the emphasis was usually placed on the emotional toll of a loved one dying, not really what happens when you die. We knew there were Dead Worlds and Death. We knew that there was reincarnation. But how does it all fit together? What does it mean? How does it work?

With “Together Again,” we finally have many of the answers.

This special opens with a marvelous fake-out episode simply called “Finn & Jake,” that sees the two steal a magical cartoon of 50-flavor ice cream before rescuing Turtle Princess and LSP from the clutches of the villainous Ice King. This is all deliberately anachronistic and over the top. Ice King is back to his season one ways, Finn has both arms, and he is still wielding his golden sword that he lost in season two’s “The Real You.” There’s lolrandom dialogue and silly monsters; it’s like a parody of seasons 1-2. But then, this adventure starts to get all wonky, and in time Finn realizes that he is in a some sort of trance or illusion: one that ends with Jake being buried in the ground. Suddenly, Finn awakens from his reverie. He’s an old man. And he’s dead. We’re then presented with a new title card that lets us know the episode is actually called “Finn & Jake Are Dead.”

Holy Glob! They actually went there.

Turns out Jake died years before Finn, so naturally Finn is super excited to see his best bud. But something’s wrong—he cannot find Jake!! They planned to spend eternity together. But all that Finn can find is his very own psychopomp, Mr. Fox (voiced by Tom Herpich, whose purposefully stilted line readings are the epitome of delightful). Finn rightfully assumes that Jake is in a different Dead World, and so, being the ball of spunk and energy that he is, he demands to meet with Death, only to discover that there’s a New Death in town (voiced by Chris Fleming). The episode eventually explains that New Death was the son of Death and Life, and after New Death killed his father, he became the sovereign of the afterlife. New Death hates his job and decides to just blow up all the Dead Worlds so he doesn’t have to deal with it all. (I won’t get too much into the details here, because there would be a lot of story to parse out.)

Finn soon learns that Jake has reached nirvana in the 50th Dead World, where there is nothing but peace and serenity. Finn nevertheless tracks down Jake, pulls him from paradise, but in doing so, accidentally lets New Death in, who promptly obliterates Elysium, sending all the enlightened souls—including those from different levels of the afterlife—to the 1st Dead World. This gronks up the afterlife, temporarily halting the reincarnation process.

Well, Finn and Jake are rightfully ticked, and so they haunt the material plane looking for Princess Bubblegum. She’s not home (more on that later), but Peppermint Butler is! After Ghost Finn and Ghost Jake explain the situation, Peppermint Butler tells them what to do: They need to find Life and explain the situation. The duo manage just that, and Life is rightfully angry that her kid has stopped the transmigration of souls. After Life gives Finn a McGuffin sword that can hurt Death, Finn and Jake return to his abode. A brawl ensues wherein we learn that New Death has been possessed… by none other than that spirit of the Lich.

That’s right, it’s the Lich! He’s back, and boy is he evil.

The Lich explains that by possessing Death, he can destroy the afterlife, thereby destroying a key aspect of reality. Naturally, Finn and Jake are not cool with this, and they engage in combat. After Mr. Fox grabs the McGuffin sword and uses it to annihilate the Lich and New Death, he is proclaimed the New New Death and sets everything right. Finn is slated to be reincarnated, and Jake is slated to return to the 50th Dead World where he and Finn will one day be reunited. As Finn is pulled into the wheel of souls, Jake suddenly decides to go back with Finn, too, “Just for fun.” The episode ends with a card letting us know that the episode is neither called “Finn & Jake” nor “Finn & Jake Are Dead.” Instead, it is “Finn and Jake Are Together Again.”

As they say, “And there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.”

If you were to tell me several years ago that the last episode to star Finn and Jake would revolve around them dying, I think I would’ve been upset. Not simply sad, but rather frustrated because “they all died” can feel like a cheap ending. But with “Together Again,” it all works. And a large reason that it works is because the show goes all in with their ideas. Finn and Jake don’t magically leap back into their old life (no, no, they very much do bite the dust). Instead, the special emphasizes the cyclical nature of life through the transmigration of souls. The episode ends with a beautiful scene of Finn and Jake, bound together as soul-brothers, being reborn into a new, mysterious (possibly Ooo 1000+?) world. It’s both aesthetically and emotionally pleasing; it doesn’t feel off the way over finales might. This is right. This is the way life works. “Round and round as nature goes,” and all that jazz.

I loved the series explanation of how death works. It seems that souls land in a specific Dead World, where they ‘marinate’ for a bit, presumably being rewarded or punished based on their life in our meat reality. After a time, they are then reborn. This process repeats, with each soul reaching higher and higher levels of enlightenment until they hit nirvana, which is the 50th Dead World. So in a sense, Adventure Time has a roughly Buddhist cosmology with a dash of Greco-Roman mythos thrown in for flavor. (As to what happens after a soul stays in the 50th Dead World for a long period is anyone’s guess, but I’d speculate that when all the souls in the multiverse have been purified and land in the 50th Dead World, they will all collapse into one another and form one perfect Monad. Perhaps this is the sphere of perfection that the beings who merged into Matthew thought they were connecting to? Who knows! It’s anyone’s guess!) I was a little disappointed that we didn’t get to see who Death, Prismo, Life, etc.’s boss was, but perhaps that’s a mystery better left up to the imagination!

One minor thing that I loved about this special was the number of characters who made cameos as well as all the callbacks that were made to previous episodes. Regarding the former: Finn and Jake’s canine family show up (including the oft-forgotten Jermaine!), as do Tree Trunks and her myriad husbands. Tiffany plays a major role in all these shenanigans as a “death cop” of all things. There is a delightful rogues gallery stuck in the 1st Dead World (including, among others, Maja, Sharon from “The Gut Grinder,” and Wyatt). In the 50th we find Ghost Princess and Clarence happily at peace next to Booshy, the weird spirit mentioned in the Pen Ward classic “High Strangeness.” As far as callbacks go, perhaps my favorite is the clap (from “James Baxter the Horse”) that Jake taught to Finn in case they ever do get separated in the afterlife. And of course, there are myriad references made to “Death in Bloom,” the episode that planted the seed for what this would grow into.

Going into the special suspecting that it would involve Death, I was curious how they were going to handle Miguel Ferrer’s character. (In case a reader is not aware, Ferrer played Death in episodes like “Death in Bloom” and “Betty,” but he sadly passed away a few years ago). The producers’ choice to feature him in a non-speaking cameo—despite playing a relatively significant role in the story—was wise; I’m not sure if I can articulate the exact reasons, but something about his role felt appropriate and not gross, as some post-mortem memorials can be. Speaking of which, the wonderful, lovely Polly Lou Livingston was featured for the last time in this episode as Tree Trunks, happily in heaven with her literal harem of husbands. It was funny, it really was, and I’m sure that Polly Lou would’ve gotten a kick out of seeing it on screen. (Also, this is a pro-Tree Trunks safe space. Any Tree Trunks haters will be chucked into the 1st Dead World with Wyatt.)

The biggest mystery in this whole thing, for me at least, is the question of Princess Bubblegum and Marceline. Several years ago, I wrote an essay about what could’ve happened to them in the Ooo 1000+ universe. I speculated that they peaced out and left Ooo behind. In this special, neither Bubblegum nor Marceline are to be found in the Candy Kingdom—Peppermint Butler seems to be the one in charge, given that he is now wearing Bubblegum’s crown. Likewise, the duo aren’t anywhere in the Dead Worlds either. Maybe the two of them skipped town and got a duplex in the Nightosphere? Who knows… I just want my favorite gals to be OK!

All things considered, “Together Again” was a marvel: An episode that managed to feel like a series finale even more than “Come Along with Me” already did without taking away from the series itself. An episode that managed to make the idea of dying funny. An episode that brought back the Lich in a way that wasn’t forced. An episode that made Mr. Fox the New New Death. An episode that gave us a beautiful ending to Finn and Jake’s story… as well as the beautiful beginning to a new one. I said it on Twitter, and I’ll say it again here: “Together Again” was the end of a sentence in a book with infinite pages. Truly, the fun will never end.

Mushroom War evidence: Everything takes place in the Dead Worlds, so not really. Perhaps a more eagle-eyed viewer can inform us...

Final Grade: That’s right, I’m gonna do it...

Post-script, I actually messaged Jesse Moynihan to ask about his writing credit. He told me that it was for an unused story idea that he had developed. I’m not certain, but I’ll bet it was a part of the cancelled TV movie they were trying to make during season 5, since that would’ve seen Finn and Orgalorg journey to the various Dead Worlds.

[bex-la-get]

Yes, Daddy (Ethan x f!MC)

Book: Open Heart

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Natalie Cusack

Special Appearance: Jackie Varma (mentioned)

Word count: 1165

Summary: Ethan and Natalie accidentally match when they dress up for Halloween.

Rating: T-ish

Author’s Note: I believe this is what the kids call a “crack fic.” This idea came to me this morning after a hilarious conversation with some friends. Shout out to @jerzwriter​ and @lucy-268​ for encouraging this nonsense. I hope you enjoy it!

Ethan never liked Halloween. He never understood the hype of dressing up in ridiculous costumes and gorging oneself on overpriced candy. And the horror aspect was just annoying. Why would someone deliberately want to be scared? It was juvenile and made absolutely no sense in his mind.

So, when Natalie asked if he was going to dress up for the holiday, he merely scoffed and shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“What? Why?”

“Halloween is for children, Natalie. And last I checked, I am no longer ten years old.”

She clicked her tongue. “Jeez, who put salt in your coffee today? Halloween is for everyone, Ethan! Fun has no age!”

“You and I have very different versions of ‘fun.’”

“Clearly. Your version of fun is probably sitting at home watching a World War II documentary like the old man you are.”

“I resent that remark. And besides, World War documentaries are boring. I’d obviously be watching a medical mysteries documentary instead.”

Natalie facepalmed and sighed. “Anyway. You should dress up. Everyone’s going to be in costume and you’re going to stick out like a sore thumb if you don’t. And besides, we’re going to throw a party for the kids in the Peds ward. You don’t want to let down the kids, do you?”

“You’re using children to guilt me into dressing up? That’s low, Rookie.”

She chuckled. “But is it working?”

He bit back a smirk. “No.”

“Liar.”

He rolled his eyes. “If I say I’ll think about it, will you let it rest?”

“Depends. Are you just saying it to appease me or are you actually going to think about it?”

Ethan groaned and shook his head. “I’ll actually think about it, okay? I promise.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” she replied, grinning.

Ethan rolled his eyes again and handed her a clipboard. “Get back to work, Rookie.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, still smiling.

------------------------

Halloween came much faster than Ethan would have liked and the hospital was buzzing with excitement for the holiday. Natalie had been relentlessly pestering Ethan about whether or not he would be wearing a costume and if he was, what his costume would be. However, much to her disappointment, Ethan refused to answer her on either front which left her to make guesses. She and Dr. Varma had even gone as far as starting a betting pool about whether or not he would dress up and what he would wear if he did. He tried to be annoyed by this aspect but couldn’t help but find it a bit amusing; not that he’d voice that out loud.

On the day of Halloween, Ethan stared at himself in the mirror of his bathroom, fighting every urge he had to change into his normal clothing. He looked over his pinstripe suit and mustache he had shaved out and shook his head. “This was a terrible idea.” But it was too late to turn back now. 

Grabbing his white coat and keys, he headed out the door and off to work.

The hospital was overrun with doctors, nurses, and other staff members dressed up in various costumes, ranging from zombies to vampires to several colorful M&M’s. At one point, he nearly yelped in surprise when he stepped onto the seventh floor to find two nurses dressed in inflatable T-Rex costumes. Shaking his head, he made his way into the Diagnostics Office, grateful that no one had stopped him and commented on his costume. That is, until he ran into Natalie.

He almost didn’t recognize her at first, with her usual bright red hair a deep shade of brown. It was almost unnerving; he never realized how much he liked her as a redhead until he saw her with a completely different hair color. Not that she didn’t pull off the brown, but it almost made her seem like a completely different person. Not his Rookie.

“Oh. My. God.” Natalie said, when she looked at him. “Are you Gomez Addams?!”

Ethan smirked as he looked over her costume. Her dark hair was pulled back into two braids that fell over her shoulders and she was wearing a black long-sleeved dress with a white collar that fell just above her knees. Combined with the black and white striped socks and black boots, it was obvious who she was dressed as: Wednesday Addams. Which made him mildly regret his own costume choice as Gomez.

“Guilty as charged,” he answered. He cocked his head to the side as he looked her over. “Interesting that you chose Wednesday. I figured you’d do something that worked with your natural hair color.”

“I was Poison Ivy last year, remember?” she reminded him. “And the year before that, I was Daphne from Scooby Doo. I’ve done plenty of redheaded costumes. I wanted to do something different this year.”

“I can see that. The dark brown is certainly different.”

She smirked. “Don’t worry, it’s temporary. It’ll wash out in a couple weeks.”

He stepped closer to her and played with the end of one of her braids. “Don’t get me wrong, you look great. But I think I prefer you as a redhead.”

“Do you, now?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Rookie.”

“Too late.” She ran her hands up his chest and adjusted his tie. “So, should I call you Daddy today?”

Ethan sputtered and stumbled over his attempt at a response, causing Natalie to laugh. “Please, don’t,” he finally said. “We’re still at work and we need to be professional.”

“Should have thought of that before you dressed up as Gomez.”

“How was I to know you would dress up as Wednesday? It’s not like you told me!”

“Yeah, because you wouldn’t tell me. This goes both ways, Ethan.”

He laughed and shook his head. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how that works, Nat.”

“Sure, it is!” 

Ethan rolled his eyes. “What time is the party in the Peds ward, by the way?”

“Twelve-thirty, so don’t be late,” Natalie replied. 

“I won’t.”

“Oh, there’s going to be a photo booth there! We should take a picture with our costumes!” Nat suggested.

Ethan grimaced and tossed his head back and forth. “Mm, maybe not.”

“Oh, come on. We match! We have to have this documented!” She stuck her bottom lip out and gave him her ‘sad eyes.’ “Please? For me?”

Ethan sighed. “Fine. Only for you, Nat.”

“Yay!” Nat gave a little jump in excitement at Ethan’s agreement and he couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “This is gonna be so much fun!”

“We’ll see about that,” he replied. 

Natalie chuckled and quickly glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then pecked Ethan gently on the lips. 

He smiled as she pulled away and nuzzled her nose with his. “Go get to work, Rookie. I’ll see you later.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Natalie replied, quickly making her way out of the office. 

“Natalie!” Ethan sputtered. The sound of her laughter was her only reply. 

A/N: Massive thank you to @jerzwriter​ for pre-reading this for me. You’re a gem, E! 

Tagging separately.