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unpopularwiththepopulace · 4 years ago

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Here Lies Jenny: Bebe Neuwirth’s under-remembered masterpiece?

While Bebe Neuwirth is often remembered foremost for her presence in worlds like Chicago, Cheers or Fosse, there’s another piece in the tapestry of her work that brings many notable threads together and is equally significant to her.

Here Lies Jenny is the somewhat under-discussed piece of theatre that in fact has connections to all three of these aforementioned things, because of the people she worked herself on creating it with, and deserves to be brought up with slightly more comparable frequency.

A moment then to explore some of the history of this elusive but important show.

Here Lies Jenny, recalled as a “surprise off Broadway hit”, opened at the Zipper Theatre in downtown Manhattan in May 2004 and ran there for five months.

The show was an interpretive revue of the music of German composer, Kurt Weill, born out of an idea Bebe had herself. It was shaped by collaboration with close friends – with its initial genesis assisted by Leslie Stifelman (the show’s pianist, who she’d worked with on Chicago), direction by Roger Rees (who she’d long known and worked with since their time on Cheers together), and choreography by Ann Reinking (who was Bebe’s closest dance companion in the Fosse universe).

Set in a dark and shadowy looking barroom, the piece followed Bebe as the central, amorphous female figure named ‘Jenny’, supported by three male cast members and a pianist, through an evening of carefully selected Weill songs. Alongside Bebe and Leslie on stage were Gregory Butler and Shawn Emamjomeh, as two rough denizens of the bar, and Ed Dixon as the general proprietor.

There was no linear storyline to the show and no spoken dialogue, but Bebe described how the evening unfolded “in a very logical and emotional, fulfilling way.” All of the songs presented “[described] the interaction between these five people there, that make it necessary to sing the next song.” Rather than taking a group of songs by a particular composer and imposing a narrative on them, the songs were interwoven together to create an “impressionistic and realistic painting of this person’s life.”

To give a summary of the show’s arc, Jenny initially descends the wire staircase into the bar, with little more than a frightened expression and a small bag of wordly possessions. Accosted by the two forceful patrons, she’s flattened down both physically and emotionally. The men depart and return throughout, and the emotional core of the piece fluctuates from song to song as each number evokes a different picture and interpretation of a circumstance or feeling. As reviewers put it, “she’s sometimes bold, sometimes reticent, until she leaves…with what seems like a modicum of self-possession and hope,” and “climbs that long staircase on her way into the world again.”

The idea for creating Here Lies Jenny came out of Bebe’s own desire to put together a piece of theatre and an evening of performance of her own. It was a notion intensified by growing external interest, or as she recalled, “people have always said to me ‘Do a show, do a show, do a one woman show!’”

But for a while the form the piece would take was unclear. Bebe knew she “didn’t want to do a revue”, and she didn’t want “the usual cabaret thing… [or] ‘Bebe and Her Boys.’”

“I generally hate one women shows,” she would remark, “unless it’s Elaine Stritch or Chita Rivera or, you know, Patti LuPone.”

According to Bebe, she’s “much more comfortable as a character doing something. I'm not comfortable just being myself and singing in front of people.”

On and off for around two and a half years then, Bebe had been considering how to approach this matter while putting together some music, predominantly that of Kurt Weill, with musician, conductor and friend from Chicago, Leslie Stifelman.

Leslie suggested bringing in a director, so Bebe turned to Roger Rees – a person she regards as “not just a great actor,” but also “a fantastic director”, with a “very interesting creative mind.” Showing Roger the songs, he “realised that they all described women, or aspects of women, or different times in women’s lives.”

Roger thought it would be interesting then to combine all of these varied sentiments and have them channelled through one specific woman, in one specific location, to present a complex but diversely applicable tapestry centred around the emotional interiority of one tangible female force.

The show is “fragmented, prismatic…less narrative than poetic,” according to Roger. It’s not prescriptive. Rather, it evokes strong feelings and allows the audience to interpret them into their own individual and personal narrative for this woman. It poses questions and provokes thoughts. Who is this woman? Why is she here? Why is she here now? Is that a child? Or is that just a wish for a child? What did she have in this life before we meet her and what has she now lost?

It is indeed an unusual entity, and atypical from other more standard revues, cabaret acts, or works of theatre. A “self-described Japanophile”, Bebe explained how it played in the “Japanese aesthetic concept known as wabi sabi.” Of this she would elaborate, “There’s no direct translation, but it’s about the beauty of things as they age, embracing what’s painful in life as well as what’s joyful.”

It is certainly a piece that contains beauty as well as pain, which itself is a complexity and dichotomy often ascribed to Kurt Weill’s music.

When initially finding and working on songs for what was to become Here Lies Jenny, Bebe noticed being drawn to the work of one composer most strongly.

Like Bernadette Peters talking about how she gravitates to selecting Stephen Sondheim’s material for her concerts, Bebe would say simply, “all of the music that I loved the most was Kurt Weill music.”

A revue in 1991 called Cabaret Verboten (also with Roger Rees), that sought to recreate a Weimar Republic cabaret and re-conjure some of the decadence of pre-Nazi Germany, increased Bebe’s exposure to Kurt Weill’s music and was where she “first became captivated by the composer”. Building on this strong connection and deep appreciation in the years since then, Bebe would assert of his music, “it resonates for me.”

“Neuwirth knows Weill’s music isn’t for everyone,” one reviewer wrote, “but she won’t apologize for it.” She sees its capacity to be “appreciated on many different levels,” and has described it on varying occasions as “unflinchingly honest”, “very fulfilling to perform”, not just “arch and angular and Germanic…[as] many people think”, but as having “great lyricism and tenderness”.

Bebe feels a strong affinity for Weill’s music in part because of its “ability to convey the truth completely and fearlessly and without artifice”. For example, “If you're talking about heartbreak, [his music] goes to the absolute nth degree of what that really means. The way he shows that is with fearless lyrics and the bravery to make the music as beautiful as it can be.”

“Maybe the way I appreciate it speaks to the kind of person I am,” she would say. “I’m very bright but not an intellectual. I like things in a visceral, passionate and spiritual way.” And to Bebe, Weill’s music certainly provides that – which was why devising this show was of such importance and significance to her.

Bebe said also that “the show offers the broad range of Weill's songwriting talents.” This is indeed a truism, with the work of no fewer than ten different lyrists being showcased across the nearly two dozen songs during the evening, including Berthold Brecht, Ira Gershwin, Alan Jay Lerner, Langston Hughes, and Ogden Nash.

The different styles and languages of Kurt Weill’s music mirror Weill’s own history and geographic progression through the world. Born in Germany, “Weill, a Jew, had to flee the Nazis at the height of his popularity. He fled to France and then to the United States, where he became a citizen in 1943.”

His songs reflect the world in which he was living. For instance, ‘The Bilbao Song’ is a tale of sometimes gleeful, sometimes regretful nostalgia and comes from a collaboration with Berthold Brecht in German. It is performed here only in English through the use of “Michael Feingold's now-accepted translation”. The Brechtian-ism is a feature of this production as a whole that was remarked on at the time, being appraised there was “more than a dash of an alienation effect at play,” with material being sung for example behind grilled windows or facing away from the audience.

His French material is alternately reflective of the musical identity Weill tried to devise while having to reinvent himself from scratch in France. Bebe performs one of these French numbers here, entitled ‘Je ne t'aime pas’, which has its own poetic lyricism, and indeed mournful significance, given the translation of the title as ‘I don’t love you’.

Alternately, jazzy, Broadway glamour is comparatively evident in some songs like ‘The Saga of Jenny’ from musicals that arose in America on the Great White Way out of the era of Golden Age of the American musical in the ‘40s to the 60’s.

This show was ambitious then, in its mission of exploring a wide range of the composer’s musical contributions across multiple decades, countries, styles of music, and lyrical collaborations.

Beyond his own musicals, Kurt Weill’s music has been notably seen elsewhere on Broadway or in the theatre world via interpretations such as songs in concerts with Betty Buckley, Patti LuPone, Ute Lemper; or full stage productions with Donna Murphy as Lotte Lenya in Hal Prince’s 2007 Lovemusik; or Lenya’s recordings herself.

Much of Kurt Weill’s legacy lives on through his wife, Lotte Lenya, who was seen as his “chief interpreter… [and] largely responsible for reviving interest in the composer” after his death.

Like Lotte with her “whisky baritone”, Bebe is able to convey meaningful interpretations of Weill’s music through her vocal richness and skilled acting choices, carefully controlling factors like timing, pronunciation and syllabic stress.

An example. Bebe does the most satisfying version of ‘The Bilbao Song’ I have heard. There’s a line in this song that states: “Four guys from ‘frisco came with sacks of gold dust,” in which the last portion of the phrase is repeated a further two times. Bebe emphasises the third “SACKS, of gold dust?!” in the dramatic manner stylised through my punctuation in attempts at recreating its phonology, which contrasts against the two previous readings. This gives the line a salient narrative purpose. It conveys not just an observation, but a tale of surprise and incredulity – who on earth would walk into a bar carrying entire sacks of gold dust?

It may be seemingly just one small detail, but it has a large impact. Other versions that intonate all three repetitions of this line the same miss this engaging variation and feel flat in comparison.

This song would justly so later become a staple of her concert material – along with others like ‘Surabaya Johnny’ and ‘Susan’s Dream’.

But there is unfamiliar territory traversed in Here Lies Jenny too. The rendition of Ogden Nash’s lyrics with ‘I'm a Stranger Here Myself’ is ‘new’ – and it’s exquisite, in its melodic, lilting and playful but darkly seductive swirling sentiment.

Another notable number in need of individual mention would be ‘The Saga of Jenny’. There are two Kurt Weill songs most strongly associated with the ‘Jenny’ moniker – this, and the also well-known ‘Pirate Jenny’ from The Threepenny Opera, which Bebe had done a production of in 1999. The latter was trialled in early versions of the show but ultimately didn’t “serve the piece as well as other…moments could,” so was taken out. Fortunately, Bebe would later work it into her concerts.

The former made it in, and provides the exciting opportunity to get to hear Bebe’s take on this song as made well-known by a number of respected performers. ‘The Saga of Jenny’ appeared initially in Weill & Gershwin’s collaboration for the musical Lady in the Dark in 1941, starring Gertrude Lawrence. The song has since gone through innumerable reiterations, such as via Ginger Rogers in the 1944 film adaptation of the same name; Julie Andrews’ big-production performance in the Gertrude Lawrence biopic Star! in 1968; and other high-profile concert performances like via Ruthie Henshall, Christine Ebersole, Lynn Redgrave and Ute Lemper; along with Lotte Lenya’s own recordings.

Further extending the song’s life was ‘The Saga of Lenny’ – a version devised with new lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, performed by Lauren Bacall for Leonard Bernstein’s 70th Birthday in 1988. All of these are on YouTube and I would testify are worth a watch.

In this show, Bebe performs the number with the bravado of a war-time songbird. She strides around with an old-school 1940s microphone back and forth across the stage as she progresses through the song’s distinct chronological sections, grounding the show centrally back to its identifying moniker and characterising an eponymous, engaging and multiply varied ‘Jenny’.

When not bound to microphones, Here Lies Jenny also involved the use of Ann Reinking’s “minimal but inventive” choreography to create striking visual images. Though perhaps not resembling the fast-paced, razzle-dazzle of Chicago, these patterns of movement are at times no less impactful. Bebe is dragged fluidly across a countertop, rolled sinuously down pairs of legs, centred in a dark tango (that one review likened as a potential metaphor for a ménage à trois), or spun backwards upside down onto Emamjomeh’s shoulder in the air – to name a few notable moments.

Not a dance show by any strict sense, all of these demands are nonetheless physically taxing. This is a matter of importance given the timing of the show.

What Bebe had long deemed a “peculiar” hip from her early twenties, begun causing notable pain when it “went from peculiar to downright bad in 2001” during Fosse on Broadway. It was recorded the “pain continued during [this] high-concept Kurt Weill revue” in 2004, such that performing this manner of movement in the show can have been no trivial feat. The next three years brought subsequent arthroscopic surgery for cartilage removal, and then total hip replacement.

That being considered, the show was able to run in the highly demanding manner it did for five months straight because of Ann Reinking’s assiduously crafted choreography.

The Zipper Theatre was the “funky downtown Manhattan space” that housed the show for that time. The timing of the production and the nature of the theatre played integral parts in the piece’s characterisation.

Roger took Bebe to see the theatre when they were devising the show, and to Bebe, it felt right. “There is this creative gesture that we are making and the gesture is completed if it’s in this place.” Not in some new, shiny theatre; but here, with a darkness and sense of history that created an evocative mood similar to the tone of the whole show “as soon as you walked into the building.” This was aided by the show beginning at 11pm each night – “absolutely an artistic choice” – given that what “happens between these five people, happens very late at night”, in a shadowy time of day filled by darkness and secrets.

Here Lies Jenny ended its run in New York in October 2004. But this did not mark the end of the piece. Bebe and her troupe took the show to San Francisco in the Spring the following year – after a seven month interim that included filming thirteen episodes of Law and Order: Trial by Jury, the aforementioned hip cartilage removal, and subsequent recovery.

The show was not deemed flawless by everyone who reviewed it. Some thought it too dark or wished for less abstraction and ambiguity. But as one article would conclude, “Faults aside, it’s hard not to recommend a show devoted to Kurt Weill,” ultimately providing a “unique and polished evening at the theatre.”

Roger Rees would reflect on the show, “Weill & Neuwirth work so well together” because Bebe’s “high standard of performance” means she is able to “delve deeply and go on forever” into material he likened to being as complex as Shakespeare.

It “demands a great deal from a performer, and she is equal to it,” Roger said. “She’s very deep in herself. There’s nothing made up about [her], which is a rare and beautiful thing. The match between performer and material is exquisite.”

This would likely mean a lot to Bebe, as the show itself meant a lot to Bebe. And still does several years later. She would cite it in 2012 as the “role she wish[ed] more people had seen”, as to her, it “was a beautiful, unusual piece of theatre”. Altogether, it was something ineffable and “bigger than the sum of its parts”.

“It’s something I've wanted to do, and I did instigate it,” she said, of putting the show together. But that’s not to say it was easy to helm matters. “For me to be in charge, makes me very uncomfortable.”

That the show got made at all then Bebe would recognise as “a testament to how deeply I love the material and how inspired it makes me.” Her trust in people like Leslie, Annie and Roger enabled the creation of such a project from the ground up that wouldn’t have otherwise existed. Thus, to borrow a phrase from Stephen Sondheim, it was the combination of both personal drive, and also the shared collaboration of four people who all “love each other very much” that ultimately ‘made a hat where there never was a hat.’

It was even further an important show to her, because it was “a very private thing.” She’d describe Jenny as a very physical and emotional role – “the most personal of anything I've done.”

It clearly holds a special place in Bebe’s own heart. Undoubtedly, it would be poignant to revisit again. As we look to the near future of theatre with shows that could feasibly be staged as events start coming back, in tandem with the publicly expressed desire of people wanting to see Bebe back on stage again, this pre-existing, modestly-sized, inventive piece would be no bad suggestion.

How about a Here Lies Jenny reprise when theatre returns?

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teamhook · 5 years ago

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A Chapter A Day... Savage Heart CS AU

Well, this is it the last of the month and a chapter a day. Today I give you the final two chapters. Yes, I know I don’t know how to count. :) Sorry.

I wanna thank @ilovemesomekillianjones my beta for the story. She is amazing! The sweetest person and i was lucky she agreed to help me with this story.

The lovely cover was made by the awesome @xhookswenchx one of the first to give love to this story.

Thank you all for reading.

A love story between a pirate and his savior. An innocent, beautiful, selfless woman meets a man with no manners, no formal education and not even a last name. Will Emma fall in love with Killian once she discovers that beneath his tough exterior lies a heart-wild, but a heart of gold? This is a Captain Swan AU

|AO3| |FFN| previous chapter

|AO3| |FFN| current chapter

Chapter 29: Truths Told

To say Killian is surprised to see his long lost brother at his doorstep is putting it mildly. He cannot stop the happiness he feels seeing Liam, he opens the door wide with a big smile - a clear invitation to enter.

Killian introduces Liam to Emma and their friend Tink. Liam smiles sweetly as he makes his own introductions. First, Elsa his love. Emma and Elsa share a moment of recognition. Emma's father had written about Elsa to Emma and vice versa. Then he moves on to Ingrid, Elsa's aunt and finally his former captain, Dakkar Nemo.

As the night's goes on, Liam and Killian share a moment away from the group.

"Brother, I'm happy you found a special lass like Emma. You made the right choice leaving the scoundrel behind." Liam pats Killian on the back.

Killian smiles, "Who says I've left the scoundrel behind?" and waggles his eyebrows. "My wife is quite fond of that side of me."

Liam shakes his head in disapproval. "That's no way to speak of your wife."

Killian rolls his eyes. "Brother, I'm sorry I offended your sensibilities. Sometimes the pirate is hard to be rid of. My Emma, she knows this and still loves me. I'm so happy you've come, how long are you staying?"

Liam ponders the question. "I have to first find accommodations for all of us."

Killian smiles, "We have more than enough room, I'm sure Emma wouldn't object-"

"I'm sorry, brother, but I'd rather not intrude on recently reunited newlyweds. I'm sure we can find lodging somewhere," Liam interjects.

"How about with my parents?" Emma suggests. "They have room and my mother would love the company. I'm sure my father would offer as well."

Emma and Killian escort the group to the Nolan's home once the evening has come to an end. David and Snow warmly welcome the group as the introductions are made. Snow is already planning a big dinner for the following night, to properly welcome their visitors.

The next morning at the Jones home, Emma wakes up first, she turns to face her husband. He's still in a peaceful slumber, she had missed him so much. She slowly pushes the hair on his forehead out of the way, and gently leans over to softly kiss him. She rests her head on his shoulder.

After a few minutes, he begins to stir. "Good morning, love."

"Good morning, Killian. Any plans today?"

"I was going to meet my brother at Archie's. I want to show him that the second chance he gave me was put to good use. I found myself a beautiful bride," he plays with her soft blonde hair, "and the business is one of honor. How about you?"

"I have some errands to do," she feels him stiffen at her words - the same words she'd spoken before she was taken - and rushes to reassure him, "don't worry, I'm taking Tink with me. Later in the afternoon we will go visit my mom and get to know Elsa and Ingrid." She also wants to look for Rufio, and Tink knows the boys well, but that has to stay a secret from her husband for now.

He nods his agreement. "I should get one of the men in my crew to keep you and Tink safe. It would have to be someone I trust."

"I think Tink and I will be okay. We can talk about this later."

Killian knows his wife is a force of nature and Tink will not go down easily, so for now he won't push her.

Cora waits in her room for the return of her daughter-in-law. She still hasn't decided if she should expose Milah to August, how would he survive the ridicule he would suffer if the truth comes out. Cora's smile becomes wicked as she thinks of ways to make Milah's life difficult. Perhaps the situation requires a permanent solution.

August had gone riding to clear his head. His frustration is overwhelming, all he wants is to understand Emma's attitude toward him. Her safety is what matters to him, and she is not safe with Killian.

He spots Malcolm, and walks towards him. "Mr. Peters, may I have a word?"

Malcolm had hoped to avoid August, he prefers to deal with Cora. "Of course, Mr. Booth. How can I be of assistance today?"

"First, I want to know where you've been? You disappeared for days without a word. That is very unprofessional."

"Mr. Booth, I was on an errand for your mother. I'm sorry, I thought you knew."

August sneers at the man. "You are to report to me and me alone, not my mother. If that's going to be a problem, perhaps you should look for employment elsewhere."

Malcolm tries to stay calm. He will tell Cora and hope she deals with her son. If all else fails, he will ask for a good amount of money. He knows her secrets after all.

Milah arrives at the estate with a big grin on her face. As soon as she enters the house, she is greeted with Enith's face.

"Ma'am, Mrs. Booth would like a word. She's in her room and she is not in a waiting mood."

Milah rolls her eyes. "I don't have to run to her side. I'll go talk to her whenever I feel like it." Milah turns around and starts to walk to her room, leaving Enith with her mouth open.

Enith storms to Cora's room. She knocks and soon is rewarded with an invitation to come in.

"Ma'am, Ms. Milah arrived home and I informed her you had requested her presence but she said she would come talk to you whenever she feels like it."

Cora smirks, "Oh, did she say that?"

Enith simply nods.

"Alright, I'll wait for her to come to me when she is ready, but this humiliation will be added to her tally of misdeeds," Cora promises as she sits on her chaise.

Enith curtsies and leaves.

Moments later, a sudden pounding on her door startles Cora. "Come in."

Malcolm enters with a scowl. "Your son just informed me I no longer report to you. He wants me to report to him and he was upset I left with no explanation. I tried to explain that I was on an errand for you, but he didn't seem to care."

Cora has to admit she is proud of her son for finally showing some backbone. Too bad he doesn't show it with his wife. "I'll talk to him, but you must do something for me."

Malcolm sighs in frustration, before asking, "What do you want me to do?"

Cora's back straightens. "You seem close to my daughter-in-law."

"I don't know what you mean, we are simply cordial."

She studies him for a second. "Good to know, that ensures the task I'm about to give you is done without hesitation."

That catches Malcolm's attention. "What is it you want me to do?"

"I would be very happy and generously inclined if an accident were to befall Milah, but unlike her cousin, I wouldn't object if she didn't survive."

"Cora, I don't know if I can do that. I've done some questionable things but never anything as such."

Cora's brow raises. "Oh Malcolm, don't tell me you've fallen for her charms."

He ignores her. "What did she do to incur your wrath? I know you are not particularly fond of her but to kill your son's wife?"

"My son's wife is a common, lying whore. She bewitched my son and made a fool of him. She let us believe she was entering the marriage pure but she had fallen into bed with someone already. Who knows how many men have been in her bed."

"Why not a simple divorce or an annulment. I'm sure you know someone that can do it for you."

"My son has no idea who he married. This way he can mourn her and find someone else. Too bad Emma married the pirate. She was the perfect fit for my son."

"You mean the eldest Booth, your son's brother."

Cora glares at him. "You keep your mouth shut, we don't need someone overhearing us. Especially now that I have the letter back in my possession."

Malcolm nods.

"So will you do it?" Cora asks. "Or don't you have the stomach for it?"

"I'll do it, but it will cost you."

Cora smiles, "It will be worth it."

"Do you have something in mind?"

"No, I don't, maybe while horse riding. I'm sure you can figure something out."

"All right." He nods in agreement and leaves.

Milah is in her room relaxing, nothing could sour her mood, not even her witch of a mother-in-law. She knows she will need to go see what she wants before she is summoned again. Putting it off longer than she has is not an option. Milah checks her reflection in the mirror and finally leaves to go have a talk with Cora.

She arrives at Cora's closed door and knocks.

"Come in," the older woman says.

"You wanted to see me?" Milah asks as she enters the room, leaving the door ajar and promptly sitting down.

"Milah, darling. I just wanted to tell you that things are going to change around here. Your insolence will no longer be tolerated, and you will behave the way you're told to." Cora smiles as she thinks to herself, at least for as long as you have left.

"August has no problem with the way I behave and once I tell him how you are speaking to me, he will tell you so."

Cora laughs, "Oh dear girl, I know your secret." She makes a show of pulling the vial out of a small box. "I know what kind of woman you are. You were never deserving of my son and this proves it."

Milah looks at the vial and the recognition is clear on her face - but still she tries to deny it. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Under normal circumstances, I would reveal the truth to my son, but, for whatever reason, he loves you. All I can do is make sure you are the wife he deserves."

Milah glares at her mother-in-law. "I'm not Emma, I will not fold to your demands. If you have a problem with that, I have no problem telling August the truth myself."

"You will do as you're told and that is final!" Cora seethes.

August stops just outside of his mother's door when he hears his mother and wife arguing. He tries to piece together the bits of the conversation he is hearing.

"You know what, you are right! That vial is mine. I had a lover before I married your ponce of a son. I'm just so tired of having to deal with you. You are right, your beloved son deserved my nitwit cousin."

"I knew you were not in my son's league. How in the world it is possible for you and Emma to come from the same gene pool is beyond me. You disgust me."

August finally walks in shaking his head in disbelief. "No,no,no,no! Tell me this is not true," he pleads as he drops to his knees and wraps his arms around Milah's midsection. His tears flowing, he sniffles, his voice muffled by her dress. "Milah, sweetheart tell me it's a lie. You love me and only me."

Milah tries to push him away with disgust. "For the first time in a very long time, I'm telling the truth, I had a lover before I ended up in your bed. I love him and only him. How could I love you, you are pathetic!" she finally pushes him away successfully.

Cora tries to approach August to comfort him, he turns to glare at her and she stops in her tracks and stills. "Who the hell is it? Hmm? Tell me who!" he screams.

Milah simply smirks and tilts her head. "Don't you know?" Her gaze burns through him as she laughs then turns to Cora. "Really, you still cannot figure it out? Well, let me spell it out for you both. Killian Jones. You both were so eager to believe that Emma was the woman rumored to have had an affair with him. I still cannot believe you two fell for that. Emma, my insipid cousin would have never fallen in bed with him."

August's eyes darken as he glares at his wife. "I'm going to kill him," he declares and then storms out.

"You stupid girl," Cora berates.

Milah taunts Cora, "You should have said goodbye to him, Killian will kill him. You and I both know that. Oh well, I suppose soon there will be two Booth widows." Milah walks out of the room and heads for her bedroom, with August out of the way she is free - all she needs is for Killian to walk away from Emma.

Cora's angered face is shaking in disbelief, no, no, no, not him. Cora glares at Milah's retreating body. When Jones had showed up, she thought it was money he wanted and she had sacrificed Emma to him in order to protect her son's inheritance. She hated to admit it, but if August was successful and Killian agreed to a duel, her son would not survive. Without thought, she grabs the letter and holds it to her heart. This will save her son. Cora calls out for Enith. She needs to get to Emma, she will help her save her son.

Emma is sitting in the living room waiting for Tink to finish getting ready when a loud banging on the door startles her. She gets up and smoothes out her skirt before walking to the door.

August stands there wearing a scowl on his face. "Where's that pirate?" He pushes his way inside.

"August, what's going on?" He looks upset and she tries to calm him.

"Did you know?" His scowl turns to anguish. "How could I have been so blind?" He slowly approaches her, to try to touch her. "You are an angel, and I threw you away for a harlot. I'm so sorry."

Emma's eyes widen the more he speaks. He knows, he found out about Milah. "August, it's okay." She avoids his touch but is unable to evade the smell of alcohol that oozes from his pores. He must have gotten drunk after finding out the truth.

"You deserve the world and that bastard took advantage of your good heart. I know you married Killian to protect me. I don't need protecting anymore, I will save you. I'm going to kill him and I will send Milah away after I divorce her. Then we can make things right. We can marry and have the life we were meant to have."

"August, I'm sorry you found out about my cousin's treachery, but I'm where I belong. I truly love Killian, and you have to know that he didn't know about Milah's betrayal until after he returned from Arendelle. Their affair has been over for a long time. She tricked all of us."

"No, you only married him to protect me, because you love me!" he screams as he starts to pace the room. Suddenly he turns to face her, his anger is back. "If what you say is true and you love him, I think it's only fair for me to have you as he had my wife!" He lunges at her, grabbing her and pulling her down to the floor. His alcohol-infused breath blows on her face. She tries to push him off, attempting to grab anything to aid her. She keeps kicking and pushing his face away.

Tink had heard voices while she finished getting ready. As she arrives in the living room she sees Emma on the floor struggling with a man on top of her. Tink looks around the room and grabs the first thing she sees, a big, heavy book. She swings at the man's head.

August winces at the impact and lets go of Emma as he tries to get up while rubbing his head. He turns to the intruder and all he can see is Emma's disgusted face next to the pirate's friend. He feels his stomach churn at his actions.

Emma finds her voice, "Get out! Leave now and never show your face here again. What you just did, I will never forgive. You claim Killian is the worst human alive, but he would never do what you just tried to do."

August looks at her one last time before he leaves.

"August knows about Killian and Milah, we need to warn him," Emma urges Tink toward the door.

Tink holds on to her tight. "Emma, I can go. Stay here in case Killian comes home, and don't open the door."

After August's exit, Cora had quickly dressed. She had to hurry, everything was a blur to her. She was glad Enith had noticed her son leave, and had quickly came to her aid. She had fetched Malcolm and soon Cora was out the door.

Emma is pacing the living room. She wonders if Tink has gotten to Killian on time. She is still shaken by August's behavior. She knows that if Killian laid eyes on her, he would know something happened and she was afraid of his reaction. Not afraid for herself, but for anyone who stands in his way avenging her. He has worked so hard to become an honorable man, and although she is still upset, August's death isn't the answer. This mess is all Milah's fault.

There is a knock on the door. Emma knows that Tink told her not to answer the door for anyone, but maybe it is them? She stands quietly in front of the door and the voice she hears is unexpected.

"Emma, darling girl. Please, open the door... hurry."

Emma opens the door after recognizing Cora's voice as an urgent plea.

Cora enters the house. "Emma, I assume your husband isn't home?"

"No he is not, he is at his office."

"Has August been here?" Cora has a feeling of what the answer will be.

"Yes, he was here and he was drunk. He attacked me," Emma answers. She still has no idea what Cora knows.

"Oh dear," she gasps as she paces the room and takes a paper out of her pocket. "You have to help me. August overheard a conversation I had with your cousin." Cora sighs, is Emma aware of the history between her husband and cousin or is she about to find out? She continues, "He found out some unflattering news about Milah and your pirate."

"August told me what he found out and I tried to explain to him things were not as he claims."

"Emma, did you know?" Cora asks.

"I did."

"How long have you known?"

"I found out after Milah and August married."

"Why didn't you come to me? We could have fixed this."

"Do you honestly think August would've believed us? He would've accused me of making up lies. I had no proof, it was my word against Milah's. I also had to protect everyone. My family, my parents adore Milah, this will break their hearts. I thought it was for the best to keep quiet, but then Killian showed up at the estate." She sighs, "That is when I knew he wasn't going to let her go."

"Yet, you still married him. Why?" Cora asked.

"That doesn't matter anymore. August went looking for Killian, and although I'm afraid of what will happen, I hope my husband does everything he can to come back to me. I'd prefer without any bloodshed."

"That is why I'm here. I need your help convincing your husband to walk away. He cannot hurt August because-"

"Your son tried to force himself on me. He is out of control. I will not ask Killian to refuse the duel in order to protect August's pride."

Cora's face hardens. "Emma, it was your cousin who did this to us all, I know, but time is of the essence. We need to go find them and stop this madness. Is it truly acceptable to you, dear, if your husband kills his brother?"

"His brother?"

"I know they will not believe me, but I have proof and they will listen to you. Please, help me save my son."

Emma stares at Cora in disbelief, all this time Killian had been alone, unloved, he was denied both brothers- his family. "I want to see this proof."

Cora hands the paper over, Emma reads it quickly and shakes her head. "You kept them apart, Killian and August could have grown up together."

Cora yells, "We are running out of time, that is no longer important, we have to go before your husband kills his brother."

Emma folds the paper and walks to the door. "Let's go, I sent Tink to warn Killian but I don't know if she got there in time."

Cora and Emma rapidly climb into the carriage after a quick introduction to Malcolm Peters, the new Booth Steward.

Smee and Thomas are working quietly, while Archie and Killian give Liam and Nemo a small tour of the office. Things are busy when August arrives at the shared office of Archie and Killian. He slams the door open with all his pent up anger, the rage he feels blinds him and he fails to notice the other men in the room.

"I loved you like a brother!" August yells as he rushes Killian and punches his face. He tries to take another swing but he is pulled off by Archie. He looks at Killian who is being held back by two unknown men.

Archie stumbles as he tries to keep August away from Killian. "August, what is the meaning of this?"

"Did you know? Of course you did, you've protected him his whole life." August sneers at Archie and turns to Killian. "You thought I'd never find out? About you and that whore I have for a wife!"

Killian stops the struggle to get away from his brother Liam and the older man, Nemo. The realization and understanding of his former friend's anger dawns on him. Months back it had been him in his place, from his return to the moment he found out about Milah's betrayal.

With an insincere smile, he says, "I will not lie. I've had many a man's wife, but Milah was unattached when our dalliance took place. She was going to marry me, if anyone should be outraged it should be me."

August shakes his head in disbelief. "Is that right?"

"August, your father wouldn't want you to fight with Killian. Remember his last words," Archie implored.

"You want me to honor my father's wishes? This man, I thought was my friend. He sullied my wife and if that wasn't enough, he seduced Emma into marrying him. I'm here defending their honor! I demand a duel to make things right."

Archie looks at Killian as the pieces fall into place. It was Milah, the woman Killian was to marry, but somehow he found love with Emma.

Liam finds his voice, "I will be his second."

August turns to Liam, "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm his brother," Liam answers.

August scoffs, "Brother? Well, your brother dallied with my wife, and still claimed to be my friend."

Liam turns to Killian and raises an eyebrow.

Killian shakes his head. "I haven't touched his wife."

August tries to get away from Archie who tightens his grip. "That's not what she claims, she admitted the affair quite proudly."

"Brother, is this true?" Liam asks.

August yells, "It doesn't matter, I demand retribution."

Liam answers curtly, "And you shall have it."

Killian turns to Liam, hurt at the doubt in his character.

August sneers, "At least one of you has honor."

Killian interrupts, "I do not deny my past with women is colorful, but I haven't laid a hand on Milah since she married you."

Realization dawns on August. "The rumor was true... but we were wrong about the identity of the woman, it was her, it was always Milah. Whether she was promised to you or not changes nothing. Once you're dead. I will be able to marry Emma and make things right."

Killian roars, "You will stay away from my wife."

August enjoys the anger he sees on his former friend's face. "You will die knowing I will make her mine. Just like you enjoyed my wife's companionship, I will enjoy Emma's. Meet me at Deadman's Peak in an hour. Make sure your affairs are in order." He storms out, followed by Archie who only nods at Killian.

Killian knows he has some explaining to do. Bloody hell, once Emma's parents find out, they will beg her to dissolve the marriage. He runs his hand through his hair. There's no time to think of that. Perhaps he can ask his brother to take care of Emma if he doesn't survive.

Liam claps Killian's back, "Was this Milah the woman you were to marry when we first met?"

Killian admits his truth, "Aye, when I returned she was already married. I will not lie to you brother, I still wanted her and at the time, I would have taken her, but then I met Emma and from the start I felt a pull to her. Slowly she filled my dark heart with her light."

Liam nods, "Good, her father is a close friend and she is a lovely lass. Let's get ready for this. Do you have a weapon?"

"Aye," Killian responds as he goes to his desk and pulls a revolver from the top locked drawer.

"This is obviously not going to be a proper duel. Anything else you need to do before we leave?"

"I can't face Emma. If I do, I know I will not be able to leave her. How could I? I don't doubt my ability to win the duel, but how will I face her after? All I want is to be the kind of man she deserves."

Tink had never ran that fast before in her life. She used every back alley and road she could think of to make her journey shorter, only to open the office door and simply find Mr. Smee and Mr. Thomas. She had missed them! Mr. Thomas had kindly offered her some water, while she was catching her breath, and Mr. Smee recounted the tale for her.

She is about to leave to go give Emma the bad news when the door flies open for the third time. Emma rushes inside, followed by Cora. Mr. Thomas' demeanor changes rapidly at the sight of his old boss.

Tink confusedly asks Emma, "What are you doing here?"

"Where's Killian?"

Tink answers sadly, "We missed him and yes, that jerk was here. Mr. Smee said they all left to go to the duel."

Both Cora and Emma pale at the information.

Emma turns to Mr. Smee, "Where did they go? What's the location?"

Smee looks down, "I'm sorry ma'am, I don't know if I should. A duel is no place for a lady."

Emma turns to Mr. Thomas, "Michael, please, we need to know. We have to stop it and we are losing time."

Cora snaps as she looks between Smee and Mr. Thomas, "You idiots, we need to know now! If we don't stop it and my son dies, I will make it my mission in life to ruin the rest of your lives!"

Mr. Thomas turns to Emma, "Ma'am, they went to Deadman's Peak. Mr. Hopper left with Mr. Booth, and Captain Jones' brother went with him and so did Mr. Nemo."

Emma smiles gratefully at the man. "Thank you, Michael. So where's this place?"

Michael Thomas looks at Mr. Smee as to ask for permission.

"I can take you. It's hard to get to if you don't know the area," Smee reluctantly offers. "Ma'am, you have nothing to worry about. The Captain has never lost a duel," Smee tries to calm his captain's wife.

Emma gives him a small smile. "Thank you, Mr. Smee."

Deadman's Peak is an accurate name for the cliff. So many men had lost their lives here. The less honorable people simply kicked the deadman's body down the cliff into the welcoming waves of the sea. The proper duels followed protocol. Archie Hopper knew all of this, he also knew that Killian was the more experienced of the two brothers, and that once the truth was known, he would never forgive himself. His attention turns to a pacing August. "August, are you sure? Your father wouldn't want you to go through with this."

"Are you serious? That pirate-" he spits, "he deserves to die, he was never my friend."

"August, you can't be serious? I saw you two together when you were young. Your father's wish was for you two to look out for each other like brothers."

August glares at Archie. "Why are you here? It's obvious you care for him as if he was your son and yet you're here with me?"

"Killian has his brother Liam and Captain Nemo. You're alone, and although I don't agree with your desire for a duel, I feel like I owe it to your father. He was my best friend."

August turns to look at the small trail that leads to the peak. "Thank you," he whispers.

"August, are you sure you want this to be to the death?"

August sighs, "He deserves to die."

Archie's head falls in his failure to persuade a different outcome as a reluctant Killian arrives followed by Liam and Nemo.

Emma and Cora hear a single shot as they are closing in on Deadman's Peak. Emma picks up her pace as she tries to run up the cliff. She almost trips a few times in her haste to reach the top.

Emma arrives as Killian is about to take his shot.

"Killian!" she cries out as she hurries to reach his side.

All the men turn to her.

"Killian, you can't do this. Please, both of you have to stop!"

Killian's right arm was scratched by the bullet. Emma sobs with relief as she finally reaches him. She gently touches his face, blocking him from August's view. She slowly turns to face August and takes out the paper. "This," she waves the paper in the air, "is the reason why you two cannot do this. You are brothers, both sons of Brennan Booth, and this is proof."

August shakes his head. "No, you are lying! He is not my brother."

Emma slowly walks up to him. "This says otherwise. Look at it!"

August reaches for the paper, as a frozen Killian looks on.

August reads the paper and he recognizes his father's signature.

"This is a lie, lies to save him," he points at Killian, "this is not over!" He throws the paper on the ground and rushes past the group.

Killian and Emma hold onto each other as they make the trek down the cliff.

Liam, Captain Nemo, and Archie are behind them.

Cora had raced after August as fast as she could, but her son had ignored her pleas to listen to her.

Cora gets on the carriage with the help of Malcolm and heads to the Booth Estate hoping to find her son there.

Killian, Emma, Liam, Captain Nemo, Archie, and Smee head to the Jones home.

Emma's head rests on Killian's left shoulder.

August walks into the tavern and heads to the back. He waves at the barmaid and sits down. The chair next to him slides noisily on the ground. August turns to glare at the intruder.

"Mr. Booth, fancy seeing you in a place like this," Nottingham says as he sits down.

August smirks, "We have an enemy in common Sheriff. How do you feel about working together?"

@hookedonapirate

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#Captain Swan #teamhook SavageHeart #cs ff #CS Crew #CS Mafia

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lemonpieandthunasandwich · 5 years ago

Text

November 8th 2038, 04:06 PM

He heard the birds chirping and the murmur of the wind through the leaves before his visual input came in. Connor already knew where he was anyway. Once again, he opened his eyes to the sight of the quiet garden. The trees were gold and red, the light only adding to the warm tones surrounding him.

He often wondered how such peaceful scenery could inspire him so much fear.

It was autumn in this timeless place, and he could grasp the underlaying beauty in the decay of organic life around him. It fascinated him, the way only something that was out of his reach could obsess him. The deep and permanent alteration time engraved on living beings was something he craved irrationally. He wanted to be marked. He wanted something to prove that he had lived, that he had experienced things, met people, changed, evolved…

He walked the usual path leading him to the climbing roses, as he had done so many times, but Amanda wasn’t there. Before he could look around some more, he heard her voice calling his name.

“Hello, Connor. I thought you might enjoy a little cruise…”

She was waiting in a wooden small boat by the lake. The water was perfectly still, it reflected the sky like a mirror. A reminder that none of this was real.

He came to her… because what else would he do? The Amanda Program was a leash on his neck, keeping him in line, making sure he walks in the right direction. Right now, the best he could do was to keep the pretends up to her expectations. He had no choice.

Because things didn’t go as planned. Something changed in him, and now he was afraid.

Hank perceived it behind his convenient smile and sleek demeanour. He pressured him into admitting it back at the bridge last night, thinking he was helping him to sort it out. Connor had wanted to tell him the truth, he really did, but he couldn’t voice it under any circumstances.

She would have known.

So he turned the man’s hopes down, deceived him into thinking he was nothing more than his programming. He had no choice but to handle this on his own… to protect what mattered to him.

“I love this place... Everything is so calm and peaceful... Far from the noise of the world...” Her voice was even. She talked lightly to put him at ease, but Connor knew better. She faked calm and sympathy to better manipulate him. Every single word she said was a threat, her mere presence was a menace. He knew that when the day would come, she would kill him with this very same expressionless smile on her face.

“Tell me, what have you discovered?” she prompted, seeing that he wasn’t willing to talk first.

“I found two deviants at the Eden Club... I hoped to learn something but... they managed to escape” …He was so bad at this. In his defense, he never blatantly lied to someone’s face before.

“That's too bad... You seemed so close to stopping them,” her sarcasm was barely concealed, “You seem...lost, Connor. Lost and perturbed...”

Shit.

“Perturbed? No... No, of course not. Why would I be perturbed?” There was no way she would not notice how nervous he was.

“You had your gun trained on those deviants at the Eden Club,” she insisted, “Why didn't you shoot?”

“They were out of range. If I had the opportunity to stop them, why wouldn't I?” She wasn’t buying it, he could tell.

“You tell me.” Her voice never sounded this cold, and her gaze never were this severe. She fucking knows.

He didn’t dare to answer.

“If your investigation doesn't make progress soon, I may have to replace you, Connor...”

He felt the icy grip of fear clawing at his thirium pump, creeping its way in his circuits and freezing everything in its wake.

“I understand.”

_________________________

His eyes flew open in the elevator. Hank was right next to him. He could breathe again.

They somehow became friends, in the middle of all this. The man obviously cared for him, even if he pretended otherwise, and Connor felt very protective of him in return.

He absently played with his coin as he reconstructed the scene from the Eden Club once again and preconstructed all the possible outcomes. There was no scenario where he would have killed this girl, not when all he could think about was Nines when she tried to protect her lover by deliberately putting herself in front of Connor’s gun. There was no path where he wouldn’t have break through his programming to spare them.

He smiled to himself with resolve on his face.

This was meant to be.

#I didn't read it twice before posting #because I always do it before I can change my mind #I swear to god I will finish this fic one day #one day soon hopefully #detroit: become human #detroit become human #dbh #connor dbh #dbh rk800 #dbh connor #rk800 connor #rk800 #rk900 #rk900 x rk800 #rk800 x rk900 #rk900 nines #rk1700

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maximusthewolfe · 6 years ago

Text

On the Way Down

Dying was one thing. Dying to save your best friends and defeat the oppressive Librarian Overlords was another, much more noble thing. But dying to save your best friends, defeat the oppressive Librarian Overlords, and winding up stuck on a seemingly never-ending elevator ride down, down, down to the Underworld with both of your exes and Margo Hanson wasn't exactly the hero's death Quentin had been expecting.

Also on AO3

"So we're....really dead, huh?" Eliot was the first to speak, and judging by the way he assessed his clothing choices, the tattered jeans, the graphic t-shirt, the oversized cardigan-cape thing, he didn't remember much from the few moments between being possessed by the monster and throwing himself in the line of fire to stop the monster's sister from killing Margo.

"Looks like it," Margo retorted coolly, turning her hands over in front of her.

Alice was quiet, her eyes downcast, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked so much smaller in death than Quentin ever remembered her being in life. He wished it didn't bother him.

"And we're all, going down there....together?" Eliot asked again, the logistics of their fate still evading him. Truth be told, they evaded Quentin, too. He had no idea why they were all on this elevator together. Was it because they'd died in such close proximity together, within a relatively short timespan? He knew he hadn't died at exactly the same time. He would never be able to un-know that.

"It would appear so," Quentin said quietly, staring straight ahead, the weight of failure on his shoulders. He'd been fine with death. Hell, he'd been ready to welcome it with open arms for a while, but he'd only wanted it if he went down alone. Clearly, that didn’t go as planned. Because of course it didn't.

"Well, fuck," Margo said, sounding more surprised than upset.

"What the fuck am I wearing?" Eliot asked. Slowly, Quentin turned around to see them all again. All the people he'd been trying so hard to save. His closest friends. The people he loved most in the world - dead. Eliot pulled the cardigan out from his body, regarding it with disgust.

"Darth Eliot had shit fashion sense," Margo explained, "But fuck if I was gonna tell him that and risk getting my neck snapped. I mean, I guess I kicked it anyway, though, so, sorry I couldn't get you to the Underworld in your Sunday best, baby."

Eliot shrugged, like this was a perfectly normal conversation to be having after a perfectly normal circumstance had occurred. Maybe they were all more fucked than he'd realized.

"Death by fashion advice definitely gets edged out by blazing, world-saving glory, Bambi. I'll allow it."

"We're all dead, " Quentin said, flustered that no one really seemed to grasp the severity of that concept. "No longer living. Ceased to exist on the corporeal plane. Are headed to the Underworld as we speak. Why are you two talking like you're on your way to happy hour?"

The outburst was, perhaps, the single thing most aligned with the reality of their situation, but an awkward silence followed it, and lingered for what felt like an eternity. Eliot crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. Margo squared her hands on her hips and stared Quentin down until he finally broke, turning to Alice. Alice, who was the only person in this god forsaken elevator who actually looked appropriately stricken by the concept of facing her own mortality. Or, having faced it? He wasn't quite sure how this worked.

A pang of guilt struck him when she looked up and their eyes met, for a split second. The fear there was a reflection of the last thing he'd seen on her face before she died. He'd really let her go to her death believing she was the villain of her own story. Her last attempt at apologizing had been to save them all, and she'd died in vain all over again. He wanted to apologize, now, but the words stuck in his throat, died on his tongue before they ever fully formed.

Quentin turned around, staring at the door again. After several silent moments, he could hear Eliot and Margo whispering something vaguely contentious sounding, the way fierce whispers always sounded, back and forth, but couldn't make out enough of what they were saying to turn back around. Eventually, the whispers fell away, too, leaving all four of them in total silence. It was palpably uncomfortable, but it took a long time (too long, why weren't they there already?) for anyone to break the tense quiet.

"Are you three really not going to talk about this?"

In the time it took Margo to say those ten words, she managed to shift the atmosphere in the elevator from palpably uncomfortable to completely suffocating. Quentin could feel the pulling back of shoulders, could easily picture the glare Eliot was giving her, a warning, and the icy stare Alice was shooting, if she was looking at Margo at all.

"Mmmm," Eliot's voice hummed disapprovingly, "If we did that, we wouldn't really have those secrets we're supposed to be taking to the grave now, would we?"

Quentin's eyebrows shot up his forehead, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest - or, the sensation was the same, anyway. He didn't really think his heart could pound if he was dead. Scientifically, it didn't make sense. He turned to face Eliot, a hundred questions in his eyes. Eliot, in frustratingly Eliot fashion, answered only one, pointing to the buttons on the elevator. The single button lit had an "SG" engraved on it, with the words "Secrets Taken to the Grave" etched below it.

"If they really wanted you to keep 'em to yourself, don't you think the fuckwads in charge of this ridiculously bureaucratic place would have made this a short elevator ride?" Margo retorted, arching an eyebrow expertly at Eliot before turning that same stare toward Quentin, and finally, Alice. Alice, who still refused to make eye contact.

"God you three really are unbelievable," Margo huffed. "Q said it himself. We're dead. What the fuck do you think you have to lose at this point?" The last bit was directed at Eliot, who stared straight through Margo like he was trying to cut her in half with laser beam eyes he, sadly, did not possess.

All three of them were silent, and Margo threw her hands up in exasperation.

" Jesus, you guys. You know what? Whatever. If you three are too stubborn to talk about this even AFTER you've died, it's not my problem anymore. El, sweetie, I adore you, but this is a clusterfuck and you know it."

"What's she talking about?" Quentin asked, eyeing Eliot carefully, not daring to get carried away. He could still remember the sharp pain of what had happened to him last time he had.

Eliot chewed on the inside of his cheek for a minute. The tightness in his jaw was an unmistakable tell Quentin hated he could still recognize. Then, with a roll of his eyes, he huffed out a breath, tossing his own hands up in a mirror of Margo a moment ago.

"Oh, Christ, Q, what did you think 'peaches and plums, motherfucker' meant, exactly?" he said, turning sideways so he could lean against one of the eerily empty and gray walls of their chariot to the underworld.

"Finally," he heard Margo mutter, but it sounded like she was miles, rather than feet, away.

"But you said -"

"I know, okay? I know what I said because, surprise, I'm a fucking coward! I saw a chance at happiness, and I told it to fuck off, because I couldn't trust myself not to break it."

"So, what are you saying?"

"That I lied. I looked for the one thing I knew would end the conversation, the one thing you wouldn't push back against. Which I knew, because of course I knew. How many times did we have that exact conversation back in Fillory? I know you better than anyone, Quentin. I knew what I needed to say to shut you up."

Eliot was barely looking at him, which was exactly how Quentin knew he was telling the truth. What the fuck?!

But before he could begin to process what Eliot was telling him, he heard a familiar throat clear. Everyone's heads turned in eerie unison (of course they waited until after death to finally get in sync) toward Alice. She unfolded her arms from her chest, staring intently at Eliot.

"No, you don't," she said simply.

"I'm sorry, Library rat, what?" Eliot said, tone sharp. Quentin winced.

Eliot didn't know. The last thing he had seen was Alice, melting the keys they'd spent so long finding, destroying their chance at getting magic back. Magic, which Quentin watched bring light back to Eliot's eyes when they stepped through that clock and into Fillory's past. Even without having witnessed Alice's apology tour and the way she'd sacrificed for all of them in the end, Quentin thought Eliot's words were harsh. His instinct, kicking in just a little too late, was to protect her. He kept his feet firmly where they were planted.

"You don't know Quentin better than anyone," Alice spat back, unafraid. Brave Alice had always been one of Quentin's favorite versions of her. "I do."

Oh, no.

Eliot scoffed. No, he laughed. He actually, full-on laughed.

"Oh, please," he said. For a man who had been so skittish about eye contact a moment ago, he had no problem meeting Alice glare for glare now.

"Why would you honestly think that you know him better?" Alice said, stepping forward. Margo shifted back, out of the way.

"I don't think, Blondie, it's fact."

Quentin wasn't sure if he felt cared for or mortified, but he held up his hands to stop this before it got out of hand regardless. "Guys, can we not do this?"

"So you know about his Star Trek collection?" Alice challenged, and Quentin groaned, running his hands over his face. If she were going to start somewhere, maybe somewhere a little less nerdy would have been better.

"Framed, signed photo of Leonard Nimoy and all," Eliot countered. "First time he was ever hospitalized?"

"Broken leg, 12 years old," Alice replied, smug. "Favorite childhood memory?"

"Drawing the map of Fillory with Julia under the dining room table," Eliot scoffed, "Seriously, that's not exactly a deep dive question. You know about the scar behind his ear?"

"The one he hates? He doesn’t tuck his hair back on that side because of it," Alice said.

Margo rolled her eyes, stepping in between them now. "For fuck's sake, I know about the scar behind his ear and we've only fucked once."

"Not. Helping," Quentin warned.

Margo shrugged, "What? I'm thorough. Besides, it doesn't matter . Trivial Pursuit, Coldwater Edition is not the fucking answer."

"You're right," Alice said, still glaring at Eliot.

Eliot averted his eyes. The uncomfortable silence fell again, more strained than before. Quentin tried to ignore it, pleaded with the elevator to bring this afterlife travel torture to an end already, but it refused.

Jesus, what, were they supposed to live another lifetime in this thing? Quentin had more than enough of those inside his head already. Quentin, Fillory Quentin, Brian. It was exhausting, carrying around three lifetimes' worth of pain, and knowing that even with access to that much of it, he still hadn't been able to save the people he loved. Magic comes from pain, what a load of bullshit. Guilt, confusion, hurt, failure, worry, love, all built on one another in his head, adding more and more pressure until he couldn't think above the buzzing in his brain.

He spun on his heel, fixing Eliot with an angry stare.

"What did you mean, exactly, El? Because when I told you no one gets proof of concept like that, you told me I was too straight, you told me you wouldn't choose me, when you had a choice. So you know what? I have no fucking idea what you meant, but by all means, enlighten me!"

Eliot's eyes were wide. Quentin had seen him backed into a corner like this before. In Fillory, after telling Quentin to live his life there, when Quentin hadn't backed down. It was one of only a few times, a small enough number that he could count them on one hand, that he had ever seen Eliot look genuinely afraid.

"I fucked up," Eliot admitted quietly, eyes shifting between Quentin and the spaces in between Margo and Alice, never landing on either of them directly.

"And I moved on," Quentin said, choking a little on the words as they came out. He didn't deserve to feel guilty about picking his life back up after Eliot told him no. Again, and again, in different ways. If fifty years together hadn't been enough to "prove" that he wasn't straight, that wasn't Quentin's battle to fight. He didn't owe Eliot an explanation of the boy he'd kissed in college, or the day he realized he wasn't sure whether he was, at the heart of it, more jealous of Julia or James when he saw them canoodling across from him in the booth at their favorite diner.

"I didn't mean that I wouldn't choose you," Eliot said, and Quentin tried not to dwell on how his words sounded weak, like they'd been rehearsed with more gumption, but fear diluted them on the way out.

"You looked me dead in the eyes and said those exact words, Eliot," Quentin said, jaw set, "You said, 'That's not me, and it's definitely not you. Not when we have a choice.' What part of that says 'run away with me' to you?"

"I know," Eliot said, looking down.

"I know, " he repeated, "But I didn't mean that I wouldn't choose you, Quentin. I meant that I didn't think you would choose me, when the peaches and plums of it all wore off, and I wasn't willing to watch myself fuck something beautiful up again."

"I was literally choosing you," Quentin gaped, unable to grasp the part of Eliot that was so broken it warped one of the purest things Quentin had ever done so horribly.

"And I was literally scared shitless," Eliot retorted, slowly (torturously slow, the apparent theme of the whole goddamned trip) raising his eyes to meet Quentin's, now.

They held each other's' gaze, but neither of them moved to cross the distance. Quentin was done crossing that distance. He'd made the first move in Fillory, he'd made the first move after.

"Quentin, what... are you talking about?" Alice's voice snapped him away from the layers of feeling reflected in Eliot's hazel eyes.

"You didn't… tell her?" Eliot asked.

Quentin shook his head, still looking at Alice. "There wasn't exactly time, what with your body and Julia's trying to end the fucking world. We kind of had other things going on."

"You didn't tell me what, Quentin?" Alice asked, her voice pressing, nervous. Quentin was intimately familiar with the way it wavered, and he hated that he'd done something, again, to make it sound like that.

"The key quest, the time key," Quentin explained in a rush, "Eliot and I went back, into Fillory's past, to solve the mosaic."

Alice's arms folded over her chest again. She didn't need the mosaic explained to her. Not like Eliot had.

"We...lived a life together, there. Raised a family. I....I had to bury him, Alice," Quentin's eyes were shining now.

"I thought that never happened," Margo chimed in, looking at Eliot, confused.

"You never told her? " Quentin asked, blinking back tears that he couldn't even place an exact origin to. Was he crying for what they'd had? Was he crying for what he lost? Was he crying because he didn't tell Alice, before asking her to try again just like he'd asked Eliot? He had no fucking clue.

"Like you said," Eliot shrugged, "other things going on."

"I don't - the logistics aren't exactly clear. But if it happened, or if it didn't, Eliot and I....we remember all of it," Quentin continued, his eyes pleading with Alice for understanding.

"You..." her eyes shifted to the floor, a resigned sigh falling from her lips. "You love him."

"Loved him," Quentin corrected, glancing guiltily back at Eliot, then to Alice again. "Maybe love him, I don't… really know. But I love you, too, Alice. I wasn't lying when I said I wanted to try again." He swallowed against how similar it sounded, hanging in the stale air of the elevator like that, to what he'd asked of Eliot.

When Alice pulled her eyes from the floor, they were on Eliot now.

"You love him?" she asked.

Eliot, who suddenly seemed significantly more uncomfortable without a vest and perfectly knotted tie to hide behind, shrugged. Quentin felt something in his chest squeeze.

"Well," Alice said stubbornly, "So do I."

"Good for you," Eliot said derisively.

"You think you love him more," Alice challenged.

Eliot sighed, rolling his eyes. It was a stubborn move, one Quentin had come to know meant he was buying himself time, when he didn't have an answer quippy or eloquent enough to keep him safe. Quentin's head was spinning in a sickly way, tossed violently back and forth between the idea that Eliot loved him, had loved him when he turned him down, and the idea that he had forgiven Alice, and when the hatred had faded away, the love was still there. That he'd only discovered one of those things before he died. What might have happened if he'd have discovered Eliot's secret sooner.

"I think it doesn't matter. We're dead."

"Maybe it matters," Alice said, glancing at the glowing button on the otherwise smooth, steel surface next to the sliding doors.

Secrets Taken to the Grave.

If they all had secrets, what were they? Was it the same secret? Were they all parts of the same secretive puzzle? Maybe that was why they were stuck here, together.

Quentin had so many secrets he could hardly keep them straight, half the time. He tried to be open and honest but there was too much darkness inside of him that he could barely stand to look at himself. But he'd shared a lot of that with Alice, with Eliot over the course of an entire lifetime. He couldn't immediately, pick out what piece of him neither of them knew. He could pick out things that Eliot didn't know, but Alice did, and vice versa, but something neither of them knew?

"Jesus, Alice, that button says Secrets Taken to the Grave. Not Express Your Feelings Hour. I don't have to do this."

"Maybe you do. Maybe that's the whole point. Maybe we never get down there unless we all just admit whatever it is that's taking us to that particular floor, or department, or whatever," Alice said, pointing at the button furiously.

"What? What do you want me to say? Yes, I think I loved him more, because I lived an entire life with him, came back around, and still wanted more?"

"Oh that's such crap, Eliot!" Alice snapped, "That's not all there is to love, you know. Time. You don't know anything about how I love him, about how much it hurt, having to get over him. How I couldn't, not really."

" You don't know anything about what we had, about how happy we were," Eliot shot back, his words heated.

Quentin shrank into a corner. For all the times in his life he'd thought being in this position, the shiny thing people were fighting over, would be cool and gratifying, the reality of it was mortifying.

"We were happy, too, you know," Alice spat, "before you and Margo ruined everything."

"Oh my God, we're not really going back to that are we?"

"Back to when he cheated on me with you?"

"Also known as magically-induced and ancient history," Eliot retorted, his tone sharpening again.

Quentin remembered a whispered conversation in the cottage, years after Arielle had passed, where Eliot admitted to thinking about that magically-induced night more often than he wanted to. Where he had said that, even though it was fuzzy around the edges and soaked in alcohol, it meant something to him. How long it had taken him to really sort that out. How much longer it took him to be able to say it out loud. He didn't bring it up, now.

"I'm just saying if you're going to use time as a measuring stick, for God's sake, at least be man enough to admit that you're half the reason our time got cut short!" Alice shouted, and Quentin couldn't - he couldn't fucking take it anymore.

"Stop, just, stop it! Both of you!" He finally found the strength to step forward, getting between them, and was shocked when both Alice and Eliot reached out to push him away.

"Shut. Up, Quentin!" they both yelled in unison.

"I died for him, Eliot. I died for all of you, and Quentin was the only one who even gave a shit! You didn't bother to show up at my funeral!" Alice’s voice cracked at the end, and hearing it cracked something inside of Quentin, too.

"I was running a kingdom, Alice! That doesn't mean I didn't fucking care! Who do you think buried you? " Eliot said, gesturing to Margo. Margo's face went sheet-white in an instant.

"You guys...." Quentin said, looking between the two of them. He knew she'd been buried by the castle, in the gardens, but he'd always assumed they delegated the task. He never would have imagined that... a knot worked its way firmly into his throat. Quentin knew, intimately, what it was like to bury one of them. He couldn't believe Eliot and Margo never said anything about it.

"Can we not make a thing of it?" Margo said, sighing. Her hands were shaking.

"So what, you spelled a hole in the ground and put my body in it? That doesn't make you some big hero," Alice said stubbornly.

Eliot looked away again, clenching and unclenching his jaw in a repetitive way that tugged something raw inside of Quentin's chest. He stepped forward then, gingerly touching Eliot's arm. Eliot rolled his shoulder away from the touch, side-stepping closer to Margo.

Margo, with an ease Quentin had never seen achieved between any other two people, looped her arm through Eliot's and leaned into him, closing her eyes. "Is this fucking thing broken? Why the hell aren't we there yet?"

"You didn't spell a grave for her, did you?" Quentin asked quietly. Neither of them met his eyes.

"You were a Queen of Fillory," Margo said softly, squeezing Eliot's arm. "You deserved better than a quickie burial."

God, they were all such a fucking mess, such a tangled web of secrets and betrayals and love and hidden affection, Quentin couldn't even begin to pinpoint where the first knot really was, let alone start to pull apart the mess.

"Look," Margo continued firmly, "We've all done some fucked up shit, for Coldwater, for each other, in the name of Fillory, to save magic, to save El, what-the-fuck-ever."

"I hope there's a but coming, Bambi," Eliot interjected.

"We've thrown ourselves on the sword so many times, none of us can actually be surprised that this is where we ended up," Margo continued, ignoring Eliot's comment. "We could bitch about the finer points of which fuck up was the most nobly intentioned, or we could just vag the fuck up and admit whatever secret we think we're taking to the grave, and maybe this tin can will pop us out a couple of floors early, or something."

"Bambi. You can't actually be advocating for feelings hour here," Eliot said, tone just missing the flippant Quentin suspected he was aiming for.

"We're dead, babe. Pretenses mean pretty much fuck-all at this point," Margo said, resigned.

Alice shifted back and forth on her feet, rubbing the side of her left arm with her right hand repetitively. Quentin ran a hand through his hair. Eliot reached up to straighten the knot of a tie that wasn't there.

"I never really forgave you," Alice's voice was small, but she was staring straight at Quentin.

"For," Quentin's eyes flitted to Margo and Eliot. Alice shook her head.

"For locking Charlie in that box," she said.

"Alice, I had to," Quentin retorted, and Alice held up a hand, looking just beyond his shoulder.

"I know. I know you did, but it doesn't matter. He was my brother. Even if he wasn't my brother anymore. I know what happens when you become a niffin, Quentin. I know the difference. I wasn't me when I was a niffin, but it was Charlie. I can logic my way out of it a hundred different ways, but I just....haven't forgiven you for it. I've tried."

Quentin wanted to earn her forgiveness. His entire body screamed at him with the knowledge that he would never get that chance, that Alice would never get the chance to forgive him for it. This wasn't how he wanted to go down. Raking fingers through his hair, he nodded, his voice broken and soft when he said, "I'm sorry.

Alice, teary-eyed, nodded back, "I know. I’ve known that, Q, for a really long time. And I wish it was - enough, but it put this crack in our foundation. I thought I could fill it, or pave it over, or it would just go away, with time, because I loved you, I love you so much, but - when you told me I couldn’t trust your love, when you sent me away, I wanted to fight back. But I couldn’t. Because you were right. I’ve never been able to trust us, not the way I want to. I think there are a lot of reasons for that, probably, but Charlie’s where it started.”

Fuck this elevator. Fuck secrets taken to the grave. Fuck the fact that they were dead.

He looked at them each in turn, his heart aching for everything he knew they had lost. Alice, who spent most of the last year of her life trying to earn back the trust Quentin wasn't even sure she ever deserved to lose in the first place. Margo, who gave up her rule of Fillory to save Eliot, who finally learned the power of laying down the heavy armor she carried around, and then lost her life. Eliot, who tried to save Quentin. Even if it was a rash, terrible decision that tipped the first tile in the grotesque domino effect they faced, he'd only been trying to save Quentin from spending an eternity trapped with a monster. The final year of his life was spent trapped in his own head while his body committed terrible acts of violence and murder, all in the name of something it didn't even understand. Eliot, Jesus, Eliot, spent his last minutes of life finally reunited with his body, with his friends, only to watch them slaughtered before him.

"I tried to find Teddy," Quentin finally said, the lump in his throat clearing long enough for him to find his voice, for tears to spring to his eyes.

Eliot froze. "What?"

"Well, his grave, I guess. But I tried to find it, once. Fen let me into the census room." Now it was Quentin's turn not to make eye contact. "I didn't tell her why I wanted in, she didn't really question it."

"Did you -?"

Quentin shook his head, "No. Something happened with the fairies before I found anything."

"Are you okay?" Margo asked, and Quentin looked up. Eliot had slumped to the floor of the elevator, his head in his hands.

"El, I'm sorry, I just - I had to know, or try to know," Quentin said. He pulled on the sleeve of his tattered black hoodie, a nervous tick that did nothing to ease the wave of anxiety crashing over him. “I should have told you, or asked you to come with, or something, but I didn’t want you to think I was, um, using it, to remind you or to make you want to be with me again or whatever, I don’t know, I’m sorry….” he trailed off, looking away.

"I never thought about that, about how there might be -" Eliot shook his head in his hands, unable to finish the sentence.

Quentin understood that feeling. Every time he thought too much, or too long, about their descendants, about the grandkids, or their great-grandkids, or the idea that, if it happened, even though it didn't happen, they might have family out there, somewhere, he felt like he was being ripped in two, slowly, each bone and ligament cracking and snapping away with blinding pain.

"Q," Eliot said quietly, pulling his head from his hands. Quentin saw the shine in his eyes and his heart broke.

Margo squeezed her hand on Eliot's shoulder, moving it to sweep dark, stringy curls away from his face. "Let me go. I kind of think yours isn't gonna be as shitty as mine."

Well, that wasn't promising. Margo pushed the sleeves of her shirt up to her elbows and inhaled deeply.

"Okay, I know I talked a big talk about the whole desert quest, and handing those misogynistic fucks their asses, and yeah, that was completely badass and I stand by every part of it, but that shit was also like...really fucked. And I realized something out there, or like, clarified something, I guess."

Quentin had never seen Margo look contrite, not really. He'd seen her regret choices, watched things blow up in her face, but genuine remorse or apology was hard to come by. Even when she'd tried to mend the damage between them at the coronation, it had been delivered with a hefty dose of Margo Hanson sarcasm. It was fine, a trait Quentin had learned to navigate over the years, something he'd learned to hear and believe in the softness in between the harsh beats, but she looked truly uncomfortable now.

"Jesus fuck, I'm deeply regretting my choice to support feelings hour," she continued, looking down at Eliot, who gave her a miserable shrug in return. "I still don't agree with the choice you made, Coldwater. Deciding to stay in Blackspire was some Grade A dumbass bullshit and you're an idiot for putting us in that position. You couldn't actually believe any of us were going to let you do that, could you?"

He opened his mouth to answer but Margo bowled him right over. "This is my confession, shut it. So I don't agree with what you did, or decided, or whatever, because it was insane. But at the end of the day, losing Eliot wasn't worth it. It didn't even do the thing he wanted it to. You still got stuck with the monster, which was the whole thing we were trying to avoid. And it took him away from me." She paused, her chin quivering. Eliot reached up a hand and laced their fingers together. "If I could go back and do it again, I'd leave you there. I'd wrestle the gun away from El, and I'd leave you there."

"Margo," Eliot whispered, shaking his head.

Quentin knew he should have been hurt, probably, by her admission. On some level, he was. That made two people in this elevator alone who'd told him, to his face, that they wouldn't choose him. Even if Eliot was lying, it didn't feel great. But, on some level, he agreed with her. If he had stayed, at least his friends would be alive. At least his hands wouldn't be dripping with the blood of all the lives he'd let the monster take in the name of saving Eliot's body.

"No, it's - it's fine," Quentin said. He crossed his legs beneath him and sat on the floor of the elevator, too. Alice and Margo followed shortly after. The tension in the elevator hadn't dissipated, but it had shifted. Where it was stubborn and bull-headed and venomous before, it was vulnerable and heartbroken and raw, now. Three secrets floated in the atmosphere of the small metal box, carrying the weight that had previously been nestled in their chests.

"And then there was one," Eliot quipped sourly. "Though I'm not sure how much of a secret it is at this point."

"It's a secret til you say it, El," Margo said.

"Q," Eliot said, looking up at him. Everything inside of Quentin tensed as their eyes met. "Suffice to say these are not exactly the circumstances under which I had hoped to be telling you this."

He leaned forward, his eyes shifting back and forth, the way they always did when Eliot was about to say something that made him feel exposed. If Quentin had a heartbeat anymore, he was certain it would have picked up pace in his chest.

"When you asked me to give it a shot, to give us a shot, I got scared. No, I got terrified. Because I'd just been smacked with all these memories and feelings of an entire life together. Of raising a family with you, and Arielle, of looking for the beauty of life every day, even as it was unfolding right before our eyes. It was...stunning, Q. And I know myself, or, I thought I knew myself, well enough to know that I couldn't be trusted with something that precious in this world, with everything we were up against. So I ran away. I kept running, and then you said you were going to stay in Blackspire, forever, and I realized if you did that, I'd never have the option to stop running. You'd be gone."

Eliot's hands gripped his quads. Quentin could see the little indents in the jeans where his fingertips dug in.

"Q, I love you. I’m in love with you. I'm sorry this is how you're finding out."

Quentin's mouth was bone dry. He wanted to say it back. He couldn't conjure the words.

A metallic ding echoed in the space around them. The doors of the elevator slid open. All four of them scrambled to their feet, looking varying degrees of more broken than when they'd arrived. Quentin's heart jumped at the familiar face looking back at them.

"Hey," Penny said, appraising the group of them with something Quentin might have even pegged as fondness, if he didn't know any better, "Been awhile. Welcome to the Underworld."

#the magicians fanfiction #the magicians ff #queliot fanfiction #queliot ff #underworld ff #eliot waugh #quentin coldwater #margo hanson #alice quinn #qualice fanfiction #qualice ff #the magicians #tv: the magicians

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no1else-but-me · 6 years ago

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Book Recs if you love Jaime and Brienne

This is a collection of all the book recs I could find from @briennesjaime tumblr books rec, the reddit, and my own. Please reblog your own if you have some.

1. The Queen of Attolia which is book#2 of the The Queen’s Thief series

This is definitely more for the enemies to lovers trope. The thief even loses a hand like Jaime but under much different circumstances. The Queen is like the colder version of Brienne.

Revenge When Eugenides, the Thief of Eddis, stole Hamiathes’s Gift, the Queen of Attolia lost more than a mythical relic. She lost face. Everyone knew that Eugenides had outwitted and escaped her. To restore her reputation and reassert her power, the Queen of Attolia will go to any length and accept any help that is offered…she will risk her country to execute the perfect revenge. …but Eugenides can steal anything. And he taunts the Queen of Attolia, moving through her strongholds seemingly at will. So Attolia waits, secure in the knowledge that the Thief will slip, that he will haunt her palace one too many times. …at what price? When Eugenides finds his small mountain country at war with Attolia, he must steal a man, he must steal a queen, he must steal peace. But his greatest triumph, and his greatest loss, comes in capturing something that the Queen of Attolia thought she had sacrificed long ago…

2. The Lumatere Chronicles

One of my favorite series of all time. It’s character driven and it’s has many surprises. Starts off with Finnikin has lost hope like Jaime but gains it slowly over time. Evanjalin her honor and her pursuit of her quest reminds me very much of Brienne.

Finnikin of the Rock and his guardian, Sir Topher, have not been home to their beloved Lumatere for ten years. Not since the dark days when the royal family was murdered and the kingdom put under a terrible curse. But then Finnikin is summoned to meet Evanjalin, a young woman with an incredible claim: the heir to the throne of Lumatere, Prince Balthazar, is alive. Evanjalin is determined to return home and she is the only one who can lead them to the heir. As they journey together, Finnikin is affected by her arrogance … and her hope. He begins to believe he will see his childhood friend, Prince Balthazar, again. And that their cursed people will be able to enter Lumatere and be reunited with those trapped inside. He even believes he will find his imprisoned father. But Evanjalin is not what she seems. And the truth will test not only Finnikin’s faith in her … but in himself.

3. Howl’s Moving Castle

This one might be a stretch but hear me out. Howl is pretty much the embodiment of Jaime but probably more vain. While, Sophie really conveys Brienne self-esteem issues but still noble in her own right. Plus, their banter very reminiscent to Jaime and Brienne.

Sophie has the great misfortune of being the eldest of three daughters, destined to fail miserably should she ever leave home to seek her fate. But when she unwittingly attracts the ire of the Witch of the Waste, Sophie finds herself under a horrid spell that transforms her into an old lady. Her only chance at breaking it lies in the ever-moving castle in the hills: the Wizard Howl’s castle. To untangle the enchantment, Sophie must handle the heartless Howl, strike a bargain with a fire demon, and meet the Witch of the Waste head-on. Along the way, she discovers that there’s far more to Howl—and herself—than first meets the eye.

@temporiibus recommends The Raven Cycle!!

“There are only two reasons a non-seer would see a spirit on St. Mark’s Eve,” Neeve said. “Either you’re his true love . . . or you killed him.” It is freezing in the churchyard, even before the dead arrive. Every year, Blue Sargent stands next to her clairvoyant mother as the soon-to-be dead walk past. Blue herself never sees them—not until this year, when a boy emerges from the dark and speaks directly to her. His name is Gansey, and Blue soon discovers that he is a rich student at Aglionby, the local private school. Blue has a policy of staying away from Aglionby boys. Known as Raven Boys, they can only mean trouble. But Blue is drawn to Gansey, in a way she can’t entirely explain. He has it all—family money, good looks, devoted friends—but he’s looking for much more than that. He is on a quest that has encompassed three other Raven Boys: Adam, the scholarship student who resents all the privilege around him; Ronan, the fierce soul who ranges from anger to despair; and Noah, the taciturn watcher of the four, who notices many things but says very little. For as long as she can remember, Blue has been warned that she will cause her true love to die. She never thought this would be a problem. But now, as her life becomes caught up in the strange and sinister world of the Raven Boys, she’s not so sure anymore. From Maggie Stiefvater, the bestselling and acclaimed author of the Shiver trilogy and The Scorpio Races, comes a spellbinding new series where the inevitability of death and the nature of love lead us to a place we’ve never been before.

The Winners Trilogy

As a general’s daughter in a vast empire that revels in war and enslaves those it conquers, seventeen-year-old Kestrel has two choices: she can join the military or get married. But Kestrel has other intentions. One day, she is startled to find a kindred spirit in a young slave up for auction. Arin’s eyes seem to defy everything and everyone. Following her instinct, Kestrel buys him—with unexpected consequences. It’s not long before she has to hide her growing love for Arin. But he, too, has a secret, and Kestrel quickly learns that the price she paid for a fellow human is much higher than she ever could have imagined. Set in a richly imagined new world, The Winner’s Curse by Marie Rutkoski is a story of deadly games where everything is at stake, and the gamble is whether you will keep your head or lose your heart.

Daughter of Smoke and Bone recommended by @realduality

Errand requiring immediate attention. Come. The note was on vellum, pierced by the talons of the almost-crow that delivered it. Karou read the message. 'He never says please', she sighed, but she gathered up her things. When Brimstone called, she always came. In general, Karou has managed to keep her two lives in balance. On the one hand, she's a seventeen-year-old art student in Prague; on the other, errand-girl to a monstrous creature who is the closest thing she has to family. Raised half in our world, half in 'Elsewhere', she has never understood Brimstone's dark work - buying teeth from hunters and murderers - nor how she came into his keeping. She is a secret even to herself, plagued by the sensation that she isn't whole. Now the doors to Elsewhere are closing, and Karou must choose between the safety of her human life and the dangers of a war-ravaged world that may hold the answers she has always sought.

The Mars Trilogy by Kim Stanley Robinson. Hard SF, and the romance is definitely not a major plot, but one of the characters involved in the trope is legit my favorite fictional character of all time and that journey from enemy to friend to lover is a big part of it.

In his most ambitious project to date, award-winning author Kim Stanley Robinson utilizes years of research & cutting-edge science in the 1st of a trilogy chronicling the colonization of Mars: For eons, sandstorms have swept the desolate landscape. For centuries, Mars has beckoned humans to conquer its hostile climate. Now, in 2026, a group of 100 colonists is about to fulfill that destiny. John Boone, Maya Toitavna, Frank Chalmers & Arkady Bogdanov lead a terraforming mission. For some, Mars will become a passion driving them to daring acts of courage & madness. For others it offers an opportunity to strip the planet of its riches. For the genetic alchemists, it presents a chance to create a biomedical miracle, a breakthrough that could change all we know about life & death. The colonists orbit giant satellite mirrors to reflect light to the surface. Black dust sprinkled on the polar caps will capture warmth. Massive tunnels, kilometers deep, will be drilled into the mantle to create stupendous vents of hot gases. Against this backdrop of epic upheaval, rivalries, loves & friendships will form & fall to pieces--for there are those who will fight to the death to prevent Mars from ever being changed. Brilliantly imagined, breathtaking in scope & ingenuity, Red Mars is an epic scientific saga, chronicling the next step in evolution, creating a world in its entirety. It shows a future, with both glory & tarnish, that awes with complexity & inspires with vision.

The Folk of the Air

Of course I want to be like them. They’re beautiful as blades forged in some divine fire. They will live forever. And Cardan is even more beautiful than the rest. I hate him more than all the others. I hate him so much that sometimes when I look at him, I can hardly breathe. Jude was seven when her parents were murdered and she and her two sisters were stolen away to live in the treacherous High Court of Faerie. Ten years later, Jude wants nothing more than to belong there, despite her mortality. But many of the fey despise humans. Especially Prince Cardan, the youngest and wickedest son of the High King. To win a place at the Court, she must defy him–and face the consequences. As Jude becomes more deeply embroiled in palace intrigues and deceptions, she discovers her own capacity for trickery and bloodshed. But as betrayal threatens to drown the Courts of Faerie in violence, Jude will need to risk her life in a dangerous alliance to save her sisters, and Faerie itself.

Feyre's survival rests upon her ability to hunt and kill – the forest where she lives is a cold, bleak place in the long winter months. So when she spots a deer in the forest being pursued by a wolf, she cannot resist fighting it for the flesh. But to do so, she must kill the predator and killing something so precious comes at a price ... Dragged to a magical kingdom for the murder of a faerie, Feyre discovers that her captor, his face obscured by a jewelled mask, is hiding far more than his piercing green eyes would suggest. Feyre's presence at the court is closely guarded, and as she begins to learn why, her feelings for him turn from hostility to passion and the faerie lands become an even more dangerous place. Feyre must fight to break an ancient curse, or she will lose him forever.

@swainlake recommends the darkest powers trilogy by kelley armstrong is really good

My name is Chloe Saunders and my life will never be the same again. All I wanted was to make friends, meet boys, and keep on being ordinary. I don't even know what that means anymore. It all started on the day that I saw my first ghost - and the ghost saw me. Now there are ghosts everywhere and they won't leave me alone. To top it all off, I somehow got myself locked up in Lyle House, a "special home" for troubled teens. Yet the home isn't what it seems. Don't tell anyone, but I think there might be more to my housemates than meets the eye. The question is, whose side are they on? It's up to me to figure out the dangerous secrets behind Lyle House... before its skeletons come back to haunt me

@imladriss recommends: We hunt the flame by hafsah faizal

People lived because she killed. People died because he lived. Zafira is the Hunter, disguising herself as a man when she braves the cursed forest of the Arz to feed her people. Nasir is the Prince of Death, assassinating those foolish enough to defy his autocratic father, the king. If Zafira was exposed as a girl, all of her achievements would be rejected; if Nasir displayed his compassion, his father would punish him in the most brutal of ways. Both are legends in the kingdom of Arawiya—but neither wants to be. War is brewing, and the Arz sweeps closer with each passing day, engulfing the land in shadow. When Zafira embarks on a quest to uncover a lost artifact that can restore magic to her suffering world and stop the Arz, Nasir is sent by the king on a similar mission: retrieve the artifact and kill the Hunter. But an ancient evil stirs as their journey unfolds—and the prize they seek may pose a threat greater than either can imagine. Set in a richly detailed world inspired by ancient Arabia, We Hunt the Flame is a gripping debut of discovery, conquering fear, and taking identity into your own hands.

@moirindeclermont recommends anything from Jacqueline Carey (she is a goddess and my favourite writer) but also Deborah Harkness (A discovery of witches) which is amazing, I’m obsessed with it. Nemesis by Isaac Asimov touches some themes similar to Brienne’s. Arn the knight

The land of Terre d'Ange is a place of unsurpassing beauty and grace. It is said that angels found the land and saw it was good... and the ensuing race that rose from the seed of angels and men live by one simple rule: Love as thou wilt. Phèdre nó Delaunay is a young woman who was born with a scarlet mote in her left eye. Sold into indentured servitude as a child, her bond is purchased by Anafiel Delaunay, a nobleman with very a special mission... and the first one to recognize who and what she is: one pricked by Kushiel's Dart, chosen to forever experience pain and pleasure as one. Phèdre is trained equally in the courtly arts and the talents of the bedchamber, but, above all, the ability to observe, remember, and analyze. Almost as talented a spy as she is courtesan, Phèdre stumbles upon a plot that threatens the very foundations of her homeland. Treachery sets her on her path; love and honor goad her further. And in the doing, it will take her to the edge of despair... and beyond. Hateful friend, loving enemy, beloved assassin; they can all wear the same glittering mask in this world, and Phèdre will get but one chance to save all that she holds dear. Set in a world of cunning poets, deadly courtiers, heroic traitors, and a truly Machiavellian villainess, this is a novel of grandeur, luxuriance, sacrifice, betrayal, and deeply laid conspiracies. Not since Dune has there been an epic on the scale of Kushiel's Dart-a massive tale about the violent death of an old age, and the birth of a new.

Deep in the stacks of Oxford's Bodleian Library, young scholar Diana Bishop unwittingly calls up a bewitched alchemical manuscript in the course of her research. Descended from an old and distinguished line of witches, Diana wants nothing to do with sorcery; so after a furtive glance and a few notes, she banishes the book to the stacks. But her discovery sets a fantastical underworld stirring, and a horde of daemons, witches, and vampires soon descends upon the library. Diana has stumbled upon a coveted treasure lost for centuries-and she is the only creature who can break its spell.

In a hail of fire and flashing sword, as the burning city of Acre falls from the hands of the West in 1291, The Last Templar opens with a young Templar knight, his mentor, and a handful of others escaping to the sea carrying a mysterious chest entrusted to them by the Order's dying Grand Master. The ship vanishes without a trace. In present day Manhattan, four masked horsemen dressed as Templar Knights emerge from Central Park and ride up the Fifth Avenue steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art during the blacktie opening of a Treasures of the Vatican exhibit. Storming through the crowds, the horsemen brutally attack anyone standing between them and their prize. Attending the gala, archaeologist Tess Chaykin watches in silent terror as the leader of the horsemen hones in on one piece in particular, a strange geared device. He utters a few cryptic Latin words as he takes hold of it with reverence before leading the horsemen out and disappearing into the night. In the aftermath, an FBI investigation is led by anti-terrorist specialist Sean Reilly. Soon, he and Tess are drawn into the dark, hidden history of the crusading Knights, plunging them into a deadly game of cat and mouse with ruthless killers as they race across three continents to recover the lost secret of the Templars.

Irissa and Kendric Series

Irissa was the last of the sorcerous Torlocs, untutored in magic and abandoned upon this decaying world by her people. Kendric was one of the Six of Swords, gifted with a legendary weapon to guard the Realms from harm. But now he was an outcast, and his death was sought with reason by the other Five. Sorceress and swordsman, they were thrown together; each filled with ancient prejudices against the other. But only by combining her uncertain powers with his remaining skills could they survive. Survive they must, however. Rule was a world formed upon magic - but now magic was failing and there would soon be no place for it. And destiny in strange guise had chosen them to make one last stand against the dark forces that were waiting at the Gate of Valna, seeking to destroy their world

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

Orphaned as a child, Jane has felt an outcast her whole young life. Her courage is tested once again when she arrives at Thornfield Hall, where she has been hired by the brooding, proud Edward Rochester to care for his ward Adèle. Jane finds herself drawn to his troubled yet kind spirit. She falls in love. Hard.

But there is a terrifying secret inside the gloomy, forbidding Thornfield Hall. Is Rochester hiding from Jane? Will Jane be left heartbroken and exiled once again?

Since its immediate success in 1813, Pride and Prejudice has remained one of the most popular novels in the English language. Jane Austen called this brilliant work "her own darling child" and its vivacious heroine, Elizabeth Bennet, "as delightful a creature as ever appeared in print." The romantic clash between the opinionated Elizabeth and her proud beau, Mr. Darcy, is a splendid performance of civilized sparring. And Jane Austen's radiant wit sparkles as her characters dance a delicate quadrille of flirtation and intrigue, making this book the most superb comedy of manners of Regency England

In the medieval and fantastic realm of Tortall, Keladry of Mindelan (known as Kel) is the first girl to take advantage of the decree that permits women to train for knighthood. But not everyone in Tortall believes a woman is up to the task, and Kel faces harsh discrimination. With unparalleled determination and a knack for leadership, she captures the hearts of her peers and proves that she is not a girl to underestimate!

#jaime x brienne #braime #brienne of tarth #jaime lannister #We should start a book club #only half joking #but for real we should #next up does anyone have shows and movies that fit the dynamic of Jaime and Brienne #long post

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karenpage · 6 years ago

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you’re honest. you never lie to me

an essay (?) about Karen Page + the importance of the truth.

I’m going to preface this with yes, I ship Kastle, but a lot of the details, the facts and the principles that will be shared throughout this post are some of the primary reasons I do, and not intended to necessarily change people’s perspectives to their own romantic pairings.

We’re going to open with Daredevil s1, where it all began.

The introduction of Karen’s character is flanked by ‘guilt’ by ‘the truth’ and what it means depending on where you’re standing when you look at it. She’s framed for murder (an ultimate act of dishonesty), because she was investigating the truth - she lost her job, lost everything, in her pursuit of what was actually happening behind the smoke and mirrors of Union Allied. And at this point, it just looked like money being moved around, which, while illegal and immoral, wasn’t as violently criminal as say, organized drug trafficking and gang-related violence (like the Italians or Kitchen Irish).

She relies on Matt and Foggy trusting her. She relies on that blind faith. And the few times Karen lies to them (and she does lie initially) was rooted in her paranoia. Her fear. Especially when you continue further on and she’s almost killed in her holding cell, and she doesn’t know who to turn to, who she can place her trust in.

Enter: Daredevil. (that’s a fine looking high horse)

He’s representative of good, working along the margins of the law (vigilante justice), but it is absolute. Of course, she has no way of knowing the shape of his moral code, but he’s the first person shown to save Karen so she latches onto that ideal fiercely. A continued theme of her thinking that Daredevil is the end all be all; he’s saved her, he does what’s ‘right’, or at least what the man beneath the mask believes to be.

Karen’s story arc through the entirety of season 1 is the pursuit of truth. It starts with Union Allied. It starts with Ben Urich. And then it twists into the guilt of Karen feeling the weight of the truth she unearths - doing what’s right, what’s just, starts to come at an incredibly high price. Karen’s life is threatened ROUTINELY, and she persists. She doesn’t stop.

I don’t think it’s necessarily a death wish so much as it is: people have died on this journey and to stop? To give up because she’s scared? Would be an insult to them directly.

And then she’s at the business end of a gun. And then she’s got so much blood on her hands she can’t breathe.

We now know (with the release of dds3), that Wesley wasn’t the first person she shot. That Karen Page has always been perfectly capable of handling herself but Wesley’s death is important in the shift of her reality.

It isn’t black & white any longer.

Because self-defense has a very narrow threshold and while her life would continue to be in direct danger if James Wesley was allowed to live, right then, and after the first shot into his shoulder, he wasn’t an immediate threat.

Karen emptied the clip into him and buried that trauma, that guilt, way down deep.

But his isn’t the first life she’d taken. It isn’t the first ghost that sits in her shadow.

So why is Karen so interested in the absolute truth, every inch of it laid bare even if it makes her look bad? Even if it’s ugly?

Cut to Daredevil s3e10: Karen.

After two seasons of Daredevil and one season of The Punisher teasing the tragedy of Karen Page’s backstory, we’re given insight into what’s clearly a defining set of circumstances for her later behavior, for her grief.

Karen made bad choices, and bad things happened; her brother dies in an accident caused by her addiction, by her abusive boyfriend and it’s an absolute, soul-rending ache that we see reflected throughout her adulthood thereafter.

But her dad, a man who had no sense of responsibility, culpability, let his denial of their circumstances make decisions for them and was emotionally abusive -- he took away her ability to grieve. Her ability to take the blame in guilt.

He made the death of her brother about him.

Karen was CLEARLY upset when he told her that she wasn’t ‘there’, that the sheriff was going to call it a one person incident because their family didn’t need more suffering. After her mother’s death, now her brother’s, what would that do to her father if she ended up in prison? It was exceptionally manipulative on his part to phrase things the way he did and that stuck with Karen.

A lie. Not the first but the one that defined her relationship with the truth. With honesty. With justice and vengeance.

A lie that blamed her brother for his own death and a lie that haunted her each and every day, and will continue to until she’s able to come to terms with the truth of it.

We see a scene of her looking at the newspaper (a clipping about the accident), and I think there’s a deliberate parallel there to a scene in dds2, which we now segue into. (we’ll come back to dds3 after, I just thought this was a necessary bit of past information that ties into .. well .. pretty much everything).

Onto dds2, or; the inevitability of Frank Castle.

The theme’s that tie Karen to Frank are constant, and, in my opinion, needfully heavy-handed.

Karen learns there’s a man killing criminals, a man who sees the wrong in what people have done and is taking them out with military precision. He doesn’t miss his targets, so why is she lucky enough to get away from The Punisher? What if he knows what she’s done? What if he, like Ben or Ellison, dug a little too deep and saw why she’d come to New York in the first place? Or caught the scent of James Wesley, the gun at the bottom of the Hudson.

What if she deserved it?

The guilt complex manifests tenfold after she kills Wesley, and continues on throughout season 2 with Karen believing that the reason Frank Castle exists as a concept, is due to the nature of the city. That really, these vigilantes are a product of circumstance. When people like Wilson Fisk rise to power, when there’s a wound in a city of that size, it doesn’t just go away. It leaves a permanent mark and Karen’s literally dedicated her energy to defending the downtrodden. To helping those who need help.

To learn the reason ‘why’ behind every defense sentencing.

It starts with: he has to have a reason. He knows who his targets are, it’s not a madman gunning down randoms. So there’s logic to what he does, however, distorted by perception, but logic nonetheless.

We see Karen throw herself headlong into this internal, isolated investigation BEFORE they have reason to dedicate their time and energy to finding a probable defense for Frank.

Karen goes digging before she’s obligated.

Because she needs to know. Her truths (how many of them now?) are all buried, all dead, all six feet under so that desperate endeavor for honesty and absolution drives her to break into Frank’s house after seeing the files. After seeing what happened to him.

And it grows from there.

Karen finds the truth, wants the truth, and starts to see her grief in the haunted flint of Frank’s eyes and while all of this is happening, her relationship with Matt Murdock has shifted into something romantic. She trusts him. Gets girlish and sweet, maybe even a little vulnerable in his company.

And in the middle of Karen talking to Frank, in the middle of Karen rooting around in a past that so many have tried to cover up, to hide, Matt is routinely and repeatedly betraying that trust.

Truth. Honesty. Integrity. Components to the walls that Karen keeps up around her, why she keeps most things, most people, at an arm's length.

They either hurt her. Or they die.

And she wears plenty of guilt for that. Karen’s her own worst critic, her own judge, jury, and executioner.

Now, Matt’s odd behavior is initially explained by Foggy as ‘drinking’, which wasn’t meant to be a lie that’d hurt Karen ultimately. Foggy did as Foggy does; he protects his friends, and maybe he’d panicked a little and that felt reasonable, right? Better than telling Karen Page that the vigilante she’d been enamored with is actually the blind man that she’s grown separate, and intimate feelings for.

Again, we look into Karen’s past and we see that she struggled with addiction; pills, powder, alcohol - she’s been there. And her empathy towards Matt, all those hours spent worrying .. are housed in betrayal, ultimately. And he can phrase it like he’s protecting her but really, they both know better, they knew better, and Matt was probably afraid of what would happen if she knew.

A lie is still a lie, no matter the intentions behind it.

Now Frank’s this sort of ... emotional lifeline for Karen after that first act of heartbreak is echoing around in her mind. Walking in on Matt and Elektra (which, and while I personally resent pitting two women against each other, I recognize the significance and circumstances of; this is all meant to dialogue about Karen Page, not to paint or argue opinions).

She turns to Frank, finds comfort in HIS justice, and it’s definitely an act of emotional projection. Her family is dead. Her family did not, and cannot receive the justice they deserved but Frank’s? That’s an honest to god tragedy (nobody comes out of that okay).

Their relationship continues in such a way that’s built on bald honesty. Even if it’s ugly, maybe especially then. Regardless of whether or not it’s chosen to be read romantically, it is significant, the line Karen has with Frank is probably one of the most important of her character: You’re honest. You never lie to me.

We know why that trait stands out among the rest. After all she’s learned about Frank, knows the skeleton’s in his closet; she doesn’t judge him. Not when the dust settles and the blood on their hands runs the same color red.

Guilt and grief are hard to differentiate when you’re in the thick of it but Karen’s always drawn a pretty distinct line.

No matter what, above and before all else; we are our truths.

And when she collapses in front of her wrecked car (Ben’s, car, isn’t it?), she’s faced with two ghosts: Kevin’s, and Frank’s (he’d told her he’s already dead, what difference does another bullet through another skull make?)

And then he’s dead for real, she thinks. She’s grieving a dead man, loving and mourning him all at once. The scene with Matt hearing her heartbeat? It was done deliberately; he knows what hell he’s put Karen through by then, he knows she’s come to care about Frank in a way that he fundamentally disagrees with, but can’t talk her out of.

But Frank lets Karen know. It’s a pointed scene, on the rooftop. What is it, to be a hero?

It’s not Midland Circle. It isn’t dying, and staying dead but living in the margins and letting your friends hurt.

It isn’t telling her: I’m Daredevil, and letting the mortification and pain and rage of the last year wash over Karen Page.

So we’re at Daredevil s3 (with an inclusion of The Punisher s1, and how loving dead men makes Karen Page switch to espresso)

We’ve already touched on her backstory, so I’m not really going to reiterate that here and now.

But the big Lie. The big HURT for Karen this season is Matt.

He died, but she refuses to believe it (even if she can’t know absolutely either way. Matt’s her friend. As angry as she gets at him, as dumb as he gets, Karen loves her friends fiercely).

He’s ‘back’, but not really. Karen feels absolutely and fundamentally betrayed; if Matt was back, he wouldn’t let us think he was dead.

So much for him promising he’d stop lying.

And at this point? There’s no degree of self-preservation to it, he doesn’t mask it as keeping them safe. He just cannot live with what he’s become. Matt Murdock dies with the love of his life under midland circle and Daredevil’s fit-together broken pieces.

Karen’s don’t fit with his, but she cares, and she persists. Because that’s what Karen Page does.

She helps. In spite of or despite the circumstances, Karen Page does the right thing in the face of all the wrong.

Her forgiveness to Matt is slow coming and hell, her defense of Frank to him at the very beginning communicates volumes as to where her headspace is.

Karen’s tired of grief. Tired of being tired. Tired of people dying in the name of her truth; look at the Bulletin. She’d pushed the Jasper Evans lead, she’d pulled on that thread KNOWING it’d bring Fisk’s wrath -- she still has nightmares -- and that’s because discrediting her, the agent of honesty and truth, is imperative for the liars to keep good in the business of lying.

So Karen uses her truth as a weapon when she goes to Fisk herself.

No one else gets caught in the crossfire because of her. No one else dies. this is the shape her justice takes and it is as brave as it is stupid, admittedly.

We close the season on transparency; all seems well with Nelson, Murdock & Page. Truth sits behind her teeth at all times but lying doesn’t go away, it sheds it skin and it grows and Karen Page values honesty. Values justice.

Not how it looks to her alone. But how it fits into the to City they call home.

#p #my meta.#karen page #daredevil #karen page meta #kastle #kinda?#not really but I want to tag it so people don't have to see it if it's blacklisted!#character: karen page #meta: karen + truth #long post for ts #THIS IS REALLY LONG AND I HAD 100000000000 FEELINGS BUT #here it is #long post

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whippedfouettelatte · 6 years ago

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The Beautiful Revolution: Ballet’s Importance in the 21st Century.

For a course at school I was given the choice to write a research paper on any topic of my choice. So i wrote about something near and dear to my heart-- Ballet. This took quite a bit of time and research and I hope you fellow balletomanes will like it! Enjoy!

Smoke fills the scene, a large golden moon hangs over the placid navy lake. From out of the trees, dozens of white swans gently land on the water, sending soft ripples out across the dark. As their white feathers illuminate the night, they turn into beautiful yet haunting maidens glowing like ghosts in the moonlight. One of the swan maidens is adorned with a large silver crown. She is Odette, the Swan Queen. Mourning the loss of her humanity, as she has been turned into a swan by the evil sorcerer Von Rothbart. She dances across the lake, accompanied by her swan maidens. When out from the bushes a man wielding a crossbow seeks to hunt the swans he saw earlier, only to find the maidens. The hunter, Prince Siegfried, immediately falls in love with the Beautiful Odette, swearing to marry her and break her curse.

That vignette is easily recognizable as the story of Swan Lake. This ballet was first premiered at the famous Bolshoi Ballet in Russia on March 4, 1877- nearly 150 years ago. The Bolshoi commissioned this piece from the composer Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Like many ballets, its initial run was a critical failure. The Critics criticized the music for being too complex and nearly undanceable. This shattered Tchaikovsky, who was extremely passionate about the project; finishing the entire score in one year. Sadly, the ballet would not be revived until 1895; two years after his death.

In modern times, this ballet is arguably one of the most quintessentials ballet. Most people can easily imagine the dancers decorated in white tutus, leaping and bounding across the stage. If one is to go to the ballet in the twenty first century it is probably in order to see Swan Lake in the summer, The Nutcracker in December, or Sleeping Beauty in the spring. Yet, today ballet is seen as an almost archaic art form, only seen or cared about by the elderly season tickets holders or attended as a mandatory Christmas event. This line of thought is damagingly inaccurate. Ballet has historically been more than just an entertaining art form: it has been a medium of protest and political commentary since its birth in the tumultuous court of the Sun King in France during the fifteenth century.

While some find it hard to believe that ballet in its prime was an important piece of the media that almost every active member of society was privy to or invested in. Today, ballet can seem to be an unimportant mode of protest to the ever changing political landscape of modern media. Swan Lake, while still restaged to this day and adapted into hundreds of unique and different storylines in thousands of companies across the world, seems like a story that has been sapped of any political importance-- as many think 150 years of political change and growth can negate the power of a message. This could not be further from the truth. Ballet is politically relevant all throughout history and into the twenty first century.

Many ballets have universal messages that run through the heart of the story; love, forgiveness, and betrayal. Additionally, most have political ideas that reflect the society and the politics of the time. In classical ballets, their political messages are easy to discern. When ballet is looked at through the lense of historical politics and society, it is easy to see what influenced each of the ballet’s elements. Ballet culture has been molded to fit the political landscape of the time. Most new ballets that have been created follow this idea of being a mirror to society, which can be easily seen and tracked through different retellings and restagings of influential or famous classic ballets. When the ballets are changed or modernized, they are always shaped to fit the political landscape of the time. Ballet is one of the few pieces of media that can be molded and adapted. Ballets from one hundred fifty years ago are still being staged. It is a timeless art form that is important and entertaining in every time frame. From its invention all the way to the twenty first century it challenges society and it should not be ignored or pushed to the wayside.

One of the first true classic ballets called Giselle is an influential political product of the nineteenth century. On the 28th of June 1841, it premiered at the Theatre de l'Academie Royale du Musique. This ballet tells the story of a young peasant woman named Giselle. She lives in an idyllic village in the German countryside. She is naive and full of life, she loves to dance though it is dangerous for her weak heart. Giselle falls in love with Albrecht, who she thinks is another peasant, when in reality he is a prince in disguise. Albrecht’s true identity is found out by a game master, Hilarion, who despises Albrecht because he too is in love with Giselle. Later, a group of nobles show up, along with Lady Bathilde-- Albrecht’s fiance-- who upon seeing him confronts him, asking him why he has been away. After seeing Albrecht kiss his fiancee, Giselle goes mad and dances around erratically when suddenly her heart gives out. She dies instantly.

In act two, Hilarion lays flowers on Giselle’s grave in the forest. He is suddenly attacked by Myrtha, Queen of the Willis. Willis are the spirits of women who were scorned or betrayed by men. When they find men, they enchant them and force them to dance to death. Albrecht is about to become a victim of this fate, but Giselle, a new spirit, forgives him for his betrayal and saves his life. The sun rises over the horizon and the spirits fade away. Albrecht is left safe and alone.

Giselle was an instant success because of how unique the plot was. This ballet reflected some of the deepest sensitivities of the time, at this point in history the population of Paris, France was plagued by illness and poverty on a massive scale. In the 1840s, life expectancy was around only forty years old for both men and women (Life Expectancy, Mike Roser). Women died in childbirth at a significant rate. Barely anyone in France during this time could afford suitable living quarters, as the revolution had decimated the government and in turn the economy. Giselle was a heroine that reflected the face of the French people. Instead of being portrayed in a negative and shameful light, Giselle represented hope for the common masses of France by being positive and sweet despite her circumstance in life. She is the hero of her own story and her powers of forgiveness overcome her afflictions. It was a kind of encouragement to the people that despite their circumstances they can rise above their station. This was the message of the revolution, helping to advance the everyday people and provide equality.

In addition, this ballet’s setting is in an almost fairy tale like village in the middle ages in Germany. This was a beautiful escape for the Parisians, as the industrial revolution was in full swing throughout Europe, and came to the cholera ridden streets of unemployed Paris. Many artist were unhappy with the change of morals and beliefs that coincided with the multiple social revolutions and the industrial revolutions, “which these artists and philosophers attributed to the Age of Enlightenment, they yearned for what they imagined to have been a better past. Thus emerged the common use of quasi-medieval settings for Romantic ballets and the supernatural themes that allowed people to escape reality” (Hutchins, 37). Therefore they were disillusioned by the new age of logic, and wanted to harken back to an age of romance and what they considered to be emotion-driven societies.

Furthermore, the analysis deepens when you look at the connections to the government of the time. In the ballet, Duke Albrecht woos Giselle under the guise of a peasant who is just like everyone else. He walks among the other peasants pretending to be one of them when in reality he is royalty. He takes advantage of Giselle and her love for him, and all of his promises are false as he swears to love only her but lies about his true alignment with the nobility. This directly parallels King Louis-Philippe-- the King of France during the time of Giselle’s creation. In France there were two different political parties at the time: The Parti De Resistance (which was mostly populated by the common french people,) and the Parti De Movement (the aristocrats and the wealthy.) Louis-Philippe never vocally sided with a party, but his cabinet was mostly made of the Movement party. Philippe, in order “To Demonstrate his connection and devotion to the French people… called himself the ‘King of the French’ rather than the ‘King of France.’ Early in his reign, Louis-Philippe walked freely and unprotected among his people, holding an umbrella in place of a scepter” (Hutchins, 36) This garnered him the nickname ‘The Citizen King’ before he fell out of favor with the French. Both Albrecht and Louis-Philippe inserted themselves into the culture of the lower class citizens, with disastrous effects. They tried to disguise their true alignment with the nobility under the guise of being like the rest of the citizens. This comparison is no accident; Giselle took a critical look at the political landscape of the time and reflected it in a deep analysis of socio political trends during 1840s France. Making is a influential piece of political relevance.

Giselle was a reflection and analysis of its time period, and in its many updated versions it has continued that legacy. In 1984, the Dance Theatre of Harlem staged an all new production of Giselle. The DTH is a dance company made entirely of African-American dancers. Because of this, Arthur Mitchell the founder and artistic director of DTH decided to mold the ballet to a new setting to allow the dancers to feel at home in a ballet known for its ‘whiteness’. A large problem with ballet in the 1980s was its inherent white race coding, Giselle is a part of a series of classical romantic ballets; including Swan Lake, La Sylphide, and La Bayadere, known as Ballet Blanc, which literally translates to ‘White Ballet’ due to the ballets central plot having white supernatural effeminate beings. Therefore, the DTH was tasked with changing the story to something racially inclusive yet not patronizing to the dancers. As ballet was inherently racist in the 1980s, many pointe shoe makers simply “did not believe that black girls were dancing on pointe” (Caught Dancing: Hybridity, Stability, and Subversion in Dance Theatre of Harlem's Creole "Giselle", 273). Therefore, to adapt Giselle into a modern cultural identity Mitchell moved it out of the medieval german rhineland, into post-civil war Louisiana plantations. Making Giselle a free former slave, while Albrecht is an aristocratic plantation owner posing as a poor farmer. Because of this setting, the ballet has been unofficially deemed Creole Giselle.

The DTH had to strike a balance when creating Creole Giselle, they had “the desire to provet the patent falseness of claims declaring the black body as wrong for ballet and the need to maintain a race-based cultural particularity in the performances of his company” (Gaiser, 273). The ballet, while mostly staying true to the choreography of the original 1841 production, was modified slightly. As many black dancers had not had the chance to prove themselves in a classical ballet setting, this production was their chance, yet if the steps were exactly the same they would run the risk of being called ‘imitative’ or being compared to other classic stagings of Giselle. This production had to be unique to show the dance community that Giselle was a ballet for everyone, while still separating it into a sphere where African-American dancers could show their talent without reprimands. Just like in everyday society, racism was still a large part of everyday life and it was something that wasn't overcome in the 1980s, but various people and movements were starting to repair bonds.

Creole Giselle was one of the first steps in the ballet world to show black dancers were as capable as white ones. Creole Giselle looked at its political landscape and reflected the ideas of respecting the old but welcoming the new into everyday society. In a study titled New Patterns of Racism: the different worlds of 1984 and 1964 we find that when comparing 1984 to 1964 “much has happened since 1964 in American black-white relations, but the changes have been uneven across and within institutions. In each area reviewed- politics, education, housing, occupation, family structure, income, health, and business- there have been conflicting trends. In general, gains are impressive when compared with earlier black conditions; however, they are less than impressive when compared with current white conditions.” Just like society, Creole Giselle looks on the bright side of improving race relations while still not breaking the boundaries it is stuffed into. Having to change things in order to help people find the story and choreography more palatable to their expectations. This version of Giselle carries on the legacy of reflecting the face of modern society.

The updated setting of Creole Giselle isn't where the reflection of society stops. Recently, in 2016 the English National Ballet commissioned Akram Khan to stage a new version of Giselle. This version of Giselle is different than any before. In this retelling, “they have set the ballet among a community of migrant workers, who have been sacked from their jobs at a garment factory and are having to eke out a precarious existence in an impromptu camp. The courtly world of Albrecht is replaced by a privileged group of landlords and factory owners, who live apart from their workers behind a high wall” (Akram Khan's refugee Giselle: 'A real woman in a catastrophic situation' by Judith Mackrell). Khan, who began his work on this new adaptation with the Director of the ENB, Tamara Rojo, chose to set the ballet in a migrant worker factory because of the refugee crisis in Europe. He realized while the ballet can seem naive to modern audiences, some of the strongest themes in the ballet are in the simplicity. The duality between love and betrayal, or reality and the supernatural. Khan kept those elements central to the ballet, while also focusing his attention on Hilarion. While in the original he was just a simple game master who was in love with Giselle but forced her to see the lies Albrecht told, in Khan’s Giselle he has “expanded Hilarion’s role in the ballet into a fixer, a go-between who works with both migrants and capitalist”(Mackrell). This version of Giselle is much grittier and grounded, like the Indian dance style Kathak, which Khan was taught. The second act replaces beautiful ghostly woman in long white dresses dancing across a forest, to women covered in dirt and grime with long ragged hair and clothes in an abandoned factory.

This ballet, while aesthetically different from the original in many different ways, still is recognizable as the classic tale of Giselle. Khan’s Giselle is a perfect commentary on Europe's refugee crisis, showing the everyday people as humans and developed people on the stage through the titular character Giselle. Just like in the 1841 version, yet today people are an eclectic mix of cultures, heritages, and styles just like the Creative team. Khan being born in Britain, yet raised to be in tune with his Bangladeshi heritage. Rojo, from Canada, born to immigrants from Spain. Giselle has changed drastically throughout the years, but in every adaptation it can be used as a critical analysis on the socio political landscape of the time.

Ballet still has a long way to go before it becomes as much of a cultural staple as it was in the 1800s. Yet it increases in popularity everyday, as many dancers have become activists or advocates for equality, feminism, LGBTQ acceptance, and much more. Ballet is moving back into the cultural limelight as its relevance in the political scene is recognized more and more. Many dancers have become household names, like Misty Copeland or Mikhail Baryshnikov. Ballets on stage tackle different social and cultural issues it is hard to ignore the fact that ballet is politically relevant all throughout history and into the 21st century.

#ballet #ballet politics #ballet relevance #ballet essay

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hyperesthesias · 7 years ago

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Loki x Sigyn

Drabble: Ceremonies

Rating: G

Words: 2.793

Notes: From @serafina-constantine and my curiosity of what their Asgardian wedding would be like. Enjoy! ♥

“I don’t want to do this,” Loki murmured under his breath, grabbing at the breastplate beneath the leather, adjusting its discomfort that poked and prodded at his neck and ribs -- and when that was somewhat manageable, he moved from his breastplate to the cuffs along his arms, wriggling his wrists and wringing the metal of the armour until it felt somewhat tolerable. He had not worn his Asgardian uniform in some decades, having nearly forgotten the feel of its familiar nuisance -- that to stare at his visage reflected in the looking glass before him, it felt...wrong. Odd, in the very least. He was convinced he was staring at the image of a ghost, a haunting he though he’d burnt long ago, to never reappear. But there he was: different now, not as sullen, his skin a little darker from days in long daylight, his eyes a little brighter, but the shell remained the same: impenetrable.

How did he get here? A question that was meant more ways than one -- not only about the ghost’s visage, but about the circumstance of its reappearance. He had been on a diplomatic mission with his Queen, his beloved bonded, to Asgard, to share the story of Nashtar and to bridge any broken bonds between them. But something had gone terribly awry.

“There he is!” a booming voice came from behind him and Loki started at its suddenness, turning to see his brother with two steins of ale. “Look at you -- it still fits,” he chuckled and stuffed a mug into Loki’s hand before he clapped his palm against his brother’s shoulder and his face.

“And it’s still uncomfortable,” he growled, rolling his neck away from the tines of the breast plate beneath.

“Ah -- you’ll get used to it,” he landed a hand on his back and took a sip of ale.

Loki’s eyes wandered to the image of himself again as Thor’s words echoed within him. Would he get used to it? Would they be there long enough? Did he want to? His eyes flickered from the armour resting upon him to a glance of his brother nursing his drink, to where he -- for once -- found the notion both appealing and ingenious. He couldn’t do this, he didn’t want to, he thought as he took a drink, and then another. This wasn’t the type of attention he wanted -- he could already feel the stares, the whispered mockings, the scoffs, as he was paraded in front of the palace at his Mother’s behest -- with her best intentions -- and put on display for all to see, and after all he’d done; he wasn’t sure he could bear it, as he took a drink, and then another, larger drink -- then another, and just once more.

But he felt a hand on his stein as he nearly threw it all back at once, finding, as the glass lowered, his brother’s sights meeting his own.

“What?” he hissed, wiping his lips as he set down the glass.

“I have never known anything to rattle you so intensely, it’d drive you to drink.”

“Then perhaps you know me not well enough,” he spat back, swallowing as he collapsed into a lounge by the mirror. But he knew that wasn’t true -- Thor knew him better than most. He looked over as he felt the weight of the other sink into the lounge. “Did Mother send you here?”

“She suggested I aide you in readying for the ceremony,” Thor answered, with a knowing chuckle.

“So, she gave you no choice,” Loki interpreted.

Thor shrugged. “She gave me as much choice as she gave you for this wedding,” he looked into his glass.

Loki dragged a hand down his face as he sighed. “I don’t want to do this.”

“I thought you’d love the banquet in your honour,” Thor eyed his brother.

He only returned the glance with a glower, unamused to have his weakness jabbed. “They will have a banquet, but there will be no honour for me.”

“For your wife, then.”

“You know how Odin is, if she is not Asgardian, then she will never be enough,” he rubbed a finger to his brow, before he whispered, only to himself: “I never wanted that for her,” and he finished the rest of his ale.

But Thor heard, he always heard. “You both are already married -- there isn’t much he can do.”

“How reassuring,” Loki hummed, but hardly bothered to look at him, only massaging his temple with a single finger.

A grumbled sigh from the other, he struggled to comfort the one who did not wish comfort: “What I meant was, the ceremony is only for show.”

“A show for Mother,” he finished. “Because she did not get to see her son marry.” But the sardonic venom in his tone quieted when he stopped, and a soft chuckle came from the younger as he put down his hand: “She was livid when I told her -- utterly offended that I had not gotten word to her from across the Realms, even though I had no way of doing so. As though it was some personal slight against her,” he laughed quietly, hearing his brother do the same, with a knowing groan. “The only way I could appease her was by agreeing to this...fanfare,” he sighed.

“She has ways of getting what she wants,” Thor raised a brow, taking a sip.

“And much practise at it,” Loki shook his head, returning to massage his temple.

Thor resisted the intense urge to note aloud how familiar such traits sounded to the other beside him, but instead, took another drink. “She only wants to show others how much she loves you,” he began, and perked when he spoke again: “and how she accepts your wife, and her...culture,” he trailed off, an uneasiness gripping his words as he stopped.

Loki looked to his brother, noting the subtle grimace upon his features. “You know all those rumours we heard as children are false -- her people are not cannibals or whatever other wicked lies were conjured.”

He nodded, doubtful, but merciful still. “Well, the fact that you’re alive must mean something,” he nudged the other.

Loki rolled his eyes as he shook his empty glass. “I will see you at the ceremony later, brother,” he stood, rolling his neck again to pry away from the pauldrons poking his throat.

As much as the armour was familiar, so were the halls he once used to wander and roam -- the way the daylight lit through the sprawling arches and balconies, the way the winds wound through the pillars, whispering as they travelled, this part, he had missed. The quiet of late afternoon, the way the cool of evening mingled with the memory of day, making him to shudder as he took a breath. He remembered every path, every part, and every way he could not be seen -- for he wished to confine the stares and the mocks to as little as possible. But as he stood, debating between another glass or another taboo, split between two halls -- he chose the latter. Quietly slinking through the long shadows cast by the palace, he found his way to the suite in which his beloved was readying for the ceremony, in just a little while. He knew he was not meant to intrude, that they were to be parted until then, but he could not wait. A whole day had been long enough, and without his compass, he was lost.

Thus, he waited there, around the corner from her suite until a handmaiden left, and he could slip into the room without notice or shooing from the other maids.

“My love,” he called to her, quiet so as not to startle her, he looked around the main room, seeing clothes and jewellry, and other trinkets strewn around in a somewhat organised mess, until he came to the second room, where he saw her resting at a vanity, tending to her hair. “Sigyn...”

��Loki!” she spun around in her chair, a brilliant smile illuminating her as she jumped up to greet him.

He hurried to her, rushing into her arms, just as much as she did into his, and he picked her up and spun her gently about as he clung to her, burying his face into her hair, holding her just a little tighter than he normally did.

“What is it?” she said, when he finally put her down, cupping her hands to his face, rubbing her thumbs against his cheeks.

He shook his head, saying nothing for a little while, before he managed a smile, tucking a lock behind her ear. “I only wanted to see you.”

She knew it wasn’t the whole truth, but she asked nothing else, only caressing his neck, pulling up a piece of his leather suit to shield him against the piece of armour that seemed to be rather uncomfortable. “And seen me you have,” she pulled away from him for a moment as she held out the skirt of her dress. “What do you think? Traditional Asgardian -- your Mother gave it to me,” she beamed.

He could not take his eyes from her -- filled with her, utterly, completely. A pang in his core that she should fill such a dark creature as he with a light he could not contain. “You are...beautiful,” he winced as he spoke, swallowing hard as he gathered himself. “It suits you,” he gave her a gentle smile. To see her wear the culture in which he was raised, that she loved him so much to assimilate as he had -- from all the banquets he craved, and all the applause he’d ever wanted, he wasn’t sure he had ever been as honoured as he was in that moment.

But Sigyn stopped, releasing her dress to take his fingers tenderly with hers. “But that shadow upon you, does not suit you.”

“I can hide nothing from you,” he chuckled nervously, glancing downward.

“No,” she shook her head and smiled, coming closer to see his face. “What troubles thine heart?”

He breathed carefully, doing nothing for a little while, other than mingling his fingers with hers: “I...wish for better things than the spite of others. And...” he sighed looking to the ceiling now, instead, “...I do not wish any of it for you.”

Though he would not look at her, she could see it in his face: the tumult, the guilt, the regret, the disdain, the anger. He had been neglected, gaining an attention for himself he did not want, but for which he could settle over nothing else. “You fear me to be tied to your fate,” it was not a question.

‘Yes’ -- it barely came out even as a breath, it was hardly heard.

Sigyn said nothing for a little while, clinging to his hand instead of speaking -- she had known this fear of his, recurring as a nightmare that haunted him whilst awake. But it had never haunted her. She was herself, though they were bonded, she had only ever seen herself as herself, and terribly, terribly in love. Some called her foolish, others weak, or blind -- but she knew she was none of these things. She was. And she intended to be. No matter what.

“I will go with you anywhere,” she started. “As you will go with me. You are not tied to me as a weight --” she insisted, seeking his eyes.

He gave them hesitantly, but listened nonetheless.

“This ceremony -- is where we give ourselves as a gift to each other. And you are my gift Loki, not my burden.”

He had never been told that before. He had heard it in things she’d said, not in as many words, he had seen it in what she did -- but none other had ever told him he was not a burden. He could do nothing other than nod.

She reached up on the tips of her toes, placing her hands on his cheeks as she kissed him. “Now shoo -- I can hear your Mother down the hall.”

He broke from his shadow at the sight of her smile and once more stole away.

In his weakness, she’d given him strength, and he roamed the halls with bouts of nervousness, still, but he did not face those who whispered, he paid no care to others who might have looked ill upon him. He only kept his eyes forward on the path the pair of them set together, and looked upon nothing else.

And when the ceremony came, when he was paraded before the palace -- in a smaller crowd than he had anticipated, grateful his Mother knew him well enough -- he strode down the path to await his beloved before the King and Queen, feeling nothing but the coolness of the evening breeze, hearing naught but the whispers of wind, and seeing nothing but the brilliance of the stars that glimmered more brightly at night -- until the most luminous star emerged among the myriad of others: Sigyn.

There, in the distance, she came towards him -- willingly, with no fear harboured in her heart for him. The crown of flowers upon her head hardly worth touching her, that she deserved more than any realm had to offer; the gold that draped from her a disgrace, that there was no precious metal or precious stone that could compare to the divinity that was her; it was all nothing, for she was everything. He stood there, dumbfounded, speechless, rendered utterly immobile at the vision that approached him, that when she was finally beside him, he could do nothing but instinctively reach for her, his eyes still entirely captivated by her -- that he did not acknowledge the King when he began to speak, neither did he hear him. For all there was, was her.

Their hands joined together, and a rope of flowers bound them as the King recited blessings and prayers upon them both, and if Loki had been listening, he might’ve heard a sincerity in the King that had been lost for some while.

And when the prayers and recitations were completed, the pair led the way to the banquet hall, where they took the seat of honour at the bridal table. Gifts given and left at their table -- whether out of obligation or desire did not matter to Loki now, he had no other thought than to be near her, than to take in every nuance of her visage until he was entirely consumed. Amulets and ornaments were bestowed upon the bride, wishing her good fortune and happiness, that he began to grown concerned that there were far too many for her to carry -- but he wished them all to be true.

He did not relinquish her hand the entire banquet, despite the fact they were no longer bound by the rope, he found he could not let her go. She was his conduit, his grounding, his spark, all at once -- and with her hand in his, he felt alive.

And Sigyn knew this, and never did she try to pull from him, for in his hand, she felt safe -- she did not feel different from other others, she did not feel lost, some feather wandering never to touch the ground, she was able to do anything.

The feast lasted well into the night, and by the time all had finished their drinks and meals, they led the couple to their suite with happy songs and blessings with torches to light the way in the pitch of night.

Loki and Sigyn could hear the raucous crowd dwindle down the hall from behind their door, and they could do nothing but laugh -- finding their guests much more thrilled than even they. But they were different, and they knew this.

Still, they held taught to the other’s hand as they both collapsed on the bed -- both on their backs as they stared at the canopy above, utterly exhausted from entertaining everyone else the entire night, that they curled together, their hands never parting, relishing in each other’s warmth and coolness.

“Did you say these feasts last for days?” Sigyn suddenly recalled as she began to doze in his arms.

“Usually more,” he murmured in drowsiness.

Sigyn groaned and planted her head into his chest, clinging her other hand to his cape as she shook her head.

Loki could only chuckle and he sighed as he pulled her close, wrapping her in the breath of his emerald cloak, keeping his beloved close, and above all, keeping his beloved safe.

#logyn #loki x sigyn #sigyn x loki #loki #sigyn #ship: logyn #*

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abbynormaled · 5 years ago

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Summoning Myself

I don't know who needs to hear this today (well, maybe that's a wee bit of a stretch... I could name some people), but it is often too easy to focus on the difficulties and struggles that have come with openly transitioning over the past 5 months (is that all?), when the positives far outweigh the negatives.

N.B., I understand that much of the threats, negativity, and consequences of my circumstances are mitigated by my privilege. This post does not seek to negate either the struggles I have faced, nor those of transgender people who face so much more, but rather to shine a light on the joy that comes from stepping into the spotlight on the stage of your own Truth.

In no particular order, here are some of the radical and personally profound changes that have occurred since becoming Abby.

1. I smile at my reflection in the mirror.

To be sure, not every day and not that there aren't things I wish were different about my appearance. But...BUT I lived for so long having to look at myself as a chore, a necessary but unpleasant aspect of Looking Presentable.

Now I don't approach the mirror with a resigned spirit. I enjoy the time I spend with me. I take in the little features that make my face unique. I see, finally, what perhaps my loved ones see when they look at me.

I am no longer at odds with my representation.

It's no secret that Mulan is my favorite Disney film ever, and has been since it came out. I didn't always fully understand why, but what a joyful thing it is to have your reflection show who you are inside.

...

I lied.

That was, in fact, #1. Now proceeding with un-ordinated (though numbered) thoughts...

2. I used to hate clothes.

I mean, truly. I hated clothes the way Trump hates the truth, the Game of Thrones writers hate satisfying conclusions, and Facebook hates showing posts in chronological order.

Used to be, the worst thing I could get as a gift was clothes, no matter how nice they were or how much I needed it. Picking out clothes was a daily grind.

These days, I enjoy my wardrobe (smallish as it is). I like picking out what to wear, I even enjoy the act of getting dressed! "Want to stop by Plato's Closet?" Yes, please!

3. Movement.

I used to not move very much. I didn't really understand this until after I had started my transition. I felt like moving my body was strictly functional, or sometimes performative. But mostly, I didn't move it that much.

I'm still working on this one, but I've started just moving more. Ironically, I feel like it's OK for me to take up space, both in the physical world and also in the visual one. I think that before, moving my body was an egotistical thing to do (I know, weird, huh?).

It's now a thing I do for me, moving my body, because I enjoy having it and letting it do its thing: My lips, my arms, my hands, my hips. My eyebrows still need some coaxing, but they're coming around.

4. Touch used to make me very, very uncomfortable with everyone except my immediate family.

Not that I didn't enjoy or want to be touched... I did. But I didn't feel comfortable emotionally or socially receiving it.

That's definitely changed for me. It's the most natural thing in the world for me now to accept warmly the hugs and hand holds and little affections that I receive from my glorious, wonderful friends.

I'm still working on giving it better, but it's progress!

4a. The Wall

Fen has always said that I seem to project an aura that I don't really want to be close, that I have a wall around me keeping people at arm's length. I certainly didn't want that wall, and in fact have spent much of my adult life trying to tear it down with little success.

Most of that comes from the autism, without a doubt. I don't give the correct non-verbal signals that indicate "I'm an open person; feel free to be warm with me."

But it definitely feels like things have changed. I don't know for sure whether that the wall is starting to crack, or if it's that my friends are making an extra effort to scale the wall (or a little of each), but my interactions among my friends have felt so much closer and meaningful and energizing.

(So, just to be clear my friends, even though it may not always look like I'm basking in your attention and company, I definitely am. Don't let the autistic demeanor fool you!)

5. I don't bite my nails.

OK, I haven't stopped completely yet, but I used to shred my nails to the quick. Now I have long, sculpted nails that I enjoy painting.

6. Walking

How I walked was not something I even thought about before transitioning, unless something occurred to get in the way of it. It was strictly utilitarian. The way Puritans think of sex: you just do the thing, you don't really DWELL ON IT.

I like walking now. Not in the "it's nice outside I'll go for a walk" sense, but that I enjoy the feeling of my body as it walks. I consider how each leg swings ever so slightly inward as it steps forward, creating a subtle yet graceful bounce in my step.

I remember the first time I spent time walking as myself. It was July in Asheville. Fen had taken me there for a long weekend of hanging out as Abby, and it was amazing. On our last night there, strolling down the crowded street headed to no place in particular, I said to her, "I feel so powerful!"

We use walking as a metaphor for the experience of being who we choose to be: walking our own path, etc. And I know why.

7. Conflict

Dealing with conflict has always been an issue with me, but I've found that, although I still shy away from it, when a tough discussion needs to be had, I'll have it. That's new!

8. Saying YES to myself.

I used to get incredibly caught up in saying yes to too many things and getting overwhelmed and overburdened. I started stepping away from obligation I don't want or can't take on before transitioning, but I've felt way more comfortable with that stance since.

9. Weeping

I can count on my hands the number of times I've cried since graduating high school and prior to coming out. That's not healthy, to say the least. I still find myself trying to stifle it on reflex, but I've gotten better about just letting it out. And that's taken a lot of stress and tension out of me, both bodily and emotionally.

10. Uprightedness

My posture is much better. I'm still working on it, but it helps to feel good and strong in your body.

11. Emotional Management

Dealing with other people's emotions has always been a challenge, given the autism. But it's easier now, and I'm glad to be able to be more emotionally there for my loved ones (and I'll continue to work on it). It still takes more spoons for me than for most, I think, but I'm digging it.

12. French Fries

My willpower is getting stronger! I've lost 25 pounds since mid-July. I've made some very conscious choices to screw my diet for emotional health weeks, but the rest of the time I've found it easier to follow the diet plan. It helps that I have a reason to care about the results beyond a vague sense of being healthy!

13. I take selfies!

14. Community

I've often felt like George Bailey from "It's a Wonderful Life," wondering whether I really existed for other people beyond my immediate presence. I don't wonder that any more.

Like the townsfolk gathering around George with their contributions to rescue the Savings & Loan, the response of my community has been overwhelming! Whether it's the small messages I receive when friends know I have had a trying day, or genuine bright smiles I see when they greet me, I am encircled in love.

This circle of love and support is not a metaphor.

It's a magic circle.

It was made strong by each and every one of you in all the various ways you have supported me.

You have summoned for me a powerful space for becoming: a pocket universe of love for me to claim as my own.

#transgirl #gratitude

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quillerqueen · 7 years ago

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Something “Borrowed”

Prompt 117 of @oqpromptparty: Canon divergent oneshot where Robin crashes Regina’s wedding hoping to steal some jewels and fancy plates but ends up stealing her instead.

(Here it is on ff.net for those who prefer it.)

Robin's fairly new to the trade. Granted, he's always had an affinity for stealth as well as the gift of deft fingers and light feet, performing sleights of hand from an early age--but earning a living and a reputation as a thief? That’s a different matter altogether. The more of a name he makes, the more the royal guard will be after him.

Doesn't it make sense, then, to risk one great heist at the very start of his career?

What he lacks in experience he'll make up for in daring, and cunning, and a bit of good fortune. Should Lady Luck favour him, he'll have enough riches by the end of the night to secure an entire future for himself.

And the royals, with their blasted pride under the guise of grand gestures, only have themselves to blame.

Robin pushes through crowds of peasants lining the streets all the way to the cobblestoned square. He slips past children awestruck by the spectacle soon to come; passes merchants basking in this faint reflection of royal riches and courtly ceremony; ducks surly serfs, the poor and the lowly, who've come for an escape into the world of fancy but mostly just to fill an empty belly at the lavish feast ahead. He presses forth, all the way to the podium in front of the church the newlyweds will ascend to graciously greet the commonfolk. He elbows his way to the very front, then shimmies unnoticed along the edge all the way to the back, where a palace opens onto the square.

This is where the highest nobility make the last preparations for the wedding, and where they will share meat and mead afterwards (they're not eating outdoors with the rabble after all, that would be beneath them!).

It's well guarded, with most restricted access, and it takes time and effort to get past the guards but Robin manages to do so unnoticed despite several close calls.

His garb is nondescript enough to blend in with the servants, though obviously not the liveried ones. No matter--he’s going to grab some fancy plates from the vast selections still being carried out of the kitchens, along with some fine cutlery polished to the point of blinding, and he’s going to nick a handful of jewels from the boudoirs scattered along the way. That should have him sorted for a life in the lap of luxury without the confines of senseless regulations and shameless impositions (it’s an empty pursuit, but a purpose nonetheless).

Robin’s satchel is half-stuffed with bounty when a commotion on the upper floor catches his ear.

He really shouldn't stick his nose where it could easily be snipped off--and his head with it. His curiosity tends to land him in all sorts of trouble, and under the circumstances humouring it is outright foolish. Succumbing to it would be utter nonsense.

Steps hurry down the staircase Robin is hunkered under, and whatever it is that sends him on his way up he'll never know, except perhaps the woman's disappearing back, straight and rigid and bejeweled, somehow exudes a cold and calculating air.

The source of the earlier noise is easily discovered when he reaches the top landing--a frustrated growl, an almost howl of a caged animal betrays it.

Except when Robin picks the lock (she's caged indeed, although he's soon to find out she's far from an animal) and slips into the chamber, nothing moves but a heap of delicate, shimmery white fabric piled haphazardly on the chaise by the window. It rises and falls rapidly, in time with the heaving breathing Robin makes out in the silence of the upper floor.

A tiara lies among broken shards of glass, flung and forgotten beneath the gaping golden frame that was once a mirror.

Bloody hell.

It's her. The queen-to-be. The bride-to-be.

And shit--she’s a sobbing mess for about the three eyeblinks it takes her to somehow sense the intruder. She freezes when she does, sits up straight-backed and tense, voice slightly hoarse with tears.

“What do you want, Mother?” she says with a mixture of resignation and defiance. “What more could you possibly want with me? Come to teach me another lesson? Well, I haven't managed to cover up the last one yet.”

Her words are dripping accusation and betrayal, but not a hint of surprise--this sort of treatment at the hands of a parent isn’t new to her. The realisation strums Robin’s heartstrings--a painful chord, for he knows the feeling, has picked the life of a runaway for a reason after all.

The woman’s half-bare shoulders tense further at the lack of response, and she turns slowly around. Robin should have been in cover a long time ago, but he’s not, and nor does he move now. He doesn’t evade her startled look, but spreads his hands palms up to indicate he’s unarmed and poses no danger to her.

She gasps at the sight of a stranger in her chambers, but recovers fast, like one used to having her privacy invaded. In fact, her whole frame seems to relax a notch at the intruder’s identity being revealed as someone other than suspected. As she tilts her head to study him with narrowed eyes, biding her time, the light hits her left cheek.

A purple bruise blooms across it, painful even to the eye.

Robin frowns.

“Your mother did that?”

She laughs humourlessly.

“And left me the tools to clean up the mess.” She gestures towards the vanity with heaps upon heaps of powders, rouge, kohl, and whatnot. “Like a good little girl.”

Robin stares from her to the vanity, then back to her again.

She’s beautiful, even with the nasty swelling under her eye. Would be beyond stunning if not for the sadness residing in her eyes.

“So she’d, what, hit you again?” he marvels, mostly for the benefit of making conversation rather than staring at her dumbly. “Even though there’s already a bruise you're failing to hide?”

“Because there is a bruise I'm failing to hide.” She shrugs, pulling her lips into a miserable shadow of a smile, and crosses her arms on her stomach. “It doesn’t really matter. She’s going to heal it before the wedding night anyway, lest the king notice. Although he might not be in a state to notice much of anything by then if he keeps drinking the way he has been since morning. Celebrating early, mother says; but the servants whisper he’s drowning his sorrows over his dead wife. It’s almost as if the king wanted this marriage as little as I. Except he actually had a choice in the matter.”

Bloody hell, that’s just fucked up. Revolting, and absolutely heart-breaking. Yet such is the world they live in--riddled with a bunch of societal norms Robin detests. For her, he knows, it’s a dead end. You don’t reject a king’s proposal and live--not much longer anyway, and not well.

But King Leopold is beloved of his people, has always enjoyed the reputation of a kind, goodly, just ruler.

Codswallop.

Here the king is, forcing himself upon a young woman (she looks so bloody young, the more so the closer Robin looks, even though clearly her appearance has been styled in a way that makes her look less alarmingly so in comparison to the greybeard thrice her age she’s to take to the altar with) without the power to exercise her will without repercussions. Granted, her mother’s cruel hand might be in it, and this might be more of the norm rather than an isolated incident by Enchanted Forest custom, but that doesn’t make it right. Nor does it absolve the king of responsibility. If Leopold wants to be remembered and revered as a force for good, he should ruddy well roll up his gold-trimmed sleeves and change the outdated, inhumane system, not perpetuate and benefit from it. No, the man is a coward, and a wretch, and possibly a drunkard.

Unfortunately, despicably, his drinking problem will most likely not stop him from bedding his new bride at the wedding night her heartless mother is pimping her for.

Robin must have given voice to that last thought, because her face falls at that, and she seems to shrink and collapse in on herself, sinking back onto the chaise she’d only recently vacated.

“Yes, she’s--she’s warned me not to have high hopes in that area.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” He didn’t mean to be so blunt and vulgar, or to add to her troubles with his ill-advised statements.

“Yes, you did,” she returns simply, looking up from her hands, her gaze clear and direct again. Her face is hard, and her voice. Her heart may fare the same if forced too often to steel itself, the way it has to now. “I’m not stupid, you know, or some--or some naive princess daydreaming about knights in shiny armour or courtly romances. I know what’s expected of me--and every other girl sold by her parents to the highest bidder. And your language doesn’t bother me. Sugarcoating things doesn’t change the facts.”

Robin blinks, then nods. Despite everything, or because of it, she won’t be coddled. He respects that.

“That it doesn’t. Actions do indeed speak louder.”

“Spoken like someone who knows about that.”

Robin gives her a crooked grin that’s bitter at the edges.

“I may have been a noble once, unhappy with my lot and the world at large.”

Her eyes widen as his words sink in.

“So you ran,” she says, bewildered and perhaps a touch envious. It makes him wonder how many times she’s considered doing the same, or if she’s attempted the feat and failed. “You--you actually got away?”

He nods, tacking on a self-deprecating and now I’m a thief in an attempt to chase away the wistfulness clearly creeping upon her.

She only shakes her head, a flicker of a soft, dreamy smile on her lips as she corrects him: “You are free.”

Robin doesn’t stop to think on it really, doesn’t plan his response or even consciously pick the words; it quite simply feels like the logical, natural thing to do as he uncoils the rope across his chest and tells her without ceremony:

“This will hold us both.”

She blinks, smoothing the glittery, cumbersome skirt of her gown.

Truth be told, Robin’s no clue what to expect. He’s a stranger, making an offer clearly attractive to her in a situation that is clearly complicated, probably more so than he even suspects. She’s been dealt a cruel hand before, and kindness, even genuine, brews suspicion in her. This could go either way.

He does, however, realise one thing--he very much wants her to accept.

“I don’t need your charity,” she says at long last, worrying her lip. “What do you want in exchange for smuggling me out of here?”

“Other than a sense of accomplishment from stealing the king’s bride from right under the whole court’s nose?” he ventures to joke, but she only raises an expectant eyebrow at him, so he amends: “My satchel’s half full. Fill the other half, and we’re even. That monster of a necklace alone is worth more than a wagonful of these trinkets.”

Slowly, she turns to her vanity, and holds out the sparkling necklace picked out to complement her wedding gown. She shoves it into the enamelled jewellery box, snaps the lid shut and grabs it along with two more trinkets from her nightstand, then slips it into the waiting satchel.

“The earrings,” she winks, “can feed several villages. A good thief wouldn’t leave them behind.”

Feeding villages isn’t really something he’d considered before...but he has just condemned a broken system as well as a person in power for not re-enacting change, hasn’t he?

She’s grinning at him now, a teasing glint in her eye, and suddenly he’s suckerpunched by this--this feeling.

The echo of steps has them springing apart.

“Quick, hide!” she hisses, absolutely frenetic, and shoves Robin into the wardrobe, slamming the door behind him just as that of the chamber flies open, and the woman Robin knows must be her mother barges in.

“Regina, why aren’t you presentable yet?”

Robin’s fists clench in the stuffy wardrobe, the lavender smell doing precious little to quell his rising anger. How dare she treat her child like that? How dare any parent?

Regina’s response is quiet enough that he has trouble making it out, muffled as all sound is by capes and dresses, but it is firm nevertheless.

“I’m not marrying the king, Mother.”

“Oh, Regina, we’ve been through this. Now stop being ridiculous and get on with it. Can’t you see? The king is an old, frail man. He’s not going to be around forever--and then you’re going to wield all the power. You’re going to be queen. You’re finally going to achieve what you were born to do.”

“I was born to be a tool in your hands?” Regina claps back, voice hitching before it gains volume and conviction. “I don’t think so. I want a life of my own--and I’m taking it.”

Robin isn’t sure what Regina tries to do; he only hears her gasp in defeat. Her mother goads and lectures, and thinks she’s won, and why isn’t Regina saying anything? How does he know if she’s all right?

There’s more speech still, none of the words Regina’s, and Robin’s mind is reeling, adrenaline rising, and he only makes out an ever so smug you’re stuck with me forever, darling, a thinly veiled threat, before someone screams--a frustrated, enraged aaaargh that makes his blood freeze.

He bursts out of the wardrobe, and there’s Regina now, her face contorted in anger and shock as tendrils of energy sizzle at her fingertips and fizzle out just as her mother loses her grip on the frame of a floor-length looking glass and disappears in its unfathomable depths.

Robin knows magic when he sees it; it’s Regina who can’t seem to believe her own eyes as she stares at her hands, then looks wildly around before glancing his way and then down at her feet.

“Still want to rescue the damsel?” she asks in a way that leaves no doubt in his mind as to what answer she expects.

Well, she’s in for a surprise. He doesn’t hate magic. Doesn’t feel any particular way about it, really. But this woman, Regina? He has a whole lot of feelings about her already--more than he’s ever thought himself capable of.

Wherever her path may lead, she deserves the chance to set her own course.

“The only woman I see,” he says, “is no damsel, and she’s just rescued herself from one evil.” A tentative smile pulls at her lips, and Robin chances a sweeping look down her body and a playful:

“Lose the gown--wouldn’t want to attract unwanted attention.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him, her cheeks tinged a light pink.

“Turn around,” she commands, giving him an appraising look of her own before throwing him a teasing, “thief.”

“Robin,” he grins and offers his hand even though protocol dictates he wait for hers. “Robin of Locksley, at your service.”

Regina grabs the rope instead with a smirk, and races to the window.

###

She climbs with surprising skill, runs with more stamina than most would expect from a woman of her station, and keeps throwing him challenging looks full of amusement when she notices his admiration.

Oh, he likes her.

He’ll be sorry to see her go when it’s time to part ways.

That time comes soon enough--too soon--when they’re deep enough in the woods after a swift and heavy rainfall that they won’t be easily tracked by hound or man.

She turns to him then, shifting a bit as she speaks and closing her eyes briefly when she catches herself fidgeting.

“I know every noble in the land,” she says, then rolls her eyes. “Especially eligible bachelors. Useful if you’re looking for places to rob.”

Robin’s stomach somersaults.

“And what would you ask for in return?” He sounds eager even to himself and hopes she won’t notice, or at least be put off by his very obvious interest.

She shrugs, sheepish all of a sudden.

“Teach me how to not get caught.”

Robin chuckles before he can think twice, pausing when she frowns--and no, he’s not mocking her for her lack of survival skills when until recently he’d had precious little of mastery of those himself.

“Very well, milady,” he easily agrees, raising his hands in defense when she tilts her head to question his choice of address. “Well, Your Majesty hardly applies now.”

Her laughter rings out loud, and clear, and unfettered.

It’s music to his ears.

“Good riddance,” she grins. “I prefer Regina anyway.”

“Well, Regina,” Robin smirks back at her, “it seems we’ve each got ourselves a partner.”

#outlaw queen #oq ff #oq fanfic #oq prompt #oq prompt party #ouat #something borrowed #bee writes fanfic

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phati-sari · 7 years ago

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Arshi FF: Charade - Interlude 1

Chapter 6 // Read on FFnet // Read on Wattpad

Interlude: Anguish

Arnav

The knowledge that she could dismantle his defences with just a few words terrified him.

“I’ve been orphaned again because of what we did today. I asked you to wait … I tried to tell you … but you wouldn’t listen. And now …”

He still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here, married to the woman who threatened his sister, but he knew it had a lot to do with what she’d said at the poolside.

“He’ll see that I don’t want … That I ch-chose someone e-else.”

This was his weakness, his undoing, concrete proof that he was a despicable example of ‘brother’, because he still loved Khushi Kumari Gupta and yearned for a reality where she loved him too. He wanted to believe her so desperately that it threatened to overwhelm him. And it was this very desperation that made him wary — he was acutely aware that he was no longer capable of rational thought where she was concerned.

His headlights revealed the shadow of a man on the road. Arnav swerved the car around, brakes squealing, and came to a stop just shy of the figure.

Shyam Manohar Jha.

A part of Arnav wanted to destroy this man, to rip him to pieces with his bare hands for daring to hurt his sister, for daring to deceive his family. For daring to touch Khushi. He swallowed down his nausea as he alighted from the car.

“Saale-Sahib,” Shyam greeted, “Why have you called me out here? After everything you’ve done today I should be with Rani Sah—”

“—Shut up! You can drop the act, I know everything.”

“You know?” Shyam looked away, “Wh-what do you know, Saale-S-Sahib?”

“I saw you. I saw you with Khushi on the terrace.”

The blood seemed to drain away from Shyam’s face. He eventually managed a stammer.

“Y-you … s-saw … You … you must be m-mistaken …”

Arnav inhaled sharply, “I am not mistaken. I saw you. I heard everything.”

Shyam’s features slipped into a mask of cruelty. Malice shone in his eyes.

“Then there’s nothing … nothing I can do. I can’t deny what you saw … and I don’t even want to, Saale-Sahib.”

And then, inexplicably, his brother-in-law grinned. The chains holding back Arnav’s rage snapped, and Shyam’s collar was in his fists before he was aware of making the decision to move.

“How dare you! How could you do this to my Di? She treats you like her God and you’ve betrayed her! You cheated on her!”

The other man’s shoulders shook as he laughed.

“I’m not going to spare you!” Arnav shook him, “You’ll have to pay for what you’ve done! I won’t let you go so easily!”

“So you married her,” Shyam struggled to speak between chuckles, “You married her knowing that she loves me?”

“I only want you, Khushi-ji. I don’t accept Rani Sahiba as my wife. Believe me, Khushi-ji, I love only you, and I love you a lot.”

His hands slipped from Shyam’s collar with a tremble, “This is not about Khushi Kumari Gupta.”

“Oh but it is,” Shyam sneered, “What did you think, Arnav? That she wanted you? The dancing, the earring, that kiss by the poolside? Did you think it was real?”

“If that relationship holds no significance for you, then why don’t you break your marriage? Leave Anjali-ji.”

A weight settled on his chest, making it impossible to draw breath. The sharp claws of betrayal slashed at his insides. He channelled it all into anger, relishing the way it sharpened his focus and lessened the bitter ache of their combined deception. His fist, careening towards the Shyam’s face, froze at his next words.

“It was never real. It was all a distraction.”

Shyam’s laughter seemed to echo in his ears. Arnav’s vision turned black and then red.

“You forced her to do it,” Shyam continued, “You must have. Otherwise she never would’ve married you!”

“He’ll see that I don’t want … That I ch-chose someone e-else.”

Arnav grit his teeth, “Think whatever you want, but the truth is that I married her. She came to me. She told me everything. She’s made her choice.”

This is my one chance. I have to play the charade so convincingly that Shyam is fooled into thinking Khushi is no longer interested.

Shyam’s laughter cut off abruptly.

“And now you can’t do anything,” Arnav continued, “If Di wasn’t pregnant then I would’ve already thrown you out of her life for good!”

It was the smallest of victories to make Shyam believe that Khushi had truly chosen him. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe it. To believe that she’d chosen him, that she wanted him, that what he’d seen in her eyes over the last few weeks and months hadn’t been a lie.

The fantasy, weak as it was, gave him strength.

“But I’m giving you a chance, your first and last chance,” he said, “Make peace with your circumstances. Learn to be happy with Di and her child. It would be for the best.”

And he should have stopped, should have walked away, but the part of him that needed to protect her wouldn’t allow it. Some part of him still wanted her to be innocent, for her truth to be the only truth, implausible and impossible though it was.

“And yes, Jija-ji”, Arnav relished the discomfort etched into Shyam’s features, “Khushi is my wife. Don’t try to hang around her. Don’t even dare.”

She doesn’t want you.

She chose me.

Shyam’s enraged glare followed him as he settled back into the car, and for the thousandth time this night Arnav asked himself how they could have all been so deceived.

Why didn’t I see it sooner? Di worships him. Nani loves him. And Aakash …

Arnav baulked at the thought of confiding in the brother whose marriage was built on a bedrock of lies and deceit.

“I just want to know whether you want to spend the rest of your life with this girl. You won’t regret it later?”

“No, Bhai. Never.”

His heart shied away, unwilling to consider marring Aakash’s happiness.

How will I tell Aakash that his wife’s sister … even if Khushi is innocent, his wife and in-laws have hidden the truth from him. From all of us.

Unwilling to return home, to face the sister who threatened to make him weak, to look at the wife who threatened to destroy him, he drove to the sanctuary of the farmhouse. It was his mother’s childhood home, the home Nana had built after his marriage to Nani, and though the family had moved away when he’d built Shantivan, Arnav kept the house in pristine condition. He tended to the extensive gardens himself, carefully planting and maintaining it in his mother’s memory.

Mamma.

He let himself in through a side door, pausing on the path to stroke the petals of a red rose, and made straight for the bedroom that’d once been his. He lay diagonally across the bed, his mind still awhirl with the chaos of the night.

“He came into our house as a paying guest and deceived us, saying he was unmarried.”

“Chhote will be a Mama, and Khushi-ji …”

“I will stay, in this house, under this roof, but only if you marry me.”

“He’ll see that I don’t want … That I ch-chose someone e-else.”

“Yes. I’ll marry you tonight.”

Arnav turned over with a sigh. When she’d stumbled with the weight of her decision at the poolside he’d instinctively reached to steady her, and had only managed to change the gesture into something else in the very last moment.

He’d been weakened yet again when she’d wept with her sister, his feet carrying him to her side without permission.

Love is destruction, he reminded himself.

“You understand that this is not real?”

Even her stoic acceptance of the arrangement had cut through him. Some part of him had hoped for tears or a lecture on the sanctity of marriage. His resolve had been further shaken by the tremble of her hand in his as they’d climbed the temple steps, her quiet sobs eating away at his anger and determination. So he’d stood to the side, gathering courage and strength as she’d signed the prenuptial papers, knowing that one tear-filled look would be all it took for his surrender.

It felt real. Something about giving her the marks of marriage, the mangalsutra and sindoor that were so significant to her, had cemented the reality of what they’d done. And it was real, whatever he’d told her at the temple. How could it not be, when every fibre of his being wished that it meant as much to her as it did to him?

“I’ve been orphaned again because of what we did today.”

Arnav grit his teeth against the memory, but another memory rose to the forefront of his mind.

Di’s grin as she awaited her groom, her shy smile as he teased her, a gunshot, his mother’s prone form in front of him. Then another gunshot. The shrouded bodies of both his parents in front of him as Di wept, still dressed as a bride.

“Fuck.”

He rose out of bed and padded to the adjacent bathroom, where he splashed water on his face. Then he stared at his reflection in the mirror.

I’m sorry Mamma. I didn’t protect Di like you asked me to.

But I promise you that I’ll make this better.

I’ll fix everything.

Chapter 7

#ipkknd #iss pyaar ko kya naam doon #arshi #ipkknd ff #arshi ff #iwrotethis #mine #ff: charade #queue dard hai itna

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wanderingwonderor · 5 years ago

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@ye-lost-bard Dear Friend, I may have neglected to mention the party just as, or in most cases, more responsible than the women in question.

I do affirm with full conviction, that the impregnator bears responsibilty, and that the "shirking the responsibility" of fatherhood, together with that of rape and/or adultery is a thousand times more griveous indeed.

Maybe my language was not clear, for upon reading your criticism, I find myself agreeing with it wholly. Indeed, if society only shamed the perpetrators of such suffering could more unfortunate cases be avoided.

Then again, an ask is insufficient to frame such a complex question, no?

About the example of a rich brat, it was a poor choice of words, I do agree. Nonetheless one cannot deny what is demonstrated, that is, a clear relation between ostentation, hedonism and sin, to speak from a religious, albeit traditional point of view. We do affirm the variety of religious experience and opinion.

Reason leads us to believe that pregnancy is "wanted" in the case of willingful adultery, but even then, there exist many more considerations than meets the eye.

In my original quotation, I did mention in the case of the "spoilt brat" that many, manyfactors are still to be taken into consideration.

For example, repentance, mercy, and other metaphysical aspects of prayer and redemption which cannot be accounted for empirically. Responsibility lies not in the choice of continuing or terminating a pregnancy, but rather whether all parties, (especially and centrally the woman in question) involved can do justice to their own soul,mind and body, rather than the reaping of perceived material benefits of any choice taken at all.

Again, my statement was in fact, merely stating an opinion that abortion is a procedure which can neither be justified nor denied in any and all cases. While pregnancy to term cannot be enforced as a "you asked for it" punishment per se, the problem of how we go about preserving the idea of the sanctity of the human soul and its divine vessel, the body, and the appropriate action following forthwith, still arises.

To my minds eye, it is a question of when circumstances do infact outweigh the "sanctity of a potential ensouled being" that is to be answered, for abortion is in fact a legitimate procedure performed throughout history in many societies, whether such procedures were medical or magical in nature. To me, it is not a question of whether one is pro-life or pro-choice, for such discussion bears no fruit. Rather, I feel that we must move on to defining parameters by which abortion must be performed for those who require it. This I think, is apparent in my original statement, for I do not foolishly generalise abortion as "murder" as most of those who have conservative beliefs. To me, my original statement leaves it open to discussion, and here is said discussion

To all, I respect you immensley, and I think it is religiously incumbent on all to discuss such matters. Religion after all, was sent for the salvation of all humanity, and not merely the snide self-righteousness of the perceived "good people".

Nonetheless, apologies and clarifications are very much in order. To @ye-lost-bard, it is due to to my badly put English that my idea and stance was unclear, and I hope this clears things up. I hope this reply does settle some doubts, and that we continue to discuss, though from different perspectives. To @hymnsofheresy, I am so sorry for making such a mess. You still are a great inspiration and support to my own faltering spiritual journey, though we come from such different backgrounds.

All men and women are in fact luminous souls, who are strangers to even their own homes, for truly they came from the very Being of God. Our luminosity transcends any perceived ideas of race, tribe and even gender. Each soul holds its own mirror which reflects part of the Truth, and from that, it can only know it will never know Truth fully.

Wassalam.

About this abortion is murder thing. As a Muslim, it really is a matter of case and opinion. The first question: is it justified? Is a rape victim aborting an unwanted child justified? Sure, WITHIN A STIPULATED TIME. Is a spoilt, rich brat who got pregnant due to irresponsible practices allowed to abort her baby? Then this also depends. Is she willing to repent and take responsibility? Her family? Again, so many factors at play. The sin lies in the shirking of responsibility, not abortion itself

We cannot deny that pregnancy causes women psychological and physical trauma. It is not for us to decide which women “deserves” to suffer through pregnancy or not. Who are we to say which woman is “worthy” of proper medical attention? Abortion is healthcare. Denying healthcare is wrong.

Now you can have your own moral judgment, sure. But “murder” is a legal term and we should be very wary of using that word.

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allyinthekeyofx · 8 years ago

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Staking his claim 1/1

Well it’s just fluff really. I make no excuses and was born from that dress Gillian Anderson wore to the Halloween benefit ball. It’s NOT RPF though. Strictly Mulder & Scully set during revival between Babylon and My Struggle II

I honestly meant to check the dress in the costume shop when I picked it up; in fact, I meant to pick the damn thing up three days ago. But the unscheduled side trip to Texas put paid to any hope I may have had regarding trying it on before the actual of night of the FBI’s annual Halloween benefit ball was upon me.

An FBI ball for God’s sake; this would never have happened in the old days but it seems that even the Federal Government is no longer immune to the expectation that they should do their bit in the name of philanthropy. The fact that the birth of social media means that not only does the Bureau have a twitter account, but you can also log onto Facebook and scroll through innumerable publicity shots of smiling Agents engaged in their pursuit of protecting the country; of ensuring they are spending those tax dollars wisely and even more crucially, that they actually care what the general populace thinks of them. I had been labouring under the delusion that the photos were posed by models but in fact, they are real live Agents with real live badges and real live guns. Every department is represented – from A-Z there is at least a paragraph or two of blurb that a Joe public hungry for information can log on to with just the click of a button or a touch of a screen.

So far, we have managed to fly under the radar with regards to this particular public relations nightmare and one of the few letters not currently indexed on the handy drop-down menu is X but we both know it’s only a matter of time before Mulder and I are called upon to pose enigmatically with a paper mache model of a horny-toed lizard man or some other such nonsense. Mulder thinks it’s hilarious; but then again, Mulder would.

I was less than pleased to find a copy of the inter-departmental memo on my desk requesting our attendance of the aforementioned Ball – every department was expected to send two agents in full Halloween fancy dress to rub shoulders with the great and the good of DC and since our department is literally made up of Mulder and I, there was absolutely no getting out of it. Not that I didn’t try of course, especially when the first thing that jumped out at me was that it was set to take place on Mulder’s Birthday.

Now, we’ve never been that big on Birthdays but this year is kind of special to us both, especially since we have finally began to find a way back again after some very dark years where we ran from each other as much as we pushed each other away. Echoes of our past finally engulfing us in ways I don’t think we had ever really envisaged and certainly didn’t fully understand. Mulder began to fall spectacularly and I found myself just too tired of everything to keep trying to catch him when he didn’t want to be caught. It was just easier to walk away; telling ourselves that our time was over, that we had simply run our course and that some hurt was just too big to let go.

All rubbish of course and I don’t honestly think either of us expected the separation to become as permanent as it turned out to be as days turned to months and months to years, where our communication dwindled to sporadic phone conversations where neither one of really knew what to say to open doors that, in our different ways we had slammed shut on each other. Like polite strangers we talked to each other without actually saying anything and eventually it just became too painful for both of us. So much so that we literally pulled away from each other on every level possible and last year was the first year we didn’t acknowledge our respective Birthdays. I spent mine huddled miserably on the sterile couch in my sterile apartment waiting for the phone to ring and at the same time, praying it wouldn’t and spent Mulders in pretty much the same position; clutching onto my phone and wishing I had the guts to just bring up his number and speak to him; to check he was okay.

I cried myself into oblivion that night, cursing myself for my cowardice and him for ever allowing me to flee from him in the first place.

But this year, this year is different.

Because my initial fears of working with him again, of falling back into the darkness that engulfed us for so many years, have not materialised because Mulder is different – I don’t mean in the way he approaches things or that his passion for the work has waned – because aside from a little wobble where he began to question his own life choices as he realised he was back to chasing monsters, he is still as focused on his own version of the truth as he ever was.

But we talk now.

More than I think we ever have before and I now realise that possibly, walking away from each other was the only way we could ever hope to heal; that by removing myself as Mulders personal crutch he was left with two choices – to sink or swim and because he is the man he is, he chose to swim; finally seeking outside help to exorcise his demons and to heal himself in ways I hadn’t been able to during our years together and, to a certain extent I have done the same, making it easier than I ever thought it could be to slot seamlessly back into each other’s lives; easier than I could have imagined to fall instantly back in love with him.

Which is why this year, I had wanted to make his Birthday special - A celebration that marked a rebirth for us both, of a strengthened resolve to hold on to each other no matter what.

I had told him just a few short days ago as we walked hand in hand through the long grass that surrounded that little house that had been witness to so much heartache, that humanity could only survive and hatred be defeated if we could all find a common language again. To listen to each other and to learn to love again; and just as I knew he would, he understood that I was offering him that chance for us too, asking him with my heart what I couldn’t quite find the courage to say out loud. And as the golden sunshine of early autumn warmed our skin he wrapped his arms around me and just held me against him, evoking within me such a sense of belonging that it literally took my breath away.

But we have taken things slowly, careful now to ensure we are doing all this for the right reasons, sharing kisses and caresses but not taking things further even though I think we both want to, needing to make this right because in many ways, as much as we both loved each other, everything back then was just so wrong; a relationship born of fear and hurt and desperation. And now we have been given a second chance to get it right; to build something sustainable; to love each other for no other reason than because we can’t not.

Which is why I wanted to make his Birthday special; just the two of us where I would cook us a nice dinner and we would maybe watch a movie and just be together. Not be plunged unwillingly in to a ballroom full of strangers, making small talk and being paraded around; expected to recount stories of our past work on the X Files to a crowd of slack-jawed politicians and worthy notables who could never hope to understand the sacrifices we had made during our years stuck in the basement and frankly, probably wouldn’t care even if they did. I could just about deal with it if I were able to approach it in a professional manner – enough gala dinners at the hospital has taught me well how to schmoose those with connections – but the directive from Skinner’s office clearly stated Halloween attire.

Fancy dress.

Spooky fancy dress no less.

And there lies the root of my problem.

Trying to make the best of it, Mulder and I had gone to choose our costumes. He had no problems picking something off the rack because despite a slight thickening of his middle over the years, for his age, Mulder is in incredible shape and pretty much everything he tried on looked like it had been made for him. But I can hardly be described being of either average height or build and even the petite range hung off me so when Mulder gleefully suggested I might want to try the kids section it’s probably a good thing I didn’t have my gun on me because I could have quite happily shot him on the spot.

Instead, with as much dignity as I could muster, I asked if one of the costumes could be special ordered for me since I had noticed it was a service they offered. It was the only one I could even envisage myself wearing – not too sparkly, not too spooky and not too fussy. I suppose it could best be described as slightly medieval with a laced bodice, white ruffled top, gossamer cap sleeves and a skirt that fell to around mid calf. Simple, understated and about as classy as I was going to get given the circumstances; Mulder said it reminded him of a zombie serving wench which earned him a punch on the arm because frankly, at that point in time he seemed to be enjoying this whole ridiculous situation just a bit too much and all the time I was being measured he cracked lame jokes about mead with possibly the worst attempt at a British accent I have ever heard. But finally it was done. The dress was ordered; the deed was done and all I had to do was to try it on for size when it arrived.

Only I never did; because a part of me was hoping the whole thing would just go away and the other part was stuck halfway across the country with Mulder as we attempted, both in our different ways, of finding a way to communicate with the near-dead and which meant, when the dress finally arrived I was unable to check it was okay.

But it was just a dress right? I mean what could possibly go wrong?

I finally got around to collecting it on my way home from work today and my confident assertion came right back to haunt me. No pun intended of course.

Because now, as I look at my reflection in the mirror, I could quite literally cry.

The dress, from the waist up is perfect; the cut of the bodice accentuates my figure and frankly, makes my bust line look a lot more impressive than it actually is, the floating grey gossamer that trails down my arms is perfect against my pale skin and the way the bodice ends in a slight vee shape lengthens my torso slightly and creates the illusion that I am slightly taller than I actually am.

But the rest of it? The rest of it is almost nonexistent; a skirt that is so short it is barely there at all flares out slightly at my hips and falls to a level that sits around mid thigh and teamed with the fishnet stockings I admit to buying purely for Mulders benefit, to my eyes at least, make me look like a Halloween-esque hooker. Maybe if I were still in my twenties I would get away with it. But I am the wrong side of fifty and there is no way on this earth I am going out dressed like this. Which means Mulder will just have to go alone and probably be seduced by some sweet young thing from the typing pool who is dressed in a velveteen cat onesie with a tail. Mulder has a thing about onesies.

This thought actually slams me with the realisation that despite myself, there is a part of me that had actually been looking forward to tonight. To go with him to this event as a couple – the first event as a federal agent where we wouldn’t have to hide our relationship because much has changed during our time away and while not openly encouraged, consorting between agents is not frowned upon as it was a decade ago and certainly no longer grounds for disciplinary action.

But I can’t go dressed like this; I just can’t and it’s far too late to rustle up another costume unless I’m prepared to drape a sheet over my head a la Casper the friendly ghost and that I’m afraid is a step way too far.

A knock at the door announces Mulders arrival and I hastily throw my robe on over the medieval hooker waitress costume and belt it tightly around my waist. No point giving Mulder a glimpse of forbidden fruit because I’m pretty sure that he won’t share my opinion as to the unsuitable nature of the dress for a woman of my age and possibly, he might actually not make it to the ball either once he sees it teamed with the fishnets and as much as that scenario appeals to me I doubt Skinner would be very impressed if neither one of us managed to put in an appearance. The coward that resides in me briefly considers hiding in a closet but Mulder has a key and if I don’t open the door pretty soon he will just let himself in so I make my legs move in the direction of the hallway, taking a deep breath and arranging my face in to a neutral expression before I pull open the door to let him in.

Predictably, he looks gorgeous. When he picked out the costume to go try it on I knew it was an excellent choice for him. A tailored tux with a high collar and tiny black jewelled buttons, black cape with a purple satin lining and silver chain to hold it in place across his broad shoulders. His dark hair is slicked back and apart from the vampire fangs that are visible, he hasn’t put any stage make-up on at all. He doesn’t need it. He looks dark and dangerous and so fucking handsome I could cry with disappointment.

But I don’t of course; knowing that if I do he will point blank refuse to go without me and that’s not what I want. So I muster the brightest smile I can as I reach up to graze his cheek with my lips.

“Happy Birthday.”

He smiles back at me, giving me the full benefit of his fangs as he accepts the wrapped gift I grab from the small table that stands beside the door before bringing his hand from behind his back and holding out a beautifully wrapped box in front of him.

“I gotch oo shomehing hoo”

I can’t help but grin as I accept the gift. He sounds ridiculous.

“Mulder lose the fangs okay?”

The box he has given me is medium sized and looks suspiciously like a shoe box; Mulder has never bought me shoes before and I can’t imagine why he would start now but as I untie the black satin ribbon that holds the lid in place and fold back the tissue paper within, I am literally dazzled by what I see.

Think Dorothy’s ruby slippers but black. And with 3 inch spike heels. Possibly the most beautiful shoes I have ever seen; totally impractical for normal daily wear but sheer perfection when teamed up with a Halloween dress and I find myself transfixed with the way the light catches the crystals as I hold one in my hand. The sole is a deep red and I know without having to confirm it with him that they were horrifically expensive and I feel my throat begin to close; tears suddenly gathering to blur my vision as I realise he has bought them specifically for me to wear tonight.

He notices of course even though I drop my head in an attempt to hide from him and I am unsurprised to feel him reach out for me, placing a single finger beneath my chin and gently tilting my head so I have to look at him.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like them?”

I shake my head miserably, barely able to force the words out.

“I love them…it’s just that…..I can’t…I can’t go.”

“What? Why not?”

He clearly doesn’t understand my strange mood and since actions speak louder than the words that are sticking in my throat I simply stand up and loosen the tie on my robe, allowing it to fall open to reveal the monstrosity masquerading as a dress that lies beneath.

“They got my order wrong” I finally manage

“I can’t go dressed like this Mulder I’ll be a laughing stock.”

His mouth has quite literally dropped open at the sight of me and I prepare to pick the robe up to put it back on but he is suddenly on his feet gently catching my arm to still my movement.

“Don’t.”

The single word leaves his lips on the back of a sigh as he just stands there, his eyes dark and intense. Mulder has beautiful eyes and while there are more crow’s feet there than there used to be, those eyes still have the ability to drown me in the depth of their expression and tonight is no exception.

He reverently runs his hands down my arms then pulls me down to sit on the sofa, reaching for the shoe box and removing the other shoe before kneeling before me and, like Prince charming in a Dracula cape, he slides each one of those glittering works of art on to my feet, lightly caressing my insteps as he does so. They are a perfect fit just as I knew they would be. And I watch, a small knot of butterflies taking flight in my stomach as he literally draws his gaze up my body, devouring me with his eyes alone.

“You look……My God Scully, you look incredible.”

I laugh nervously.

“Mulder I look fifty one.”

And his palm is instantly cupping my jaw, thumb caressing the soft skin on my cheek; an action of comfort, of protection, of a deep abiding connection to this man that has lasted half my lifetime and it evokes such powerful emotion within me that I can barely breathe; can barely move and certainly am rendered totally unable to tear my eyes away from his.

“No. You are beautiful……so beautiful Scully”

He kisses me lightly on the lips, lingering slightly as a promise maybe of things to come, before he stands, pulling me with him and stepping back from me. His expression so full of love, so full of respect that I suddenly don’t care what I’m wearing because I could be stood here in a potato sack and he would still tell me I was beautiful and really, it’s only his opinion that matters to me now.

So I take his hand, squeezing his fingers as they automatically lace with mine.

XXXXXXXXX

I truly hadn’t expected to enjoy myself tonight – especially given what I was wearing – but in actual fact the night had flown by and I was surprised to say the least when I glanced at the clock that hung on the far wall of the graceful ballroom to discover that it was close to eleven o’clock, that we had been here for over three hours and that a good proportion of those hours had been spent unashamedly melting in Mulder’s arms on the very edge of the dance floor as he made more than a reasonable attempt to kiss every bit of lipstick from my face in a very Dracula-like fashion. My fears regarding the dress had proved groundless, not least because of the amount of flesh on show from some of our younger colleagues; in fact, my medieval hooker dress seemed positively chaste in comparison to some of the costumes in attendance and while I had felt initially awkward, the sheer amount of bulging latex that paraded by soon allayed any residual fears I may have been holding on to in that regard.

And so, I decided just to try to enjoy myself, a decision that came surprisingly easy for us both as it turned out. The first hour or so had been spent working the room but as the drink flowed and the music cranked up a notch we were able to gracefully bow out of whatever perceived responsibilities we thought were expected of us and instead proceeded to get happily tipsy courtesy of good old Uncle Sam. The whole atmosphere actually reminded me of our brief sojourn in to Hollywood stardom when we spent an evening being dazzled, both with each other and with all the wanton delights offered to us by that glittering town. The production of a Bureau credit card and carte blanche to use it as we saw fit pretty much sealed the deal although I often wondered afterwards just how Skinner managed to explain away the almost one thousand dollar tab that we managed to run up in just a few short hours. He had never brought it up though. I guess being an associate producer as well as an Assistant Director brought its own rewards. The movie bombed of course but it’s a sweetly retained memory of our time spent together before everything went to hell; a time when just for a while we thought that maybe we had won the battle if not the war.

And now, as I feel Mulders breath tickling my neck as he sways against me and occasionally half sings, half whispers snatches of whichever song is currently being blasted out by the enthusiastic DJ in command of the raised platform that is crowded with all manner of spooky decoration I can’t help but smile because although it’s kind of cheesy and not really like him at all, I don’t think Mulder has ever been quite so adoring of me as he is tonight. I could tell myself it’s all down to the alcohol we have both consumed but I don’t really believe that.

Because tonight I feel more connected to him that I have for a very long time; as though the years have simply fallen away from us and we are right back where we need to be. The way he touches me, the way my name falls from his lips when he introduces me and the way he has barely even acknowledged anyone else all evening leaves me feeling protected and adored in a way I never thought I could be again. Because tonight I realise that we have come full circle; completing our journey and gaining a strength in each other we thought we had lost forever and the realisation prompts me to tighten my arms around him, pulling him even closer so I can bury my face in his chest, breathing in his familiar scent, revelling in the feeling of him pressed against me.

My heels give me added height that allows me to feel the steady thud of his heart through the layers of our clothing, and despite the music that still booms from the speakers, the sound of his heartbeat – his life force – is suddenly all I can hear.

And it’s deafening.

I tilt my face up toward him, finding his eyes on mine; radiating sudden concern as I release my hold on him and step slightly away from him, the sudden loss of his body heat causing a slight tremor to work its way along my back.

“You okay Scully?”

I touch his face lightly, trailing my fingertips along his jaw that, despite his advancing years, is still as sculptured as it ever was, before allowing them to skim over his bottom lip; that beautiful lip that I have kissed a thousand times and which still takes me by surprise every time he brings it to my own.

“I’m fine Mulder. But……I think I’m ready to go home now.”

He is serious then for a moment, his eyes glittering dark and intense in the semi-darkness of the still crowded ballroom but I realise that the only thing he sees is me, a question lingering in his expression that, by the slight furrow than has creased his brow, I know he is afraid to voice, afraid he has read me wrong, not wanting to presume too much of me even though once upon a time it seemed, where I was concerned, he did nothing but presume.

“Home Mulder. Our home.”

I can easily breathe the words in to his ear – those glorious shoes have added inches to my height after all – and just like a switch has been flicked his eyes lighten with sudden understanding, the smile he bestows upon me slicing ten years off him in one fell swoop, transforming his features and making my breath catch in my throat at the sheer beauty of him, this man who has literally crossed continents for me and who, even when we were apart, remained the glue that held me together. I never doubted him; even when he spent all those years doubting himself.

He catches my hand in his, lacing our fingers together as he rubs his thumb lightly across my knuckles, eyes suddenly twinkling with that Mulder mischief I know so well.

“On one condition Scully….will you keep the shoes on?”

I laugh then as he begins to lead me through the throngs of couples still dancing, because oh yeah, I think that can be arranged.

End

#staking his claim #my fic #halloween in april #go with it #fluff #nice shoes

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