#not sure how good the scholarly work is as i have not read this author so everyone formulate their own opinions

[actually-the-antichrist]

“Women were not suspicious and fearful of other women, even those who were not of their own kin, despite their ignorance of natural death. There is no indication that women had any difficulty communicating with stranger-women even in the most remote epoch of social evolution. From the record it appears that women always had the capacity to band together for mutual cooperation and protection. To the present day the characteristic picture of primitive women shows them working together in amiability and enjoying one another's company.

An example of the cooperative, sisterly relations among women in New Guinea is given by Margaret Mead in Sex and Temperament in Three Primitive Societies:

Tchambuli women work in blocks, a dozen of them together, plaiting the great mosquito-bags from the sale of which most of the talibun and kina are obtained. They cook together for a feast, their clay fireplaces (circular pots with terraced tops, which can be moved from place to place) set side by side. Each dwelling-house contains some dozen to two dozen fire-places, so that no woman need cook in a corner alone. The whole emphasis is upon comradeship, efficient, happy work enlivened by continuous brisk banter and chatter. (p. 252)

She contrasts this behavior of the women with that of men, where "there is always strain, watchfulness, a catty remark here, a double entendre there"; in short, where suspicion and hostility lurk under the surface of fraternal relations. She adds:

And whereas the lives of the men are one mass of petty bickering, misunderstanding, reconciliation, avowals, disclaimers, and protestations accompanied by gifts, the lives of the women are singularly unclouded with personalities or with quarrelling. For fifty quarrels among the men, there is hardly one among the women. Solid, preoccupied, powerful, with shaven unadorned heads, they sit in groups and laugh together, or occasionally stage a night dance at which, without a man present, each woman dances vigorously all by herself the dance-step that she has found to be most exciting. Here again the solidarity of women, the inessentialness of men, is demonstrated. (p. 257)

It is the women who do the work and make the things that the men interchange with one another. Mead writes, "The minor war-and-peace that goes on all the time among the men, the feelings that are hurt and must be assuaged, are supported by the labour and contributions of the women." At the festivals which repair the easily-ruptured relations among men, the women do the work while the men play the games.

Mead writes, "These festivals are a break in the vigorous workaday life of the women. Swift-footed, skilful-fingered, efficient, they pass back and forth from their fish-traps to their basket-plaiting, from their cooking to their fish-traps, brisk, good-natured, impersonal. Jolly comradeship, rough, very broad jesting and comment, are the order of the day" (p. 257). About the men's performances and games she writes, "The women's attitude towards the men is one of kindly tolerance and appreciation. They enjoy the games that the men play, they particularly enjoy the theatricals that the men put on for their benefit. A big masked show is the occasion for much pleasure" (p. 255).

Mead's report is significant because it is one of the few to show the maturity and power of primitive women in guiding the affairs of the community. Women played the key role in making men into brothers and teaching them how to make brothers and brothers-in-law out of other men. It was the women who labored to amass the food and boiled it in huge pots for the feasts, and who toiled to accumulate the baskets, blankets, pots, shell ornaments, and other things to be interchanged at the festivals. In short, it was the women's labor that created the gifts that converted enemies into friends.”

-Evelyn Reed, Woman’s Evolution: From Matriarchal Clan to Patriarchal Family

[randomdragonfires]

Parallel Lines, Act I

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | He fears her proximity, and she fears his distance. As war looms, they’ll have to learn to make their marriage work to find comfort in each other.

Or at least, try.

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Complicated Relationship Themes; Emotional Negligence; Infidelity; Major Character Death; Aemond and his issues are a warning on their own ok?

AUTHOR’S NOTE | All Valyrian lines were translated from english using a free online translator. They are likely to be grammatically wrong - but I don’t even know man. Yeah.

WORD COUNT | 9.5k - and not a single word is beta read. We die like warriors, I guess?

The moonlight spilled through the series of windows of her husband’s - not theirs, his - apartments in the Red Keep, casting a silvery glow over the austere elegance of the chambers. His wife stood by the window, her silhouette framed against the backdrop of the night sky, the soft rustle of her gown the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

She turned slowly, her gaze sweeping across the dimly lit interior, taking in the cool, stone walls that seemed to absorb the flickering torchlight. She glided through the hall where intricate tapestries depicted dragons in flight, their scales shimmering with threads of gold and silver. The grand fireplace dominated one wall, the warmth emanating throughout the space from the burning logs within. She folded her arms into her chest, as if to preserve the heat as she shivered from the cold night - her thin nightdress didn’t help. Above the mantelpiece, Vhagar's fierce eyes followed her every movement, a fierce presence in paint.

Moving through the chambers, she passed through his personal library, every page a stern reflection of his interests. Shelves of dark, polished wood lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, their faint scent of aged parchment and leather permeating the air.

He mostly smelled of smoke, fire and leather. Of books and dragons - both of which he is passionate about.

It makes sense then, that no one will ever catch a whiff of her perfume on him.

They were far from passionate, after all.

In the center, his heavy, ornately carved desk was strewn with maps and documents, a well-used quill and inkwell ready for his expert hand to wield. She leaned on the table to look at it all, and spun one of the wooden markers between her nimble fingers for a moment - as she had seen him do countless times - before leaving it back where she found it.

She stepped into the bedchamber, its stark stone walls softened by the rich, crimson fabrics of the large, canopied bed. Dragons were subtly woven into the bedspread and curtains, a constant reminder of the Targaryen lineage that she had married and given birth to.

How long has it been since she laid with him on this bed? More than a year, she surmised. They did their duty on their wedding night, and the Mother was graceful enough to make his seed quicken in her immediately. She laid with him for a few weeks after - and when the maesters made it known that she was with child, that had stopped.

A good wife knows how to keep her husband satisfied, they said. Her husband never sought her out. If the whispers of the few around her were to be believed, he frequents a whore in a Silk Street brothel.

Was she not a good wife then?

She gave him a son. He may be sickly, but he is a son nonetheless. Surely it must count?

With a weary sigh, her eyes shifted to the adjoining armory, where Aemond’s armor and weapons were meticulously displayed. This part of his room exuded an air of readiness, a silent promise of the warrior who would soon return to his space.

From the whorehouse, no doubt.

She turned back to the window, her thoughts as fluid as the shimmering waves below. The apartments were a microcosm of her husband's existence: regal yet austere, scholarly yet martial.

And no sign of marriage, leave alone happy or healthy. How could there be, when he doesn’t feel half the happiness with her that he does when left alone with his beast or books?

There was no hate between them, surely not. Her husband was agreeable, but that was that. There was never any doubt in her mind that he did not want her - or the idea of her - but had to marry her anyway. There was no passion, and she could count with two hands the number of times they have lain with each other in the past year that they have been married - even that was before she had become with child.

There was nothing, truly.

She tried with him, initially. But any illusion of interest that she thought he may grow towards her was shattered the moment she heard that the very night that she’d met him, he was seen moving out of the castle grounds and into the Street of Silk.

He didn’t even bother with making it discreet.

Their wedding was a morose affair. They were the very picture of a royal couple, but neither felt the part - more like a pair of chastised children made to listen after a screaming bout. Even when he took her, he took her from behind - and she was fully clothed. It was nowhere close to the slow exploration that some of her ladies promised. He’s a scholar, he’d be willing to learn for your pleasure, they had said. He’d not even kissed her after their wedding ceremony, not once - he simply demanded that she get on the bed, and took her like an animal while the Small Council and their families watched her eyes pool with painful tears.

What had she done to warrant such embarrassment? She didn’t know what she’d done to make him shirk her so, but it was the way it was. It just was.

When he kept calling her back, he’d taken to offering her wine when they were finished. She didn’t linger when her goblet was emptied. She simply walked out, and wished him a good night.

He never once asked her to stay.

When the news of the babe in her belly had arrived, she’d been relieved - she’d never have to lay with a man who did not want her, ever again. He didn’t seem overjoyed either, and simply hummed with a hand on her belly.

“There is blood of the dragon in you now,” he said. And then he let his thumb run over her cheek. It was the softest he’d ever been with her, and she relished those few seconds. For a moment, he looked so peaceful and content… a stranger. That’s when it occurred to her that perhaps there’s more to Aemond than what he lets anyone see.

She could have fallen in love with him, if he’d cared enough to show her. But it seemed that he’d only viewed her as a duty and a burden.

The ghost of his touch lingered, and she brought her own hand to her cheek as though the warmth still remained. What did the whores have that she did not? Or was it the same whore each time?

Jealousy is unbecoming of a princess, she reminded herself. But so is unhappiness and a constant sense of dread, surely?

Her thoughts were interrupted as the door swung open. Her husband strode into the room, immediately aware of her presence. She felt the shift in the air and watched as the shadows of his boots slow, absorbing the sight of her. He removed his cloak with a fluid motion, letting it fall onto his chair before approaching her with the deliberate grace of a predator.

“Wife.” His voice was clipped and devoid of warmth, as though addressing a servant rather than the mother of his son.

She turned to face him, the pale moonlight highlighting the tension etched across her features. "Husband," she responded, mirroring his tone, though a flicker of hurt glimmers in her eyes.

Do you think of me as I think of you? Do you think of me at all?

A heavy silence settled between them, thick with unspoken words. Her gaze scanned his face, searching for any trace of the man whom she foolishly once thought would love her. Instead, she found only the cold mask he wore, a fortress against the world and his own buried emotions.

Against her.

“Has the council kept you long?” she asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. They both looked outside the windows, with her leaning into the railing while he stood with his hands held back, ramrod straight.

Always on guard.

“Long enough,” he replied, his eyes drifting to the dark expanse of the bay. “There are matters that require my attention.”

“And our son?” she asked, a touch of warmth infusing her words at the mention of their child. “Will you see Aerys tonight?”

For a brief moment, something softened in Aemond’s gaze, a fleeting shadow of tenderness. She must have imagined it - it was too fleeting and quick to hold any kind of weight.

She was jealous of her own son, for he elicits more from Aemond than she ever has, as little as it is.

“Perhaps. If time allows.”

She nodded, turning back to look at him; to see him.

The weight of his indifference settled over her like a shroud. The Blackwater Bay stretches out before them, vast and unchanging, mirroring the growing distance between them.

“I worry for you,” she murmured, her voice almost swallowed by the night. “War will come to us soon, will it not?” If it hadn’t come so far, she knew it would now. Vaemond Velaryon’s rolling head and King Viserys’ worsening condition only made sure of it.

He stood rigid beside her, his posture unyielding. “It is my duty,” he said, as if that alone suffices.

“I know,” she replied, sadness threading through her voice. “But you are more than your duty, Aemond. You are Aerys’ father and my…”

The emotions were high tonight, higher than they’d ever been. She didn’t know why she sought him out. There has been ample evidence to support that he would not care, and yet here she was.

She wanted safety, and the only person she could approach is the one who has never made her feel welcome or safe in any capacity.

Who else do I have here?

The tears mangle her vision and she swallowed what threatened to follow.

“I have given you a son.” She trembled, her voice threatening to give way to s stream of tears. “The shadow of war looms upon us, and you’ve set me aside and I worry…”

He lifted his head just slightly as the words sank in, but she was too dejected to care about his acknowledgement. He may be cold, and his reactions to her come far and few in between - but she could not bring herself to mull over it too at the moment.

“War is coming. I am as certain of it as I am of the sun rising on the morrow and I know you are too -” He opened his mouth to interfere, but she was quick to not give him the gap to take over her speech. “Do not insult my intelligence by suggesting otherwise.”

“I was not.”

She turned to face him, a whirlwind of emotions swirling in her eyes as she wondered why the Gods had not seen fit to give her a husband who loved her. He was beautiful, a cruel irony that made her anger flare even more. Despite all the hurt he had caused, she could not help but feel drawn to him. To hide her tears, she looked to the floor, trembling as she forced out her next words.

“I know you do not love me. I know you do not want me. But I… I have given you a son. An heir to continue your legacy, and that… I like to think that it would be reason enough to ask you to not forsake me. We have not supported each other all this time, but the least you can do is assure me that you will keep us safe.”

A flicker of something unrecognizable flashed in his eye, and he turned to face her fully, leaning against the window arch. “Did you… truly think that I would leave you to die if it came down to it?”

“You haven’t given me reason to believe that you’ll want me around.” Her voice was bitter, dripping with contempt.

He was ethereal as he reached out, holding her jaw between his thumb and finger, bringing her closer to his porcelain skin and alabaster hair. Her gaze flitted about chaotically, struggling to meet his eye. Her body shivered from the cold, torn between wanting him to let her go and needing him to hold her tight.

“You are my wife. I swore to the Gods that I would honor and protect you. You and Aerys are my family, and I would be slain a hundred times over before I see either of you hurt. I may not be… I may not be the man you want, but I can assure you that I am an honorable husband who will safeguard you and our boy.”

She did not know what she expected. A declaration of hidden love? Certainly not. But somehow, his assurances fell short. “Honorable.” She tested the word on her tongue, finding it the most bitter sound she had ever uttered. Her cheek alarmed him, and she spat venom. “Honorable?” His grip on her chin tightened, and she took it as a sign to continue.

“I know you frequent the Silk Street brothels. I know you’ve been going there since the very first day we met. Unless the professions of whores have changed, it is safe to assume that you are not honorable or loyal. And if you are, it is certainly not to me.”

A whore out there enjoyed her husband’s undying devotion, while she sat in the castle hoping and praying he would recognize her, let alone love her.

His expression shifted, a storm brewing behind his eyes, but he did not release her. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, a chasm of pain pulling them apart. She met his intense gaze finally, tears brimming in her eyes, the anguish of their fractured bond laid bare for him to see.

He tasted of smoke and fire, and yet her mouth craved him anyway. He was an eternity away from her—always, always—and yet her fingers yearned to touch him.

“I do not go there for…” He took a long breath before completing his sentence, almost as if he needed his composure to simply survive.

Not there for what? Was he not fucking the whores? What else could he possibly do?

“Do you think I do not know the sacrifices you have made?” His voice was a harsh whisper, a mixture of anger and something deeper, almost pleading. “Do you think I do not feel the weight of our shared duty, the responsibility to our son? My responsibility to you?”

“But you have never shown me,” she whispered back, her voice breaking. “You have never given me a reason to believe that you care, that you see me as more than just a broodmare for an heir!"

For a moment, they stood frozen, the distance between them both physical and emotional. The moonlight casted a cold glow over their figures, highlighting the stark contrast between their proximity and their separation.

“It is not easy for me.”

“It should not be hard to love your wife. Or at the very least respect her.”

“I—”

She brought her hand up to stop him before any more of his lies spewed out and stepped away from him. She walked to the door at an amazing speed, her skirts swishing past as she tried to get out before her tears spilled out. In a late change of heart though, as her hand rested on the door latch, she turned.

“No lady should beg her husband to love her. No matter if he is a prince. It is beneath her, and I am no different. I will not beg…” If she had looked at him properly, she’d have noticed him flinch at her damning words.

“I will not beg you to love me after dismissing me all this time; I do have my pride. But I will beg you to save my life if it needs saving. That is all I ask.”

“You never had to ask.”

She took a breath and drank some leftover wine in the goblet next to her, not caring for whose it originally was. The thought would make her retch usually, but she was beyond caring.

“Your mother… she loves me surely, but I think she doesn’t like me very much. Your sister and I never managed to understand each other. Your brother… well he is a mindless lecher. I can’t quite figure out your grandfather at all. And you… you know what we’re like. I just… I worry that in this impending war within kin, I will be forgotten and left to die simply because my job is done with the birth of my son and I am too close to the storm and you don’t care and I don’t want to die. I don’t want anyone to die-”

“You are my kin.” he said. It made her smile, albeit a woeful one. “You may need to remind me every once in a while.”

He didn’t respond. She simply left.

And even now, he didn’t ask her to stay.

She wished he did.

Aemond stood by the hearth, cradling their feverish son in his arms. 

Dressed in his somber blacks, he looked every bit the stern warrior, yet the gentle way he held Aerys belied that image. The babe was flushed and fretful, his tiny hands gripping Aemond’s hair and tugging insistently. Aemond hissed softly at the sharp pull, but did not dislodge the child's grip.

“Byka zaldrīzes,” he grumbles. It is strict, but not unaffectionate - she was familiar with that tone. She’d watched him use it with their son often when he thought no one was looking. [Little dragon.]

From the doorway, she watched them. They looked like a loving family - the devoted mother standing watch, her eyes filled with affection as she observed her husband and son. But appearances were deceiving, and both of them knew the truth beneath the surface.

Aerys, in his restless state, grabbed at Aemond’s eyepatch, tugging it down and exposing the scarred, empty socket. Aemond’s expression tightened as he shifted the boy from one arm to the other, quickly adjusting the patch back into place. In that brief moment, their eyes met, and she glimpsed the vulnerability he so meticulously hid. He seemed to close himself off even more, as if shielding his heart from her gaze.

It was a deep, almost dark blue. She noticed, she always noticed.

“I came to check on him before luncheon,” she said softly, breaking the silence that had settled like a heavy shroud. She always ensured that she made a solitary routine of her visits, ensuring that he’d have time alone with her son like he seemed to want. To be together - as a family - stumped her beyond belief, no matter how second nature it should be.

What was he doing here?

Aemond nodded, his voice measured as he recounted the maester's instructions. “The maester believes he will grow healthy with time. We must be diligent with the poultices and draughts.” His tone was clinical, as if discussing a strategy for battle rather than the wellbeing of their son.

She watched as he laid Aerys gently in the cot, the child’s feverish grip slackening as he drifted into a fitful sleep. She approached, brushing a strand of hair from Aerys’s forehead, her touch tender and light.

Aemond stepped back, retreating to the armchair close to the cot where a goblet of wine awaited him. He took a long sip, his gaze fixed on her as she sat at his foot, and peered in to take a look at their son. Facing away from him, she began to sing softly. Her voice, though tinged with sorrow, was soothing, and Aemond’s stern expression softened as he watched the scene unfold. For a moment, the room was filled with a fragile peace.

The Seven Gods who made us all,

are listening if we should call.

So close your eyes, you shall not fall,

they see you, little children.

Just close your eyes, you shall not fall,

they see you, little children.

She didn’t say anything and let the silence engulf them both when she finished her song. She then turned around and sat on the floor near his feet, her back leaned against her son’s cot as she looked up to face her stoic husband. After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke - his words measured but with the intent of concern. He spoke them like he was testing them out on his tongue.

“The maesters… they say you’re being given herbs as well.”

She nodded, feeling the weight of her exhaustion in every fiber of her being. The birth had been horribly hard on her body, leaving her depleted and fragile. Only now was she beginning to regain her strength. The whispers of the servants echoed in her mind—comments about how all this suffering was for a sickly child. But those whispers meant nothing to her. She would move the ends of the earth for her son, no matter what anyone thought. 

He was the blood of the dragon. Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep, and she would not allow her son to be any different.

“Ever since the birth, I have grown… weak,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “Aerys took a toll on me when he came.”

Aemond’s eyes were detached, but she heard the slight concern and contemplation in his voice. “Were you in pain? In the days after?”

She hesitated for a moment, surprised by his sudden show of concern. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I was. I still am.”

His questions were gentle, as if he truly cared, as if he genuinely wanted to understand what she had gone through. This unexpected tenderness from him was jarring, and it took all her strength not to withdraw. She had longed for this moment for so long, the chance to finally, truly connect with the man she had married.

And now that it was here, it felt as foreign to her as the other continents of the realm.

“I should have been there,” he said, his voice laced with regret. He didn’t look at her, head turned away as he spoke.  “I should have been by you-”

She’d heard the rumors that her good mother worked hard to ensure she’d never hear. While she labored and went through all the Seven Hells giving birth to their son, Aemond was at a whorehouse, doing Gods know what.

She shook her head, her eyes filling with unshed tears. “I don’t want to know,” she interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “I’d rather choose blissful ignorance than a painful truth. Especially when it comes to you.”

Aemond nodded slowly, regality exuding from him even in his slightest movements. “I have failed you,” he confessed, his voice almost a whisper. He did not apologize, and she knew that he never would. This was the most she would get from him, and for now, it had to be enough.

It didn’t mean that it shocked her any less.

Summoning her remaining strength, she stood and moved toward him. She leaned forward, resting her hands on the armrests of his chair, bringing herself closer to him. The curve of her breasts nearly brushed his chin, and she could feel his breath, warm and shallow, on her skin. His goblet of wine lay forgotten on a nearby desk, the contents slowly going tepid.

He looked up at her, surprise and something deeper flickering in his eye. His expression was a mixture of pain and longing, as if he too yearned for what she did. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he moved his hand and covered hers with his. His touch was tentative, as if he feared she might pull away. But she held firm, her fingers entwining with his. 

He was warm to the touch. She remembered that much from the first days of their marriage, but it felt better to be reminded of it this way. Almost as though he was tender towards her, like they never spent any time being purposefully apart from each other.

She felt like they were getting somewhere, a tentative bridge forming between their fractured hearts. Carried away by the newfound closeness, she hesitated only for a moment before reaching out, her hand trembling as it neared his face. Her fingers were delicate, soft against the rough texture of his skin as she traced the scar that marred his otherwise perfect visage.

Aemond’s breath hitched, his entire body tensing at the intimate touch. She moved slowly, her fingers gliding over the jagged lines. Her touch was feather-light, almost reverent, as if she could heal his old wounds with her tenderness.

Her eyes locked onto his, searching for any sign of discomfort or rejection. Instead, she saw vulnerability, a crack in his formidable armor that allowed her a glimpse of the man beneath the warrior’s facade. His eye, the one not covered by the patch, was wide and filled with an emotion she couldn't quite name - something between longing and fear.

With a gentle caress, her finger traced the path of the scar down to his cheekbone, lingering there for a moment before moving toward the eyepatch. She felt his breath warm against her hand, the rise and fall of his chest quickening as her fingers danced over the leather. The eyepatch was cool and rough under her touch, a stark contrast to the smoothness of his skin.

She paused, her heart pounding in her chest as she felt the tension coiling in him. Would he push her away? Would he retreat back into the cold distance that had defined their relationship for so long? But he remained still, his gaze fixed on hers, a silent permission in his eyes.

Encouraged by his silence, she allowed her fingers to explore the edges of the eyepatch, feeling the worn leather against her skin. Her thumb brushed over the strap that held it in place, her touch gentle and soothing. He shivered, a barely perceptible tremor that ran through him, and she felt a surge of something warm and hopeful rise within her.

His reaction was slow, almost imperceptible. He closed his eye briefly, as if savoring the sensation, then opened it to meet her gaze again. She could see the conflict within him, the struggle between the desire to protect himself and the yearning for this rare moment of intimacy.

She moved closer, her body almost pressing against his as she continued her exploration. The curve of her breasts brushed against his chin, and she felt the heat radiating from him, the tension in his muscles. Her fingers lingered on the eyepatch, tracing the lines where it met his skin, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat beneath her touch. His hand reached up, covering hers. For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them, suspended in a fragile, tender silence.

“Will you let me see?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

His hesitance and silence said more than his words ever could. 

The moment stretched, taut and fragile, until it seemed to snap under the weight of unspoken fears. She saw the flicker of rejection in his eye, a retreat behind the barriers he had so carefully constructed. Her face fell, the light of hope dimming as she realized she had pushed too far. But she understood; perhaps he needed more time. Withdrawing her hand, she felt the ghost of his touch linger on her skin, a burning reminder of the closeness they had almost shared.

He grasped her wrist gently, as if he wanted to ask her to stay, but the words remained unspoken. She did not want to stay unless he wholeheartedly asked her to. His grip was firm, yet she felt the reluctance in it, the silent struggle to decide whether to hold on and let go.

“I should go,” she said softly, gathering her skirts. “Your mother and sister await me at luncheon, and it would be unseemly to be late.”

He watched her walk away, her steps slow and measured, each one pulling her further from the fragile connection they had started to form. Left alone with his son, Aemond felt the weight of his failure press down on him, a cold, heavy burden that settled in his chest.

Aerys slept in the cot nearby, his tiny body trembling with each breath as if the sickness that plagued him might take him at any moment. Aemond moved his chair closer to the cot, peering down at the infant with a mixture of fear and determination. The soft tufts of silver hair marked him as undoubtedly his, a tiny mirror of his own lineage.

How many nights had she spent alone, watching over him like this? Scared that if she stepped away, Aerys may be gone?

In a quiet tone that would otherwise go unheard, he whispered to his son, his voice thick with emotion. “Ao kostagon’t tepagon bē va īlva, riñnykeā.” [You can’t give up on us, child.] After a moment of composure, he continued. “Ziry braved vīlībāzma naejot tepagon ao naejot issa. Gaomagon daor henujagon zȳhon.” [She braved battle to give you to me. Do not leave her.]

Aemond's voice trembled, the words almost breaking under the weight of his desperation. He held his son closer, cradling the tiny, fragile body against his chest. He thought of his wife's strength, the pain she had endured, and winced at the realization of how badly he had treated her. His neglect, his coldness - they had all but shattered her. 

He had done enough to her. The last thing he wanted was to see her lose Aerys too.

The dim light of the chamber cast soft shadows on Aemond's face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the furrowed brow etched deep with worry. His eye, normally a piercing blue, now seemed almost muted, dulled by the depth of his concern. He reached out, placing a gentle hand on his son’s chest, feeling the weak but steady rise and fall of his breaths. Aerys stirred slightly, his tiny fingers curling around a strand of Aemond’s hair. The grip was weak, but determined.

“You are the blood of the dragon,” he continued, his voice a fierce whisper. “You will grow strong.”

The Dragonpit was packed, the air heavy with the murmurs of the gathered smallfolk and the flickering light of countless torches. She stood beside Aemond, her posture as straight and regal as she could manage, her heart pounding in her chest. The spectacle of Aegon's coronation was unfolding before her eyes, a momentous event that would shape the future of the Targaryen family.

Hers.

The ceremony began with the Grand Maester stepping forward, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror held reverently in his hands. The weight of history seemed to press down on the room, making every breath feel heavy, every movement deliberate. Aegon - looking more like a squabbling, crying child than a King - ascended the steps to the dais, his face a mask of acceptance.

And when her husband nodded to his new King, she bowed deep.

She watched as Aegon’s expression shifted from indifference to a flicker of recognition of the power now bestowed upon him. The crowd erupted in cheers, their loyalty and fervor palpable, yet she felt a pang of unease amidst the celebration.

Beside her, Aemond stood tall and vigilant, his eye never leaving the proceedings. She glanced at him, seeking comfort in his composed demeanor, his presence a steady anchor in the sea of chaos. The noise of the crowd swelled, and she could feel the anticipation hanging thick in the air, a tangible force that seemed to wrap around them all. 

Aegon, now crowned, raised Blackfyre high above his head, the ancient sword gleaming in the firelight. The sight was awe-inspiring, a symbol of power and legitimacy. Yet, beneath the grandeur, she sensed the underlying tensions and overheard the words that Helaena kept mumbling. 

There is a beast beneath the boards.

Her feet shifted, and she heard the hollow sound that the ground made when her shoe met the surface. A hollow sound that comes when feet meets -

The boards.

Suddenly, the ground beneath them trembled, a low rumble that grew into a deafening roar. Gasps of shock and fear rippled through the crowd, and she instinctively reached for Aemond’s hand. Before she could react further, the floor of the Dragonpit exploded upward, sending debris and chaos flying in all directions.

Rhaenys, astride her dragon Meleys, emerged from the smoke and dust, her presence formidable and terrifying. The dragon’s scales shimmered with an otherworldly glow, its eyes blazing with fury. The people scattered, screams of panic filling the air as the beast roared, the sound reverberating through the hall and shaking her to her core.

Her heart raced, terror gripping her as she stared at the massive dragon, its wings spreading wide, casting a shadow over the entire chamber. Aemond’s hand tightened around hers, pulling her behind him protectively. She could feel his body tense, ready to shield her from any danger. Despite the fear that threatened to overwhelm her, a faint surge of gratitude washed through.

You never had to ask.

Meleys roared again, the sound like thunder, and the heat of its breath washed over them. She could see the flames flickering in the dragon's throat, the promise of destruction just a heartbeat away. Rhaenys, regal and unyielding, locked eyes with Alicent, a silent challenge passing between them.

Aemond stepped forward, his presence a wall of defiance and strength. “Get behind me,” he commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos. She obeyed without hesitation, her body pressed close to his, drawing comfort from his unwavering resolve.

The dragon’s eyes fixed on them, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. She could hear her own heartbeat, a frantic drumbeat in her ears, and the cold sweat on her palms. Every muscle in her body was taut with fear, and she kept her eyes firmly set to the ground.

This is how I die. Do you call it a dragonrider’s death when you don’t ride a dragon?

My son. AerysAerysAerys-

Aemond.

Rhaenys stared at them all, the weight of her decision hanging in the air. Meleys shifted, the ground trembling beneath its weight, and for a moment, it seemed as though the dragon would unleash its fury. But then, as if making a choice that defied all expectations, Rhaenys turned Meleys away, the dragon's wings beating powerfully as they ascended through the shattered roof of the Dragonpit.

The relief was overwhelming, a rush of emotions that left her weak at the knees. She clung to Aemond, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps as she tried to process what had just happened. The hall was filled with the sounds of weeping and the murmurs of disbelief, the aftermath of the encounter leaving everyone shaken.

Aemond’s arm wrapped around her, pulling her close, his breath warm against her ear. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern. She nodded, still trembling, her heart beginning to slow as the adrenaline ebbed away.

She did not notice how closely he held her when it came down to it - for the very first time. 

Aemond's fingers dug into Sylvi's hips as he thrust into her from behind, each movement fierce and relentless. Her back arched under the pressure of his hand, pushing her down onto the bed. The room was filled with the raw sounds of their coupling, echoing off the walls.

His breath came in ragged gasps, mingling with her moans. His grip tightened, nails biting into her flesh as he drove into her harder, seeking release in the violent act. The scent of sweat and sex hung heavy in the air, an intoxicating mix that fueled his aggression. "Gods,” He growled, his voice a low, primal rumble. He watched as her body responded to each thrust, the way her muscles tensed and relaxed, the sheen of sweat on her skin glistening in the candlelight. She was a willing vessel for his frustrations, and he took her with a ferocity that bordered on madness.

Her moans turned into cries of pleasure, her fingers clutching the sheets beneath her as she braced herself against his onslaught. He felt a dark satisfaction at the way he could bend her to his will, the power he wielded in these moments of raw, unbridled lust.

The climax came in a wave of intense pleasure, his body shuddering as he spilled into her. He collapsed over her, panting, his chest pressed against her back as he tried to catch his breath. The aftermath was a stark contrast to the ferocity of their coupling – a quiet, intimate moment where their bodies remained entwined, slick with sweat and the remnants of their shared passion.

Her arms wrapped around Aemond's naked body, her touch tender and soothing after their rough encounter. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of candlelight casting shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender from the sheets.

Aemond's breathing gradually slowed, his chest rising and falling against hers as he allowed himself to relax in her embrace. His mind, however, was anything but at ease. He thought back to the scene that had haunted him since he left his chambers earlier: his wife, cradling their son, her eyes red from crying, her body and mind still fragile from the ordeal of facing a dragon at Aegon’s coronation.

"She was crying before I left to come here," he began, his voice a low murmur against her neck. "Holding our son, so shocked by near-death.. It didn’t seem as terrifying to me, but... she was so scared. She's worried, you know. About the impending war."

The Madame’s fingers traced gentle circles on his back, encouraging him to continue. "She doesn't have dragonrider's blood," he went on, almost to himself. "I didn’t know how to comfort her. I want to help, but I don’t know how."

Her hands moved up to his shoulders, her touch grounding him. Her presence was a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind. He lowered his head to her chest, his lips finding her breast. He suckled softly, kneading the soft flesh, seeking solace in the familiar act.

Holding their son brought comfort to his wife, and for him, coming here to the Madame, was his escape. The warmth and intimacy they shared, however fleeting, was his way of coping with the weight of his responsibilities and the emotional distance between him and his wife. As he continued to be held, he couldn’t help but wonder if he and his wife would ever find this kind of comfort in each other; if he’d ever find the courage or the trust to truly tell her what he needs without worrying about losing her respect.

If he'd walked in and held her while she cried instead of leaving her to it and coming here, could he have made her feel safer?

Too many questions, not enough courage for answers. Too much pride and so little sense between them both.

Aemond's heart pounded in his chest as Vhagar soared through the stormy skies back to King's Landing. The cold wind bit at his face, but it was nothing compared to the icy dread gripping his heart. 

He had killed Luke. His nephew, his blood. 

The act had been unintended, a consequence of their reckless chase, but it was done. There would be no undoing it. If there hadn't been a war before, there certainly was now. The weight of his actions settled heavily upon him, more suffocating than the fiercest storm. As the familiar silhouette of the Red Keep came into view, a storm of emotions churned within him. Guilt, fear, and a desperate need for comfort twisted together, making his insides writhe. 

He dismounted Vhagar with a heavy heart, his drenched form slipping through the darkened halls of the castle like a shadow. His mind raced, an entire host of thoughts battering against the walls of his consciousness. He needed solace, a place to hide from the storm he had created. The whorehouse crossed his mind briefly, a familiar escape, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough this time. He needed... he needed...

Before he knew it, his feet had taken him to her apartments.

Her. His wife.

He stood before the door, hesitating for a moment before pushing it open. His wife was readying for bed, her state of undress evident. She wore a robe over her shift, her hair loose around her shoulders. The soft light from the hearth bathed her in a gentle glow, as he took her in. She turned to him in shock, her eyes widening at the sight of him. It was clear how rare this occurrence was, how unexpected his presence was in her chambers. But she was quick to pull him in, taking in his drenched form with a worried expression.

"Husband, what has happened?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.

He did not answer, his eyes trained on her as she moved. Her exposed skin drew his attention, and he found himself wondering. 

Was she softer? Kinder? Would she hold him in her soft arms if he so wished? Did he deserve it from her? Would she shame him?

She kept asking, but he remained silent, his mind too chaotic to form coherent words. She moved to find him something to dry off with, but he reached out, his hand wrapping around her wrist in a death grip.

"Don't go," he whispered, his voice raw and choked, barely more than a breath.

She looked up at him, her confusion gradually giving way to a quiet curiosity. He gently guided her arms around his cold and damp waist, his touch unexpectedly tender. This was not a whore; this was his wife. She deserved to be treated differently. 

At first, she froze, her body tense and uncertain, but slowly, she let herself relax – at least as much as she could manage with a husband who had sought her out for the first time in a year.

He felt her hesitation and understood the significance of her yielding. The weight of his guilt pressed harder against his heart, but he clung to this moment of closeness, desperate for the comfort he so craved.

"What has happened, husband? Why are you here?" she asked softly, parts of her words muffled into his chest.

He remained silent, waiting to see what she would do. Her repeated questions slowly stopped, a resigned understanding settling in her gaze. In the silence, he became acutely aware of her form – soft, untouched by anyone but him, made for him. The thin layers of her robe and shift did little to keep his hands from exploring her.

His fingers trembled as they traced the curve of her spine, brushing against the delicate fabric of her robe. Every slight movement, every breath, every shiver she made became magnified in his mind. Her body responded to his touch with a delicate gasp, and he felt a surge of something he couldn't quite name – a need, a longing, a desperate desire for solace in her embrace.

He watched the rise and fall of her chest, every intake of breath, every flinch and gasp. He noticed a stray hair that had fallen across her face, the way the delicate hairs on her skin raised at his touch, the way her eyes widened and then softened. Each detail etched itself into his mind, a stark contrast to the murder that had driven him here.

She tightened her arms around him, her touch gentle yet firm. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent – lilacs and something uniquely her that anchored him to this moment, to her. It was a comfort stronger than any he had ever received, yet calm and grounding at the same time.

His hands roamed her back, feeling the delicate curve of her waist, the slight tremor in her muscles as she responded to his touch. He pressed his lips to her neck, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat, steady and reassuring. Her breath hitched, and he felt the vibration of her voice as she whispered his name, a question and a plea all at once.

"Aemond," she murmured, her voice breaking the silence. His body reacts in shivers and heat at the sound of his name upon her lips. "Please, tell me what's wrong."

Had she ever said his name out loud before? He did not know. But he wanted to hear it again and again until the world as he knew it ended. Perhaps it was the guilt - over Luke, or over his neglect of his wife - he did not know. But it was all bubbling at the surface now, and he was much more open and vulnerable than he’d ever been.

He bent his head down, his eye locking onto hers. The intensity of his gaze seemed to drown out the room, focusing solely on her. He could see the concern, the worry etched in her features, and it tore at him. He couldn't tell her, not yet. Not about the blood on his hands, the life he had taken, not why he was here and what he’d wanted.

But he could let her consume him, to forget. He could lose himself in her.

He felt the warmth of her skin, the softness of her curves against him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to forget the horrors of the night. He traced the line of her jaw with his fingers, memorizing every curve, every angle. Her skin was smooth and warm, a stark contrast to the cold, damp leathers clinging to him.

He pressed his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. Her eyes searched his, looking for answers he couldn't give. Despite her confusion, the turmoil in his mind quieted, replaced by the steady, reassuring rhythm of her heartbeat. She was his anchor, his solace, and he clung to her like a lifeline in the storm.

Wordlessly, he moved back enough to get a good look at her, his eyes tracing her form with a reverence that made her pulse quicken. He then slowly untied the front of her robe, the silk falling away with a whisper. His hands fell to her shoulders, pausing there for a moment as he sighed. As he pushed the sleeves down, his hands traced the newly revealed skin - his fingers glided from her collarbone to her shoulders, down her arms, and finally to her fingers, which he intertwined with his own. The robe slipped to the floor, leaving her in a thin shift that clung to her curves, leaving little to the imagination.

His eyes remained locked on hers, the intensity of his gaze a silent plea for forgiveness, a desperate need to be anchored by her presence. He took her trembling hands and placed them on his damp leathers, his touch firm but gentle, giving her silent permission—no, a quiet command—to undress him. His breath hitched slightly as he waited for her to take the lead.

She moved slowly, her fingers deftly working the buckles and straps, peeling away the layers of his clothing until he stood before her in only his trousers. Her hands hover over his chest, her touch hesitant, almost afraid, as if she's not sure she's allowed to touch him. His skin was warm under her fingertips, his heart pounding just beneath the surface.

His hands covered hers, guiding them lower, to the waistband of his trousers. His touch was both a plea and a command, silently asking, demanding, begging her to take this final barrier away. She did, her movements slow and deliberate, until he stood bare before her, exposed in every sense of the word.

She did not dare try to take off his eyepatch, not this time.

He watched her intently, noting every flinch, every gasp, every shiver that runs through her. His fingers traced delicate patterns on her skin, exploring every inch with a tenderness that speaks of his desperation for her. He needed this moment, her touch, to forget what he'd done to Luke, to drown the guilt that threatened to consume him. Every breath he took was a reminder of his failures, every brush of her skin against his a lifeline that pulled him back from the proverbial edge.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder - not her lips, he had not kissed her on the lips since their wedding ceremony. His hands roamed her body, mapped out the places that made her gasp, the spots that made her arch into him. He was attuned to her every reaction, his focus entirely on her.

All he asked for in return - with no words - is that she make him feel safe for this one night.

With his body bare and hers still clad in her shift, he silently gestured to her bed with a tilt of his head. She moved toward it, her movements graceful yet hesitant, and then crawled to the back, letting her spine rest against the headboard. He stood there for a moment, watching her, his breath uneven and his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

He did not miss the way she looked at him. Desire flickered in her eyes, growing with each second her gaze roved over his body. Her eyes widened when they settled on his manhood, and he could see the anticipation building within her. She expected him to take her tonight, he knew. He hadn't given any indication otherwise in the last few moments, and she had no clue what he actually wanted; or why.

Would she welcome him to her bed if she knew he was a kinslayer?

The thought gnawed at him, but he chose not to tell her. She might not offer her true acceptance, but he would take her false comfort tonight – even if she thought it true.

He moved to the side of the bed with all his characteristic grace. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mix of confusion and longing. When he lifted his knee to place it on the plush mattress, she shifted to make space for him. He laid down beside her, his movements deliberate and slow, as if fearing she might vanish if he was too hasty. She mirrored his actions, and soon they were facing each other, their warm breaths mingling in the stillness of the room.

Their eyes locked, and he saw her questioning gaze. Her next words, soft and tentative, knocked the breath out of his lungs.

"Are you alright?"

For a moment, he couldn't answer, the weight of the day's events pressing down on him. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw the worry etched in the lines of her face, the softness of her eyes, the way her lips parted slightly as she waited for his response.

"I will be," he finally said, his voice rough with emotion.

Tentatively, he placed his hand on her thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her shift. He slid the material up, his fingers tracing the smooth expanse of her leg. 

"Gevie.” [Beautiful.]

His fingers continued their journey, moving to her inner thigh. Her legs shivered at his touch, and he smirked for a moment before he withdrew his hand and moved closer. Their bodies were now a hairsbreadth apart, the heat between them palpable. 

His hands moved to her breasts, feeling their fullness beneath her shift. He was acutely aware of every breath she took, every flinch and gasp that escaped her lips. Each reaction to his touch drew him further into the present moment, away from the dark thoughts that threatened to consume him. Her body was a haven, a sanctuary where he could lose himself, if only for a while.

Encouraged by her soft gasps, he continued to knead the mounds of flesh and pinch her pert nipples, his touch gentle yet insistent through the shift. Lowering his head, he nestled himself at her bosom, inhaling deeply. The scent of lilacs and milk overtook him, and he let out a contented sigh.

"You are a mother... the mother of my heir," he murmured into her chest, his voice a mix of reverence and disbelief.

She said nothing, but when her initial shock faded, she began to comb her fingers through his soft hair, humming the same song she sang to their son to sleep. The melody was soothing, a balm to his frayed nerves. He didn't know if her singing was to calm him or herself, but he found solace in the gentle rise and fall of her breasts with each breath she took.

He took in the way her body trembled slightly beneath him, the softness of her skin, the rhythmic beating of her heart against his cheek. This was not the harsh, immediate and uncertain release he sought at the whorehouse. 

This was more, more, more.

Sleep came to him easily in her arms, draped in her comfort; devoid of any nightmares, dreams, or heavy thoughts. 

If she wondered why he'd simply laid with her rather than fuck her, she did not ask.

Would she welcome him again when she finds out what he did?

The council branded him a kinslayer when he told them what he'd done. He embraced it, staring into their eyes, defiant and unyielding. He told them he did it on purpose, each word a dagger thrown with precision. Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

Aegon patted his back, a twisted smile playing on his lips. "A job well done, drawing first blood in the King's name," he said, his voice a blend of admiration and malice. His grandfather's face remained a mask, revealing nothing. Criston was disappointed, his disapproval a heavy weight in the room. And his mother... 

His mother was disgusted, her eyes filled with a sorrow he had never seen before. When he stepped out and walked through the corridors, the word had spread like wildfire. 

Kinslayer. 

The whispers followed him like a relentless shadow. Servants and maids stepped out of his way, their gazes avoiding his. The tension was palpable, a living thing that tightened the air around him. He wanted to escape them all, to flee to the skies where their judgment could not reach him. But before then, he wanted to see them.

He stood near the doorway as she had a few days prior, watching her rock their fitful, sick son to sleep. Her movements were gentle, contrasting all the shock, anger and brashness he’d seen since he stepped out of her room before she awoke. He wanted her to look at him, to see beyond the blood and the sin. He was asking too much of her, he knew that. They were strangers bound by duty, their recent shared moments brief and fraught with his own selfish needs for comfort.

His heart pounded as she finally met his gaze. He was not prepared for the slight fear in her eyes. It cut through him deeper than any sword ever could. She looked at him as if he were a creature she could not recognize. 

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

The word echoed in his mind, a relentless chant that drowned out everything else. He took a step forward, his hands trembling. "I—" he began, but the words died in his throat. What could he say? How could he explain the unexplainable, justify the unforgivable? She held their son closer, her grip tightening protectively. The room was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of what he had done and what it meant for them. His mind raced, filled with a cacophony of anger, regret, and despair.

The need to escape surged within him again. He wanted to flee to the skies, to find solace in the cold, indifferent clouds. But he couldn't move, couldn't tear his gaze away from the image of her fear-stricken eyes.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

With a heavy heart and a mind in turmoil, he turned and walked back into the shadowed corridors, each step echoing the relentless chant of his new title.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

The word echoed through the empty halls, a reminder of the path he had chosen and the price he would pay.

If he’d told her last night as he laid in her arms, would she have understood?

He’d never know.

NEXT

MASTERLIST

NO TAG LIST. Please follow @randomdragonfics and turn on post notifications for all my fic updates!

[antigonick]

Bonjour Pauline! I'm currently preparing my PhD application in American literature and linguistics and I'm kind of lost/struggling with imposter syndrome. Do you have any advice on writing a good research proposal? Merci!

First of all, take the pressure off: your proposal is a vague gesturing at what you'll actually do, and it won't constrain you; it's only here to give an idea of what you're offering to dig into to the professors and councils who will read it.

You don't have the answers (nor should you have them at the start: that's the point), and the richness of your future research is rooted in the fact that nobody has them either: you're not an impostor at all, you just haven't started digging yet. Now, you do need to understand what you're questioning: that's the only difficulty here. Of course the net you're throwing is still wide, but make sure you have a good enough grasp of your material and that your questions are clear and well-worded: if it's just a jumble of vagueness, it might work against you.

What the proposal must do is a little boring, a little scholarly, and a little ad-like. Think of it as an administrative task as well as a communication one. What you're trying to achieve is 1. showing your reader that there's a gap in the research world where your question falls (that you know how to do: just read around, ask your thesis question, quote authors—this is what you've trained for during your masters), and 2. showing that it is a rich subject, and an interesting one, a question that needs answering (basically, you're marketing your idea so that people will back you up: just like writing or advertising, you're coaxing people into following you).

Be thorough. Be methodical. That will ensure that your reader starts to trust you as an academic. Contextualise everything precisely and succinctly: write like the people reading you don't know shit about what you're exploring. Don't take shortcuts because you're sending this to so and so experts: as far as you're concerned, they don't know anything. Be enthusiastic (though not lyrical). Believe in your project. That will ensure your reader's belief in your capacity to carry your project out until the end. Be clean and precise: a logical outline, clear categories, good and efficient titles, no typos, correct formatting for your quotes and bibliography, and a wide-net of authors quoted; that will show them you already have the technique and method necessary for a project of this size.

And as I said, nothing about your proposal is set in stone, so don't fret! This is just an essay among others, except this time you are free to do what you will with it. It's a good thing! Don't feel lost or inadequate: this is the thing you'll be the best at soon enough, and you poking at it already makes you better than most at it.

[ygodmyy20]

Hello, I hear you have many thoughts on open access publishing? 👀

Okdoki Texas I have had enough time to gather my thoughts!

BIG caveat. I haven't worked in academic publishing sphere in over a year. Things change often and there likely are things I just (not being in the industry any more) don't know because I am not in the thick of it. I also am not an academic, I have never published in a journal. I just worked in the industry.

another also (so many I just, want to make sure I am super clear) anything with academia is complex, and there is no one perfect answer. There are a myriad of things that academic publishing is grappling with that isn't just OA publishing. But I'll just touch on OA publishing here!

Useful links that can probably give better definitions on things than I ever could:

^ DORA is related to publishing but i won't talk much about it here. Another issue with academic publishing is how journals are ranked. Which.....i am not gonna go into but if you search Journal Impact Factor you can find more info. (legit its like, academic publishing is a big iceberg hahahah)

First off, a brief def of what Open Access Publishing is:

OA Publishing is "A publication is defined 'open access' when there are no financial, legal or technical barriers to accessing it (source)." That is the best definition that exists. But OA journals are also characterized by funding models which do not require the reader to pay to read the journal's contents, relying instead on author fees or on public funding, subsidies and sponsorships. 

Within that are many types of OA publishing. Gold, Green, Diamond and more. You can find those definitions in the source link above on OA publishing.

Now, non-open access journals cover publishing costs through access tolls such as subscriptions, site licenses or pay-per-view charges. These are paywalled journals.

Open Access Publishing was created because research and knowledge was and is getting locked behind paywalls. For example, if I want to look up research on say....ADHD medication.

I do a search. I find this:

Paywall. Luckily I can gleam a good bit from the abstract they provide and they share some key highlights. But I cannot read the full text.

So now where do I go? I can try and dig around and find reddit or other articles on other sites, but what if I really wanted to read the research? What if i don't want to read an opinion piece on it? I can't. I have to pay for it (cuz I am not affiliated with a university) or find it somewhere else.

Open access reduces those paywalls so I can read that research if I want to.

However, worth noting, it isn't always a perfect model, as certain side effects have come up like an increase in predatory journals, incredibly high author costs, "double dipping" by large publishers (i.e., a journal charging an author fee and still charging libraries and institutions a subscription cost to the journal) and others.

At the same time, I fully back OA publishing over the old model because the locking of knowledge behind paywalls is too big an issue to ignore. Everyone deserves to be able to access research. And publishers are making so much fucking money off of research they didn't DO. (IN some cases an author is PAYING a journal to publish their journal and then the journal charges others to access and its like I AM SORRY????)

Reminder: You can always email an author and ask for their paper. They likely will send the PDF to you. They WANT their research to be read (bc my god the time it takes to publish a paper is insane.)

I am not the right person to give recommendations on how to publish. It is so dependent on your field of study, the journals in your discipline, etc. Most often, a professor or advisor will help with those decisions, but I think more younger academics should ask questions. Understand what OA is, and see if there are any OA journals in their field that would be a good fit for their research.

Anyway I hope that was helpful or interesting, Texas!! Again I am not sure I have any hot takes, I still just feel strongly about the dissemination of research to the public.

[icemankazansky]

please talk more about neurodivergent mav bc it’s my reason to live n breathe fr

I'm so glad you sent me this ask, because I was asking myself, "Should I make a real post about this?" and then you came and answered the question for me.

Maverick Mitchell is Neurodivergent

Very briefly, for anyone who has questions: The term "neurodivergent" refers to someone whose brain works differently than the majority of people ("neurotypicals.") While neurodiversity is by definition diverse, there are hallmarks of neurodivergence that are common in the majority of neurodivergent people. I'm not here to make definitive statements about neurodiversity; I'm speaking about my read on one, particular character. This is an opinion post. I will also be referring to my own experience as neurodivergent, because this is not a scholarly article and it's my blog, so I'm kind of thinking of it as a 30-some-year longitudinal study.

mav·er·ick /ˈmav(ə)rik/ noun

The definition of "maverick" is, "an unorthodox or independent-minded person," which I fucking love when we're talking about Maverick Mitchell as neurodivergent, because that's literally how he got his name: By thinking differently. That is the definition of neurodivergence, and one of its hallmarks is thinking creatively.

"I'll hit the brakes; he'll fly right by."

Maverick approaches flying creatively. It serves him well, but he's censured for it more than once by authority figures who don't understand the way he thinks. "Aircraft one performs a split S? That's the last thing you should do.... What were you thinking at this point?"

Charlie doesn't understand Maverick's thought process, because it's dissimilar from her own. Neurotypicals often have difficulty understanding or anticipating the thoughts of neurodivergents, and vice versa. (Though both groups can read and predict the thought processes of members of their own group with the same level of accuracy.) Maverick has difficulty explaining his own thought process to her, which is a common neurodivergent experience, because it's loud and busy in there, and my brain just makes connections that I can't always express. A reminded me of B which reminded me of C which reminded me of D and now we're on X and it happened in a split second, and no, I'm not sure how we got here. But that's not what he tells her. What he says is: "There's no time to think up there. If you think, you're dead."

Which leads me to my next point: Neurodivergence can also account for Maverick's motto: "Don't think; just do." Many neurodivergents have strong intuitions, and they often believe their intuition first. Additionally, given the right circumstances, neurodivergents are capable of intense and sustained focus, to the point where the world outside the target just kind of fades away. Neurodivergent thinking is also characterized by being observant, detail-focused, and a good problem solver. If you're intensely focused, and that's how your brain works naturally, then you just take in all these details and the pieces of the problem, and your brain sorts it for you automatically, and you do whatever you're doing like muscle memory. Show the math. Well, I can't, but I got to the right answer, didn't I?

Impulse Control and Emotional Regulation

"Time to buzz the tower, Goose."

Neurodivergence is often characterized by poor impulse control and emotional regulation. We know Maverick has poor impulse control. There are multiple instances across the films where someone lists his many impulsive actions that felt good in the moment but resulted in negative consequences large and small. It's not that Maverick does not know that, for example, buzzing the tower will result in immediate negative consequences. This is not brand new information. He knows. It's just that the impulse to do it is stronger than the voice of logic telling him not to, and he has never learned to control his impulses. Honestly, I have no idea what this feels like for neurotypical people. I feel a difference between a want or a desire and an impulse. Like, "I want a vanilla coke right now. That sounds amazing." I feel desire, and maybe I'm disappointed if I cannot acquire the object of my desire, but it's a relatively small and manageable feeling. An impulse is not. An impulse is a huge feeling, and it's not just emotional; I feel it physically in my body, both this emotional and physical desperate discomfort that I cannot extinguish without Doing the Thing. In many instances, I know I should not Do the Thing. My brain provides all sorts of reasons why I should not Do the Thing. But that doesn't diminish the impulse at all. I cannot feel better until I Do the Thing. Often, once the high of Doing the Thing is over, I have regrets. Those regrets create kind of an impulse hangover, but this feeling (and even the knowledge that I will have this feeling in the immediate future) does not in any way dissuade me from Doing the Thing. You can learn impulse control. It is a skill you can acquire. Maverick has not acquired this skill. And neither have I.

Poor emotional regulation is another hallmark of neurodivergence. It is more difficult to begin with because neurodivergents tend to emotional extremes, so the emotions are much bigger than the ones felt day-to-day by neurotypicals.

"I will fire when I am goddamn good and ready, you got that?"

(Emotional regulation is not just about controlling your anger, but this is the example that I have at hand.) Some people have emotions. My emotions have me. They pilot this craft. I am years into actively working on emotional regulation, and a lot of the time I find myself completely controlled by my feelings, and not the other way around. Maverick has this problem, too. Was his reaction to Sundown above appropriate and proportional to the situation? Probably not. Was it necessary to jump in Ice's face in the locker room after a brief argument? Probably not. But if you don't run your emotions, they run you.

He also has the correlating problem, which is numbing yourself out. Your emotions are too big and you can't control them, so you swallow them, push them down so far that all you feel is numb. Empty. Hollow. It can be like a seesaw: Emotions get too big, cause you distress, so you suppress them; now you feel numb. The other long-term problem with poor emotional regulation is that if you don't deal with your emotions, you can't get rid of them. The treatment for PTSD is processing your trauma. Unpacking it, dealing with every detail, feeling every bit of emotion that's attached. (I just did this last year. It's called prolonged exposure therapy, and it is absolutely the hardest thing I have ever done on purpose.) In the first film, Maverick is still carrying the trauma of his parents' death; in the second, he's still carrying the trauma of Goose's death and losing Bradley. If you don't process your trauma, you have to keep it. That's what PTSD is.

Differences in Social Skills and Awareness

This is where I started the discussion of Mav being neurodivergent the other day. A lot of Maverick's problems with the establishment of the Navy can be attributed to neurotypicals not understanding his creative thinking, or to problems caused by his poor impulse control and emotional regulation, but I think most of it is probably attributable to this. Neurodivergents socialize differently than neurotypicals, and they often have difficulty reading the nuances and unspoken cues of neurotypical social situations. Cain asks Maverick why he hasn't been promoted above captain, and Maverick tells him that he's, "where he belongs" (meaning he doesn't want to stop flying full-time), but in truth ranks above captain require a lot of diplomacy, tact, and social sensitivity, and these are not skills Maverick has. (Which is not a bad thing, unless he's trying to do Ice's job. They have different skill sets; that's not where Maverick belongs.)

Navigating the social minefield of the Navy is more of a large picture issue, so I think that the best examples of Maverick's differences in social skills and awareness are small moments.

"I believe the admiral is asking a rhetorical question."

Maverick does not pick that up. He knows what a rhetorical question is, and he adjusts his behavior when Warlock clues him in, but Maverick cannot pick up the small, unspoken cues that Cyclone is giving to indicate it is a rhetorical question. Maverick takes Cyclone's speech in a very straight-forward manner: He asked a question, so I'm going to answer the question. Neurodivergents often take speech at face value, having difficulty with figures of speech such as metaphor and colloquialisms, because they expect people to say what they mean and mean what they say. There are other cues that neurodivergents pay attention to when communicating, but they're emotional and intuitive, not social or situational. Neurodivergents tend to express themselves honestly and so expect honesty in return. Euphemisms and pussyfooting for the sake of niceties or any other reason is not a natural instinct in neurodivergent communication. "Tact is just not saying true stuff. I'll pass." (That's Cordelia Chase, not Maverick Mitchell, but it's the vibe here.)

Neurodivergence is just your brain working differently than most people's. Like all things, it has its benefits and its drawbacks. But it affects every part of your life and how you live it, because it's how you see and make sense of the world. Maverick Mitchell's neurodivergence makes him who he is.

[rockinlibrarian]

Fic Self-Recs!

Anyway, I took the self-indulgent dare of an “I tag anyone who wants to do this!” on a post reblogged by not-even-a-personal-Tumblr so I’m sure the “I” wasn’t thinking of ME at all, but I was curious if I could do it. The tag dare is “What are your five favorite fics that you have written?” Anyway also, I failed the dare, because I had terrible trouble narrowing my 37 posted fics (3 are anonymous) (no I did NOT enter the current Masked Author event three times,* calm down) down past ten? And I’m still not sure. How can you ask someone to choose among their babies? Well, fics aren’t babies, and there are definitely some I wouldn’t pick, so there.

I would like to separate it into two parts, one of fics I can recommend to you all, one of fics I’m being entirely self-indulgent by including, but even that doesn’t work out neatly.

I’m going to start with a self-indulgent one, because my #1 favorite fic I’ve ever written is unfortunately kind of inscrutable to people who haven’t seen all three seasons of cult-favorite show Legion:

“The Magic Man of Oz”! It is my favorite so much that I think you should read it anyway even if you won’t get the references! I added an entire chapter of annotations just so you could look UP the references! It is The Wizard of Oz told through Legion references! It has a delightful intrusive narrator! It has the greatest fight scene I have ever written, maybe because it’s extremely untraditional! I will not stop harping on this, my favorite fic I wrote! So let’s skip to a less self-indulgent alternative #1:

“Exploration of the Astral Plane: An Immersive, Multidimensional Study, by Cary Loudermilk, PhD, and Oliver Anthony Bird.” I’ve been on a rereading this kick lately. While this is also Legion, it’s a prequel that requires next to no preknowledge! And it still has wacky dream imagery and unusual structure and you still get to enjoy Oliver Bird being HIM-like, he’s just not narrating!

Now we’ll do the rest of the Legion fics just to get them out of the way! But these ALSO require next-to-no pre-knowledge (even less, actually! “Exploration” requires you to know that it takes place in the X-Men universe and that Summerland is a retreat for traumatized mutants! These next ones don’t even require THAT!), so they make very good recommendations, too!

2. “A Strictly Scholarly Collaboration: the Original Romance of the Mind” is me writing a romance! My way! It’s all about relationship-building, nothing at all physical! Yet one of my favorite AO3 bookmarks was given to it by someone who usually deals primarily in Explicit fics and THEY said “Exceptional viewpoints, intelligence, accuracy, and romance. Solid 10/10,” so that’s a win for everyone! 2.1/2 bonus so I don’t have to give away another slot “Two (or Three) Mutant Freaks and the Strictly Scholarly Collaboration” –are bonus scenes that would exist if it took place in a world where Oliver was already friends with Cary and Kerry! Which brings us to:

3. “Two (or Three) Mutant Freaks Against the Fourth Grade,” which was my favorite that I felt the need to harp on before I wrote “Magic Man of Oz”! It’s just a cute little story about mutant nerd-boys making friends! I think everyone should read it, even if I don’t love it quite as much as I did at first! Okay, we’ll leave Legion now, I promise. How about a couple from my second most-commonly-written-for fandom?

4. “A Captain With Seven Children…What's So Fearsome About That?” asks What if Maria (not Von Trapp because she’s obviously not married in this scenario) from The Sound of Music got hired to be governess at The Umbrella Academy instead? It also requires next to no pre-knowledge of either source material! So you should read it! It’s not done yet because I haven’t figured out how to run away to Switzerland when we’re in America and the bad guy is the father himself quite yet! But that’s okay because everything else is delightful!

5. “On Soul Mates and Nemeses” is where I attempt to justify my obsession with shipping Fiktor! It has lots of little snippets of flashback scenes that are fun and really isn’t that heavy on the shipping! Which leads us back to the self-indulgent list:

2. “New World Symphony” (which is also Fiktor but also has a lot of interesting non-shipping bits) is one I only have one chapter posted for, but I swear to you, Chapters Four and Five are SO GOOD. Unfortunately Chapter Three just BARELY exists. Chapter Two is very likely to be the next thing I post, but that doesn’t make Chapter Three get any more written. You HAVE to read Chapters 4 and 5 though, I’m serious. Speaking of which:

3. “Tesseract” notoriously hasn’t been updated on AO3 since late 2021, but there’s some really amazing stuff yet to come, I promise! I keep chipping away at it and there is so much I can’t wait to share!

I’m counting this last one among the self-indulgents for the opposite reason though:

4. “The Invitation: an epilogue” DOESN’T need any advertising. It’s my most-kudoed fic! (Although “In Which Jason and Chidi Rob a Bank” is only behind by two now so it may actually lose that status sometime soon). But that doesn’t mean it’s not one of my very favorites regardless, so I have to put it on the list even if everyone already agrees with me!

Now I'm supposed to tag people! I feel like I should tag actual people to make up for the self-indulgence! @stephsageek came up as soon as I hit @ so yeah; @a-freemaniac I'm pretty sure it was your Tumblr I saw this on-- I don't know if you write fic or just read it but I'll put it out there; @littlerit; @uniasus I think you might have done this before but you're the next fic writer on my list here-- oh I think I asked you what your FAVORITE was in an ask game once, this is FIVE favorites so it counts; @destinyandcoins!

*Edit to add, 8/3/2024: This comment was a deliberately misleading half-truth. I entered the (now long-completed) Masked Author event TWICE.

[archduchessofnowhere]

What are your favourite non-fiction book about the Habsburgs?

Hello! Sorry it took me so long to answer!

My favorite book about the Habsburgs is actually one that it's not about the main people I tend to talk about in this blog (aka from the time of Franz Josef): Barbara Stollber-Rillinger’s biography of Empress Maria Theresia, which is not just a biography but THE book about the 18th century Habsburg empire, period. She covers EVERYTHING: how the Maria Theresia myth originated, the War of the Austrian Succession, the Seven Years War, court rituals, marriage alliances, education policies, religious policies, political reforms, the complex relationship between the Empress and her children (each child gets their own chapter), just to name a few of the book’s subjects. It is an academical book so the prose is kinda dry, and if you’re not used to read this kind of scholarly work it may be a bit difficult to get through, but I don’t think it’s particularly hard to read. It did took me months to read it but because it’s a LONG book (over 1000 pages) and I did find some parts a bit tedious (mainly the ones related to the political reforms, the subject just doesn’t interest me a lot), but in other parts I was so hooked that I couldn’t stop reading. If you're looking for a more personal biography of the empress you might find this one disappointing since the author doesn't focus too much on that (“no false intimacy with Maria Theresa will be presumed. The heroine shall be kept at arm’s length.”), but otherwise I highly recommend it.

Leaving the world of academic writing and entering into pop history, surprisingly my favorite book that I’ve read so far is Joan Haslip’s 1982 The Emperor and the actress. This books is neither a biography of Emperor Franz Josef nor Katharina Schratt, but a book about their relationship, how they met and became unlikely best friends. Haslip still does this thing in which she doesn’t cite anything BUT she does quote lots of letters and explicitly says “now I’m quoting a letter”, which made this problem less annoying. Possibly there may be better books about Katharina (there are newer and more updated ones in German for sure), but in English this remains the best source about the actress, and because of that I was completely hooked. It was also my introduction to Bulgarian history and royalty, which I knew nothing about before (fun fact Katharina was also besties with future Tsar Ferdinand and Franz Josef was jealous of him because of it lol). It isn’t a perfect book by any means, but I’m very fond of it nonetheless (example on how this books isn’t perfect at all: Haslip says once that Sophie Chotek was ugly which is just CRAZY, she was gorgeous!!!).

In the memoirs area I really enjoyed Stephanie of Belgium’s. While the view she gives of the Viennese court is obviously biased, I liked to have her version of the story, because I felt that it was overall balanced (yes, even with the complaining about her unfair treatment and all). She also provides some of Rudolf’s letters, which is nice.

I’ve only scratched the top of the iceberg that is Rudolf and Mayerling books, so I don’t really have a favorite here. I’ve read Greg King and Penny Wilson’s Twilight of Empire which I thought was a good introduction to the subject, mainly because there is a whole section of the book in which the authors go in-depth about the history of Mayerling books from the first one ever published, focusing on how reliable they are based on the author and the sources they had access to; which I think is a very useful reading guide to get fully into the subject (on the other hand, I did find the biography part of the book was just ok).

On books about Empress Elisabeth, I already mentioned some in this ask.

To be honest I’ve been avoiding the “big” Habsburg books, in part because they lowkey intimidate me (there are so many both in academic and pop history, where do you even begin?), and in part because I fear that I will find them unsatisfactory (I rather read a 500 pages long book that goes into detail in, idk, Charles V’s life and reign than a “History of the Habsburgs” book that only gives him 20 pages). HOWEVER I’ve been researching which are the books that seem like the best on different subjects so I’ve already got a reading list ready for my hot girl summer.

Thank you for your question!

[edutrainex]

PTE Exam with Online Prep: Tips and Strategies

Even though taking the PTE exam can seem overwhelming, with the right preparation, it doesn't have to be. With the assistance of our knowledgeable PTE exam preparation sessions at Edutrainex, you may ace the test and get the score required to meet your goals. Our instructors are highly qualified and will guide you through every aspect of the PTE exam.

The PTE Exam is a brief assessment that gauges your ability to read, write, speak, and listen in English

The PTE is a well accepted and reliable measure of your English language ability. It has been used by organizations such as the British Council to help select eligibility for study opportunities abroad, and by businesses to assess applicants' language proficiency for particular vocations.

A quick computer-based evaluation of your proficiency in the English language that assesses your speaking, listening, reading, and writing skills is the PTE Academic test. There are numerous subscription choices available, each designed to meet different needs and skill levels. If you are unsure which package would be best for you, our staff is there to help and provide guidance.

PTE test sample questions and comprehensive feedback on speaking and writing sections are available with our subscription packages. This enables you to identify any areas that need improvement so that you can change the direction of your study.

If you have our help, you can do well on the PTE exam. To learn more about our membership options and how we can help you succeed, get in contact with us right now.

Find Out About PTE Sample Questions

Students must be able to speak in English succinctly and clearly in order to thrive in any subject. Because of this, taking the PTE exam is frequently required in order to enroll or get a job. A fantastic approach to find out how well you communicate in English is to take the PTE test. You can use the sample questions below to help you get ready for the PTE.

It's time to attempt the real PTE exam after completing the practice questions. Take this quiz to find out where you stand with your English and where you need to improve. The sample exam is free to use, so there is no harm in giving it a try.

You should familiarize yourself with the format and sample questions of the PTE Academic in order to do well on test day. We have prepared a bank of example questions that are representative of the ones that will be on the test to help you in your endeavor.

Prior to taking the PTE Exam, preparation is essential. The best way to get ready for the real thing is to take a PTE practice exam. It's a good idea to prepare for a similar structure on test day since this will help you be ready. It will also highlight your areas of strength and areas in which you should concentrate your study efforts before to the test.

Those of you looking for PTE Exam Practice Questions are in the right place. We will provide you with all the information you require to ace your exam if you visit Edutrainex.

Questions derived from the online version of the official PTE study guide

Do you want to locate an online study tool and perform well on the PTE exams? Should that be the case, you ought to look at Edutrainex. We offer an Intelli-Assist to help customers through the process and make sure they accomplish their objectives.

Practice questions for the Pearson Test of English in a comprehensive collection. The online PTE preparation span all four areas and closely resemble the actual test.

Here are a few instances of guidance questions:

Essay question about a famous author A word choice question for scholarly work Regarding the creation of strong arguments: It contains sample questions and study guides for all four exam areas. Give it a shot and see how you do!

Where Can I Get Free Sample Questions for the PTE?

We offer the greatest free PTE practice exam on the market right now. You can practice for the PTE every day in our live courses and get instant feedback on how you're doing. We also have recordings of the classes in case you need to study the information from one that you missed. We promise that using our PTE practice exams will increase your likelihood of passing the real test.

Despite the fact that tests are an essential part of the learning process, finding the time to take a practice exam can be difficult. Fortunately, there are a ton of free resources available to help with PTE exam preparation.

Taking these practice tests can help you perform better on the actual PTE exam. If you are not able to take a Pearson Test Prep exam, you can still succeed by preparing with a friend or taking online practice exams. Regardless of the approach you choose, dedicate as much time as you can to studying for the PTE exam.

Our website offers users a wealth of insightful analysis and advice to help them prepare for their exams. If you want to use focused practice to raise your PTE score, then Edutrainex is your best bet.

[ryin-silverfish]

I have already written an overview of Gonggong's actual mythos in this reblog, but TL; DR:

-Gonggong did not fight against JE, because JE would only become a thing 800-900 years after the "breaking of the sky pillar myth" appeared in Huainanzi.

-Instead, the guy he fought for the throne was Zhuanxu, a Heavenly Emperor associated with the North.

-Similarly, Zhuanxu only got replaced by Zhurong as "the guy Gonggong fought" in a Tang dynasty source.

-Gonggong isn't really given a motivation either, and the idea of him as a rebel figure was very much a modern reading.

Now that the relevant info was over, I'd like to go on a tangent: "How do you know if something has basis in actual ancient sources, is a modern reinterpretation, or flat-out made up when it comes to Chinese mythos?"

Well, first and foremost: can you find a source? If your source is not a translation of an actual primary source, does it cite its sources?

Example: the version of Gonggong's mythos cited in this post and the other one I reblogged can be traced to this one Wordpress blog post.

Gong Gong, Nüwa, and the Fragile Nature of Life | ferrebeekeeper (wordpress.com)

As you can see, the author does not cite any sources, English or Chinese. Which would be okay if the topic is, say, folklore/oral legends and he was merely recounting a version of the tales he had personally heard——except it was ancient mythology.

Now, old Chinese myths are known for being fragmented and scattered between multiple books, but 1) this one actually has more than one offhand mention in written records, and 2) it makes listing your sources even more important.

Second: if it does cite its sources, can you find these sources, either in print or online?

If you can, well, go read them and make sure what they are saying is actually in the primary sources, or, at the very least, isn't completely baseless!

Case in point: "Nvwa is JE's daughter", a claim her Wikipedia page made once upon a time, which cited FSYY as a source...except FSYY never said that.

If you can read Chinese, Ctext is an invaluable resource that has digitalized many, many premodern Chinese texts, with both text version and scans of the printed books available.

If you can't, and an English translation is either too costly or doesn't exist...can you find scholarly secondary sources on the subject matter, then?

Ideally, these secondary sources should be written by a Sinologist or scholars of Chinese religions, a.k.a. people who specialize in this field, and as up-to-date as possible (read: be a little more careful when it comes to sources before the 90s).

At the very least, whoever wrote the secondary source should be able to read Chinese.

Lastly: this is a little tricky, but...does the source feel like it's pushing for a specific narrative, especially one that seems anachronistic?

For example:

The Feudal Propriety Problem——does it portray the traditional social norms, power structure, and morality in an overwhelming negative light, like someone from the 21th century who absolutely does not believe or grow up in such a world might?

Peasant Rebellion Everywhere——is it creating a binary divide between the oppressed mass and the oppressor, and making every rebel into a revolutionary hero?

Does it read more like a conspiracy theory where every god or authority figure have some kind of ulterior motives?

Now, this isn't saying that people of the past never criticized their own society, or wrote religious satires, or cared more about proper human conducts than gods and ghosts——they absolutely did.

However, they were not gonna do it like an early 20th century reformer trying to modernize Chinese culture, an Maoist historian of the 60s, or a 21th century kid who's atheist by default.

And the more your source leans into any of the above, the more likely it is to be a modern reinterpretation.

"Good to know, but why should I care? I'm just here for the LMK stuff."

...Exactly. The show itself is a derivative work that differs a lot from its original inspiration, and although I don't think an adaptation has to stay 100% faithful to the original, there are a lot of "taking HCs and misinformation as facts" in the fandom, sometimes to the detriment of people who actually want to get into the novels as well as the broader Chinese mythos.

So this reblog is kinda meant as a PSA and rudimentary guide, for those who do want to look beyond the surface-level stuff but don't know where to start.

Also, I am a mythos nerd and cannot miss a chance to infodump, for the life of me.

I have a theory about Season 6 of Lego Monkie Kid. (Spoilers for season 5 below the cut.)

So you know how Xiang Liu said here, "It means he is winning.", and people are speculating on who "he" is? I think I know! In Chinese legends, Xiang Liu is the subordinate of the water God, Gong Gong. Legend says that Gong Gong was not happy with the rigid hierarchical order of things, and he rebelled against the Jade Emperor. Gong Gong and Xiang Liu killed countless people together, but they couldn't defeat the powers of Heaven. They were opposed by Zhu Rong - the God of Fire, but just when he had nearly defeated them, Gong Gong threw himself into Mount Buzhou, one of the PILLARS OF HEAVEN tearing a hole in the sky and releasing monsters and disasters on the world! (Gong Gong was the one who broke the pillar before, guys!!!)

Nuwa repaired the pillar and fought Gong Gong. In some legends, she killed him, but in others, he ESCAPED!!!

I think Gong Gong is the "he" Xiang Liu was talking about! He's back and I think he wants revenge!!

[wonderful-writes]

Presume

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem!Reader

Summary: Tom thinks you’re too pretty to be any good at academics. You can imagine his shock when he’s proven wrong.

Word Count: 2k (2,097)

Author’s Note: The idea for this fic was given to me by @bellaswansrealgf. It was such a fun topic to write, so thank you so much bae for coming up with the idea! I’ll definitely be using more of your suggestions in the future.

Tom Riddle found himself becoming increasingly irritated. How could Professor Slughorn possibly expect him to work with a partner? What kind of fool did Slughorn think he was? Tom was perfectly capable of completing his project himself, and it was rather insulting for his professor to assign someone to help him. And not just anyone. Slughorn had assigned you.

You, the pretty girl, were in no capacity an ideal partner. You were friendly and charming and surely too bubble-headed to know a thing about potions. You were probably irritating and selfish and vain, too. Tom would have rather been partnered up with the clown from Gryffindor than with you.

“Tom, right?” you asked as you took a seat next to him. You were dressed in neat robes and had nicely styled hair. You probably spent all morning on it.

“Yes,” he replied curtly without so much as a glance your way. He began flipping his textbook to the desired page and scanning it with his eyes.

“I’m Y/N,” you introduced.

Tom ignored you as he continued to read the page.

“So, what kind of potion do you think we should make?” you asked him, opening your own book.

Once again, Tom didn’t bother to look up or respond.

“Hello?” you tried again.

He let out an exasperated sigh. “Listen, I know potions is probably not your area of expertise, so it’s best if you just sit there and let me work.”

“Excuse me?” you asked, surprised at how this stranger could claim to already know you without having ever spoken to you. “How would you know if I’m not good at potions?”

Tom scoffed. “If you haven’t noticed, you don’t exactly look like you’d be much of an academic.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you questioned, starting to get offended.

“Well, I’m the best in the class,” Tom said like it was the most natural thing to come out of his mouth. “Professor Slughorn probably sent you here so that I could babysit you. You can’t be any good if you need me as a mentor.”

“I don’t need you as a mentor,” you told him. “Professor Slughorn wanted us to work together for this assignment.”

“Like I said,” he replied, turning back to his book, “maybe you should let me handle the assignment.”

You were beyond aggravated. How could someone who barely knows you make such assumptions about you? You were more than adept in potions, and it was unfair of him to shut you down without letting you prove your skills.

“You realize this assignment is worth 25% of our grade, don’t you?” you asked him as you crossed your arms.

 “Precisely,” he answered. “Which is why I won’t let you mess it up.”

You had never met a more arrogant person.

“If you’re going to be this way,” you declared, “I’ll just ask Slughorn if I can work alone. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience the great Tom Riddle.”

Tom breathed a sigh of relief as you packed your belongings and walked away. You were attractive, sure, but you were also annoying. He was glad to be rid of anyone who didn’t let him take charge.

Slughorn allowed the two of you to work separately. To Tom’s approval, you set up your station far away from his. He almost pitied you. It couldn’t be easy for someone like you to complete an entire project by yourself. People like you only cared about their appearances or what the latest gossip was. There was no way you could make any of the complicated potions on the list of options for the assignment without help.

~

By the end of the week, Slughorn had finished grading the students’ potions and their accompanying essays. Tom, ever so confident in his abilities, was shocked when he didn’t receive a perfect score.

“What did I do wrong, Professor?” he asked after class had been dismissed. “I could have sworn I didn’t miss anything.”

“You forgot to crush the bay leaves before you put them in,” Slughorn explained. “But not to worry, my boy. You chose a highly complex concoction. It is almost guaranteed that any student who attempts to recreate it will forget at the very least one step.”

“Did anyone else choose that potion?” Tom wondered.

Slughorn nodded with a twinkle in his eye.

“And did anyone get it right?” Tom asked. He was doubtful that anyone in the class could have succeeded at something he failed to perfect, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“That’s for me to know, my boy,” the teacher answered. Seeing the frustrated look on Tom’s face, he chuckled and added, “Just know that you shouldn’t judge your partners so prematurely.”

Tom spent the majority of the night ruminating on Slughorn’s words. Could it be that you were the student who had gotten the perfect score on the potion he had attempted? He refused to believe it. Slughorn must have been referring to another student, one that Tom was paired with in the past. You couldn’t possibly be the partner in question.

~

It had been weeks since Tom came in second for the first time in his life. He convinced himself that it couldn’t have been you who bested him. Of course, he speculated who the true victor could be, but he couldn’t put his finger on who in the class could be worthy of such high marks.

Eventually, the time came for the annual examination preparation. Professor Slughorn’s students were assigned a series of practice exams to help them prepare for the actual ones. Each practice test focused on a different area within potions, and it was the students’ job to be well-versed in all of them.

At the beginning of every week, a new practice exam was passed out, and the grades for the previous week’s exam was posted on a roster at the front of the class.

Tom never bothered with making a show of checking his grades, knowing fully well that he would always be at the head of the class. But with the newfound knowledge of a possible competitor, he couldn’t quell his curiosity.

Making his way to the front of the room with the usual throng of Slytherin boys, he displayed no sign of concern. Why should the best in the year have to worry about some halfwit who ran into a bit of luck one time?

His air of indifference was quickly squashed, however, when he approached the posted practice exam scores and saw that his was the second highest. Second? That couldn’t be right. Tom Riddle never came in second. Who was first? Who could feasibly best Tom Riddle at a potions examination? The most brilliant student in all of Hogwarts, and in his best subject too?

He was horrified beyond comparison when he saw none other than your name at the pinnacle of the score sheet.

You.

Impossible. There was no chance that the bubbly girl with the face of an angel, er, a moron, could ever have received such excellent marks.

He’d seen you around, and you were most definitely not the kind of girl who cared about your performance in school. You were always smiling with your friends or tucking your hair behind your ear or dazzling a crowd with an extraordinary story. When you weren’t smoothing down your clothes or checking your made-up face, you were befriending the professors, something only stupid people needed to do.

So how could you have gotten a higher score than him? There must have been a mistake. He would have to ask Slughorn about it after class.

As he walked back to his seat, he glanced at where you were positioned, a table not too far from his own. You had already started on your assignment for the day, making quick work of the cutting and crushing of ingredients. Sure enough, you were dripping with the grace and beauty of someone who most likely didn’t know the difference between reed and foxtail.

How could one possibly be proficient in any academic subject when they looked like that? You probably spent more time shining your shoes than studying for exams. Then how did you beat him, and twice?

He watched you work for the remainder of the period. To his surprise, you were doing everything correctly. You never added a drop too much or a sprig too little. You stirred with precision and knew what color to look for in the brew. You seemed to know exactly what you were doing. Were you truly more intelligent than he had originally presumed?

Still unconvinced, he approached Professor Slughorn after dismissal to question the scores from the most recent exam.

Slughorn only sent him a mysterious look before answering, “Everything is as it should.”

-

After the third week of coming in second place, Tom decided that it was enough. It was time he put his troubles to rest and find out for himself what sort of witchcraft was in play.

“Are you cheating?” he abruptly asked you the moment you took your seat. Professor Slughorn was not yet in class, giving the students ample time to converse before lessons began.

Startled, you stared back at him. “What?”

“You must be receiving help on your practice exams or at the very least borrowing notes from someone,” he stated matter-of-factly. “So tell me. Who is it?”

You had had enough of this arrogant git’s behavior. “What makes you think I need help? Is it so hard to believe that you are not the only person in this room who can do well in school?”

“Well I- you see, you’re not exactly the sort to put much thought to academics,” he defended.

“And what sort is that?” you questioned.

“You know, the vain, pretty lot,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’d imagine you spend more time on your appearance than on your academics.”

You gaped at the boy before you. “You think I’m pretty? And before you go on, my appearance has nothing to do with my drive to excel in scholarly affairs. I’ll have you know I’m more than capable of receiving just as good of marks as you are, despite what you think.”

“Then work with me on today’s partner project,” he challenged.

“Excuse me?” The last thing you were expecting was for the high-and-mighty Tom Riddle to want anything to do with you after his blatant rudeness.

“If you’re truly as good as you say—”

“You mean as good as the scores prove,” you cut in.

Tom rolled his eyes. “If you’re really that good, show me. Demonstrate your skills on today’s potion, and I’ll believe you.”

So the two of you spent the class working together on the assigned potion. Tom made sure to stand back so that you could have the freedom to do things on your own, silently hoping that you would make a mistake. But you didn’t.

Your potion was perfect. There was not an herb out of place or a drop not potent enough. Everything was as it should.

You had clearly proven to Tom that you were a skilled student, worthy of his second glance. You only hoped that the self-righteous twat would realize not to judge people before knowing them.

“While I hate to admit my own shortcomings, you were right,” Tom conceded.

You smiled at his admittance. “Thanks, Tom. I’m glad you learned something from this experience.”

He had expected to feel more disdain at the fact that he had finally found his match. He was waiting for annoyance, jealousy, some spark of rage at being second-best. But all he felt was a strange sensation.

You were quite honestly brilliant, and he couldn’t remember a time when he genuinely thought that about a fellow student. You were quick-witted, sharp-tongued, and unafraid to back down from a challenge. You stood up to him despite barely knowing anything about him, other than that he was a royal pain to you. And, not to mention, you were quite a sight to behold.

It was no secret that Tom kept to himself more often than not. Sure, he had a group of peers who respected him — whether out of fear or genuine liking is up for debate — but he never got to know anyone on a personal level. He never let anyone get too close or see him for someone other than the shining pupil with big plans. But, for once, he wanted someone to share his genius with.

He intended to make you that person.

—

Part 2

[qqueenofhades]

Out of curiosity, how much do you know about the ancient Near East, particularly the religion? I had the idea for a novel that started off in Akkad (and goes through a five-thousand-year-long love story/drama about an immortal woman and a man who remembers all his past lives, and how they keep finding and losing one another, and eventually come to break the curse). But I don't want to necessarily rely on the old "use the sources from the Wikipedia article" method of research. There are multiple historical (and a couple of future) settings in the novel, but I haven't nailed down much yet except that it starts in the now-lost city of Akkad during the reign of Naram-Sin.

Mainly what I'm asking is, do you have any recommendations for places to start doing this kind of research? If I do end up writing this, I want it to be an accurate picture of what these societies were actually like, rather than a shallow Google search that might be glaringly wrong.

Hmm. This is, unfortunately, quite far from my usual area of expertise, so I can't give you any subject-specific resource or database recommendations. I will say, however, that "use the sources from the Wikipedia article" is not at all the worst strategy in the world. There are obvious ones that you can filter out, like the link to people's personal websites or random 19th-century newspapers and obviously outdated scholarship (the reason you see the Catholic Encyclopedia of 1911 cited so much is that it's one of the volumes in public domain and thus accessible to read for free, but to say the least, scholarship on most issues has advanced since the Catholics in 1911). But most quality Wikipedia articles will have a lengthy bibliography/reference/extended reading list with genuine scholarly resources of relatively recent vintage, and I myself often use this tactic as a general starting point. You also aren't expected to give yourself a PhD in the subject to write a historical fiction novel, and nobody's going to read it expecting an accurate anthropological report, but yeah, of course it's always good to do some work and research.

Other places where you can look for resources, some (but not all of which, alas) will be free and offer most of the text online, include:

JSTOR (the original). Last time I looked, they had a pandemic-era provision where anyone could read 100 articles for free in a year, but I'm not sure if they're doing that anymore. It can quickly get expensive to pay for access to individual papers, so obviously we want to avoid that if we can, but JSTOR also has reasonable monthly subscription rates, wherein you can pay for one month, go in and get what you need, and then end if needed.

Google Scholar, which searches specifically for scholarly papers and publications, rather than just whatever some random peon has decided to slap up on the subject. Also, academia protip: if you discover something that looks really interesting, but you don't have the credentials to read it, search the author's name, see if they have a current email address, and if so, contact them directly and ask if they would be willing to send you a copy. I have obtained multiple papers that I couldn't get elsewhere via this tactic, since academics LOVE to share their work and to hear that people are actually finding it/requesting it/wanting to read it.

Google Books is also a place to find at least some useful titles, though it's everything published in any era and may or may not be current, scholarly, or relevant. However, there are usually good chunks of chapters or articles that can be read for free, and it's worth browsing through.

The University of Chicago Press website hosts subject-specific journals in multiple academic/humanities fields, including anthropology and archaeology, history, medieval and renaissance studies, and general humanities. You would also find it useful to have a click through, search for some keywords, and see which articles turn up. This is a case where it would be useful to have university credentials to get access to full text, but again, if you find something that looks interesting, try to find the author's contact information first and see if they will send it to you.

Anyway, I hope that is somewhat useful, and happy researching (and writing!)

[gothprentiss]

here, here, here, lemme tell you a lil bit about the landscape of literary studies and also the ways that meaning works in literature. it’s true that biographical criticism like this is a thing people do, and that there are Big Scholarly Books out there in which Big Professor Endowed Chair at The Iviest League English Department filches through the life of any given author and makes some arcane argument about how their literature works as a result of 2-3 details about their upbringing. sure. i grant you this! but i need you to sit down with me and think about it for a second. how does literature happen? how are texts produced? you got it boss: there’s rounds and rounds of edits, revisions, second and third and fourth and fifth and even more ordinal numbers of eyes on the thing. “why are the curtains blue” isn’t a question that only post-publication readers ask, it is a question that might have been offered up to the author by one of their preliminary readers. and the answer might have been “i like blue” or it might have been “well, you see, when my mother died…” or it might have been “it’s the. sad color. c’mon man.” or it might have been “well this is a little boy’s bedroom so this seemed like the most statistically likely color” or who knows what else.

the second thing is that this idea that authors are, effectively, automated by their own lives and thus their work can be decoded by biographical information is really not good for your reading. that’s overselling it somewhat— if you subscribe to the idea above, you probably don’t think that there’s a biographical answer for all literary devices, but rather that occasionally some things are a result of the author’s personal history shaping how they view the world and make meaning— and this is true, sure. but this is an impossible principle to bring to bear on reading. that impossibility is famous— one of the Big Works of new criticism is wimsatt & beardsley’s “the intentional fallacy” (1946) which points out that this method of analysis has a very hard limit, which is how much you can come to know about any given author. it’s not a good method, to be writing letters to x or y or z famous author being like “so what’s this thing you keep doing with birds about? is it about the death of your mother??” you’ve seen how this can play out with that tiktok or whatever about richard siken telling a kid to fuck off for sending him an invasive email. but on the other hand, the author might write you back and be like “oh, thanks for asking! so when i was a kid, i had this pet bird…” and there’s your article. of course, you haven’t really done analysis here. you’ve essentially conducted an interview. this is obviously even more problematic when you start looking back at older and older works— what are you going to do when john donne adds color imagery to a poem about his daughter’s death? are you going to think about the well-developed language and symbolism of color— are you going to look through his work to see how he uses color, and limit your inquiry to there? maybe the curtains are blue because the poet read robert lowell’s “father’s bedroom” and saw in those blue curtains an incredible expression of grief which had nothing to do with their own.

and that’s the other thing. maybe the author is simply developing a particular language of color and symbolism across their work. maybe this comes from an appreciation of other texts, maybe it comes from something unrecorded going on in their lives (which they, you know, didn’t write a diary entry about just to help you Really get your teeth into their emotions), maybe blue is just their favorite color and they don’t remember the color of the curtains from the room where their mother died because grief narrowed their vision to just the deathbed, and the woman in it. trying to make this assumption is specifically bad literary analysis. you are mistaking deliberative and crafted art for a combination of tacit personal history and unconscious production of meaning, which runs contrary to the whole project of both production and analysis.

anyway. the other reason this is obviously bad literary analysis is that it is specifically what people teaching literary analysis are trying to teach you not to do. i have spent whole semesters trying to impress on students that looking for biographical answers limits their capacity to engage in meaningful analysis, and sets a particularly hard limit on the kinds and depths of meanings they can find in literature. it’s an arbitrary and flawed method and if it’s the kind of literary analysis you’ve been reading, ya gotta find some new stuff

this sucks so bad!!!!

[ahistoriantobe]

Hey, I am sorry to disturb you but I have a question for you because I don't really know who to ask ':) I am studying history and have to write my very first term paper of 17 to 20 pages but my professor couldn't make time to help me set the frame for my work. I read so many guidelines for making my research question more precise or how to find the right perspective for myself. Is there any way you could help me out?

Hello,

I feel you, getting the research question right be a frustrating process. Here’s the thing: a research question forms and gradually takes shape in our minds WHILE we are doing the research. I’m assuming you’ve already decided on your subject? If so,

1. Introduction chapters of monographs or edited volumes on your subject are your absolute best friends. Why? A good intro in a recent publication will likely give you a clear outline of what’s happening in the field, what kind of approaches there are to the subject, or any scholarly debates that may be going on, as well as give you all the related references in the footnotes - so you’ll know where to go next.

2. Once you feel you’ve got a general idea and you’ve taken note of the related scholars&works (keep this list limited to the major/fundamental works at this stage), start going through them. Take your time and take notes for each reading. Don’t get lost in details - the important thing is you get the gist of them right! Most importantly, always keep a comparative eye while doing this. Pay attention to what the authors are doing similarly AND differently in the way they deal with their subject.

3. A research question, in a nutshell, means something -a subject, a perspective, an idea- worth looking deeper into - the thing that makes our work valid, whether it be a term paper or a monograph. So try to actively engage with your readings: are they all coming to the subject from a similar vantage point? Are they all asking the same question and just disagreeing on the answer? Can you come at the subject from a different perspective? Got a question no one seems to have asked? In terms of where your stand theoretically, it doesn’t even have to be that particular: What do you GENUINELY think about everything you’ve read? That is your take and your perspective right there.

I hope some of this helps, and doesn’t just confuse you. Make sure to keep in touch with your professor - email them and make sure you’re both on the same page. Good luck!

[cto10121]

A lot to chew on in this scholarly article I’ve revisited on RetJ’s reception in France and the failure of the Production-That-Must-Not-Be-Named (I love how the author just tears into the blatant and cruel Francophobia of the London RetJ reviews, even while pointing out its failure to capture Presgurvic’s vision). I also really liked the insight of the filmatic aspects of the musical (the freeze-frame at the end of Le Bal 2 is definitely cinematic). But I disagree with the following:

That the show’s success rests on its postmodern mixing of previous versions of R&J, chiefly the Zeffirelli and Luhrmann film adaptations and West Side Story. Redha was certainly inspired by Robbins’ WSS choreography and the Zeffirelli influence is there in a thematic sense (the emphasis on the romance in particular) but the musical is just…so different from any adaptation of R&J???? I only knew about Redha’s influence because I grew up with WSS so I could spot it. But I feel you could watch the musical only knowing Shakespeare’s R&J and it’d still work. Hell, many people have without even liking the original play. Also, there are many aspects and even characters of RetJ that are not in any other version.

That Presgurvic’s musical owes more to previous adaptations of R&J than to Shakespeare. Actually, this musical is pretty much the only adaptation of R&J I have seen so far that captures the love, romance, energy, and passion of the original work. When I first saw a clip of “Les Rois du Monde” on YT, I instantly knew who the characters were, who played who, and at what point in the play they were at, though I hadn’t seen the musical before then and even though the scene is unique to the musical. It’s still strictly a musical adaptation with various changes at the character, plot, and thematic level, but those changes serve to highlight the affect of the original work, not detract or change from it.

It’s still enlightening, though, to read about the criticism of both sides of the strait, predictably ludicrous, almost unhinged:

The critics of RetJ accusing it of “not having a new, fresh take” on Shakespeare—no social commentary on the contemporary situation, no “shedding new light on the material” (ugh)—and only “modernizing the aesthetics while keeping the play’s original historical context.” That’s literally what makes it work. If Presgurvic had decided to do a version in modern-day France, it would have dated as fast as West Side Story’s ethnic white gangs did. He was smart enough to realize R&J worked just fine, if not better, in Shakespeare’s original conception—all he needed to do was to musicalize the drama and to bring it to life in the modern idiom. And so it works. It’s fresh. This criticism feels actually very anti-Shakespearean (how dare Presgurvic actually…respect the original intent of the Shakespeare and not do something inferior but radically different!!! It’s not as if Shakespeare’s play is still relevant to us moderns without drastic change, you know!!!).

Also that criticism of RetJ’s lyrics being modern and not the original Shakespeare, as if it were a straight adaptation and not a musical one. As Sondheim has said time and time again, poetry does NOT make for good lyrics. You cannot put the original lines to music without it being just…weird. And Shakespeare is definitely meant to be spoken, not sung. You can criticize Presgurvic for not including more modern paraphrase, sure (he only has the Song of the Lark, I think, maybe “la vie n’est pas un théâtre”) but not for using early modern verse for modern musical theater lyrics.

The excoriation of Presgurvic’s lyrics in general. Nobody is ever going to accuse him of being Sondheim, I know, but I suppose it takes actually translating the show into English, as I did, to appreciate his lyrical ideas and how they compliment the music. It was really difficult to improve upon the original idea; in the end, I found my revisions being more successful when they hedged to the Presgurvic idea than anything else, even the Shakespeare.

The criticism of London RetJ being too “European” for West End audiences and critics…funny, but I’ve always maintained that one error of London RetJ was to cut half the score and include unnecessary reprises, obvious attempts to “Broadway-ize” it for Anglo audiences. Of course it didn’t work; if they had done a Notre Dame de Paris and kept at least the same songs and similar orchestrations, it would have been more successful even if the critics didn’t go for it.

I think the real “issue” for the critics, so to speak, is the fact that RetJ has never been a traditional “musical-theater” musical—it belongs more to the Porgy and Bess, The Merry Widow (Die Lustige Witwe), and even West Side Story school of musical-opera hybrids in contemporary dress. Actually, RetJ is atheatrical, especially in the original French, which plays like a mini film on stage. No wonder critics didn’t take to RetJ. It always takes a bit to rejiggle their points of references. With Notre Dame de Paris having played in London in its original French with English surtitles (!!!), perhaps now is that time.

[theonceandfutureking6481]

BBC's Merlin Season 1 Episode 3: The Mark of Nimue Analysis

*SPOILERS FOR THE WHOLE SHOW*

First off I always look fondly on this episode, mainly for Morgana being hilarious and epic, I mean she has the best line in the whole episode:

Arthur: You could get hurt

Morgana: So could you.... if you don't get out of my way

This episode is also fun and interesting from the perspectives of plot, characters and themes. Sorry, this is extremely long, I have a lot of opinions about Merlin.

Gwen and Merlin

This episode is in many ways about Gwen and Merlin's friendship, it is the driving force behind all of Merlin's actions within this episode and is the stepping stone for this show considering how to find a balance between acting for the greater good without suggesting that the ends justify the means.

Merlin and Gwen are first off just very sweet, their friendship is really characteristic of this show's representation of friendship overall, just genuine love and consideration for others. It is also self-sacrificing, that's one thing about the relationships in this show they are so self-sacrificing.

When Merlin says to Gwen "I didn't like to see you upset." It reveals a wonderful fact of Merlin's characterisation that I would argue stays consistent for the whole show. His motivation is always grounded in how much he cares for the people around him. He cares deeply about his friends and they are largely his reason for doing the things he does. This line is a wonderful parallel to in season 3 when Merlin decides to let Morgana die (after he accidentally trips her down the stairs), but then in the end he heals her because he couldn't watch everyone's grief. Merlin cannot separate his actions from the people he's doing them for, and he can't stand to see people hurt when he has the power to fix it because the people he loves are his motivation, they are the reason he wants a better world. This show does establish (as I'll discuss further down) that what seems immediately right (healing Gwen's father etc) isn't necessarily the right decision to make for the greater good. This is some ways always questions the validity of Merlin's motivations and his actions, but I'd argue it more seeks to find a balance. Besides a Merlin who didn't act motivated by his love for others is not a Merlin that could have helped Arthur build Camelot.

Medievalism: duty and social obligation

Quick disclaimer cause I'm touching on a more scholarly issue here that I have limited knowledge of, so I will undoubtedly make mistakes and this is my opinion. Everything I write is my opinion, but that's more obvious when I'm commenting on the themes of a fictional world rather than making a comment on actual fields of study which is what I'm doing here.

BBC's Merlin is an example of medievalism, it is an engagement with the medieval era (or ideas/images associated with it) for modern times. I honestly don't know that much about medievalism, or the medieval era, certainly not enough to make an extensive commentary on its representation in Merlin. One thing I would argue is that Merlin's representation of friendship has its roots in idealised views of the virtues of the medieval era. For many people the Middle Ages represents a time of duty and social obligation, this on one hand does lead to a stringent class divide but it also finds its idealisation in the sort of friendship represented by Merlin. The premise in most societies that place great value on social obligation is that the needs of the community outweigh the needs of the individual, that people should sacrifice themselves for the community as a whole. Every society places emphasis on this in different ways and to greater or lesser extents and our view of it as being prevalent in the medieval era is largely an idealisation based in some historical reality but also our own desires about what this era represents. There is a kind of social responsibility in the relationships in Merlin, there is a great emphasis on loyalty which is part of this idealisation. However, Merlin makes it more personal than is often depicted. We idealise social responsibility and obligation, it is often tied into the social roles of people such as loyalty to a king, or paying back debts of honour which is a form of social obligation. Merlin is more about friendship, it takes our idealisation of medieval social obligation and makes it the obligation and loyalty we owe to people who love us and who we love. I will always say that fundamentally Merlin as a show is about love, and it emphasises what we owe to people in our lives in a way I believe echoes idealisation of medieval loyalty.

This idea can also be seen in Arthur's fundamental trust of others, his fundamental assumption that everyone around him is not seeking to harm him, and that people are generally good. This ties a bit into the idea of social obligation. Arthur's idealised world is one in which people have bonds of social obligation towards each other, that people are seeking to act in the interests of the community. It's an idealisation, both of the medieval era but also an idealisation in Arthur's own head of the world he lives in.

Morgana and Gwen

Their relationship is somewhat expanded on in this episode, and they are just so sweet. Gwen gives Morgana flowers to cheer her up and its just lovely. They have a very genuine and close relationship. Morgana also has great respect for Gwen, for the work she does, and she treats her with respect.

Morgana: "If she was a sorceress, why would she kneel on the cold stone floor every morning if she could make these things happen with a snap of her fingers, like an idle king."

Aside from being one of Morgana's many quality burns towards Uther, this also illustrates one of her greatest characteristics, her empathy and genuine respect and admiration for what Gwen does everyday. She doesn't see the class divide in the same way Uther sees it or Arthur pretends to see it.

Also interesting note I heard in a Merlin podcast (I can't remember which episode), it could have been the episode about this episode. It's called Destiny and Chicken (you can listen to it on Spotify and anywhere else you find podcasts- they even did an interview of Bradley James who plays Arthur at one point), and its very good. But, they said something interesting about the paralleling between the relationship between Merlin and Arthur and the relationship between Morgana and Gwen. Both are fundamentally important and genuinely caring relationships for the character. However, for Morgana and Gwen (unlike Merlin and Arthur) the class divide remains much more in place, Gwen treats Morgana like her friend but she also treats her like her mistress in a way Merlin just doesn't with Arthur (especially not so early in the show when he's not so admiring of Arthur). This isn't to say their relationship is bad or has problems, its just different whilst still acting as a parallel. I'm not sure exactly the extent to which I agree or what this says overall in themes but its definitely interesting to think about.

Uther: "A Good and Terrible King."

This episode shows Uther at both his best and his worst which is always fun because Uther is a genuinely interesting character. I got the line from my favourite Merlin fanfiction Coronation by rageprufrock, which you should definitely read, I'll link it down the bottom, it's not too long so you can read it in half an hour. It's a character study of Arthur more than anything else and its amazing, wonderful and deeply poetic. Uther is not a huge part of this fanfic, its about Arthur's character and his relationship with Merlin and his kingdom, I'm not even sure he actually appears. This line though perfectly tapped into how I always felt about Uther so it connected:

"He's been a good and terrible father, a good and terrible king."

I often think in characterising Uther we do tend to villainise him to an extent which I personally don't find accurate. This is obviously just my opinion, and I have a tendency to think the best of people so more intensely negative views of Uther are very jarring for me. He did terrible things and I truly believe he is the ultimate villain of the show but he is very human and he could be a good king and he loved his children more than anything else. We cheapen Merlin's point if we cast Uther as pure evil, everyone is capable of evil just as much as goodness. Uther is the tragedy (like Morgana) of a person who could have been good or at least halfway decent corrupted and destroyed by his own hate and ignorance. That's the point of the parallels between Uther and Morgana, we love Morgana and she was capable of so much good, but she corrupted herself with hate.

Onto this episode, Uther shows both his capability and goodness as a king in this episode as well as his hatred and ignorance. Uther's initial reaction to the fact that the plague is caused by magic is a concern about his own authority, which isn't entirely unfounded, but does reveal a huge priority of his which is control. He fears not being able to control, that's were his cruelty as a father comes from and to some extent his opposition to magic. This does not show Uther in the best light, but his actions later in regards to dealing with the plague show a decent king who cares about his people. This scene in which he tells Arthur to shut off the lower town perfectly illustrates this:

Arthur: But what about the people who live there

Uther: Don't you think I haven't considered it? What else can I do? I have to protect the rest of the city

In this situation Uther is right, there is very little other choice, he's making a hard call but it's one he has to make, and he seems genuinely distressed at having to make it. He does care about his people's well being, and he feels the burden of their protection, he can be a good King. Much of Arthur's story is in breaking away from the legacy of Uther, and rightly so, but Uther also taught him many things and one of those things is the duty Arthur has towards his people, it's a duty he takes even more seriously than Uther, but nonetheless he learnt it from him.

This however, as I've hinted, is not the whole story of this episode, Uther is also shown at his worst, and his worst is his ignorance and prejudice towards magic. He is willing to sacrifice justice and even sacrifices logical thought to his blind persistence that magic is evil.

Arthur: She's right Father. You hear the word magic you no longer listen.

Uther: You saw it for yourself, she used enchantments.

Arthur: Yes, maybe. To save her dying father, that doesn't make her guilty of creating a plague. One's the act of kindness, of love, the other of evil. I don't believe evil's in this girl's heart

Aside from what this says about Arthur. Arthur's comment about Uther hits right to the point of things "you hear the word magic you no longer listen". You no longer listen implies its a choice, and it is. Uther has made the choice for the last 20 years to choose to go on a dogmatic campaign of hate against magic because its easier than considering the alternative, that he was complicit in his wife's death. What Uther says immediately after "there are dark forces threatening this kingdom." is the argument used by so many people throughout history, used to justify so much hate. That there is an evil out there threatening the stability of life, that the world must be controlled and people have to live a certain way or risk destroying their own lives. It's an argument that justifies campaigns of hate and makes them personal to ordinary people who usually wouldn't care, and it is always a lie, that's not how the world works.

This episode thus shows Uther at his best and his worst, both a dutiful king and a stubborn tyrant. It's a tragedy of what he could of been, and shows how twisted up people can become when they justify their decisions with hate and fear.

Arthur

This is the first episode where Arthur really opposes Uther, he directly questions Uther's indiscriminate hatred of magic, and an episode where he realises to an extent he perhaps hadn't before some of the ways in which Uther has failed as a king. He also consciously acts in deception of Uther, because he can see Uther can't see sense. Arthur shows far more nuance of view than Uther does, understanding (even whilst still accepting as he will for a long time that magic is dangerous and it corrupts) that using magic doesn't make you automatically evil. To see the world the way Uther does is a conscious choice, you have to choose to be blind to the virtues of every apparent magic user you come across, you have to believe harmless spells are the signs of greater evil. Arthur is not someone who lets his own cowardice blind himself to reality, and so his worldview can see far more nuance than Uther can.

"One's the act of kindness, of love, the other of evil. I don't believe evil's in this girl's heart."

He further has a very positive view of others, Arthur will always see the good in people and that is a great strength in my view. In a lot of versions of the story Arthur's not just inspiring because he's good but because he assumes others are good too, he trusts people to do the right thing and I do believe that, that can inspire people to do the right thing. It's funny in Merlin Arthur's trust gets betrayed so many times but it never really hardens his heart, he continues to trust people no matter how many times he gets betrayed. This can be seen in his perception of Guinevere here, he will not assume she is evil because she has made a mistake, he can see the virtue in her actions, and he will assume goodness until proven otherwise. Innocent until proven guilty, in other words. It's its own form of justice, a justice Uther is forgetting, its a tenant of many legal systems and its a tenant Arthur clearly supports.

Arthur is also seeing his role as the king of Camelot in creating a Camelot that he would like to live in.

"Yes I am yet to be king, and I don't know what type of king I will be. But I do have a sense of the type of Camelot I would wish to live in. It would be where the punishment fits the crime."

It's not the Camelot he would wish to rule, its the Camelot he would wish to live in. Arthur wants to live in a just world, he wants his people to be treated with justice just as he would like to be treated with justice. This further illustrates that unlike Uther he is not letting anger or ignorance blind him to reality, he wants the world he lives in to be fair without exception.

Finding the Balance between The Greater Good and The Immediate Good

The Greater Good is a tricky concept, you can justify any amount of cruelty if it will lead to good later on, but do the ends justify the means? It's not really a question its ever possible to provide a definitive answer for. It's easy to say that they don't, that you should just do the right thing, the nice thing, the good thing in the moment but actions have consequences and doing the good thing all the time (especially in a position where thousands of lives depend on you) is not usually possible. Merlin tackles this theme, I believe, quite well, trying to find a balance between acting for the greater good and acting with what is immediately good, and this episode is a good example.

In a just and fair world you would be able to do good all the time, but this is not the case for everything, though you should never use the worlds not fair as an argument for not doing good things but I digress. Merlin's decision to save Gwen's father ultimately backfires on Gwen because the world is not fair, the world Uther has created mean even these acts of love are punishable with death. Because, for Uther, magic is magic, and magic is evil. Gaius was, in this situation, ultimately right, Merlin can't always do what is easy and what feels right because the consequences may not be good. In other matters like closing off the lower town, Arthur's initial response is concern for the people who live their, but Uther's right he has to make this one tough decision because otherwise he risks the whole city.

However, Uther's attitude to Gwen (aside from revealing his own stubbornness and prejudice) is an example of the greater good taken too far. He has absolutely no evidence that killing Gwen will stop this plague, but he's making that sacrifice anyway because it might, that is not justice or fair or anything resembling goodness. And he justifies his decisions with what I've already said is an age old argument- "These decisions must be made. There are dark forces threatening this kingdom." This is just another version of any easy choice, acting without regard to the greater good is an easy choice but so is ignoring what is immediately right in pursuit of some ambiguous goodness. He's confusing his own weakness and ignorance for strength.

The point Merlin is, I believe trying to make is that there must be a balance. Sometimes you have to pursue the greater good, but the ends don't really justify the means.

There is a reason Arthur and Merlin will create the Camelot of legend and Uther and Gaius don't, Merlin and Arthur aren't going to sacrifice their own goodness for the sake of the greater good. Merlin for one ensures Arthur never has to, its sad but Merlin in many ways makes the harsh and cruel decisions that Arthur never has to make. However, he also often doesn't make those decisions. He reaches a point where he wants to let people die, but he never actively attempts to kill Morgana or Mordred by himself unless it is an absolute in the moment choice between them and Arthur, and even though there is plenty of moral ambiguity about that and plenty of debates you can have about that. Fundamentally the point remains, Uther would have killed them and that's why he could never be the king Arthur would be or the influence for decency Merlin would be, the ends don't ever entirely justify the means. Besides if Merlin had thought that and killed Mordred and Morgana for their possible futures he would not have been the decent person he was and he could not have helped Arthur build a good Camelot, Camelot would not have existed if Merlin had acted entirely with the greater good in mind to ensure Camelot's future.

Other Stuff

Gwen's scene in the cell is so terribly sad, she's trying to be brave and her final request to Merlin is just so sad, "Remember me." She's so young and its the injustice and cruelty of Uther's kingdom that's condemning her, his own blindness to anything involving magic. We all want to be remembered don't we, especially when you die so young that you've barely had the chance to live. -----Also Guinevere will be remembered, she is a legend so there's something very bittersweet in this. She is not forgotten, then or ever

It's funny watching back to season 1, Merlin spends a lot of the time complaining about how Arthur will never recognise him for who he is. He wants recognition. But by the end of the show, yes of course he'd like recognition but he's learnt to just put up with never getting it. His priorities have changed so much.

There's this thing that happens a lot in season 1 and 2 (and I think a bit in season 3 but its less funny then) where Morgana persuades Arthur to do things by insulting him and its the funniest thing ever, and the first instance of it is here. I like to call these her 'epic sibling powers' cause they are just such siblings and its hilarious every time

"You are one side of the coin, Arthur is the other."- Kilgaharrah--> Just, yes.

Also when Arthur gets Merlin out of when Merlin confesses to being a sorcerer—> he's obviously making stuff up on the spot—> like he might sort of believe it (the stuff about Gwen) but fundamentally he's just trying to protect him without really knowing for sure why Merlin's lying

"One day people won't believe what an idiot you were."- Gaius--> Fun little nod to the audience who know Merlin of legend (as nothing like the BBC Merlin)

Also at this point we don't know why Uther really banned magic so there is an element of moral greyness to it all. We know magic's not evil, we know Uther went too far but at this point there is still a question about 'how too far' did he go?

Coronation by Rageprufrock (seriously read it. It's amazing): https://archiveofourown.org/works/5749

[the-romantic-lady]

Hi!! Can you please recommend some of your favourite books that are historically accurate or more or less accurate?🥺🥺 because i always have trouble with how true the things are in the books i bought 😢😢

Hi!! I totally understand that feeling. I generally only believe information that I confirm by reading academic articles. I personally think any book with footnotes/endnotes is a good bet. Because not only are the authors giving proper sources for their claims but also it lets you further study the topic. I am not sure what you are interested but for example regarding the Wars of the Roses, John Ashdown-Hill is great. He challenges popular narratives but also has the endnotes with great visuals. But sometimes his conclusions can be too far fetched. I would steer clear of popular historians like Dan Jones who make very strong claims with no evidence. Alison Weir is another who seems to write her fantasies rather than history. A great book on Richard III is by Annette Carson. If you could send what you are interested in I could recommend more. That being said, I think you should read whatever you come across. You never know what you might learn! Obviously not believe it all but expose yourself to it. For examples the duke of York has two biographies. One really detailed bit boring one from the 80s with footnotes that I love (it costs over a $100!!!) And a new one which is not so reliable. Either way both taught me things and opened me up to more information about York (which i confirmed or debunked by reading scholarly work or primary sources). Again, let me know what you are interested in and I might be able to help 😊