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thedadkraken · 3 months ago

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« The drowned god left me the day he let my uncle die... or maybe he saved me. Maybe I was supposed to die with him. » Dalton's faith was a wave, coming and going as the moon moved. Sometimes it was so strong it made him come back from any and all injury. Today... today his only faith was in Toron. — I don't know. —He answered truthfully. Hands playing with his rings. He was sure his answer wouldn't satisfy Toron, but it was all he could give him. —I'm your father. Were you expecting something different? Do you think I stole you from a different man's arms and claim you as my own? No. So don't look at me as if I'm a stranger. The Kraken's blood is yours because of me.

—I don't expect the reaving and raiding to fully stop, but our men die for nothing. We loot and how long does our spoils last? A week? A fortnight? Aren't they tired of it? None of them thinks it's pointless? — « Are my own men so arrogant they can't see how we sow our own destruction? We do not sow... yet it feels we are doing it. » Dalton finally stands and walks until he is in front of the table. He picks the torn paper one by one. He hoped there was a way to fix the torn maps or at least he would storage them somewhere Toron won't burn them to ashes.— Our home has to be worth something... You'll inherite the best fleet in the world. I'll leave you with something worth fighting for, instead of dreaming about gold we don't have. —He makes a pause. Curiosity slipping in his voice.— How do plan to transform rock to gold, anyways?

Toron's silence is enough. Dalton decided he would find his answers one way or another. Whoever insulted his son would soon regret it. Toron can stare at the floor as long as he wants. Dalton walks in circles around the room. He doesn't need more words to start scheming. « What kind of Lord am I if none of them informed me? Was it something they only say behind closed doors or is they tell it from man to another while they prepare for a voyage? Is it something they say in front of me and I was too oblivious to notice? » The indignation alone provokes him the need to scream to at least a dozen people. He tries to contain it. It wasn't enough.

—The drowned god won't save our family if dragons fell from the fucking sky! If men's spirits could do shit we'd live in world filled with ghost's work. Who is dead can have no victories. You'll have no glory in martyrdom, only an untimely dead. Is so wild for a father to pray for his son's survival? The drowned god's hall await you, but you still have a whole life to live. —Dalton was done; tired of the topic, exhausted from justifying his worries.

—My father would have burned my ship if I had ever dared to say such nonsense. —Dalton was never on the mood to speak about his own father and today was no exception. He still murmurs the words, trying to make sense of his own ideas. For a few seconds, he just stares at Toron with serious and cold eyes. Before walking towards him and hugging him. —I may not be your captain, but I'm still your father. As terrible as you may think I am. —He hold Toron's face with tender and shaking hands. The kiss on Toron's forehead comes from his heart. It wasn't enough, but it was a start.

Dalton realize Toron would never change his opinion unless something terrible happened. « Why can't you see it? You cannot be blind. » —Why would any sailor go willingly to the Storm God's domain? —He didn't see the point to their fight. His body tenses. « I'm the Red Kraken, yes. But I'll give it all back to see my uncle again. Who remembers him now? Only me. » His talent in the battlefield prove to be bittersweet the more friends he saw die in battle. —I made myself a terror. Don't give credit to the drowned god were there is none. I did it for our family and no one else.

The idea of Rhaenyra forcing him to kneel makes him laugh, a nervous laugh.— The Queen already did. She already said she'll have her second Harrenhal gladly if we don't change. —He let the silence lingered, because Dalton haven't said a word about it until now. He needed Toron to understand the danger in his words.— Why are you so eager to become a second Harren the Black? Stop running towards the flames.

« For drowned god's sake, not again. » Dalton isn't in the mood to hear Toron protesting about his marriages for the thousandth time. Things would be so much easier if that was his only complain, as his anger continues Dalton finally understands it was so much more than just marriages. He watches in icy silence as Toron destroys his own work. Every word felt like a dagger in his heart.

—Who says that? —He asked on a whisper. Dalton's concerned is genuine. Whoever insulted Toron had the decency to never say it to his face. —Name them and I'll kill them. —He had the hunch it was his own men « No, Cerrick wouldn't do it. Right? » If it happened so often; why no one told him before? Not even Amarys? « Toron won't say a word, will he? If it occurs so often, do his siblings know? Why they didn't say anything? » Trying to find culprit was already giving him a headache. « The only one to blame is yourself. » When did he failed? When did it all go to waste?

—No! It's not about how high you can climb. It's about the price it needs. Imagine, for some lucky reason, you managed to get your stupid golden Rock... What happens then? Do you think the lords in the Westerlands will accept you? Do you think their armies won't knock your door? When Rhaenyra is forced to act; which one of your siblings will die first? Are you waiting for Rohanne's corpse? When their blood is spill and their bodies shredded and you are all alone, will it be worth it? WHY ISN'T PYKE ENOUGH FOR YOU?! —He didn't planned to scream. He had never scream to any of his children. It was one of those things he promised to himself to never do.

Word of secrets don't interest him. Not when their whole family could die. « Why don't you see it? » Their home can't transform into ashes, not while Dalton could stop it. Toron's plan is excellent. He can't help but feel proud. A little smile forms on Dalton's lips, even when his son's voice is melancholic. A simple nod of approval is all he gives as answer. « I'm still can fix it. » But Toron plans to leave and he can't stand it. —You are not doing such thing. —Dalton never acted as anything close to an authority, Toron could disobey him and Dalton would be able to be angry at him; to judge him. If anything he'd apologize. « Stay here, please. Let me fix it. I'm sorry, my little kraken. We can fix it... right? I need you to respect me and listen just this one time. Please. » Dalton didn't know what to say. He stared at Toron's eyes, looking for an answer. —You'll stay here, where I can watch you and clean your fucking mess.

#w.— toron greyjoy #a song of golden fire and black blood

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impishglee · 2 years ago

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merry, upon realizing through a combination of deductive reasoning and snooping and spying that frodo is burdened with an evil ring he has to throw in a volcano: oh man. my perfect beautiful idiot friend frodo is 100% going to woefully flee into the night with nothing but the clothes on his back and his evil ring and he is definitely going to get himself killed out of his natural inclination towards pointless martyrdom. like for sure. (saddling up the ponies) SAM! PIPPIN! PACK YOUR BAGS!

#books about walking

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dathen · 3 years ago

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Going to try to type up my “why both Jon and Martin think they kept their own promise during the TMA finale while thinking the other broke theirs” meta (tumblr ate it the first time but I am tryiNG AGAIN)

I’ve noticed since the end of TMA, because Martin is the only one who made the accusation of a broken promise, that’s generally taken as fact: in TMA epilogue fics Jon is made to apologize over and over again for it, and never brings up Martin’s promise. At first I just thought it was him being in-character and non-confrontational, but the more I see it the more I realize that it’s just general fandom perception that Martin kept his promise and Jon broke his.

Meanwhile, I feel the truth is much more complex because of the vastly different perspectives of the characters themselves during the TMA finale. It all comes down to whether other worlds count in the equation.

Martin’s promise

Martin: When we defeat the Eye, the fears...what happens to you?

Jon: Nothing good. [...] Martin, when the time comes, I need you to promise me that you won’t try to stop me.

Martin: I promise. I love you, Jon. But I’m not going to doom the world over it.

From Martin’s perspective, the danger other worlds would face is hypothetical and shouldn’t be counted in the equation. He promised not to doom “the world”--speaking of the only world they’re aware of at this point. The plan the group came up with in 199 was a win/win scenario for him: save this world, without needing to sacrifice Jon. He gets to keep his promise and he gets to keep Jon.

However, from Jon’s perspective, the other worlds exist and matter, too. The spirit of what he asked Martin to promise here wasn’t a technicality of “as long as this world is saved, it’s fine,” but if the cost of making things better is his own life, that Martin won’t stop him from paying it. In Jon’s perspective, Martin admitted to going back on this promise in TMA 199:

Martin: I try, but I can’t actually imagine ever making a decision that I knew meant losing you.

Here, Martin admits that in the end, what drove his decision was exactly what Jon asked him not to do: prioritize Jon’s life above all others. He may not doom this world over it, but will risk dooming thousands of others.

Jon’s promise

While he went back on the plan decided in TMA 199, from Jon’s perspective, he kept the promise he made to Martin:

Martin: And you have to promise me you’re going to do everything in your power to live. That you’re not going to sacrifice yourself at the first opportunity, just because you feel guilty about what happened.

Martin is afraid that Jon is just looking for an opportunity to martyr himself. Because worlds outside their own aren’t included in his equation, that’s the only explanation he can come up with for why Jon would be willing to become the Pupil--and the explanation he sticks with and insists on no matter how much Jon tries to explain. As we hear in the finale, Martin believes Jon broke his promise, throwing his life away for no reason.

Meanwhile, from Jon’s perspective, he is going back on a plan that already betrayed him, but he isn’t throwing his life away for no reason: he’s protecting infinite worlds, foiling the Web, destroying once and for all the fears that caused so much torment, and shortening the hell this world has to suffer through to a single lifespan instead of a billion. He feels desperately guilty, yes, but this is no empty self-destruction, no pointless martyrdom.

I feel the key to writing the conflict between them is to not hold up the loudest accusations as the Ultimate Truth. Jon didn’t accuse Martin of breaking his promise, so Martin is rarely held accountable for it, and stories/meta where they survive that moment focus in on Jon as the only one who went back on their word. I’m not saying that Jon has to be held up as the Correct One in this conflict, but that understanding and sympathizing with both perspectives is key to writing a well-balanced portrayal, even if you don’t personally agree with one of those perspectives.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #tma finale #tma epilogue

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lunatriense · 2 years ago

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I’ve seen that you interpret Mrs. Nikos as a…less than fantastic parent. Care to elaborate on this interpretation? I’m curious / genuine

Sure, I know I'm in the minority on that.

It stems from the way she spins Pyrrha's death. She makes it sound like Pyrrha would be alright with everything, and that not only did she make the right choice in throwing her life away on a pointless fight, but she didn't even have a choice… and knew so. On top of that, she's having this conversation in front of a literal giant statue on a pedestal of her daughter, who hated being treated as larger than life and put on a pedestal.

To me, this is all very revealing. It tells me that

She doesn't and didn't care about what Pyrrha wants.

She doesn't respect Pyrrha's memory, even so far as to be bringing flowers to a statue she would've hated rather than honouring her in a way she would approve.

She believes in the same martyrdom that cost Pyrrha her life, but even more strongly and despite not being a huntress herself (by all evidence). That means, in all likelihood, that she's the one who instilled that in Pyrrha. It's her who conditioned her daughter to sacrifice herself like that. She taught Pyrrha not to value herself.

She doesn't ask if Pyrrha was happy. She doesn't ask if she enjoyed her time at Beacon. She doesn't care. None of that matters, only her huntressing.

That might even extend even further. RHW is the one who expresses this 'a huntress would understand there is no choice' idea, Pyrrha never once said anything of the sort. Something that extreme says to me that she may very well have pushed Pyrrha into the huntress life, regardless of her wishes, from a very young age; she wouldn't have known any better and simply grown up in it, forming her 'destiny' based on what was expected of her. Mother knows best after all.

It all speaks of a supremely selfish parent to me, the kind of parent who doesn't give a damn about their child, only what they can gain by way of their child. The kind of parent that forces their child to play an instrument or sport that they want, regardless of the child's opinion, and spend all their free time on it. The kind of parent that signs their child up for beauty pageants or talent agencies or whatnot as a toddler, putting them on diets and restricting their friends so they don't get distracted from 'what's important'. The parents that force their kids to take steroids or amphetamines to compete, that have them working 50 hour weeks on camera or in the recording studio and living their lives in the public eye, and all so they — the parents, not the children — can bask in the fame and fortune that they didn't even earn.

All the while they convince their poor kids that this is what's best, that it's even what they want for themselves, but how can they know? How could they, when they haven't seen anything else, when the people who should be looking out for them are instead using them like that? Even when they start to see other things, oftentimes it takes awhile because this has been their whole life and they've convinced themselves it's alright as a defence mechanism.

That's what Pyrrha's mother is to me. A predator, using her prodigious daughter to skyrocket to a celebrity life. She saw talent, sunk her talons in, and built Pyrrha's entire life around being a huntress. Don't question her choices, a huntress knows there isn't a choice. Mother knows best. Poor Pyrrha is so nice she'd never dream that her own mother saw her as nothing but a tool.

#answers #rwde

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hriobzagelthewanderer · 2 years ago

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"...Having a reason to fight, to give yourself purpose, is nothing to belittle yourself for, Finn... you simply need to find new things to fight for, intangible or otherwise. There is reason to put others before yourself, certainly, but there is a fine line between self-sacrifice and martyrdom - you have plenty of things and people out there, justified or otherwise, who will beat you up - you should not be one of them."

The being pauses, mulling things over as the lights in his eyes dimmed in thought... before a hand was held palm-up between them, and magic slowly coalesced over it to form images for the New Apprentice to watch - a visual aid for the Fae's lecture, a man in a forge, smithing a sword... not simply hammering the shit out of it but taking moments to carefully inspect it, quench it in a tub of liquid, heat it in the bellows-fire, and diversify his routine.

"...if you must think of yourself as a tool or weapon, as a sword, you might better put it in perspective: a Blade is not forged by simply hitting a piece of metal relentlessly - that only results in a broken, uselessly misshapen mess... yes, some hammering is required, but in a careful, directed manner - to compress and align the metals, to help harden the edge and reshape the core, to define fullers... and even then all the careful hammering in the world is pointless if you do not take care to maintain the finish, the temperature and composition just right... and even then, a sword that is not regularly sharpened, oiled, and well-cared-for will not last long, even when handled by an expert swordsman and not some idiot who thinks swinging wildly is the best approach."

One Hypocrite to another, it seemed, given the Fae's own past history of ignoring his own suffering, fatigue, limits, and pseudo-mortality all too often, even recently given the strain he put himself under to diffuse the Dracula Crisis... but in a way, that made the words he told Finn all the more impactful, heartfelt, rather than less.

"...in other words, Finn, you need to remember to care for yourself, or let others care for you, if you truly wish to help as many people as you can... because burning yourself out, breaking down in desperation to 'atone' now will only keep you from doing so much more further down the line. Do not let your guilt and self-doubt keep you from doing genuine good, or letting others show they care for you - that way lies the path to reducing yourself to the kind of monster that breaks hearts, rather than merely breaking bodies."

☄️ Finn understood what his mentor was saying. But there was something deep down within him that didn’t want to allow solace. He felt so much guilt and grief over the consequences of his own actions, that he almost wanted to suffer, as punishment was only fair after all the harm he’d caused. If burning himself to the ground was what it took to make things right, he’d gladly pay the price.

“I’ve been fallin’ apart for a long time now. I-” he slightly raised his mechanical arm, lifting his other hand to lightly touch the flower over his eye. “My home is the only glue that’s keepin’ me together. I’m not gonna matter if everything that makes me who I am ends up destroyed.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about this.” It was almost comically ironic how hypocritical Finn was as soon as the subject switched to the other’s predicament. “Magic and rage tend to be closely linked from my experience, anyway. Or at least strong emotion. That stuff all comes from the depths of your soul, right?” 🦋

#ic #the beast within the fae #finncomet #the aspiring unfortunate hero #teaching with krakonos #the emperor - fae court of the wanderer

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thecottageinthedark · 4 years ago

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lewis please go off about tidus. i want your tidus takes

Oh my god this is a lot of pressure????

But, ok, to start with; one thing that strikes pretty much everyone who plays FFX is how...oblivious Tidus is about how Yuna is Very Clearly On A Suicide Mission. Until it's explicitly pointed out to him, he just totally fails to connect the dots.

But...I realised, lately, that...there might be an explanation for that. One that isn't 'he's thicker than a yard of lard'.

Okay so. I would spoiler this if I could but I don't see the option for doing that on mobile and my browser is refusing to load tumblr at all for some incomprehensible reason. So.

Tidus was born and raised in the Zanarkand dream that the Fayth created as an escape from the complete hell of their undead existence. In dream-Zanarkand, there's no war, no Sin, no summoners. Because, again, this is the escapism thing. The Fayth do not want to have the shitty bits of the real world that personally damaged them showing up in their fantasy.

So, here's a theory. Besides not having the explicit Big Threats, there's an idea that's missing from the dream-world. A philosophical concept. The idea of the nobility and normalisation of sacrifice.

In Tidus's world, people get hurt, and die. His mom died of sickness and grief. Old age is a thing, and injury. Fiends don't often show up, but he does mention at one point that they're not unknown. He understands that death is a thing.

But it's always a bad thing. It hurts. It sucks. There's nothing pretty about it. It's to be avoided whenever possible. He doesn't have the cultural context to understand martyrdom as an ideal.

Now, when he gets to Spira, the first people he meets are Rikku and her men on the Al Bhed ship, but he doesn't stay long with them before Sin grabs him again. He lands in Besaid, and it's in Besaid that stuff starts beginning to make some kind of sense again. Wakka welcomes him and offers to help him find his feet; the other people of Besaid (with the exception of Lulu and Kimahri) are friendly to him in a way the crew of the ship (minus Rikku) weren't. Yuna is the first person who believes he isn't delusional. Hiring on with the Aurochs for the upcoming tournament gives him something to do that is familiar and within his comfort zone, and though he doesn't expect playing blitzball to be any practical help, it's no doubt really reassuring right now to have this thing that he knows how to do.

And it's in Besaid, where he finds support and structure for the first time since coming to Spira, where he starts hoping that possibly all of this crazy shit can somehow be sorted out, that he first hears about summoners and pilgrimage.

It's just completely un-intuitive to him that Yuna-this cute, smart, kind person his own age-could be...not only planning to commit suicide but declaring her intention to do so to the entire world, and not facing any resistance to that. She's getting praised for being a summoner on pilgrimage! Her friends and family are supporting her! Everyone thinks this is okay. And these people may be kind of weird about religion, and obviously foreign, but...those are things that Tidus can accept as 'I guess they do things differently here'.

The pilgrimage tradition isn't like that. It isn't the kind of weird he can conceive of as fitting into a more-or-less sane world.

.....and it's hard for us as the audience to pick up on this. Because our world also understands the idea of martyrdom as an expression of heroism. The tropes, to us, are obvious. And so Tidus comes off to us as stupid.

But really, it's innocence. And his perspective is something Yuna needs for her own character arc...just as he needs to learn from her.

Yuna learns that sacrifice isn't a one-size-fits-all solution; that sometimes it isn't a solution at all, and that there's a lot of ugliness that creeps in when it becomes viewed as the greatest form of goodness.

Tidus learns that sacrifice isn't inherently pointless. Sometimes, one's own life is not too high a price to pay. Sometimes, the rewards really are worth it. Even though you won't be there to see them.

#ffx #final fantasy #final fantasy x #final fantasy 10 #tidus

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ieattaperecorders · 4 years ago

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If I Had A Choice

Walking gives you a lot of time to think. Jon and Martin consider things after they leave Salesa's.

Read on Ao3

The thing is, it’s not about what he deserves.

Does Jon deserve to die? It’s a meaningless question now, when death is an escape that few have the luxury of imagining. Death is far from the worst fate that he intimately Knows. Even so, that isn’t the point. Not really.

Would he die to put the world back as it was? That’s no choice at all. There’s still enough humanity in him to see that there is only one answer. But it isn’t about that either. Killing him wouldn’t fix things, and chasing pointless martyrdom through the apocalypse would only leave Martin to face this world alone.

He’s not looking for a hard choice to make, whatever anyone might think. It’s just that he’s not likely to have a choice.

Martin won’t leave him, not even for the peace and comfort of Salesa’s hideaway. That thought fills Jon with more things than he can name. Relief, fear, gratitude, fear, bafflement, fear, fear, fear, but love most of all. Martin won’t leave him, and so Jon can’t leave either. Can’t let the Eye pull him away. Can’t let Terminus catch him.

Not if he has a say in the matter. (He won’t have a say in the matter.)

You really don’t deserve it.

He doesn’t, but it isn’t about that. It doesn’t matter if he deserves Martin or not. Is it even possible, really, to deserve the love of another person? Is it something that can be earned, purchased with a debt of kind acts or romantic words? No. It can only be a gift, and whatever his reasons Martin has given it to him. Martin loves him. It doesn’t matter if Jon deserves it. He has it and he's going to hold on to it.

Since when does anyone get what they deserve?

Martin deserves so many things that he will never have.

We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

There was a time when Jon believed that he could save the world, when he threw himself into the search for answers, certain that if he could see the whole picture then he could understand it all. He ran into the Unknowing, stared at the Dark Sun, crawled into the Buried and carved a path through the Forsaken. He thought that he was preventing rituals, but all the while he was becoming the altar and the knife. It killed something in him, that realization. Whatever hubris, whatever sheer arrogance had made him believe he could save anybody, it was gone. Deep down, he doesn’t believe in a way back.

But he’s been wrong before. He hopes that he’s wrong now. It doesn’t come naturally anymore, hope, but he can try. Try to believe they can bring back a world that is more than just pain and fear. One that has comfort and safety, simple pleasures, peaceful mornings, dreamless nights.

He knows he can't live in that world.

He’s changed too much. He can’t be fixed. That is the reality of it.

Jon doesn’t deserve to be rewarded for bringing about the end. He didn’t deserve to be used by Elias. He doesn’t deserve Martin’s devotion. He doesn’t deserve to die. But it isn’t about what he deserves.

They just get whatever hurts them the most.

Martin won’t leave him. If their desperate quest somehow does succeed and Jon is severed from the Eye, he knows Martin will be with him until the end. Jon can Know every word in every language but none of them name what he feels when he thinks about that.

There are worse fates, he thinks, than spending a week or two living somewhere with Martin while he slowly loses himself, grows tired and hazy until one day he drifts off and doesn’t come back. It might be peaceful.

(Despite everything, he doesn’t want to die. It isn’t about what he wants, either.)

It would be painful to watch, he knows. There is no way to spare Martin the pain of losing him. Even if Jon wanted to (he doesn’t) or could (he couldn’t) convince Martin to leave him, it would only make that pain come sharper and sooner. It will hurt him however it happens.

Jon hopes that he won’t be alone when it does.

Maybe Melanie will reach out after it’s all over - with Jon gone, even Georgie might be willing to speak to him. Basira, she’s already coping with her own loss. Perhaps they can help each other. Jon thinks that Martin will want someone to be there for just as much as he’ll need someone to be there for him.

Even if there is no one... Martin is strong, stronger than Jon had once imagined. He found his own way out of the fog this time. If he suffers, if he mourns, he’ll also heal. He’ll have room to move on in a world of gentle rains and quiet conversations and hot cups of tea.

Jon doesn’t Know this. He doesn’t Know any of it. It’s what he hopes.

What he knows is there is no place for him in that healed world.

What he knows is he is a monster that feeds on fear.

What he knows is Martin won’t leave him.

If this world can be fixed, he’ll do what it takes to fix it. If he can’t survive in that new world, then he’ll die in it. It’s not about punishment, or sacrifice, or fate, or about what he deserves.

This is what Jon can still hope for.

He hears Martin call out and glances back. He’s fallen behind again, or Jon’s been going too fast, lost in thought. Jon holds out a hand which Martin takes, visibly annoyed. He smiles apologetically, hoping Martin will smile back. He does, after a moment of suspense - tossing his head back and rolling his eyes.

“You keep that up, I’m going to start thinking you’re trying to ditch me,” he says.

Jon’s grip tightens. His voice is blazing.

“Never,” he says.

* * *

It’s not about what Martin wants. It never is.

But right now, he is where he wants to be. He meant what he said. It would have been nice to stay in Salesa’s home a little longer, but he’d rather be here with Jon than there with Annabelle. Besides, he couldn’t abandon everyone else, couldn’t leave the world to this hell. And obviously he isn’t leaving Jon.

I mean, you could have...

Martin had waited for it as they packed. He’d braced for it as they made their way to the front, holding Jon’s hand and steering him so that he didn’t stop walking or wander off. He knew Jon would point out the obvious eventually – that if he wanted to, Martin could stay behind.

When he finally did say it, hesitant and without much force, it was almost a relief.

I f you wanted to forget all of it, stay here and just... escape. I would understand.

The thing is, Martin doesn’t want to escape. That isn’t what he’s hoping for.

What would he even do if he stayed with Salesa? Sit around on fancy furniture looking at flowers while seven billion people continued on in agony? Spend a few years drinking before noon, then blow his brains out once the food’s gone? What kind of paradise is that?

No, it isn’t for him. Nice place to visit, wouldn’t want to die there.

What Martin really wants is to ask Jon if there’s a nearby nightmare domain where he can pick up a chainsaw or a flamethrower or two, then pop back quickly to have one last chat with Annabelle. But that probably wouldn’t end as well in reality as it would in his head.

Martin isn’t an idiot, he knows nothing that Annabelle says is spoken in his interest or Jon’s. Anything she tells him is only her trying to get under his skin for her own ends. He knows this. He does. The trouble is, she’s good at it, and sometimes her words tug at his worries even if he doesn’t really believe them.

Does he even need you at all?

But she made a mistake there, because the one thing he knows is that Jon needs someone. Even now. Especially now. Maybe there are times when he can’t get all the way to “Jon needs me.” But he needs somebody, Martin has no doubts about that. If her game is to convince him otherwise, she’s going to lose.

He should expect someone like Annabelle to think that Jon doesn’t need him.

What does she know about what people need? She probably sees everyone as a tool she can use for whatever plans her spider puppet-masters are cooking up.

She wasn’t there with Jon in those first few days, when he was destroying himself with guilt. She wasn’t the one he clung to while he wept, who listened to him pour out his self-loathing and his dread, who held him when it seemed like he might shake apart.

She didn’t see the look on Jon’s face when Martin told him that he didn’t want to stay in the fog – that collapsing relief and barely-held back joy. Didn’t feel how tightly Jon clung to him as they made their way out of that house, one hand gripping his, the other around his arm, as if holding something precious that had been nearly ripped away.

She wouldn’t know or care about the small, fragile smiles that Martin can still coax from him, despite everything.

What does she know about what he needs?

Does she even have any friends that aren’t mind controlled into thinking they like her?

Has anyone ever told her she’s their reason for holding on?

Just wanted to make you say it.

Now that would be a thing to ask the next time she shows up. ‘Hey Annabelle, just curious, is there anyone who actually cares about you?’ And she’d say something like ‘well Martin, are you sure that anyone has ever really cared about you?’ in that smug voice of hers. And then Jon would say that he cared about Martin, that he loved him, and then he’d blow her up with his Archivist vision.

Yeah. That wouldn’t end as well in reality as it did in his head either.

He was in love, and he was loved, and he wouldn’t forget that. He could believe that Jon did need him.

But he still worried.

Because when was the last time Jon let himself have what he needed?

Life's always more complicated than that, isn't it?

If he put more stock in what Annabelle said, Martin might see Jon giving him these outs as trying to get rid of him. And he knows there’s something deep in him, something old and sore, that resonates with that. But that isn’t what he’s afraid of, not really. He’d have to ignore a great number of the things that Jon says and does to really believe that he doesn’t want Martin around.

What he worries is that Jon might be trying to give him up. Let him run away somewhere safe so that he won’t have to face what’s coming. Whatever it is he Sees.

He wanted to stay a little longer at Salesa’s, but it’s not about what he wants. Jon couldn’t stay, Martin couldn’t leave him, so Martin couldn’t stay either. Jon apologized, but it wasn’t like that – it wasn’t something Martin was giving up for him, he stayed with Jon for himself as well. And it’s not Jon’s fault that he can’t live without the -

Can’t live at that house. Not for long.

No. Nope. No, no, no, no. He isn’t going to give into despair about that. This world is huge, and weird, and terrible, and most of it doesn’t make sense except in the incomprehensible non-logic of dreams.

If a cracked camera can hide a bubble of peace in the apocalypse, there’s something that can be done for Jon. Martin is not going to let go of that possibility. He’s had a glimpse of the life they might have together, and he wants to have that in earnest.

But it’s never about what Martin wants.

“Hey!” He shouts at Jon, who’s beginning to shrink in the distance. “Slow down, huh?”

Jon turns rabbit-quick and startled. He smiles sheepishly as Martin approaches, holding out a hand for him to take.

Martin rolls his eyes as he grips it. “You keep that up, I’m going to start thinking you’re trying to ditch me.”

Jon stares at his words, and for a moment he squeezes Martin’s hand hard enough to hurt. He looks into Martin’s eyes and whispers never. And Martin swallows, and breathes, and breathes.

* * *

Two figures stand in a lifeless field, saying nothing. The same thought in both their minds.

If I had a choice, I would choose to be with you.

#mag 181 #tma spoilers #tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin

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nukyster-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Changing Course Chapter 28)Broken

.-.-.

Utstott grew rapidly. For the first few days, Ivar managed to hide the raven chick inside the pocket of his tunic. But now that the hatchling received proper food and care, the little thing grew in size and had a massive opinion; it no longer allowed Ivar to shove him into his pocket. It pecked and cawed every time Ivar’s fingers brushed over the hem of his tunic, puffing up his humble amount of feathers.

“Fine, be stomped to death, scrawny excuse for a chicken!”, Ivar badmouthed Utstott, who’d fiercely dug his beak into Ivar’s thumb. The little shit managed to draw blood and received an aggravated wave from Ivar. Utstott tumbled down onto his tiny arse and cawed disapprovingly.

Ivar threw a meaningful glance at Piglet, who failed miserably at keeping her snigger hidden.

The Giant had unchained Ivar shortly before, and Ivar had barely managed to hide the hatchling underneath a pile of hay, coughing excessively loud to mask the sound of Utstott’s caws of disapproval.

It had earned Ivar two iron fists smashing in between his shoulder blades, along with a shove towards the door; the Giant didn’t want him slacking.

“You take care of that pain in the ass”, Ivar half ordered, half asked Piglet. The slave maiden made a deep bow as an answer and used her broom to sweep Utstott to the furthest corner of the shed.

“Make sure the calves don’t crush him”, Ivar added before crawling out of the doorway.

His duty still remained the same, scrubbing the staircase. It was the most pointless and exhausting task possible; for every step he mopped, a hundred dirty feet and muddy boots defiled it before the end of the day.

But, like the bloody bear of Kattegat, Ivar would scrape his palms raw and routinely work his way up to the steps of the entrance.

Then again, he was out in the sun, catching a breath of fresh air, and he’d managed to collect a small log he could use for carving later. Life could be much worse; yet it bothered him how grateful he’d become for such basic aspects in life. He used to literally eat from a golden bowl and now his day was considered an excellent one if meat was on the menu. After winter, his heart truly beat faster every time the Giant would unshackle him and allowed him to slave his way through degrading and pointless tasks.

He’d evolved into a proper dog, Ivar dog with muzzle, as Piglet put it.

How much time had passed since his arrival in de Haar? Since his father promised him greatness and a meaningful death? Of course he’d known he’d never return from England, he’d settled with drowning at sea. At least he’d be right beside a Legend, a King, a father.

Oh, sweet bliss, if only he’d died during that storm. Then he’d never know how Ragnar Lothbrok’s suicide mission only included him for his unfailing and inescapable affliction; being born a cripple. He’d just been a tool, a simple pawn to deliver a message to his worthy brothers.

And he even failed at that. At night, that was one of the thoughts that kept gnawing holes into his mind; what if he escaped de Haar? Then what? Crawl his way to the closest dock and head home like a cowardly dog, muzzled, beaten, marked, and damaged?

With his luck, he had a better chance at swimming home, because how was he going to afford the crossing?

And what awaited him at home? Shame, mainly and mostly, shame. He’d served Christians, in order to survive. He’d slept between pigs, cattle, shit and Piglet. He’d done nothing memorable aside from enduring a bloody flogging.

What would his brother’s think of him, if he’d told him how he cleaned the enemies chamber pots? How he allowed the entire population of de Haar to take a piss at him?

The worst thing was, by now he’d been so conditioned into his new role, he numbly did what was expected of him. Without a fight, a curse; defiance had literally been beaten out of him. A shadow casted over him, expecting the Giant to ruffle him up, Ivar flinched back before glancing up.

Ivar couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“God zij met u,” were gentle words spoken by the fair-maiden. A breeze whispered past, teasing the blonde strands of her hair. Although her posture regained its grace, her beauty still one to match; the light had been robbed from her eyes.

Her sudden presence overwhelmed Ivar and it showed; a blush scorching his cheeks, setting his face on fire. Full of shame, he lowered his gaze and waited for her unblemished ankle boots to pass.

By the Gods, she must have turned into flawless marble, because she was not moving an inch. Now if it was up to Ivar, he’d remain ignoring her presence until the day he died. But she was standing on the spot he needed to clean and if the Giant caught him neglecting or pausing his task, the fair-maiden would witness him being beat.

Leaning into his embarrassment was inevitable. Ivar felt awkward and reticent, yet managed to glance up.

Her expression lacked security too, and there was that brokenness again. The longing, the burning expectation of a sign, of something good.

Did she honestly still believe that the rumours of his ‘Martyrdom’ were true? Months had passed since the forty lashes, if he’d been anything other than human he’d surely have allowed a miracle to happen. One that set flames to the highest towers of De Haar. A plague to strike anyone that ever dared to harm him; causing puss filled blisters to scar their faces, like the whippings that had scarred his back and shoulder blades.

But no, no miracle in the form of sickness or fire had occurred. His life still wasted away, while hers had worsened by marriage. He did not have anything to offer her, and he wished he had the words to tell her that.

There was no escape, from neither of their lives. He could not save her from Ludolf’s marital ties. He could not save her from being raped and abused, because Ludolf was her husband, the young ruler of de Haar.

The Giant must have smelled his cold sweat, like a bloodhound, the brute lumbered across the cobble-stoned centre in a direct line towards Ivar and the fair-maiden.

Both eyes of the youngsters locked in a shared understanding until Ivar broke it off. Well, was forced to break it off. A vicious yank on his hair forced him to hunch forward, causing him to tap over his bucket. The wooden tool tumbled down the stairs, splashing water all over the place. Ivar didn’t even register, pain scorched his scalp as the Giant picked him up by his hair.

Instinctively, he clung both his hands around the thick wrist of the Giant, as the brute pulled him up to eye-level.

Brandishing his fist in front of Ivar, the Giant diminished the space between them. Almost nose to nose, the bastard started roaring in his face; the stench of tooth rot and decay overwhelming.

Instead of ramming his fist into Ivar’s face, the Giant pushed him down the steps.

Every muscle in Ivar’s body knotted up as his arse hit the first step, spinning he tumbled down the rest of the steps, hitting the back of his head against the bucket and his teeth grazing mud.

The Giant took his time to walk down and kicked the bucket across the cobble-stoned centre. He didn’t need to shout his order, Ivar knew he was burdened to repeat his entire task again.

The cloth landed on the back of his head and the Giant walked off.

It made Ivar feel so small and insignificant, yet he picked himself up and started crawling towards the bucket. The fair-maiden luckily had disappeared, hopefully she now knew better and would stay far away.

.-.-.

“What did you do?” Piglet ranted the moment the Giant locked the door. Apparently, his little downfall had been the talk of the town.

“Nothing”, Ivar snapped back, wishing that would be the last word of it.

Of course it wasn’t, Piglet pressed both her palms into her waist and glared down at him.

“She’s trouble! Won’t last long! I’m not going to heal your back again!” She threatened.

This was fuel to Ivar’s simmering fire: “I bled for you, not for her”, he reminded her firmly as he rose up to his knees to at least have a shot of being at eye-level with her, “don’t tell me what I can do and can’t do, or you might wake up while I ram a nail in your eyeball!”. To give his threat more weight he thrust his fist forwards, aiming at her face. Their distance was too great by far to even touch the tip of her nose, but his gesture made Piglet sway on her feet.

She must have seen that thing in his eyes; what his mother called rage and she called the Djinn.

“Thick-head”, she announced, and fled up the attic, allowing Ivar to unload on his own. His knuckles grew white from clenching his fists too hard, his teeth gritted from the effort to remain silent. His face was red from suppressed rage, and he hunched forward. It was as if a wildfire burned his insides, slicing and scorching his consciousness away. He blacked out, saw red and when he came to, Piglet sat right in front of him.

His breathing was out of control, fists clenching and unclenching, he noticed stug material being stuck between his teeth. The potato bags from around his knees and legs lay torn and shredded across his box. He choked, inwardly he suffocated. The beatings, the ridicule, the overall indifference for his pain, the absolute monstrosities he’d been through all throughout his life sparked up from every corner of his mind. Memories, old and new, of being unworthy of being alive, unworthy of being a person, shattered in a frenzy.

At a loss for words, unable to express himself, Ivar broke down. He fought it with every fiber of his being, but he wept. Hating his physical reaction he buried his face into his hands and hated, absolutely hated himself for expressing such weakness, in such an unmasculine way, in front of another person.

If the Gods would have any mercy, they’d allow him to crawl down a dark hole and never come out. Screwing his eyes shut, Ivar furiously banged his fists into the ground, stirring up the last bit of his anger. It was his last resort to regain some dignity, unleashing one more time and destroying everything his hands and teeth could get a grip off.

Piglet’s touch was so gentle and hesitant, Ivar swore he’d made it up. But when he opened his eyes wide and still on the verge of madness, the slave maiden wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. She did not speak, only held him close. Her silence didn’t feel empty, rather, it enveloped him and allowed him to bear his grief and choke through his tears and pain. Despite the heaviness in his stomach, it fluttered at the feeling of her body pressing against his.

Although he wished to fight it, he sank into the warmth of her simple gesture. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, in return, Piglet carefully twined hers around his lower back.

Since he’d taken the path of no return, he allowed himself to find safety in the crook of her neck.

“They broke me, Piglet. I’m broken”, the grunt that escaped the back of his throat was soft and hoarse.

“No, not broken Ivar,” she whispered into his hair, “damaged. But damage heals”.

For some reason, her words planted back a seed of hope, at least to get through another night and another day.

.-.-.

A/N: So, did I have any kind of storyline for this chapter. No, this was a total freefall. Lightly inspired by episode ‘The Outsider’ (see Ivar rant on my tumblr). Halfway I thought ‘kay I’ve physically screwed him up a dozen times, why not break him down mentally. Oh and let's make him cry, yet try to keep him in character’. Tada… this happened. Loved writing it! First the total overload of frustrations and then the breakdown. Eager to read your thoughts/opinions,

Xoxoxox Nukyster The kickass beta: @sarahh-jane The tagged ones:@youbloodymadgenius @xbellaxcarolinax @saldelys @shannygoatgruff@pieces-by-me@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa@readsalot73@lauraan182 @conaionaru@sarahh-jane@peachybonelessIf you’d liked to be tagged, please let me know:)

#ivar the boneless fanfic #ivar the boneless fandom #ivar oc #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #alex hogh andersen #vikings #vikings fanfiction #vikings fandom #vikings fanfic #ivar as a slave #ivar's heathen army #hurt/comfort fanfic #hurt and comfort

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theewrites-tf2 · 5 years ago

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Thee goes from 0-to-100: The Oneshot

OKAY, Anon is now OFFICIALLY off, so I’m free to post this! Be warned, it’s LONG it’s a RANT, and I've been holding this in all day, right next to my finals-stress for college, so grab a helmet because it’s a bumpy ride.

Blocklists. Hate ‘em, love ‘em, make memes about them when they’re still relevant, they exist. While the purpose of their creation is still fully asinine to me, I must admit that the FIRST time I was placed on a list such as the one we have in our lovely fandom, I was surprised to say the least.

Thankfully, the memes and shitposts that followed helped my low-self esteem at the time to keep afloat, so now I can laugh about it, and when a SECOND blocklist rolled around, I was expecting to be able to laugh just as easily about this one.

Then I found out that not ONLY was the new blocklist poster ‘TOTALLY isn’t trying to start drama UwU’ but they’ve PROVEN this, by harassing and bullying a 16-year old for having a differing headcanon about a fictional character.

“Oh Thee, silly you!” You cry, “Surely you must be mistaken! Yes the blocklist is annoying and pointless, but surely this person isn’t BULLYING MINORS-!”

Our darling Blocklist poster, I allowed to make sure their name was blocked out for their privacy. But the sixteen year old, who made this post?

She REQUESTED I block her own URL, because she fears FURTHER harassment and bullying from this individual, and whomever else could come after her because she “speaks up about the blocklist.”

Let me repeat for y’all in the back:

Because a 16 year old MINOR had a different opinion with another blog, the Blocklist Poster decided to NOT exit the blog/go on a different tag/ go on a blog that shares their FICTIONAL HEADCANONS, instead they deliberately stayed and posted not once, but TWICE, responses full of insults and rude remarks over FICTIONAL HEADCANONS, to the point that the OP requested I block out her name in the screenshot so she wouldn’t be further hassassed.

See. I can HANDLE jokes on me, I can HANDLE the hate directed at me. What I don’t APPRECIATE, and what I will not TOLERATE, is people being bullied. Not on my time, not on my blog, and NOT in my fucking fandom.

Below is another message from the unnamed 16 year old blogger, who AGAIN requested that I not show her URL:

They sum it up pretty darn well (*clapclapclap*) SO I’m gonna move in with MY thoughts:

Every fandom has trash blogs. Every fandom has blogs you adore, every fandom has blogs you hate, but guess what? YOU, as the viewer who signed up for this website, YOU get to decide what blogs you do or don’t want to see. YOU get the power to block or unfollow if you don’t enjoy someone’s material. That is and SHOULD be YOUR, and YOUR decision alone.

There’s also this Magical thing called BACKSPACE. Meaning, if you do not ENJOY something, you can magically make it go away by backing away from it! Ain’t that something?!

Blocklist’s don’t do SHIT. They don’t and people who post them are attention-seeking, and demanding to be admired by the 0.2 people that actually listen to them.

Blocklists cause DRAMA. Last year, we had ANOTHER blocklist, one that actually sent several blogs into spirals, despite all the memes. These dumb, purposeless and needless lists cause unproblematic bloggers to second-guess themselves, lose inspiration or, worst yet, LEAVE.

But I can COMPLETELY get over that. I can handle that all, It’s shitty, but I can handle it. What I’m losing my shit over isn’t the damn blocklist. I’m losing my shit because

PEOPLE GET FUCKING HURT OVER THIS ABSOLUTELY POINTLESS, NEEDLESS DRAMA

People are SCARED to speak up, because they’re worried about further bullying or overly-aggressive anons knocking at your door, OVER FICTIONAL FUCKING HEADCANONS?! Are some of us SERIOUSLY that so immature?!

*SIGH*

In a perfect world, I would ask the BL-Poster to delete the damn post, apologize to this young girl, and I would expect a mature response back, and we could be able to move this all behind us.

But no, I expect the OP would claim martyrdom after being called out on their BS, rally a small army of people-with-nothing-better-to-do and escalate this drama into huger proportions.

With that in mind, I’m going to ask something more SIMPLE for the Blocklist OP:

Own up to the fact you wanted to start some pointless shit. Own up to the fact that you want to instigate pointless drama, because your childish actions CLEARLY showcase that you want this attention more than anything. Own up to the fact that you got SO bored one day, you decided that instead of calling out ACTUAL blogs that should be blocked, you decided to get your fifteen-minutes and call out blogs who have more followers than you.

So go ahead: BE FUCKING PROUD. You’re a childish, small and insignificant bully who got their 25-seconds of fame, WOOPDIEFUCKINGDO. You scared a teenager to the point that they don’t even want to post this on their own blog, WAY TO GO. And you UNSUCCESSFULLY defended a fictional character, with the cost only being that you had to bully a literal CHILD to do so, BRA-FUCKING-VO.

Do NOT try and claim innocence or ‘I-i didn’t mean to cause drama UwU’ You know EXACTLY what you did, you know EXACTLY what would happen as soon as you hit ‘Post’, and everyone else does to, so don’t even try playing that card.

Save all of us the time and energy, and just own up to the fact that YOU wanted to instigate the needless fandom drama, so we can speed up the process of you throwing a hissy fit, logging off for some ‘break from the drama’, all of us laughing and making memes, and forgetting this whole affair by next week.

Now excuse me while I go draft the shitposts, eat popcorn and watch the haters try to go on anon in my askbox, because I feel like THAT part will be the most entertaining thing about this whole affair

Peace and Love,

#*prepares for the wave of attempted-anons who forget to log off*#This should be fun #tw bullying #tw suicide mention #fandom drama #fandom discourse #tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 drama #tf2 discourse #I got the receipts #screenshots #blocklist #tf2 blocklist #personal #harassment ain't welcome here #and you better be prepared for the shitposts If you wanna step up to me #i dare you #I have so many incorrect quotes at my disposal

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pathofcomet · 4 years ago

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bride of ice (5)

{dragon age: inquisition | g. | female trevelyan/iron bull | 5.9k}

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533642/chapters/61596748

They drink that night, after returning to Haven and getting the Chargers settled. That’s the first rule of negotiations: to break bread at the same table as your new ally, promise made but not entirely true until that moment when the first cup of wine sits on one’s lips, first sip taken, trusting it not to be poisoned. Of course, those are nobles’ fears and superstitions. She has no doubt that given the right reasons, the Iron Bull would simply strike her down: easier to deal with someone, if not necessarily cleaner.

But while she comes up with such scenarios, the Qunari seems entirely at ease, downing cup after cup of ale, laughing next to Krem, turning a bit to the side to glance at her from time to time. She tries to keep her expression levelled, not let the redness at the tip of her ears and across her cheeks to be read as anything but tipsiness. Just because she desperately wants to trust him, doesn’t mean she does so, not quite yet. For as much as she appreciates having him on their side, for now, she fears the time when they might stare at each other across a battlefield. And she knows she has seen only a shadow of what he is capable of: both as a warrior, and a spy, incredibly sharp and smart.

Trevelyan looks around the tables moved together into a corner, to fit all her people, and wonders how on earth did they manage to bring together such a capable, colourful band of experts: Sera shares a joke with Varric, as Cassandra frowns in her ale, suspicious enough to at least imagine that she’s the reason for their laughter. Vivienne looks like she doesn’t belong in here, with her delicate garments, and yet the banter she gets into with Iron Bull feels natural from the first second. Cullen is explaining something to Solas, looking dreadfully serious, all while Krem is caught in an animated conversation with Josephine and a few other Chargers.

Something in her chest booms with pride, that she somehow helped in creating this moment in time, this space for all of them. No one talks to her outright, lost in alcohol, but not forgetting her sainthood, and only the barmaid throws her a wink each time she refills her cup. From the other end of the room, Iron Bull catches her eyes again, and warmed by the fire burning in the fireplace and the drinks, her expression slips for a second, before getting up and retreating for the night. It was a weakness that didn’t feel like one, right then.

Iron Bull accepts the refill, grins at Cassandra just to piss her off, thinks how no one even noticed the Herald’s absence, or said their goodbyes to her as she left. No one questions or challenges her, no one looks after her – even as she’s the one that has to do the same thing for everyone else here. He tries to guess at her age: younger than him, almost too young to be made the symbol that stands between humanity and the end of the world. Yet, ever since they met, he has seen nothing holy in her, only in the gazes of her people.

Sainthood achieved by devotion. Obsession and prayers given as offerings to a reluctant goddess. Martyrdom expected and awaited from nothing but a lost girl. To not allow herself get swept up in all this commotion created by the breach and her Mark, she must either lack serious self-confidence or know herself too well.

Bull downs his drink in one go, shouts for another. The barmaid smiles prettily at him as she passes by.

The cheerful chats go on for much longer in the night, and Trevelyan lays awake in her bed, lulled by the faint sounds of it, but her mind reeling, considering the requests they’ve gone through during the afternoon’s council, thinking of how they can get supplies for the new wave of refugees that are on the way. She thinks they deserve a late start to the day in the morning, feels guilty because it might be a luxury that they cannot afford.

***

Despite falling asleep late, she’s up early, with a stiff neck from a bad night, and she swears when she gets out of her blanket only to be welcomed by the typical freezing cold of Haven. If she were back at home, today she would have gotten ready alongside her mother, being a holiday, and maybe that’s why she ends at the Chantry. Habits are hard to lose, especially ones that your entire family is built upon.

But she doesn’t pray, doesn’t want to anymore, even as the words sit at the tip of her tongue, even as her fingers itch to go and light a candle.

She will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.

However, in the middle of a battle, when you’re gasping for air, when you’re sure you’ll be dealt a final blow, or when your vision goes out just as the world turns louder and louder around you – she knows one is actually very afraid, knows one is not praying for light and a place by the Maker’s side, but for more life, for another chance, for more time. One sees their entire life flash before their eyes, and in that second, they want to grasp it all, multiply it tenfold, hold on to it, lay it at the feet of the Maker and say: see, I deserve more. Dying is as desperate and as ugly as it can get, and there’s no god that can make it less of that, even as those left behind pray for it.

No matter how much she prays, no matter how hard she believes, the dead cannot be brought back to life, or, anyway, not in any way that it matters, not in any way that doesn’t involve blood magic or demons or a blight. So then, what’s the point?

She thinks of her brother, and then she’s angry all over again at a supposed Maker that allowed his death to happen, that let so many go like that. She thinks of his belief, of how badly he wanted to do good as a Templar, or how he was the person who taught her her first prayer, and he only had to die to undo all that good she made her believe in. She hates being called the Herald, because there’s nothing more she’d like to do than throw away her religion and her Mark, even as she knows it’s pointless to wish to change the past.

When will she make peace with the fact that the world if unfair, and it hasn’t been this vicious to her just because she’s been a noble until now? When will she accept that her rage is just exhausting, and nothing more?

“Herald,” Vivienne greets from her side, and she startles like a thief caught in the middle of a robbery. “If you’re praying, I can- “

“No.”

Her answer is too immediate, too sharp, and she turns her back to the statue of Andraste, smiles at the mage. Vivienne is as gorgeous as always, and if the night before was in any way more hectic than her parties, she’s not showing it. She looks at the Mark, reaches out with her magic to test it, and it tickles at the tip of her fingertips, makes it hum and glow – a sight fascinating no matter how many times she sees it. For a mediocre fighter to now possess a magical power stronger than a First Enchanter, with no magic manifested ever before, is a miracle in and of itself, though Trevelyan is not willing to attribute it to anything but pure dumb luck.

“Tell me: why were you at the Divine Conclave?”

It’s a question dressed in prettier words, Vivienne’s experience with nobility showing, because Trevelyan knows that what she means is: why you? There were the obvious political interests, and her mother’s choice that designed her at the ambassador of their house’s position. She has a brother on one side of the war, and she feared losing him even as she didn’t know it will hurt this badly to not have him anymore. She has heard the cries in Ostwick, from family of both mages and Templars alike, ever since the Chantry blew up in Kirkwall. She has barely missed being caught in too many fights on the streets, she heard the rumours that their guards were hiding apostates in their homes, that nobles welcomed back their children in their ranks, now that Circles fell around Thedas.

So she was there as a Trevelyan, just a representative of a name. But she knew what her brother was fighting for, behind the closed doors of negotiations, what Divine Justinia was hoping to achieve with the gathering in the first place.

“The war benefits no one. It must end.”

She thinks of their camps in the Hinterlands, now a mixture of those torn apart by war, villagers equally parts traumatized by lirium crazed fighting and spells blowing up everything to pieces. She thinks of all the bodies that they’ve found, burnt beyond recognition, houses abandoned, livelihoods forgotten behind just for a chance at life. She thinks of everyone who stepped in her path, crying and begging for a piece of their past, for a piece of their loved ones.

She doesn’t want to see something like it ever again.

“Mages, Templars, innocent people of all kinds now look to the Inquisition to decide their fate. Failure is a luxury that we cannot afford, my dear.”

Vivienne sounds calm, so she also tries to remain so, though her breathe is hitching in her throat and she’s starting to get dizzy. She doesn’t want someone to word out exactly what she’s fearing, like she doesn’t comprehend the gravity of the situation, like she needs guidance towards realization. She hates that Vivienne might have read her all right from the damn fucking start, and she breathes, slower, forcing herself to calm down because she doesn’t want to throw up all over Vivienne’s expensive heeled shoes, or her new boots that she looted off someone’s body in the Hinterlands.

“For almost a thousand years, the world believed ir was in the hands of the Maker. Now many believe you are the agent of His will. Whatever the truth, that belief gives you power.”

What a bunch of bullshit, she wants to say, but she knows she’s been allowed entry to Val Royeaux because of that belief, she knows she has an army, no matter how badly fed, because of that belief, she is part of the Inquisition at all because of that belief. And in those open doors, in those raised swords, in the allies she found – there’s her power.

She doesn’t want to use it, too scared, but she already did, just by surviving, and she’s now a piece in a chess game she doesn’t know against who they’re playing.

Vivienne is already not paying attention to her, returning to her desk, writing letters, inspecting the reports she’s received from Josephine. So her warning is more murmured, more an omen than an outright warning, though she knows it’ll hit where it matters anyway.

“If no one leads the way, many will be left in darkness.”

And the Herald knows, that as much rage as she is feeling, there is someone out there with more damage done to their families, with more responsibilities on their shoulders, with more grief in their hearts, failed by the world in ways that maybe she cannot even begin to comprehend. And she knows, that if her rage is true, then she has to fight to make sure that as many people as possible are protected from such pain. She hates that Vivienne read her all right from the damn fucking start. She hates that she knew exactly where to shove her, and in which direction – and if Trevelyan makes the Inquisition, then the Inquisition makes her just as much.

***

As she goes around Haven, writing down lists of needed supplies, marking on a map all the places that they need to scout, or where rumours are pointing at, talking with officers and soldiers, upgrading a piece of armour, training with Cullen and discussing best offers for various noble houses with Josephine, she starts noticing The Iron Bull. It’s impossible not to, as he easily towers above everyone else in the Inquisition’s ranks, and almost everyone naturally gets out of his way. When she marks Dane’s stables on her map and question one of the young helpers about the man, the Iron Bull borrows a sharpening stone for his axe from grumpy Harrit, one of the only persons that doesn’t seem at all phased by the presence of a Qunari in their camp. When she leaves a Council meeting in a late evening, Krem is dragging Bull in the tavern, looking outright comic with his arm around the Qunari’s shoulders, their laughter booming in the air.

Then, tentatively, because Bull has done her the favour of directly telling her about his status as a spy, she decides to just talk to him directly as well. Eyes to eye. First comes a morning training, as she goes through the moves with more recent recruits, that still are not familiar with her fighting style, whose moves she cannot guess just because they’ve been trained by Cullen, in a style too similar to her brother’s.

On the other side of the training ground, Cullen and Bull shout their orders to each of their troops, guiding their moves, correcting wrong stances, pushing those showing potential. Sometimes, the missed hits turn into reason for teasing from the others, or a joke is shouted instead of a scream as a soldier lunges for their opponent, and although everyone trains with all their might, there’s an air of comradery between them that makes it not seem much of a chore.

She stops first, head politely nodding at her partner, her skin still sweaty, adrenaline still making her head reel. She starts making her way across the yard, stopping by Bull’s side, waiting patiently for him to finish the drills, ask his lieutenant to take over. She’s staring at all these soldiers making up the Inquisition’s ranks when he turns towards her.

“They’ve got good form. Cullen’s putting his Templar training to good use.”

She crosses her arms, moves her weight so she’s just a tiny bit closer to him.

“Did Cullen tell you he was a Templar? He’s not wearing the armour.”

“He didn’t have to. Might not be a Templar shield, but it’s a Templar holding it. He angles the shield just a bit down. Helps direct fire or acid away, so it doesn’t spray right into your face. Qunari learn the same thing when we train to fight Tevinter mages. Your Templar’s doing good work.”

So that’s what his Ben-Hassrath training is capable of. She noticed the same thing, but it was the familiarity of it that made her notice it at all, and she’s impressed by how sharp he was to catch all those details, and piece together that much of the past behind them, and be so correct. Still, he’s true to his word, and he’s not only telling her his obvious conclusion, but also the thinking process that brought him to it – and she nods her head, looks again at the troops and sees something more this time around.

“I’m impressed by what Cullen has accomplished with the troops.”

Most of the people joined the Inquisition after the explosion at the Conclave, now refugees with a want to do something about this new problem that they’re all facing. Most of the older soldiers died when they closed up the Breach. Yet those standing in front of them are objectively good, and it is all thanks to their commander. It takes time to build a group into a team, but these men gave their loyalty to Cullen, and that’s one important detail when getting ready to fight a religious war.

“Biggest problem for the Inquisition right now isn’t on the front line. It’s at the top. You’ve got no leader. No Inquisitor.”

She turns to stare at him, try and see if he is joking, but Bull looks dead serious, his eye searching her face, memorizing every change in expression – and she knows he’s doing it, and yet she cannot stop herself from looking as incredulous as she feels.

“Cassandra’s been the driving force of this Inquisition. She’s the leader in all but name.”

“Cassandra’s a Seeker. From what I gather, that’s a bit like a Ben-Hassrath.”

The hand – that gives, that takes, that beckons, that strikes. She has hand-picked each person in their ranks, has used the authority of her title and past to create this organization. No one would be here without her, so isn’t that the obvious choice? No matter how terrible their beginning together, no one can deny the fact that the Seeker is an incredibly capable woman.

So then, why not? She frowns up at the Iron Bull, and with him, she doesn’t even have to actually ask the question outright.

“She’s a good hunter and a great fighter, but she doesn’t see the big picture. Too busy searching for answers.”

And Cassandra has searched for answers all her life: about her family’s demise, about the path of a Pentaghast, about her faith, about the heroes of Thedas, about the rightfulness of her actions, about the divinity of her Herald.

“My people don’t pick leaders from the strongest, or the smartest, or even the most talented. We pick the ones willing to make the hard decisions… and live with the consequences.”

She doesn’t know enough about all of these people to figure out who would best suit his definition of a leader, barely having started to know them better, to fit in-between their orders and their skills. But as she thinks it over, she thinks it does make sense – especially as in these desperate times of need, so many people need others to make the hard decisions for them. No one wants to be the one having to bear the guilt of a choice, though everyone envies the laurels of praise that might come in good outcomes. But the balance is so delicately held together, and it so many times more tips towards destruction instead of success. The people just want someone to glorify, or someone to crucify. The Inquisition needs someone willing to wear both the glory and the condemnation.

It explains, however, how come he sits at the head of the Chargers. It explains, however, why he’s so proudly wearing his scars and his missing eye and why his people talk so highly of him.

As the silence lingers between the two of them, Bull breaks it.

“Ah, who knows. Maybe you seal the breach, the Chantry gets off its ass, and all those soldiers go home and get fat.”

She bursts out laughing, the 180 degrees switch in her thoughts and in the conversation making absolutely no sense, but pleased at the attempt to lighten up the situation anyway.

“You think?”

“It could happen. It won’t, but it could.”

She’s still laughing, a smile on her face, as she waves him goodbye, a messenger sent to get her for another meeting.

***

Then it’s when Leliana asks her to her tent, after Harding’s recent arrival to let them know of some scouting reports – but the surprising thing is that when she’s done, Harding is still around, sitting by the fire with a few of the soldiers, and Cremisius is next to her. When she’s warm enough, and fed well enough, she’s back on her scout duties, and the Herald takes the moment to occupy what was Harding’s seat just a few minutes ago, trying to smile at Bull’s man. He’s silently passing her a cup of tea, that she’s sincerely grateful for – no matter how much time she spends in the snow, she’ll never get used to the way her fingers go numb if she’s not wearing her gloves, probably forgotten in some meeting room.

She likes him because everything is straight-forward with him. He’s just a really good fighter that is part of a mercenary band that he cares about like no other, and it’s a loyalty and devotion that is obvious even from the way he speaks about them, the tone of his voice turning just a bit softer when he says the name of the people he entrusted his life with, over and over again.

So Trevelyan just goes for it: “I’d like to know more about The Iron Bull.”

“The Chief. First time I met him, he saved my life.”

Well, that’s one unexpected way of describing the Qunari leader of a mercenary group.

“That’s a story definitely worth hearing,” she pushes, sipping from her tea – and Cremisium maybe had figured out that she’s asking out of sincere curiosity, or he is just eager to tell the stories of their adventure together. One doesn’t simply become the most trusted man of a Qunari spy, and it’s not a title that many people can boast.

“I wasn’t a soldier at the time. I was in some trouble and trying to flee Tevinter. A Tribune and his men caught me in a border town tavern. They meant to make an example of me. Bull killed them. Gave up his eye doing it. He patched me up and asked if I was looking for work. I’ve been putting up with his jokes ever since.”

That last sentence grabs a smile out of the Herald, and Krem sits back more comfortably in his seat, pleased.

“That’s how he lost his eye?”

The eye patch is certainly the most unnerving and mysterious thing about Iron Bull. She heard the servants whisper in the tavern about it, and there are as many rumours about the story behind it as there are gossiping mouths in Haven. It probably doesn’t help that he’s a Qunari as well, and he automatically grasps the attention of everyone… well, across Thedas, really.

“Yes. The guards had me on the tavern floor when Bull came inside and yelled for them to stop. The guard had a flail. Bull put himself between me and the blow. Big horned idiot. Didn’t even know me.”

Krem’s voice turns soft, no bite in the offence, lost in the memory of that situation. Trevelyan thinks of the weapon, with its metal, spiked striking end, and how excruciatingly painful it must have been to get a blow in the face, losing an eye in the process. She doesn’t know why, but the fact that he hasn’t lost it in a gruesome battle, or while doing mercenary work, but simply trying to do the good thing and save the life of someone who didn’t deserve death, makes the outline of him in her mind switch.

“And about him being a Qunari, a-”

“A Ben-Hassrath?”

Trevelyan opens her mouth, closes it again, staring at this man defending his leader so fiercely, just by knowing a truth that she thought it should be a secret.

“I didn’t expect he’d tell you all that he was a spy.”

“Not the whole band, but those who’ve been around long enough to trust. He figures most of us would find out sooner or later, and it should come from him. It’s never messed up a job. He just writes letters back home. Lot of the boys write letters back home.”

She sits in silence, sipping at her tea, but no second feeling uncomfortable – her doubt not judged, his answers accepted. They’re just two people that care, in different ways, about the same person: one questioning and one defending. She considers his words and the information that she newly learnt, and how suddenly it makes Bull so much more than just a Qunari spy, or the leader of the Chargers.

If all her selves can exist inside of her, can it not be the same for everyone else around her as well? Cullen is a Templar, as well as just their commander, and a man trying to do right by his past mistakes. Cassandra is a Seeker and a Pentaghast and a warrior. Leliana is a spy master and a deeply religious person and a skilled, Orlais-trained assassin. Varric is a writer, a businessman, a spy and an adventurer. Josephine is the eldest daughter of the Montilyets, an ambassador and a tactician.

She thanks Krem for his time, and he grins at her.

***

It’s rare to eat lunch at all, as supplies are spare, so most of them are just keeping themselves busy until diner time. It’s even rarer to get to eat lunch, and when you do, to have it at the same time as other people. But as Trevelyan makes her way inside the tavern, she’s welcomed by the sight of Bull’s back, the musician tuning her mandolin, and a few of their recruits eating a very late breakfast, having woken up barely in time for their morning drills. It’s part manners and part want that makes her slide into the empty seat across Bull, at the same table.

“Hey Boss,” he says, and before she gets to, he gestures towards Flissa for one more bowl of warm soup, and he shoves the loaf of bread across the table, closer to her. She smiles, and she breaks apart a piece, starts eating it as it is, as she waits for her food. Bull has stopped eating his as well, and he waits as well.

“So, Iron Bull… How did you get the name ‘Iron Bull’?”

“I picked it,” he says simply, leans back a bit to allow space for the barmaid to place the new plate and cup on the table, before he returns, picking up his spoon at the same time as her. “We don’t have names under the Qun, just… I don’t know, job descriptions, I guess. When I came to Orlais, I chose ‘The Iron Bull’ for myself.”

She keeps her spoon between her lips as she pays attention to his words, a bad habit from her teenage years that she wasn’t able to get rid of, and so her question is somewhat muffled, makes her sound younger.

“But why specifically ‘Iron Bull’?

“This may surprise you, but I really like hitting things.”

She snorts in her spoonful of soup, the blow of air making all the contents fly back into her bowl, and she’s laughing hard now, Bull joining her a second later. She’s up on her feet, grabbing one of Flissa’s rags, cleaning up at her chin and shirt, as Bull’s laughter dies out. If her mother could see her now, even she’d swear, but as it is, she’s just enjoying her mishap, and clearly her lunch partner is doing so as well.

“Also, it’s the Iron Bull, technically.” He’s waving his spoon in the air to point at her in tandem with his accent falling on the word the. “I like having an article at the front. It makes it sound like I’m not even a person, just a mindless weapon, an implement of destruction… That really works for me.”

Well, she has seen him in a battle, he is all of those things, but she also knows there’s not a second he’s not aware of his people and how they are doing in a battle. He always jumps where the battle is heaviest and he’s incredibly scary swinging his axe around, a fastness in him that can’t seem possible for someone as large. And she also knows of Krem’s story, and how none of Bull’s actions can possibly be called, at any point, mindless or destructive. Heck, isn’t he here at all, tied to be her bodyguard and protect her in all Inquisition matters, just because he doesn’t want this whole world blown apart? But hearing it that he prefers it the other way around, she wonders what exactly she is supposed to believe at all.

So, she asks him about how he became a Ben-Hassrath instead. She knows parts of Qunari culture, just at a superficial level, nothing much but what every other Free Marcher put together during Arishok’s stay in Kirkwall. It starts at pure curiosity, though. Her world has been so narrow, and now it is getting wider and wider every day, with each piece of land walked, with each new ally that she recruits. She wants to be just to all of them, to thrown away the teachings of her family and the superstitions of her people.

She listens to his explanations, tries to piece it together with the book about the Qun that she asked Leliana to get her, that she found in the wares of the merchants she came across. Off the battlefield, even as he speaks of his people, Iron Bull is a refreshingly reasonable person, listening to everyone’s words with the same level of attention, attentively reading the gestures and expressions of those around him, and he replies in a calm matter that has nothing to do with his way of fighting. So even if he might be annoyed by her inquiries, he doesn’t show it.

They’re down only to the bread, that they’re now each grabbing a piece of as he keeps talking.

“They sent me to Seheron because they needed someone who could fight and hunt down problems. That whole island was a sack of cats. Incursions from Tevinter, Tal-Vashoth, and native rebels fighting both sides… And in the middle, me, trying to wrangle the rebels and restore order.”

If there is a place who can haunt a man for the rest of his life, then that place is Seheron.

“I can’t imagine that was easy.” She lets him take two pieces of the bread in a row.

“One day I woke up and couldn’t think of a damned reason to keep doing my job. Turned myself in to the reeducators. I thought about letting some rebel kill me, but I couldn’t give any of those bastards the satisfaction. The Ben-Hassrath ordered me to go to Orlais, ostensibly as a Tal-Vashoth, and work undercover. That’s how I ended up here.”

Trevelyan looks around, at the shoddy tavern that they’re in, with the food that always seems to have something missing, with their untrained soldiers, and with this one table that they’ve shared over the past half an hour.

“I’m glad you’re alive and; well, here, Bull.” It’s an intentional choice of words, and a one-word declaration: his name, but not its purpose. “If you ever need to talk more about all this, let me know.”

She offers even if she doubts he’ll ever take her up on it. Iron Bull gets up from the table, shouting his thanks to Flissa, before looking down again at this Herald, a young woman that is just extending her kindness to a man that she knows to be a trained spy and killer.

“Nah. It was a long time ago.”

***

And then there’s that time when a few days pass by with her locked in meeting rooms, counting once and twice and thrice and then over again all the supplies that they need for the Hinterlands once again. And the next time that she sees the Iron Bull, is as he sits outside his tent, when she finishes talking with master Harrit about the horses that he wants and the Inquisition desperately needs, and that she’s supposed to get from one of her treks in that damned place. Sometimes just the thought of doing something tires her out enough to make her want to stop, though stopping is a luxury that she cannot afford.

And yet, she takes five minutes to hover by Bull’s side, asking him some more things about Qunari. She cannot even imagine not knowing who her parents are, so much of her life hinges on her relationship with her family, and so much importance is placed by humans on their ancestors and links. Heck, the Trevelyans have an entire tapestry up on the wall in their main hall, showing their entire lineage, decades and decades ago, names that have gone out of fashion and names that have shaped the Free Marches and the Chantry and the Templar Order. And out of all of that, she was born to sit at the last end of all those familial roots: made and raised to be who she is, simply because she was a Trevelyan.

How can she judge him his religion and his loyalty for it, when she herself comes from a long line of believers, when her own version is stifling enough that it makes a holy figure out of a mere woman? There is so much she doesn’t know, or if she knows, she doesn’t understand – so it is with open ears and curious eyes that she listens to his stories and lessons, even if they challenge everything that she thought was supposed to be the natural order of things.

And how can she truly criticize the Qunari rules, when her own parents asked much of the same thing from her? There were always the things that they taught she’d be best at, the roles she was expected to fulfil – and that was the width of her life, with all the classes she was made to take to build her into the best image of a young lady, with all the unwritten and unspoken codes of conduct, with the fragile honour and egos. Life back in Ostwick was simply following a path that has existed for the women of noble houses for centuries, and much like a Qunari, they were all just expected to follow through.

People are just people, everywhere.

She likes him, because in his rebuttal of her beliefs, she understands that, for him, she’s nothing more than a bratty noble, and she wants to both weep and hug the life out of him for not even considering the idea that she might be holy. With all the others, she can feel when their perception shifts: that sometimes they cannot believe her survival or her Mark, so there’s only the heavens to blame; that sometimes they watch her train or they have to explain something to her, and they sigh in relief at her simply humane limitations. But with Iron Bull, she’s always just his boss – and he doesn’t seem to care to make more out of her.

And then, maybe because she’s reminded of her life before all of this, or maybe because Bull pauses to look after a redhead new recruit, or maybe because he has not refused to answer any of her questions yet, she asks him about marriage and love. And hears about sex instead, her face turning redder and redder with each word out of his mouth, and Bull seems like he is enjoying both the topic of the conversation, the memories it’s bringing up, and the prude reactions from her. By the end, there’s a teasing edge in his voice, and Trevelyan is covering half of her face with the pair of gloves she’s holding in her hands, while glaring at him above them.

“You asked, Boss!” he shouts after her, when she comes up with an excuse, stumbling over her words, and she just screams back at him that he better be ready for the Hinterlands from tomorrow onwards.

#dragon age inquisition #female trevelyan #the iron bull #the inquisitor #iron bull x inquisitor #iron bull x trevelyan #dragon age #da: inquisition #da: i #da fanfic #da fic #my writing

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chiseler · 5 years ago

Text

“You think I’m the only one in this town who doesn’t like people?”

Following the JFK assassination, and especially after Charles Whitman climbed the Texas Tower in August of 1966, shooting and killing 14 strangers over the course of a lazy afternoon, lone mad snipers became an easy thriller standby. Targets, The Day of the Jackal, Two Minute Warning and dozens of other films since the late ‘60s have focused on a man, a rifle, and a perch. While snipers weren’t unknown to Hollywood prior to 1963 (Suddenly, Murder by Contract—even The Manchurian Candidate was in production before the assassination), they focused almost exclusively on gunmen with a purpose, paid assassins who were after a single, specific target, a politician or a mob hit. 1952’s The Sniper was not only one of the earliest films centered around an urban sniper, but remained an exception, really until the moment Whitman began pulling the trigger.

While on the surface The Sniper is a standard, straightforward police procedural about the hunt for a killer, what made it different was that the killer in question was a presumably unbalanced presumed vet who was killing random brunettes around San Francisco with a high-powered Army-issue carbine rifle. What also made the film different for the era was its focus on the psychology (some boilerplate Freudian hoo-hah) driving the killing spree. But beyond even all that, deep down it’s a profoundly strange picture disguised, for all its groundbreaking elements, as any other B thriller.

But let me back up here a second and come at this from a different angle.

In 1945, like so many intellectuals and Hollywood types (and when was the last time those two appeared in the same sentence?), director Edward Dmytryk began his little flirtation with the Communist Party. A few years later, like so many others, he found himself dragged in front of HUAC where he was asked to name names. When he refused, he was thrown in stir along with the rest of the Hollywood Ten on charges of contempt of Congress.

After a few months in prison, though, Dmytryk had a change of heart and called his lawyer. In 1951 he was released from prison, appeared before HUAC again, but this time in a far more cooperative mood, providing interrogators not only with 26 names, but also detailing how he’d been pressured to slip subliminal Commie messages into pictures like Crossfire. After this, having lost his martyrdom and no longer beloved of Hollywood’s Communist community, Dmytryk found himself just as effectively blacklisted as he had been before. So he moved to England and teamed up with producer Stanley Kramer, who would put him back to work for the next several years.

This is not the place to discuss Dmytryk’s politics, his justification or damnation, to pass self-righteous judgments long after the fact. But it is interesting to consider the first film made by a man fresh out of prison would be a message film about a rogue gunman picking off Californian brunettes, and one has to wonder if his time behind bars in any way influenced the film’s opening crawl.

Written by a powerhouse trio at the time (script by Harry Brown from a story by Edna and Edward Anhalt), The Sniper opens by informing us that present-day laws and law enforcement were useless when it came to dealing with sex crimes, and that the story we were about to see concerned a man “whose enemy was womankind.”

In the film’s first few seconds we meet the man in question, Eddie Miller, and it’s clear he’s teetering on the edge of something bad. Arthur Franz hadn’t yet established himself as a genre stalwart, playing rational, low-key, friendly sorts in the likes of Invaders from Mars and Monster on the Campus, and here turns in a remarkable performance as a believable psychopath. He never goes over the top and bug-eyed, instead playing Eddie as a tightly wound but always self controlled young man who may get occasionally twitchy and sweaty but always remains nearly emotionless.

A former mental patient who is well aware that things are going wrong in his head again, Eddie does what he can to get himself committed, but no one’s cooperating. In fact seen through Eddie’s eyes, the entire world is simply one slap, one humiliation after another. To some of us anyway, he’s an extremely sympathetic character.

Marie Windsor

Although later in the film the police come to the conclusion that he must be an ex-soldier, we are never given any proof of this apart from his weapon of choice. It doesn’t matter—now he drives a delivery truck for a laundry service. One of the regular customers along his route is attractive young nightclub pianist Jean Darr (Marie Windsor), who appears to be one of the few people, and certainly the only woman, who’s nice to him. So when what he believes to be a seduction turns out to be, well, not only not a seduction but ends with Jean treating him like any other errand boy, he snaps. It’s the only scene in the film in which his face reveals any emotion at all apart from confusion or cold boredom. That night he waits on a rooftop across from the bar where she works and shoots her as she heads home.

Enter the police, which adds another layer onto the external story behind the film. As Det. Kafka (if there is any significance to that name it’s never made clear), Adolphe Menjou, is also playing against future type as a gruff, less than suave, and mostly hapless cop. A few years prior to the film, Menjou was known as one of the fiercest defenders of HUAC in the business, which of course made his pairing with Dmytryk here a potentially disastrous one. By all accounts, however, it was a perfectly amicable working relationship, so much so that Dmytryk would use him again in a few of his subsequent films . But that’s irrelevant, too.

As more seemingly random dark haired young women are being picked off around the city (which in spite of all the location shooting is never identified as San Francisco), the police bring in criminal psychologist Dr. Kent (Richard Kiley) to work out a profile. With precious little evidence, the doctor jumps to the remarkable conclusion that these are in fact sexually motivated shootings. And that leads to the first head-scratching scene of the film.

Taking Dr. Kent’s very broad conclusion at face value, the cops round up every pervert in town for a line-up. Now, given that there have been no witnesses who saw the shooter, a line-up is pointless. Perhaps the cops realize this, which explains why the chief interrogator (sitting at a table in front of an auditorium full of officers) runs the line-up like a routine from an old Bob Hope special, introducing and dismissing the peeping toms, gropers, and rapists with well-prepared one-liners. To a schlub who writes obscene mash notes to strangers he begins, “So, Bob, they say the pen is mightier than the sword...”

It’s an oddball comic scene completely out of step with the rest of the film, and a scene that makes no sense within the context of a serious police drama. It’s darkly funny, yes (especially considering that we’re dealing with convicted sex offenders as the butt of bad jokes), and had the rest of the film been handled in this tone, well, it would have been a very different picture. As it stands it’s merely jarring and leaves viewers wondering what the hell it’s doing there. Personally I can’t recall another cutaway even remotely close to this in any other Dmytryk picture. Logically enough, though, the scene ends with dr. Kent muttering “this is pointless” before leaving the room.

He then goes on to deliver the film’s heavy handed message to the mayor, the press, and the other investigators—namely (and here’s where I wonder if Dmytryk’s prison experience is being reflected) that anyone arrested for a sex crime of any kind should be locked in a psych ward until they’re cured of their personal glitch. And if they aren’t cured, they should be left there locked away for good.

That leads to another delightfully baffling line of dialogue as Kafka orders a teenager with a broken antique rifle be sent to a nearby bughouse. “I don’t wanna be looking for this kid again in a couple years,” Kafka explains, “when he’s got a real gun...or maybe an axe.”

(An axe?)

In spite of a few weirdnesses along the way The Sniper still played like most any boilerplate thriller while at the same time being years ahead of the game both in terms of subject and solution. Extrapolating a bit on Dr. Kent’s recommendation, the kid being sent to the psych ward had not been convicted of a sex crime—he was just acting weird. Likewise, following the latest school shooting the do gooders are once again calling for the psychological incarceration of anyone who thinks differently, acts differently, isn’t like everyone else, as they represent a very tangible future threat. But the answer to this hamfisted solution can also be found in the very same scene. Before being sent to the local Bin, the above-mentioned teen with the broken gun tells Kafka, “You think I’m the only one in town who doesn’t like people? There’s millions of ‘em!” And we’ve been proving him right since 1966. So maybe it’s time we stop talking about locking these people up pre-emptively, and finally come around to accepting the simple fact that mass shootings might well be nothing more than a rational response to an insane world. by Jim Knipfel

#Jim Knipfel #The Chiseler #The Sniper #Marie Windsor #noir

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