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dwellordream · 3 years ago

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“Texts about petty treason clearly depict where and how women murder their husbands, but they have more trouble explaining why women do so. Just as the murderous wife challenged the conceptions of women's legal and moral stature on which marriage and social order depended, she also posed a problem for the many writers-hacks, ministers, legal personnel (judges, justices of the peace, clerks, and theorists), chroniclers, playwrights, and balladeers-who rushed to tell and sell her story. These authors attempt to tell a story in which a wife becomes the protagonist without conferring too much authority, prestige, or sympathy on a criminal, married woman.

For only through transgression could such women, usually wives of yeomen, shopkeepers, tradesmen, and small landowners, demand attention outside of the household and neighborhood; only thus could they become the topic of debate in legal treatises and on streetcomers, the focus of attention in courtrooms and on scaffolds; only through transgression could they command a place at the center of a popular narrative as the protagonist of the story. If killing her husband made it possible for a wife to be at the center of a story, it remained a difficult story to tell. Certainly pamphlets describe who did what to whom with ease. Yet the texts that struggle to tell the story of a wife's transgression attempt to redress it through a didacticism that restricts the narration of her motives and desires.

Once the writers begin to explore motives, they lose control of the moral of the story, for the more the reader engages with the wife the less simple the lesson becomes. To imagine, let alone sympathize or identify with, the frustrations of a wife is to question the legal and moral assumption that in the household there is only one citizen, one legal agent, one property owner, one decision maker: the husband. Some sixteenth- and seventeenth-century texts employ an explanation for the behavior of murderous wives that we often see in today's news and in popular culture; they represent the murderer as a battered wife who resorts to violence in despair and self-defense. Contrary to reductive analyses of the early modern family and the position of women in it, these period texts suggest a popular perception that husbands sometimes beat their wives to an extent that exceeded lawful correction and prudence and that beatings put wives in "a fit humour for the devill to worke on."

Alice Clarke, for instance, is described as having visible bruises at the time that she is apprehended and examined for killing her husband. Even Henry Goodcole, the minister who counsels her and writes the gruesomely titled The Adultresses Funerall Day (1635) about her case, sees a connection between those bruises and her actions. The beatings described in such texts include not only drunken and impulsive assaults "with the next cudgell that came accidentally unto his hand" but also sadistic, eroticized rituals, such as "tying her to his bed-post to strip her and whippe her, etc." Although pamphlets exploit the titillation of such stories, despite the coy propriety of that "etc.," they also suggest that husbands could be uncontrolled, savage, and "unnatural," and that wives, especially those isolated from friends and neighbors by shame, distance, and religious or ethnic difference, might have felt that violence was their only recourse.

Under common law, husbands had a legal right to beat their wives; however, the limits on this right were debated in conduct literature and explored in ecclesiastical courts when members of the community feared that excessive beatings threatened the wife's life and the peace of the neighborhood. The law did not spell out the limits on discipline except to assume that husbands did not have the right to kill their wives. As Martin Ingram explains, "Domestic relations were thus on the borders of public and private morality in this period-matters to be influenced by exhortation but not ordinarily by the exercise of formal discipline." To say that domestic relations remained outside "formal" discipline is not to say that they were unobserved or unregulated; neighbors and the local community exerted informal control over marriage and domesticity in many ways, including confrontation, shaming rituals, and bringing the offending couple before the justice of the peace for "unquietness."

A husband's authority over his wife remained legally and morally ambiguous, even if the community's scrutiny constrained him. Since a husband's treatment of his wife remained largely beyond legal regulation, conduct literature appealed to the husband's judgment, urging him to regulate himself. In one of the many discussions of wifebeating in conduct literature, William Gouge suggests that beating one's wife undermines household governance because it opens up a space between the husband and wife, revealing that they are not one flesh, not one legal agent, but two: "Now a wife having no ground to be perswaded that her husband hath authority to beat her, what hope is there that she will patiently beare it, and be bettered by it? Or rather is it not likely that she will if she can, rise against him, over-master him (as many do) and never doe any duty aright?"

The husband's violence threatens to incite a contest for mastery; once the context of violence enables the wife to enter the fray as a combatant, the outcome is uncertain. One account of a wife's reaction to a marital rape, which we might not expect to find recognized as an offense in this period, clearly shows how a wife's subjectivity is constructed as violent, as a choice of her own life over her husband's life. In her examination recorded in A Hellish Murder (I688), Mary Aubrey (or Hobry), a French midwife, describes a history of dissension with her husband because she would not cooperate with him "in Villanies contrary to Nature."

On the night of the murder, after beating her savagely, "he attempted the Forcing of this Examinate to the most Unnatural of Villanies, and acted such a Violence upon her Body in despite of all the Opposition that she could make, as forc'd from her a great deal of Blood, this Examinate crying out to her Landlady, who was (as she believes) out of distance of hearing her.” When she insists that she cried out, Aubrey employs the strategy of the rape victim, who had to demonstrate that she had made a "hue and cry" and thus had not consented. In presenting Aubrey's compelling testimony about this assault, A Hellish Murder not only suggests limits on a husband's rights to and power over his wife's body but also constructs a subjectivity for Mary Aubrey out of her despair, her sense of grievance, and her determination to escape.

Aubrey finally demands of her husband, "Am I to lead this Life for ever?" only to receive more threats in response. In asking that question, Mary Aubrey is portrayed as raising a voice and imagining herself as having a life separate from and in conflict with her husband's. By depicting her reaction to abuse and her contemplation of retaliatory violence, this text constitutes Aubrey as a self-conscious, speaking subject. Later, beside her sleeping husband, she thinks "with her self," "What will become of me? What am I to do! Here am I Threatned to be Murder'd, and I have no way in the World to Deliver my self, but by Beginning with him." Aubrey's subjectivity is seen not only as the midwife's deliverance of herself but as a birth that depends on a death.

"Immediately upon these thoughts," she stoutly undertakes the murder of her husband, strangling and dismembering him, and lugging parts of his body around in her petticoat to dispose of them. Popular accounts of petty treason usually shy away from such risky representation of a wife's conscious articulation of rights that are allied to violence by their very conception. The resulting attempts both to account for the complexities of domestic friction and to achieve some sympathy for the abused wife, while keeping authority vested in the husband, however tyrannous, can verge on the absurd.

Goodcole describes one "young and tender" wife, who, repenting after administering poison to her "old, peevish," and abusive husband, fruitlessly pleads with him to take an antidote to preserve his life. "Nay thou Strumpet and murderesse," Goodcole reports him as saying, "I will receive no helpe at all but I am resolvd to dye and leave the world, be it for no other cause, but to have thee burnt at a stake for my death." * Although the wife is executed at Smithfield, Goodcole regards the husband, in his spiteful insistence on dying, as the agent. Sarah Elston, in her scaffold confession as recorded in A Warning for Bad Woo (1678), "protested again most seriously, that she never in her life had the least designe or thoughts of killing [her husband], onely it was an unfortunate Accident; and whether it came by a blow from her, or his violent running upon the point of the sizzars as she held them out to defend her self, she could not to this minute certainly tell."

These comic moments reveal how pamphleteers who wish to portray murderous wives as penitent and pitiful must awkwardly scramble to shield them from the imputation of intending to kill, just as they are presented as shielding themselves from blows. To characterize such women as assessing their hopeless situations and deciding to take violent action to escape them, that is, to present them as subjects, is also to remove them from sympathy and to open up disturbing implications about the marital relation of authority and submission. Writers in effect displace responsibility onto the husbands, positioning them as still in charge, even if drunken, violent, and absurdly self-destructive. In representations of domestic conflict in early modem popular culture-ballads, pamphlets, and plays, shaming rituals and jokes- the wife diminishes or usurps her husband's claims to authority as she asserts herself by committing adultery, beating or bossing her husband, or plotting to kill him.

For instance, Arden of Faversham (1592), a play about an actual case of petty treason, can be seen as an extended cuckold joke. Like such jokes, and like popular shaming rituals such as the charivari, the play holds the cuckolded husband responsible for his wife's adultery and insubordination. If the husband and wife become a joint subject at marriage, then, these popular representations seem to suggest, the wife's enlargement into volition, speech, and action necessarily implicates, diminishes, and even eliminates the husband. These popular representations push the logic of coverture to suggest an economy of marital subjectivity that leaves room for only one subject. They constitute the wife as a subject only to the extent that they qualify her husband's claims to subject status by silencing and immobilizing him and casting doubt on his authority and potency.

The fact that popular accounts of such crimes acknowledge the role of abuse in inciting women to murder challenges assumptions we still have about women's rights within marriage and the monolithic power wives who defied the patriarchy during this period. It also complicates the notion of petty treason by introducing the possibility of tyrannous household government and by suggesting, albeit hesitantly, that there arc some justifications for rebellion. Certainly, contemporary debates about the limits on conscientious submission to civil and domestic authorities have a bearing on relations within the household and the understanding of petty treason. Writers of sermons and conduct books about marriage explicitly include the situation of the godly wife in their considerations of the limits on obedience to earthly authority; they advocate a demanding balance between submission and resistance, silence and good counsel.

In those cases of petty treason that resulted in convictions and made it into print, however, the circumstances in the household did not mitigate the wife's guilt. These women were executed as petty traitors despite their husbands' inadequacies as household governors. Although juries may actually have taken extenuating circumstances into consideration when they deliberated over cases of petty treason, these texts hold the husband responsible as well as depict the execution of the guilty wife; they recognize limits to a husband's power over his wife, yet present a wife's violent resistance as ultimately unjustifiable and destructive of the political order. Popular representations make these contradictions between husbandly authority and wifely submission visible, but they do not resolve them.”

- Frances E. Dolan, “Home-Rebels and House-Traitors: Petty Treason and the Murderous Wife.” in Dangerous Familiars: Representations of Domestic Crime in England, 1550 - 1700

#history #frances e. dolan #cw: domestic violence #cw: rape #renaissance #tudor #elizabethan #jacobean #stuart #dangerous familiars

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lov3nerdstuff · 4 years ago

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Voluptas Noctis Aeternae {Part 2.1}

*Severus Snape x OC*

Summary: It is the year 1983 when the ordinary life of Robin Mitchell takes a drastic turn: she is accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite the struggles of being a muggle-born in Slytherin, she soon discovers her passion for Potions, and even manages the impossible: gaining the favor of Severus Snape. Throughout the years, Robin finds that the not quite so ordinary Potions Professor goes from being a brooding stranger to being more than she had ever deemed possible. An ally, a mentor, a friend... and eventually, the person she loves the most. Through adventure, prophecies and the little struggles of daily life in a castle full of mysteries, Robin chooses a path for herself, an unlikely friendship blossoms into something more, and two people abandoned by the world can finally find a home.

General warnings: professor x student (however no underage romance), blood, violence, trauma, neglectful families, bullying, cursing

Words: 5k

Read Part 1.1 here! All Parts can be found on the Masterlist!

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The end of Robin's first year at Hogwarts had come sooner than expected. She had done fairly well in all of her exams, even defense against the dark arts, despite her previous concerns. After the incident in March, Professor Morgan actually had as good as ignored her for the remainder of the school year, and merely given her grades slightly worse than she believed she deserved. Nothing out of the ordinary, and the same could be said for the other subjects. She had made efforts however, since that night, to become better in charms, and it had paid off in terms of both grades and knowledge. It still hadn't sufficed to beat herbology, leave alone potions, but she felt comfortable with more spells than she had learned in class, and that ought to be enough.

Thus, when summer had finally forced Robin to return home to her parents' house, she had actually felt content with her overall progress of the past year, but also desperately ready for a break in all the learning.

That sentiment however had lasted for a mere week, and without the possibility to borrow books from her favorite potions professor, Robin soon had found the necessity to find other methods to keep herself busy, and distract herself from missing school. Those methods mainly had entailed sitting in on summer classes at the university her parents worked for, and while a twelve year old wasn't really the intended audience for any of those classes, Robin had been surprised to find that she actually had understood quite a lot of the entry level subjects. Thus her summer had been filled with classes on history, cultural studies and art –which had turned out to be more about architecture than about art after all– and she had learned a lot while yet being systematically excluded from everything not class related by both the regular students and the professors. Her parents hadn't been any better, as they had been working day in day out as always, ignoring her as always, saying "that's nice, sweetie" as always.

Only upon her return to Hogwarts for the beginning of her second year, Robin had actually felt like she belonged once more. Both the castle and the landscape gave her a feeling of finally being able to breathe again, after a long time of existing in a room with too little air. Sure, seeing her parents had been nice to some degree, but only at Hogwarts did she actually feel like a person of value again. At her parents house, she was an asset in a game that wasn't hers to play. At Hogwarts however she was Robin, and the master of her own fate. Even if to the others she was still the muggle born Slytherin who spent more time with her books than with her peers.

And just like that, she happily threw herself back into her classes and assignments, picking things right back up where she had left off last term.

The members of her study group started talking about their O.W.L.s and about fairly little else quite early on, and Robin soon found herself annoyed by them more than she appreciated their company. Thus she started to spend more and more time studying by herself instead, and eventually also eating by herself as well. Unlike last year, she actually didn't mind not having a permanent group, or anything that came even close to friendships. There was always someone she could sit with, should she choose to do so in the first place, even if that someone was only a brief acquaintance from one of her classes.

Her habit of borrowing books from Professor Snape had to her great luck survived the summer, and right after the first class of the term he had dropped a thick tome about preserving and properly storing different kinds of ingredients on her desk. Not the most interesting read, admittedly, but she would gladly take anything she got. It was still better than those books in the library that all basically said the same thing with different words. She found herself wondering more than once if perhaps they had all been writing by the same person, under different synonyms.

Thus for the following weeks in potions class, whenever they weren't actively brewing anything in particular, Robin would read in that book instead of listening to a lecture about some thing she'd known for half a year already, and to her surprise Professor Snape hadn't complained nor given her an odd look for it even once. Robin soon had realized that they might just have come to the silent agreement that she would learn more if she stuck to her books for now. Well, his books, but nobody needed to know about that. It was an unspoken agreement between them to keep this arrangement to themselves, as well as the quite good terms on which they were with each other at this point. Well, 'good' in Snape's terms at least, which meant that he mostly just let her be for the duration of class and she asked any questions she might have about her reads afterwards.

Eventually this habit, and this particular book especially, had led Robin to discover what she would put into the locket she had been wearing ever since the previous Christmas: a branch of dried dittany. Admittedly, fitting an entire branch into a locket of less than the size of her palm might have posed a problem, had Robin not done her research properly and come across a spell that allowed her to expand the space within the locket to a much greater size than the outside would let on. A simply extending charm, really, but very useful as she found. That only had left one issue remaining, and after having a frank conversation with Professor Sprout (whose favor Robin had gained last year by being the only Slytherin student who actually cared about herbology), Robin had been indeed allowed to take a branch of dittany from the greenhouse. In the week following upon that, she had carefully followed the instructions in the borrowed book and dried the plant while (hopefully) preserving all its qualities, therefore turning her nightstand into the best improvised laboratory she could manage.

At the end of her efforts, she'd actually been quite proud of the outcome, and that is exactly why she had kept the whole endeavour to herself and simply had gone back to wearing the locket every day like she used to, only that now it hid one of the finest healing plants the country had to offer. She'd have to see if she could get her hands on dried mandrake too, at some point. But for now, the dittany would do.

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The peace and quiet of her life at Hogwarts lasted for exactly two and a half months after term had started, right up to the point when Professor Morgan decided that it was time to mess with Robin once again. Honestly, while she hadn't really seen it coming this time either, she had indeed known that he eventually would start causing her problems again. And it just happened to be a lot sooner than she expected.

"Miss Mitchell!" His exaggeratedly cheerful voice brought Robin to an immediate halt, and an immediate spark of panic to her heart. It was Saturday night this time around, but yet again right after dinner and in the emptiest and dark hallway Hogwarts had to offer outside of the dungeons. Robin was spotting a scheme here.

"Professor Morgan…" Robin half sighed and half stated as she turned around to face the man in question. After over a year of having to listen to way too many girls fawning over him, she still couldn't understand how anyone could seriously and in good conscience consider this sleazy individual handsome.

"What a strange déjà vu to be having… Feels like it was ages ago that you messed up my classroom." He smiled innocently and shook his head to himself.

"Funny, to me it seems like just yesterday." Robin replied with the most neutral face she could manage.

"Ah, you and your… witty… remarks, how I have -not- missed those over the summer…" He sighed and raised his chin for a moment, peering down at her over the bottom rim of his reading glasses, which he wore only whenever he wanted to look particularly authoritative. Or that's what Robin thought, at least.

"What is it you would like from me this time, sir?" She asked as calmly as possible, while her hands were getting clammy again nonetheless and she had to resist the urge to wipe them on her trousers. That would've been a dead tell of her anxiety, and she didn't want him to see any of it at all.

"You will assist me in class on Monday. I will be demonstrating a spell that seeks out the other's deepest truths. Much like that famous potion, actually, what's it called again…"

"Veritaserum?" Robin suggested with a frown, keeping her face otherwise neutral while her anxiety went through the roof. He seriously wanted to force her to speak whatever truth in front of the entire class by using magic?! Was that even allowed?

"Exactly! However what I intend to show to the class is called legilimency."

"Never heard of it…"

"That is because it is not commonly taught at this institution."

At that, Robin's heart started beating even faster in nervousness. "But… then why would you teach it to us now, sir? And- and why do you need to demonstrate it on me, out of all people?"

Professor Morgan let out a small snort in return. "I'm not teaching it to you, don't be ridiculous… I'm merely using it to demonstrate something. And I chose you to demonstrate it on, because you are an obvious choice. You were so very intent on your honesty and truthfulness last year that I see no reason as for why it should bother you to speak the truth yet again."

"What if I don't want to assist you?" Robin asked quietly, with a lump in her throat that simply refused to be swallowed down, and her only hope was that the darkness of the hallway hid the fear in her eyes at least.

"Well, I would absolutely hate to force you to do it, Miss Mitchell, but I'm afraid you have no choice." He smiled sweetly, with just a touch of feigned sympathy. "Don't worry, it will be over in a blink."

"But-"

"You see, I told you about this beforehand because I came to realize that troublesome young children such as yourself need a role model for their actions, if we ever want something to become of them." He said with another self sufficient sigh, looking around the hallway as if dwelling in the righteousness of his own statement. "I believe one day in the very distant future you will thank me for every lesson I teach you now. So consider yourself lucky that I allow you to participate in this… lesson."

"Yes, sir." Robin gave back in a neutral tone, while her insides however were both on fire and frozen over at the same time. This was Morgan's late revenge for what had happened last term, it had to be… He'd waited until she felt safe, only to strike now. Petty move, honestly… and still Robin felt sick to the stomach.

"Very well!" Morgan was back to cheery. "I will see you in class on Monday. Have a lovely rest of the weekend." Without wasting another glance on her, he turned on his heel, clasped his hands behind his back nonchalantly and walked off into the direction of his classroom.

Robin however remained standing in her spot for a little while longer, heart beating frantically while a cold rush of adrenaline washed over her body in the most uncomfortable manner. Bloody hell, that man scared her more every time she had to interact with him, and it had only gotten exponentially worse since the detention incident. Tears started stinging in her eyes upon the mere thought of going to class on Monday, but she obviously didn't have much of a choice. Even if she found a reason to avoid class on Monday, he would just come at her with the same threat the next class or the one after that, and she couldn't avoid defense against the dark arts classes for the next five years to come. She also didn't want to, she actually liked the subject. It was only Morgan that she despised.

As the adrenaline slowly decreased and made room for rational thoughts once more, Robin also rediscovered her ability to move. Without even having to think about it, her feet carried her down to the dungeons and right to Professor Snape's office. Yet once she was about to knock on his door, her fist stilled mid-air as she finally paused to think. This wasn't a good idea… well, sure, he had told her to find him if she ran into any problems with Professor Morgan, but then again… she really didn't want a repetition of last time. More so for his sake than for her own. Also, she couldn't just come bursting into his office like the frightened idiot she was, hoping to be shown an easy way out of this the very second she asked for it. No, if she was to drag him into this again (and that was a big IF still) she better come to him with a plan already at hand.

Robin pulled her hand back and dropped it to her side with a sigh, then walked backwards until her back gently touched the cold wall on the opposite side of the hallway. What on earth was she even doing… She was a second year student, and Professor Morgan was… well, a professor. A bloody bad one, to her luck, but still… what kind of chance did she stand against him? Especially in regards to a spell that she hadn't even heard about, leave alone knew how to read up on if it wasn't something she was even supposed to learn about in the first place. She wasn't brave enough to go into the restricted section of the library, and the open one only had books appropriate for standard school topics. She couldn't refuse to partake, couldn't use any sort of shielding spell against him… Hell, if he'd just give her good old veritaserum, at least she would know what she was in for. There even were antidotes for that stuff! Actually… Morgan had said that the spell was rather similar to veritaserum. Robin crossed her arms over her chest and started pacing up and down the hallway, passing by the door again and again on each way.

Maybe… maybe she could make the antidote to veritaserum, and take it before class on Monday. Did that help against legi… what was it again? Gosh, she really couldn't concentrate whenever her anxiety got the better of her. And remembering technical terms wasn't all that high on her list of priorities when she was fighting with blind panic on the inside and not showing any of it on the outside. It was an unfair battle, really…

Antidote. Yes. It could work, it had to… it was the best plan she had. Again she walked by the office door, and right past it towards the end of the hallway yet again. How was she supposed to get the recipe for that antidote though? Or the necessary ingredients?! Making veritaserum itself was a rather advanced procedure, and even if Robin was far ahead of her class, she wasn't that good, not even close. The antidote would require even more precision and knowledge. Robin turned around once she reached the end of the hallway, and headed back into the opposite direction. She couldn't do it alone, couldn't do it at all maybe. But she also couldn't just sit by and do nothing while Professor Morgan would make her blurt out every secret she has ever had in class on Monday. Bloody hell…

"Will you stop pacing and come in already?" Snape's deep voice brought both Robin and her thoughts to a sudden halt. She froze in her step and finally lifted her gaze off the floor to see him standing in the doorway a mere two steps to her right, giving her that trademark pretending-to-be-annoyed frown.

Heat rose to Robin's face immediately, and she felt both embarrassed and relieved as he turned to the side to make room for her to enter.

"I'm sorry, sir, I just… I didn't want to bother you." Robin finally remembered to speak, as she sat down in the by now familiar chair across from his own.

"Now that you did, you might as well tell me the reason for it." He replied calmly as he took his own seat with an expectant expression. Robin held his gaze for a moment, then let her eyes wander around the room like she always did, until something caught her sight.

"The small jar with the green liquid in the third shelf from the bottom, second from the right… it stood on the second shelf from the bottom, last time I was here." She said quietly, before she could really convince herself not to. It was a stupid observation, without any meaning probably, but saying this was easier than answering his question.

Professor Snape's frown deepened as he followed Robin's line of sight, before it vanished and his eyebrows rose up high as ever. "It would indeed appear that it was… misplaced."

"Now or then?"

"Why are you here, Miss Mitchell?"

Robin looked down at her hands, as they were nervously fiddling with the edge of her grey jumper on their own accord. Darn it… she didn't even have any real reason to keep secrets from him anymore. He'd seen her cry, seen her desperate and seen her being a complete dunderhead. Snape was probably the only person in Hogwarts she had ever been entirely honest with in the first place, and when she thought about it, she had no intention to change that now.

With a still fragile certainty, she looked up to meet his eye again. "I'm here because I need the instructions for a potion."

His eyebrows lifted even higher, and he almost looked amused once again, but seeing as Robin herself didn't smile even remotely, the brief expression vanished in a blink. "Which potion?"

"The antidote for veritaserum."

"Why, pray tell, do you believe I would simply give it to you?"

"I do not."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I had to try nonetheless." There was no insecurity in her voice, which surprised her a little, but it didn't come unappreciated. This was a serious matter to her, and he might as well know that. At least he hadn't straight up denied her request and thrown her out of the office already.

Instead his eyes narrowed and he sat up a little straighter as he seemed to grasp the gravity the issue held for Robin. "Why do you need that antidote so desperately that you risk asking for it so boldly?"

"Self-preservation." As he merely gave her a look in return, she added, "I was asked to assist in a class on Monday."

"And that justifies your request because…?"

"It's Professor Morgan's class." Robin's voice went down in volume by more than she intended, but she couldn't care less because Snape's face showed an immediate expression of understanding, then question, and irritation at last.

"I see. What did he say to you, exactly?" He asked a bit too darkly for it to be nonchalant or even neutral, and Robin felt an odd sense of relief to see him still disliking the defense against the dark arts professor as much as she did. She only could've hoped that he had not changed his mind since March, and obviously he hadn't. So far so good.

"He said he wants to demonstrate a spell on me that reveals my deepest truths, and that the spell reminded him of veritaserum. Well, actually, I suggested veritaserum as a comparison because he couldn't remember the name." Robin shrugged and Professor Snape rolled his eyes theatrically, but Robin got the impression that it wasn't directed at her as much as at Morgan.

"Did he say which spell?"

"He did, but…" Robin bit her bottom lip for a second, reminding herself that he had indeed seen her panic before and there was no reason to not tell him about another instance now. "He did say which spell, however I… was too busy not dying over anxiety to pick it up and remember what it's called exactly." The annoyance she had expected to see on his face didn't come, which pushed her to continue on. "But I remember that it's something that's not taught at Hogwarts. He doesn't want us to learn it, just… just demonstrate it himself for some reason. I believe it started with an I or an L… I'm sorry, sir, I honestly don't remember. I should have though, I know…"

Oddly enough, Snape's reaction still was none of annoyance, but he rather stared right past Robin, lost in thought. Had her information not been completely useless after all? Anyway, she almost felt calm now that she had opened up to him about the situation. At least she wasn't alone with it anymore; someone knew of her concerns and actually took them seriously. That was a huge step towards getting out of this entire thing relatively unharmed. Her heartbeat slowed down significantly, and she didn't feel sick anymore. Good… Now, that other jar also had-

"Miss Mitchell?"

"Huh?" Her eyes snapped back to her professor and her cheeks gained in colour once again. She really needed to stop zoning out whenever she was in his office… Snape however kindly ignored her flustering and went right on as if nothing had happened in the first place.

"Was what Professor Morgan mentioned by any chance titled 'legilimency'?"

"Yes!" She blurted right out, eyes widening a little in surprise that he had actually been able to make any use of her poor information. "Exactly that!" The look she received in return however made her wish she hadn't answered all that enthusiastically, as it sent a chill down her spine in an instant.

"Are you absolutely certain?"

"Yes, yes I am… Why? What kind of spell is that, professor? Why are you asking like that?" She asked in an almost insecure manner now, but didn't receive an answer as he got up and went to retrieve a book from one of the shelves in the far corner of the room. After flipping through the pages for a moment, he turned the open book around and handed it to Robin before moving to sit back down in his chair in silence.

Robin scanned the page to get the overall gist of it, and her eyes widened in sheer horror at every word she read. At last she placed the book on the desk between them and simply stared at Professor Snape in both shock and fear. Morgan wanted… and he really was forcing her to… no!

"That is why I'm asking like that." Snape sounded almost as displeased as Robin felt, even if he had no reason to in her eyes. She was glad that he shared the sentiment nonetheless.

"Can't… Is that… Is that even allowed?" Robin's voice was but a whisper, a plea almost to whoever would hear, to at least make this wrong.

"The use of veritaserum on students has… unfortunately been prohibited, however I'm not aware of any such rules regarding legilimency. As it seems, the ministry has as of yet turned a blind eye to it."

"And… and the headmaster?"

"Will hardly see a fault in a mere demonstration of the subject. He has always been quite… liberal."

Robin's face fell even more, and she stared down at the words on the page in front of her as they began swimming together slowly. Then however she frowned at a different issue. "Professor… It may be completely stupid of me to say, but… this spell does not sound like anything I know about veritaserum. I mean, sure, it both reveals the truth in a way, but if I understand correctly, this… is more than just a means to finding out the truth. It's a hellfire being compared to a match. Which leads me to believe that –and I do apologize for being so direct about this– Professor Morgan either has no idea about this spell, even though it falls into his supposed area of expertise, or he doesn't know a thing about even the most basic basics of potions."

"I'm led to believe that he isn't proficient in either." A small pause, and Robin managed a half smile at his fairly direct insult before he continued speaking. "And you are right, Miss Mitchell, legilimency has fairly little to do with veritaserum, or more precisely, nothing at all. Which is why I will not give you the instructions for the antidote."

While his words definitely made sense, Robin also felt her heart sinking and squeezing together painfully. It had been her only chance… or had it? Another idea sprung to her mind suddenly, and even though she knew that it was extremely inappropriate and straight out wrong, it was an idea born from desperation. "What if I poison him?"

Snape's expression did show a small but honest reaction upon her words, a mixture of astonishment and a hint of being impressed, but more words fell off Robin's lips before he could shut her up. "Maybe draught of living death, so that he doesn't show up to class until I graduate, or forgetfulness potion to make him forget that he ever asked me to do this, forced me to do this even, or a hate potion so he shows his TRUE self in front of the entire school, or-"

"That's quite enough, Miss Mitchell." He interrupted her with a scolding tone, and Robin sobered from her rant in but a second. Oh no… had she really just said all of that? Out loud?? To Professor Snape??? As he continued, his voice took on a more neutral tone again, but his eyes conveyed the same graveness nonetheless. "I'm giving five points to Slytherin, for your remarkable knowledge of admittedly rather suitable positions for the occasion. And I am giving you detention, for suggesting to poison a teacher."

"What?!"

"Come to my office first thing after breakfast tomorrow morning. You will be here the entire day, so don't expect to be indulging in any other… activities tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is Sunday." Robin frowned at him, and felt a little betrayed after all. She had a serious problem at hand and he was giving her detention?! However justified it was, for her impulsive blurt of a desperation born thoughts, she had hoped for a little more understanding at least. Also, there was no detention on Sundays. Usually.

"I'm well aware." He replied to her surprise, giving her another of those looks that said more than his words did. Only that this time Robin had no idea what exactly it was that it said. But she didn't question him, as much as she wanted to, for he wouldn't give a reply anyway. When Professor Snape demanded something to be done, it would be. That's just how things were, and Robin found herself admiring him for it even. He wore an armor of dangerous intensity for his daily robes, and it suited him better than anyone else.

"I'll be here, sir." She finally replied in a quiet voice, and her eyes went back to the book on the desk. Would he at least let her borrow it until Monday, so that she could prepare for what was coming her way?

As if he was reading her mind now indeed, he gave an answer to her internal question. "The book won't help you, Miss Mitchell, nor will any potion. I suggest you spend the night resting instead of pondering over either option."

"How did you know I would?" Robin asked with a half amused and half embarrassed huff. Did he actually read her mind? He probably did, and yet she had the sudden feeling that detention with Professor Snape wouldn't be all that horrible. Not for her, at least.

"Because I would. Given your point of view on this issue, it is the most sensible thing to do." He replied with a risen eyebrow and a pointed look. "However from my point of view, I strongly advise you to rest. You will fare better with energy rather than pointless knowledge in tomorrow's… detention."

Robin frowned at his cryptic statement, but he seemed rather unwilling to say any more on the issue and thus Robin took a deep breath before she went to reply in his trademark neutrality. "Very well. No books for me tonight, I'm going straight to bed. Would that be all, sir?"

"Careful, Mitchell. You wouldn't want to risk detention over your wit."

"I thought I already have detention, sir."

"Get. Out." He drawled in a low tone, and yet the not-smirk tugging on his lips didn't escape Robin's notice as she rose to her feet and walked to the door.

Somehow she felt better than she knew she should in the light of getting detention, leave alone what would be happening on Monday. But here she was, having to hide her smirk as she turned around to Snape once again. "Goodnight, professor. I'll be on time."

"You better be." He mused with another gaze louder than words. "Tomorrow."

As Robin closed the door behind herself and stepped into the dark hallway, turning into the direction of her dormitory, she allowed a small smile to grace her lips at last. Things still weren't exactly working out in her favor, but after talking to the quite possibly darkest person she had ever known, the world seemed an odd lot brighter nonetheless.

______________________________

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peachdoxie · 5 years ago

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I'm really happy for your three way fight analysis post for HTTYD 3, because I see a lot of people be like "oh, Hiccup just gave up on peace" when it's not that? It's that keeping the dragons and fighting every threat that comes until there is peace isn't what's best for the dragons, at least not in this moment. Maybe it will be someday, but for now Hiccup needs to let the dragons go because that's what's best for them NOW.

For reference, that's this post anon is referring to.

The end of How to Train Your Dragon centers on a concept that I rarely see in the fiction I consume but is one I really like, and that's the concept of the hero yielding the fight to someone better able to win it.

Hiccup realized that he and the Berkians were fighting a losing battle. The warlords were far more powerful and had more resources to enslave dragons that the Berkians had to rescue them, even with the help of Toothless the Alpha. Hiccup had already been thinking along these lines during the meeting after Grimmel's attack:

Grimmel is just a sign of the times. Our enemies are getting smarter, more determined. We're not just overcrowded. We are exposed, and vulnerable. Short of full-blown war and risking everyone we love, I don't... I don't see a way of staying here any longer.

In particular: "Short of full-blown war and risking everyone we love...."

What Hiccup wanted most was to avoid a war with other humans. He grew up in the middle of a war between dragons and humans, and that was one of survival, not domination: "They raid us because they have to! If they don't bring enough food back, they'll be eaten themselves." The Berkians' response was primarily defensive, with Stoick's attempts at offense literally blowing up in his face. Even then, Stoick's offensive attacks were more about driving the dragons away than annihilating them. (I wrote about this more here.)

But Hiccup learned first-hand how devastating a war with a person who wants war is when Drago used Toothless to try and kill him and Stoick pushed Hiccup out of the way. There was no good outcome for any of the Berkians. Stoick died. Toothless was forced to kill him. Hiccup watched both happen and was powerless to stop it. Not to mention how much of Berk was destroyed when Drago attacked it.

And a year later, things haven't improved. In fact, they've gotten worse. Grimmel shows that, as Hiccup explained. He was able to get past their scouts and install a large trap for Toothless, leaving the Light Fury there as bait. He broke into Hiccup's house to threaten him, and even if Hiccup anticipated that, he didn't anticipate the Deathgrippers on the roof and how much they'd damage Berk (an attack eerily similar to Drago's attack on the gathering of Chieftains from Stoick's flashback).

The only solution Hiccup had was to leave:

Hiccup: If we want to live in peace with our dragons, we need a better plan.

Gobber: So, what are you saying, Chief?

Hiccup: I'm saying we have to disappear. Off the map. Take the dragons to a place where no one will find them.

That's it. Leave Berk and hope they can find the Hidden World. Staying and fighting would risk war.

But even before Hiccup saw how inhospitable the Hidden World would be to humans, it wasn't shaping out to be a feasible idea to move everyone there. The Vikings liked New Berk a lot, as evidenced by the party they threw:

Gobber: Don't say I thought you were a little off your raw for this but it isn't half bad.

Hiccup: This is supposed to be a temporary solution.

Eret: It's unanimous. Everyone agrees we've definitely traded up. Well done, Chief.

Hiccup, really, was the only person convinced that moving everyone to the Hidden World was the best solution. Very few Berkian Vikings had heard of the place, let alone believed it existed. Even Astrid, Hiccup's most staunch supporter, doubted his plan.

And as he learned, they were right. The Hidden World isn't a place that humans can easily live in. It's a world of dragons.

Hiccup knew this even before Grimmel kidnapped Toothless and the Light Fury from New Berk: "You belong there, with her. We don't." It's important to note that, before he says this to Toothless, he glances up at the buildings the Berkians had started to put up. They're happy there and are already getting settled. Uprooting them again would be immensely unpopular, even if the Hidden World could support humans.

Of course, Grimmel finds them. The warlords bring an armada. Even though New Berk is "defensible" and "hidden," the Berkians aren't safe there. They're not safe anywhere.

This brings me back to the concept of yielding the fight to someone else better able to win it. Hiccup realized that he and the Vikings were fighting a losing battle. Continuing to fight risks a new war that would be even more deadly than the one between Berkian Vikings and dragons. I think that Toothless falling from the sky, unconscious from Grimmel's dart, was when it really hit Hiccup that this wasn't something he could continue to fight. It was the first time in the entire trilogy when Hiccup was completely powerless to save Toothless.

Even in HTTYD 2, during Toothless Lost and Stoick Saves Hiccup, Hiccup wasn't nearly as powerless as he was during As Long As He's Safe. Yes, Toothless fell from the sky into the ice, but he was conscious, and Hiccup could at least yell at Valka about going back for Toothless (even though he'd already been rescued). When Drago takes Toothless, even though the dragon is being mind controlled, he's at least not at risk of dying immediately. But when Toothless is falling from the sky, unconscious, he would die if he hit the water.

In the context I'm talking about, yielding is not the same as giving up, or conceding defeat, or fighting on until you're at your last breath and letting someone else save you. It's making an active choice to yield the fight to someone else because you know it's the only way to succeed as best you can. Hiccup's only option to save Toothless was to yield the rescue to the Light Fury. And as I wrote about in my three-way fight analysis, it's mirrored a short while later, when Hiccup's only option to save the dragons is to yield their safety to the seclusion of the Hidden World.

Personally, I find this immensely satisfying, though I'm aware not everyone does. So often, I'm bombarded with stories about characters never giving up and fighting on until they either win or are forced to give up. There's something to be said for perseverance, but I think it is also an incredibly dangerous way to think and act. Knowing when to yield and realize that continuing towards a certain goal or dream is an incredibly valuable skill to have. I've watched too many people I know, and read/watched too many stories in fiction, continue on a path when it's damaging them more than the end goal will benefit them.

Quite frankly, the only time I've seen this concept of learning when to yield a battle to someone/something else explicitly part of a character's arc is in the Last Olympian, the final book in the original Percy Jackson series, and coincidentally the book-equivalent of the HTTYD films in how much it impacted my life (which is a lot). Percy was advised to yield Pandora's Box to someone better equipped to protect it instead of fighting for it (and against the temptation to open it) himself. And at the conclusion, the "single choice [to] end his days" that Percy was prophesied to make was about choosing to let Luke end the fight with Kronos instead of making it his fight, as you'd expect the hero to do.

I've been enamored with this concept since 2009 and wished for more of it in my media, and found it lacking. And yet, in the artistry of fate, I found it in the conclusion of the How to Train Your Dragon trilogy. It's a very similar execution of the concept, though less explicit than in PJO. Despite it being Hiccup's goal to live in peace with the dragons, and despite the fact that he's the hero of the story and thus expected by common narrative conventions to win at all costs, he chooses not to continue the fight because he knows he can't win it. (I talk about this more at length in this post.)

The end of HTTYD 3 is laden with irony. We expect Hiccup to fight until he wins or die trying, as part of common narrative expectations. And it's set up in the repeated emphasis of how stubborn Hiccup is, throughout all three films:

"We're Vikings. We have stubbornness issues." (Hiccup, HTTYD)

"Every bit the boar-headed, stubborn Viking you ever were!" (Gobber, HTTYD)

"Boar-headed! Just like his mother!" (Stoick, HTTYD 2)

"You know what he's like. He won't give up, Gobber. And if Hiccup finds Drago, before we find him…" (Stoick, HTTYD 2. Stoick's tone greatly contrasts that of the previous line, here expressing serious concern about Hiccup's stubbornness, for the first time showing that stubbornness can go too far.)

"You are the bravest, most stubborn, most determined... knucklehead I know. Toothless didn't give you that, Hiccup." (Astrid, HTTYD 3)

So the end of HTTYD 3, with Hiccup not continuing with his stubborn determination to bring peace between Vikings and dragons, is heavily ironic, and I think a lot of people dislike that, either because they wanted to have a happy ending (not unreasonable) or because they see it as Hiccup being out of character instead of Hiccup undergoing character development in an unexpected way.

In addition to personally really liking the concept of yielding and knowing when to stop following a certain path because it's how you started, I also agree entirely with you that it's not Hiccup "giving up" on peace (if I hadn't already made that very clear). And ultimately, while "peace" is what Hiccup has been fighting for, especially in HTTYD 2, "peace" isn't really what matters to Hiccup. I talk about this at length in this post, but to summarize: what matters the most to Hiccup is that Toothless and the other dragons are safe and free. He mentions both of these things in his goodbye to Toothless:

Go on, bud. Lead them to the Hidden World. You'll be safe there. Safer than you could ever be with me. It's okay. I love you too. And I want you to be free. Our world doesn't deserve you... yet.

The title of the music track at this moment, "As Long As He's Safe," emphasizes this, as does Hiccup's willingness to literally die in order to let Toothless live. The cinematography of the scene really enforces that Hiccup's primary concern was about making sure Toothless was safe, which I've written about here. By being okay with letting the dragons go to the Hidden World, even if it meant leaving the Vikings behind, it shows that Hiccup ultimately didn't care about peace between the Vikings and dragons. He cared most about letting the dragons live in safety and freedom, without threat to their lives or autonomy.

It's for this reason that I don't like to say that Hiccup didn't "win" at the end of HTTYD 3. Sure, he didn't achieve his goal of peace between Vikings and dragons, and so in that way he lost to Grimmel and the warlords (even though they didn't win either). Instead, Hiccup and the Berkians won in the way that they were able to succeed in what matters most to them, and that's the well-being of the dragons. And because this is what matters most to Hiccup, I don't see his actions at the end of the film as out of character.

It makes me think of the line in the original film, when Hiccup says to Stoick,

Dad. It's not what you think you're up against. It's like nothing you've ever seen. Dad, please! I promise you that you can't win this one! For once in your life would you please just listen to me?!

I don't count this as foreshadowing, nor am I sure of how much of a parallel it's meant to be, but the same thing happened to Hiccup as he told his dad. He learned he couldn't win this fight. Luckily, he listened to that fact and didn't engage in a futile battle from which there would be no way to win. No Hiccup ex machina to save them. The only way to come close to winning was to not continue the fight.

All in all, do I think that HTTYD 2 and HTTYD 3 are a little too subtle in how they show these themes? Perhaps. Do I think that people went into the final film anticipating a different ending, though a combination of conventional Hollywood narratives and an expectation of how an animated "kids" movie is "supposed" to end? Absolutely. Will I be talking about this in my PhD dissertation? Almost certainly.

Am I aware that not everyone agrees with my views in HTTYD 3? Yes. Do I think that I'm biased in my opinion about HTTYD 3 because of my own personal preferences, my skill in literary and cinematic analysis, and the fact that I've watched all of these films multiple times and have spent years analyzing them so I know these films more in depth than the vast majority of the world? Certainly.

Do I also think that the How to Train Your Dragon trilogy is an incredibly well-crafted masterpiece of literature of the highest degree? Yes. And do I think that Dean DeBlois should have been nominated for and won all the major awards for best screenplay for HTTYD 3? Also yes, and I will be forever pissed off that he wasn't.

#how to train your dragon #httyd 3 #httyd commentary #thanks for sending this anon because it got me to talk about this more #id been meaning to lol

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itsclydebitches · 4 years ago

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Okay, I feel like an idiot for not getting this, but the show still portrays Robyn and RWBY in the wrong for what they did. Robyn WAS meant to be portrayed as reckless and temperamental, while Ruby was wrong for lying, and Blake and Yang were wrong for telling Robyn (Weiss was an accomplice to both). I don’t think you’re wrong, I just want an in-depth explanation, or a link to one you’ve already done on the topic, please.

No problem! I’ve definitely discussed this extensively, though sadly it’s not in one, uniform place since most of that discussion has taken place over hundreds of asks like this one. (Someday I’ll sit down and create a detailed tagging list for just such purposes...) If you’d still like a link, a somewhat decent one might be my RWBY Recaps since I touch on this issue throughout Volume 6 and 7, though even then that’s just me skimming the surface. I try to get recaps up the same day as the episode, which necessitates summarizing some issues just for practicality’s sake.

To try and provide at least a bit of an explanation here, I’d like to highlight a question: How do you know the show portrays all these things? How do we know that Robyn is in the wrong, that Ruby shouldn’t have lied, that Blake and Yang were foolish to tell Robyn, etc.? If someone had never seen RWBY before what scenes, dialogue, and imagery would you point to as evidence for these conclusions? That’s what separates an argument embedded within a narrative (the show says that lying is wrong) vs. an argument that the viewer applies to the story (I think lying is wrong). Providing evidence is just step one though. Then it’s a matter of determining whether a) The evidence itself is persuasive, b) The evidence is substantial enough to prove the claim, and c) The evidence is not undermined by other aspects of the story.

Let’s take a specific example: Ruby lying is portrayed as wrong. What’s the evidence for this? Over the last year I’ve heard a lot of people say, “Ruby looks guilty when she talks about her lying, so obviously it’s painted as wrong.” However, “looks guilty” is not a specific moment in the story and there is no “obvious” connection between the two. Just because a character thinks they might be in the wrong doesn’t mean the story isn’t going to come in and reassure them of the opposite. Which is precisely what happens in RWBY. Looking at the whole context of these scenes, we see a very different message than “Ruby is wrong to lie.” We start off with Yang asking whether they’re really going to keep quiet and yes, that cues the audience into the fact that everyone might not agree with Ruby. She might, in fact, be wrong. However, her response is

“What about it?” What’s there to discuss? Ruby doesn’t seem to think the conversation surrounding Oscar, Ozpin, the lamp, and lying is terribly important and as our primary protagonist her perspective holds weight. As the “simple soul” of this story we’re primed to take her viewpoint as fact and the show, in turn, follow’s Ruby’s perspective very closely: What she believes is portrayed as morally correct in this world. (That’s a whole other argument to prove but one specific example would be the airship debacle. Ruby believes stealing the airship is necessary and the story reinforces that belief all the way through).

Ruby then gets defensive. We are telling Ironwood these things! Or, um, we will. You all saw what Atlas was like.

Note that Ruby herself is making a very unpersuasive argument. “How things looked when we flew into Atlas” does not automatically equal “It’s perfectly justified to lie to our general.” Her justification skips a TON of conversation about, say, how the office scene severely undermines the “he’s not trustworthy” assumption that Mantle initially gave them. Thus, this flimsy argument leaves room for the other characters to call Ruby out and teach the audience that she’s in the wrong here (or at the very least that she is presenting a highly debatable perspective incorrectly as a fact). But RWBY doesn’t do that. Every character here agrees with Ruby’s choice and supports her reasoning. First Blake with “but that doesn’t mean we should trust him yet.”

Then Weiss with “We need to play along for a while”

Then Yang with “Okay.”

By the end of this conversation everyone agrees with Ruby: lying was necessary and none of them are concerned with when she will decide to tell the truth. They’re satisfied with a very noncommittal “we will,” implying that - like Ozpin - it’s okay if Ruby decides for herself when someone is trustworthy enough. Could be a few weeks, could be a few years, but the point is they’re both given complete power to make that call (more on that below). The only character left who might provide a different perspective is Oscar who, yes, questions Ruby like Yang did... but then goes on to do nothing and say nothing about this from then on out. He doesn’t pressure Ruby to tell the truth. Or tell Ironwood himself. Or even grapple in the background with their ongoing lies. This is what I mean by some evidence outweighing others. A short flashback where a character very hesitantly suggests that Ruby might be wrong - mirroring a conversation we just had where the outcome was everyone agreeing with her - can not compare to Oscar keeping happily silent for the rest of the volume. He does not send the message to the audience that Ruby is wrong because his silence acts as a passive agreement. Oscar must have been persuaded like everyone else was since he’s not doing anything about this. Or even looking conflicted. Why would we think he still disagrees with Ruby when none of that disagreement is shown? Then, when he finally does break his silence it’s done with humor.

(Sorry for the bad screenshot I couldn’t get the loading bar to go away lol)

Oscar doesn’t treat this situation seriously, telling Ruby with weight and conviction that the lying needs to stop. Tone is important in a story and this scene’s tone encourages the audience not to take this issue seriously either. Ruby lying about Salem? That’s not a horrific topic that others have a right to be furious over! It’s just something you laugh about - oh wait

See, RWBY’s problem is not just that Ruby’s lying is treated as a simplistic “Yeah you’re in the right” thing, but that this simplicity is coming off of a volume that directly contradicts this. Volume 6 is all about how keeping the Salem immortality secret is The Worst Thing Ever. It makes people shout, punch, drive Ozpin away, bad-talk him whenever he comes up... The evidence of Volume 6 heavily supports the argument “Keeping this secret and telling lies to your allies is really, reeeeally bad. Bad enough that no one will forgive you for it weeks later.” Which means that when Ruby does the exact same thing in Volume 7 (with far less justification imo, but that’s a whole other argument) you’d expect there to be a similar level of fury. For the story to show us that lying is indeed bad like it said it was last year, especially when one of the people who argued that lying is super bad, mere days ago in-world, is now turning around to do it herself. The show should be presenting Ruby as, if not outright wrong, at least hypocritical... but as demonstrated above, we’re not getting that. Who’s mad at Ruby? Who’s punching her? Who’s driving her away because didn’t we establish that liars shouldn’t lead? Who’s calling her a hypocrite and demanding that she change her ways? Who’s acknowledging that she’s exactly like Ozpin? No one... except for Ruby herself:

This is very good evidence for camp “lying is portrayed as wrong.” Ruby, in a moment of self-reflection, begins to acknowledge that she may have made a horrible choice. The problem is that it’s really only “begins.” Remember, the show’s whole context is necessary to accurately read any individual lines of dialogue and this dialogue’s context is “Qrow tells Ruby she’s mistaken”:

Not only does Qrow halt Ruby’s self-reflection in its tracks - she in turn never fires back that he’s wrong to absolve her - he does so in an entirely unpersuasive manner. Qrow claims that the difference between Ruby and Ozpin is that Ruby trusts others after making sure they prove themselves first. Problem is, that’s exactly what Ozpin did. He kept secrets until specific individuals had proven themselves trustworthy and then they learn specific information to reflect that trust. Ruby is to Team WBYJRN what Ozpin is to his inner circle. And arguably neither party reveals everything: Ozpin keeps the Salem secret but reveals everything else, Oscar reveals Salem but we don’t hear him say anything about Jinn, there being a question left, or why Ozpin isn’t there. The show sets up that Ozpin is bad for not telling the group that the relic attracts grimm, yet it fails to call out Ruby for likewise not telling Ironwood that the relic attracts grimm when he wants to entrust it to them. We also have other individuals like Yang who appear to be keeping the Spring Maiden secret. So not only is the claim “Ozpin only trusted himself” not accurate, not only are both parties only trusting after others “prove themselves first,” but arguably both never provide the full truth anyway. Qrow fails to establish that Ruby is acting any differently from Ozpin, the show fails to point out that Qrow is a fallible character whose perspective shouldn’t be trusted here, and the show likewise fails to acknowledge the incredibly important differences in Ruby and Ozpin’s situations: a thousand year old leader not telling a bunch of barely trained kids the world’s biggest secret is not the same thing as kids not telling an established ally who has been fighting this war for years this secret when he’s unknowingly wasting necessary resources on a doomed plan. The evidence tells us that Ruby is exactly like Ozpin except that Ozpin had better justifications for keeping those secrets... but what this scene tells us instead is that Ruby is ~different~ and Ruby is right to have lied. That’s the takeaway. Qrow gives the thumbs up to lying to Ironwood and no one challenges him on this, ergo that’s the story’s stance. It’s all we’re left with. We can’t claim the show thinks differently when it doesn’t show us that.

The last saving grace would have been for there to be consequences for these lies. You can have every single character go, “Yeah! This is the right thing to do!” and then allow the plot to put them in their place, forcing them to discover later on that they were wrong. However, that (again) doesn’t happen. The consequences for lying end up being an attempted arrest... which Ruby rejects. By insisting that she shouldn’t be arrested - shouldn’t face the chosen punishment for (in part) this crime - she rejects that she did anything wrong in the first place. Ruby wins the fight in a spectacular manner, does so with confidence, and the end, like her scene with Oscar, is played for laughs. None of this encourages the audience to take Ruby’s potential mistakes seriously, let alone teaches us that they are, in fact, mistakes. She’s supposed to be the hero of this scene and just a silly kid later on.

So if the question is “Where does the story tell us that Ruby lying is wrong?” I’d reply, “It doesn’t.” Yang, Blake, Weiss, Qrow, Oscar, and JN by further silence all agree with Ruby’s position (the exception, as far as we’ve seen, might be Ren. But as of yet we don’t know exactly what he’s upset about). The story draws a comparison to Ozpin, only to unpersuasively insist that Ruby is different from him. She also faces no consequences for her actions and never learns/admits that what she did was wrong. It’s not enough for us to apply our own ethics of “Lying is wrong” to a story. The story itself has to actually do the work to present the act as wrong and have something come out of that: punishment, growth, apologies, etc.

Now apply this sort of work to everything else listed above. We might interpret Robyn as reckless (I do) but when does the story acknowledge that? It’s not when Qrow, our hero, agrees with her by standing at her side and attacking Clover. If the show wanted to say “recklessness is wrong” then it wouldn’t have had the hero support that (or would, at least, acknowledge that the hero is also in the wrong - something we admittedly might still get in Volume 8. If Qrow later says, “I shouldn’t have attacked Clover with Robyn” that will indeed convey that message. But we don’t have it yet). When are Blake and Yang presented as in the wrong for trusting her? Is it when the Ace Ops call them out on that, but Yang still insists it was right? (Pay attention to who gets the last word in fights - that’s often the perspective the story is upholding. By ending on that perspective it’s the one that’s given the most weight). Or is it when the Ace Ops as a whole are rejected for their support of Ironwood and soundly trounced, thereby painting all their views as equally incorrect? (If the Ace Ops are the bad guys here, why in the world would the audience think their perspective about Yang and Blake is the correct one?) Or was it when the story rewarded them by not making Robyn betray them, ensuring that Yang and Blake face no consequences for that decision? The plot never does anything that makes Blake and Yang go, “Oh man... we shouldn’t have trusted her.” Reading stories like this is always more complicated than just the first thing you spot on screen. Robyn is absolutely portrayed as temperamental... but that doesn’t mean that temperamental as a personality trait is portrayed as bad by the story. Not when the volume as a whole paints her position as the right one: Ironwood is a bad guy now and anything - even temperamental actions - is justified in the name of stopping him. That context turns what should be a flaw into something the story wants us to uphold: “Yeah! Ironwood is horrible for making this arrest! Wait...Robyn is fighting back against it? Hell yeah!! You go, girl!!!!” Her being on the supposedly “correct” side of this disagreement paints any bad actions as necessary.

So whenever someone makes a claim about any story, ask them for some evidence. Then see if you find that evidence persuasive - compare it to your own evidence from the source, not just general feelings about what you think the source was doing. There’s a reason why professional analysis requires engaging with the primary source over and over and over again - because it’s really easy to make truthful sounding statements, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s supported by the canon. When it comes to RWBY, what RT might have intended to do and what the audience assumes is happening is often not in line with what we actually see on screen.

#rwby #rwde #mymetas #Anonymous

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rainhadaenerys · 5 years ago

Link

@sharisfootly just showed me this link to this very interesting military analysis of the battle of Yunkai and Dany's military plans. I definitely recommend it. It shows Dany's military merits, her train of thought for making the plan she did. I just want to comment on a few things that I found interesting.

One thing people say about Dany is that she was stupid to trust Daario, and that she only trusted him because she was attracted to him. And that if Daario had betrayed her, she would have lost. And this analysis talks about how this is not the case:

The Stormcrows represented a calculated risk: what could have happened if the Stromcrows deceived Dany? The outcome would hardly have changed, but the battle would certainly have been harder. The slave soldiers would have broken anyway, and the Stormcrows would eventually have been surrounded by several thousand Unsullied. If they had been confronted by a single front, they could have tried outflanking it, but now they were faced with several fronts from several directions, restricting their mobility and pressing them on the defensive (from a historical standpoint, formed heavy infantry could resist the charge of heavy cavalry). Their only escape route would have been towards their rear and back to the city.

(Also, remember that the Stormcrows numbered around 500 men, and Dany still vastly outnumbered them)

I like how the analysis shows that Dany's plan made sure that she would still have won even if the Stormcrows betrayed her, but I also want to remember that even in the text, Dany does recognize it as a calculated risk. Yes, she is attracted to Daario:

Ser Jorah Mormont lingered. "Your Grace," he said, too bluntly, "that was a mistake. We know nothing of this man—"

"We know that he is a great fighter."

"A great talker, you mean."

"He brings us the Stormcrows." And he has blue eyes. - Daenerys IV ASOS

But she also notes that If Daario doesn't betray her, her advantage would be huge and explains to Jorah why she believes Daario won't betray her:

"That would not be wise, my queen." Ser Jorah gave Daario a cold, hard stare. "Keep this one here under guard until the battle's fought and won."

She considered a moment, then shook her head. "If he can give us the Stormcrows, surprise is certain."

Dany looked down at the sellsword again. He gave her such a smile that she flushed and turned away. "He won't."

"How can you know that?"

She pointed to the lumps of blackened flesh the dragons were consuming, bite by bloody bite. "I would call that proof of his sincerity. Daario Naharis, have your Stormcrows ready to strike the Yunkish rear when my attack begins. Can you get back safely?" - Daenerys IV ASOS

Yes, Dany gets "flushed", but she also points to the heads of the other captains of the Stormcrows that Daario had killed, and notes that he would have little reason to betray her after having done that.

And even when she thinks about Daario's blue eyes, she also counters Jorah's arguments by saying that she understands the risks that she is taking:

"Five hundred sellswords of uncertain loyalty."

"All loyalties are uncertain in such times as these," Dany reminded him. And I shall be betrayed twice more, once for gold and once for love.

"Daenerys, I am thrice your age," Ser Jorah said. "I have seen how false men are. Very few are worthy of trust, and Daario Naharis is not one of them. Even his beard wears false colors."

That angered her. "Whilst you have an honest beard, is that what you are telling me? You are the only man I should ever trust?"

He stiffened. "I did not say that."

"You say it every day. Pyat Pree's a liar, Xaro's a schemer, Belwas a braggart, Arstan an assassin . . . do you think I'm still some virgin girl, that I cannot hear the words behind the words?"

"Your Grace—"

She bulled over him. "You have been a better friend to me than any I have known, a better brother than Viserys ever was. You are the first of my Queensguard, the commander of my army, my most valued counselor, my good right hand. I honor and respect and cherish you—but I do not desire you, Jorah Mormont, and I am weary of your trying to push every other man in the world away from me, so I must needs rely on you and you alone. It will not serve, and it will not make me love you any better." - Daenerys IV ASOS

So Dany takes the decision to trust Daario because: 1) he would have little reason to betray her after already having killed the other captains of the Stormcrows; 2) the advantage of having the Stormcrows on her side would make her victory certain ("If he can give us the Stormcrows, surprise is certain."); 3) because she knows that she is taking a calculated risk ("All loyalties are uncertain in such times as these"); 4) because she considers the possibility of Daario betraying her, but is not worried about it, which can be seen when she thinks "And I shall be betrayed twice more, once for gold and once for love.". Dany thinking this shows that she did take into consideration that Daario might betray her, but that she was not worried about it, because she already knew that she would be betrayed twice more, and also because she was probably not worried that his betrayal would make her lose. Which brings us to the analysis above that shows us that her plan would have worked even if Daario betrayed her.

Finally, I also want to comment on the last paragraph of the analysis:

What about the strategic importance of liberating Yunkai, except freeing the slaves? To my knowledge, Dany never explicitly provided any other reason than freeing the slaves. Perhaps she was told by Jorah to move in that direction for some reason? But the freedmen could be useful if they decided to join her cause and support her militarily. These 'fresh' freedmen could come in handy later as trained light infantry or skirmishers, complementing her heavy infantry and reinforcing her army. And the craftsmen would prove useful for supporting the needs of her host and perhaps offer her advice. Of course, freeing the city would also present her with the opportunity to get hold of valuable treasure, food, supplies and equipment. Thus, in the end, the liberation of Yunkai would serve her long-term goals of invading Westeros. Another explanation could simply be that she didn't expect any resistance along the way, and that the liberation of the slaves wasn't pre-planned, although it sounds less convincing to me. When she encountered the Yunkish force, she might also have felt that there was no way back.

About the first part I bolded, we know that this isn't true, as we know that Dany didn't sack Yunkai and didn't take it's wealth (though I forgive the analysis here, since it was written before AFFC and ADWD came out, and the analyst is just speculating). As for the second part I bolded, it's incorrect, because we know that the Yunkai'i offered Dany gold to just leave them alone, so she could have avoided confrontation with them if she wanted. Also, I wrote before how Dany could have done many things differently if her interests were selfish, but she didn't, her interest in freeing slaves was indeed selfless.

Anyway, I definitely think everyone should read this analysis. The site also has other analyses about Dany and Essos in case you want to check it out.

#asoiaf meta #daenerys targaryen #daario naharis #posts i added

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judgmentofcorruption · 5 years ago

Text

Episode 2–Encounter with the Screenwriter; Scene 3

Judgment of Corruption, pages 56-61

The first public hearing for trial number ELL84 came to pass a week later.

There weren’t many people in the visitor’s gallery. Many “witches” had been judged and executed over these past decades, and now that it had become almost commonplace there were less people who wanted to go out of their way to see a “witch trial”.

Even so, this was the first trial in which Gallerian was acting as head judge. Perhaps feeling some degree of fate in its subject matter being a “witch trial”, his features carried a little more tension than normal.

“Ahem…With this, court is now in session.” After coughing once, Gallerian announced the beginning of the trial. “Please bring in the defendant.”

When the aide opened up the door, the defendant Kayo Sudou entered, brought along by the court guards.

She then sat down at the defendant’s seat.

Gallerian showed the slightest bit of shock at seeing Kayo’s dignified bearing. Perhaps he was shaken by how alike Kayo and Elluka were, just as when he had seen the photograph before.

On Kayo’s part, the moment she saw Gallerian’s face her expression changed slightly.

“…!”

But it seemed the reason for that was different from Gallerian’s surprise.

“—You’re awfully young for a head judge,” she said, slowly pulling out a long tobacco pipe from her sleeve and putting it to her lips.

Gallerian quickly spoke up in objection. “Smoking is prohibited in the courtroom. The defendant will please put that away right now.”

“…Tch.” Kayo obediently put away the tobacco pipe while clicking her tongue disapprovingly. “Well, whatever. In that case I’d like to get this so-called trial over with quickly.”

“Does the defendant have an issue with the age of the head judge?”

“Oh, did my earlier remark rub you the wrong way? It’s not that I mind, really. Seeing such a handsome young face as yours is more of a diversion than having to look at some elderly, stinking old man.”

“…Then I would like for us to begin…”

Gallerian looked around the courtroom again, before stopping his gaze on the defense attorney’s seat.

Then, he once more looked over the documents he had on hand.

“It appears that there will be no defense attorney today…I have it written here that the defendant will be acting as their own counsel, is that correct?”

Kayo nodded. “I don’t mind. I’d imagine the outcome is decided regardless of who’s defending me, after all.”

“I would ask that the defendant refrain from making such statements in contempt of court.”

“That’s not how I intended it. I’m only speaking the truth.”

“Right…Well then, can the defendant please list their name, nationality, and occupation?”

“—Kayo Sudou. I hail from Jakoku. I am a screenwriter.”

And then Gallerian read aloud the written indictment.

Its contents were the details of Kayo’s charges.

--Once Gallerian had smoothly read through all of it, he once more asked Kayo, “Those are the charges in full. Does the defendant have any objections to the contents thus far?”

“Objections? A slew of them. I have never glorified magic, and I have no memory of ever trying to kill anyone.”

“Then you are saying you deny these charges?”

“Yes.”

“Understood. Then let us proceed…Prosecution, please give your opening statement.”

The trial proceeded without a hitch after that.

The prosecution provided their statements and proof, and Kayo would then make her counter-arguments towards them.

Aside from the fact that the defendant was charged with her own defense, it felt rather like your average witch trial.

During that time Gallerian made no move to voice any opinions, acting wholly in his role as facilitator for the trial. There was nothing unusual about that. It was very important for a judge to be able to hear the points of both defendant and plaintiff, and to pass down a final verdict from a position of neutrality. There was no need for him to cut into the debate before then (outside of situations when there was an issue with the court’s proceedings).

--I was only able to hear what Gallerian was thinking about the trial when he was taking lunch, as the trial had gone into recess.

Gallerian was eating alone in the cafeteria set aside exclusively for bureau staff.

“Hey there. You mind if I join you?”

It was Loki who talked to Gallerian then. He sat down in the seat next to him without waiting for permission.

“How goes your long-awaited first trial as head judge?” Loki asked with a business-like tone, his expression with neither a teasing smile nor carrying a grave air.

“Well…It’s been going…smoothly.”

“I see. What kind of pattern is the defendant showing?”

“…? I don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I mean are they agitated and protesting their innocence, or have they given up and accepted their fate? In most witch trials it’s one of the two.”

“Uuh…If I had to pick one, I guess it’s the former. But she’s not all that agitated. Rather, she seems scarily calm.”

“Well, in any case you must be pretty disappointed that after all this time your first trial acting as head judge is a witch trial. The outcome’s already been decided for you.”

“…I wonder about that, Loki.” Gallerian stopped eating and turned to him. “Why do you think that a witch trial will always end in a guilty verdict?”

“Ah? I thought that was obvious. Because we have no way to judge for ourselves. In the end, whether the defendant is a witch or not is something we can’t know no matter how much we debate over it. But the real issue is that these problems afflicting the world caused by witches continue to get worse and worse. …So then, in order to stop them, the only thing we can do is systematically execute anyone who is under suspicion. ‘Guilty until proven innocent’, and all that.”

“Is that…really the right thing to do?”

“…I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“You said it just now. That the problems afflicting the world caused by witches continue to get worse and worse. Over these few decades, the Dark Star Bureau has given the death penalty to anyone suspected of being a witch. And despite that, these problems aren’t getting better. Rather, they’re increasing. Doesn’t that mean then that all the witch trials up to this point were mistaken--”

“Keep your voice down, Gallerian. You shouldn’t let the other members of the bureau hear you say that.”

He must have meant that he shouldn’t criticize the bureau so openly. Having managed to grasp that, Gallerian shut his mouth and stopped talking.

After seeing that, Loki put a hand on Gallerian’s shoulder.

“You’re…tired. Working hard is a good thing, but you’ve got to relax sometime—Yeah. Let’s you and I go on a trip together for your upcoming vacation.”

“Another invitation to go hunting? Didn’t I tell you I’m not interested?”

“Oh, come on. I’ve found a great hunting ground here in Levianta recently.”

“—The recess is about over. I’ve got to go.”

Gallerian walked out of the room, leaving his lunch behind.

<<prev------directory------next>>

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bcdrawsandwrites · 5 years ago

Photo

Fandom: The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance

Rating: T

Genre: Friendship, Angst

Characters: urGoh, skekGra, skekSil, skekSo, skekTek, skekVar, and more to come...

Warnings: A LOT OF VIOLENCE

Description: One was as vile and repulsive as his brethren. He murdered, and maimed, and reveled in it.

The other was as slow and indirect as the rest of his brethren. He hated his dark half as much as the others did theirs.

But who they were did not matter, for Thra saw its moment, and seized its opportunity.

Notes: HERE IT IS! This is the fic that’s co-authored by @jaywings and I! I’m really excited to finally start posting this. Hope you guys like it!

---

Chapter 1: That Ancient and Most Sacred of Arts Summary: In which the Conqueror shows off his painting and puppetry skills.

---

The sky had been a dark crimson that early morning as the triple suns rose, a deeply foreboding sign for many.

For skekGra the Conqueror, one of the sixteen Lords of the Crystal and a regent of Thra, known far and wide for his prowess in battle, it was as if the very elements had already known the outcome of the approaching battle and were lamenting it.

He took it as an indication of great fortune.

SkekGra ran his tongue over his fangs, seeing it all again: the flashes of sunlight on the line of his army’s swords and armor as they crested the last hill and gazed down at the red-tinged Silver Sea lapping the shoreline, where their quarry had set up a last, desperate defense. He had arrived with two other Skeksis and a convoy of Gelfling castle guards and volunteers—a small battalion to be sure, but more than was needed for such a task as this.

"Can I get anything for you, my lord?"

The sudden voice made him give a start, blinking, the thick paintbrush clasped in his talons pausing in its careful application of pigment to canvas. He peered over his shoulder; a Gelfling had entered the room, looking up at him earnestly.

"Oh! Hm. Yes,” skekGra said, with a glance down at the dish holding his—for lack of a better word—paint. “Fetch me more water."

"Of course, my lord. It's good to have you back, by the way."

He nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the Gelfling scurry away, before he turned his focus back to his canvas and dipped his brush in the bowl, swirling it around.

Some artists enjoyed charcoal. Others used clay, and still others delighted in pigments made from berries and flowers.

SkekGra certainly had his preferred medium.

On the canvas was an image of his own likeness—the first thing he always painted when beginning his personal works. Eventually there may be a few of his other Skeksis brethren behind him, just to stop their whining. For now, though, he would keep himself standing alone. Below himself, he was beginning to paint another race—this one short, stout, and hunchbacked. Their arms were strong, their fingers deft, but their strength and wit were no match for his. And in this painting, they would be depicted bowing to the Skeksis. To him.

"Your water, my lord."

Nodding briskly without looking up, skekGra set the pitcher next to the bowl that contained his congealing paint, ready to thin it out when necessary. His spines bristled briefly at the realization that he was being observed—but, noting it was merely the servant, he smiled and went back to his work. "Come on, you can watch if you want."

"Thank you, my lord." The Gelfling stepped closer, looking on in silence for a moment. "Those are…?"

"Gruenaks," he answered. "We hoped to... ah... ally with them. But they proved to be enemies of the Skeksis, and thus of the Crystal." He regarded the Gelfling seriously. "They have been dealt with, Vapra."

"O-of course! I would expect no less of the Conqueror."

His tongue poking out from the side of his beak, he retrieved a smaller brush—this one fitting neatly onto the end of one talon—and started in on depicting the Gruenak’s faces. He had to get the expression just right, exactly the way he remembered it. He could see in his mind’s eye the twenty or so remaining survivors of the Gruenak tribe in a loose formation down on the glittering sand of the beach, staring up at them with their eyes wide and terrified, lips pulled back over blunt, harmless teeth as they took in the might of the army that had come to meet them, framed by the blazing suns and the blood-red sky.

He pondered his easel. Should there be rain in the painting? The real battle had started off on as clear a morning as he had ever seen, before dark clouds rolled in from over the sea and obscured the three suns, and the heavens of Thra had opened up in a deluge. His skin felt clammy even now at the recollection of his robes plastered to his frame and giving him the appearance of a drowned fizzgig, his feet skidding in the mud and blood while his tail dragged through the muck behind him. Everyone struggled to fight through the storm; yet he managed better than all of them, cutting down any enemies that stood before him with his newly-sharpened blade, which had been whet with stones from the very mountains under which these vermin had attempted to seek shelter.

Oh, how he had missed this. After what seemed like endless trine of pursuing Arathim, here finally was an enemy whose face he could see. The Gruenaks proved far better foes than the Arathim had ever been. It was not, after all, so satisfying to squash a bug.

The rain had even given his army an advantage in the end, despite his commanders skekVar and skekUng taking it in turn to whine about it to him (oddly, the Gelfling had never complained, while his fellow Skeksis seemed to consider it a proper pastime). The Gruenaks, technologically-advanced as they were, had brought fierce machines to do their fighting for them. But many of the machines failed to operate in the rain, and the weaponless Gruenaks had been forced to make a stand on foot with whatever they could find to defend themselves.

The corner of his mouth quirked. The weaklings had no fight in them. It could hardly even be called a battle, really.

It was a slaughter.

The thought had come from nowhere, and the force of it shocked him to his core, making him catch his breath and pause in his work for a moment with his hand trembling. The Vapran Gelfling was alert at once.

“My lord Conqueror?” it asked, its airy voice tinged with concern.

“It’s nothing, Gelfling, I’m fine,” skekGra said, giving a quick shudder to rid himself of the unpleasant sensation. The Gelfling took a step back, still looking uncertain. It didn’t seem at all intent on leaving—maybe he should send it off somewhere. SkekGra wracked his brain for what the Vapra’s name was but came up with nothing. Well, he could hardly tell the Gelflings apart anyway.

He tried to focus back on the painting, which swam before his eyes. What in Thra had just happened? For just the barest instant he had felt it again—a strange hollow feeling in his chest, like someone had dug their claws in and ripped something out while he still breathed. He coughed, his throat rasping, and in a burst of frustration grabbed his thicker paintbrush and jabbed at the painting, leaving a dark streak where he hadn’t really intended to put one.

SkekGra glared poison at it as though the harmless mark were to blame for all his recent troubles.

“Are you… quite sure you’re all right, my lord? Is something bothering you?” the Gelfling asked tentatively. “Should I call for someone?”

“No need!” skekGra said sharply, forcing himself to take measured breaths and regain his composure. Whatever this was, he would deal with it later. “It’s only from a lack of sleep and a good meal, which I will soon have at the feast tonight.”

He took care not to look the Gelfling in the eye. For if he did, it might see that his mind was not, in fact, on the feast they would surely be having in his honor, that it wasn’t something that bothered him, but someone…

Hatred boiled in his gut. This must be from his influence. His compassion—a vile word that made him bare his teeth and let out a soft snarl of contempt—his weakness. The unexpected encounter must have affected him more than he’d thought. He needed to be rid of it.

Well, tomorrow morning he would rejoin the Ceremony of the Sun with the others and be purged of this sickness for good by the Crystal. Until then, he must betray nothing, must only give the outward appearance that the battle had been a conclusive victory, that all had worked out, that everything had gone according to the needs and wants of the Skeksis.

And that memory—the tail end of the battle, the brief period where skekUng and skekVar had been looting the bodies for spoils, and the Gelfling had regrouped to talk amongst themselves and clean their weapons, and he had been alone, or so he thought—that memory would be shoved to the back of his mind, where it would rot and be forgotten. It was over and done with, and would become entirely unimportant by the time the first sun rose tomorrow, and there was nothing he could do about it now anyway.

He needn’t concern the Emperor or the General with trivial matters. SkekSil especially should hear nothing about it, as he was likely to look far too deeply into it and end up causing more problems for skekGra than he had started with. The shifty Chamberlain had seemed eager to get in his good graces the last time he had been at the castle, as well, perhaps hoping for favors or spywork. At least this time he hadn’t seen a sign of skekSil since he’d arrived back at the—

"Conqueror!"

SkekGra bristled and the Gelfling turned in surprise to see another Skeksis in the doorway, his brilliant red robes standing against the shadows of the castle.

"SkekSil," skekGra acknowledged. By the Greater Sun, it was like he’d been summoned.

“You have returned!” the Chamberlain exclaimed as he crossed into the room. His eyes darted over the clutter of dusty canvases and scattered art supplies, his brow wrinkling slightly, but the tone of his voice remained sickly jubilant. “Apologies I was not there to greet good friend Conqueror. I was under impression you were not due back until rise of first moon tonight.”

“The battle was shorter than we expected,” skekGra said. Almost imperceptibly, he stood a bit straighter as he resumed painting, allowing him to turn and look down his beak at the newcomer. He was slightly taller than the Chamberlain.

“Ah yes, yes, should have guessed. Yet, no one told me you were back already. In fact—” the other Skeksis took in a whistling breath through his nostrils, squinting up into skekGra’s face. "I have even heard that friend skekGra has reported to Emperor without friend skekSil, hmmmm?" he said.

SkekGra’s talons clenched on his paintbrush.

SkekSil’s jaw parted in a simpering smile, which he aimed toward the Gelfling. “Your attendant need not stay, surely? You—Conall, isn’t it?—” The Vapra servant nodded, “—Go, please. Conqueror and I, we have much things to discuss.”

Conall the Vapra made a small bow to each of them, uttered a quick thank you to skekGra for showing his newest work, and hurried from the room under the Skeksis’ close watch. The Chamberlain, in turn, sauntered further across the floor, his eyes glinting in the light from the window. He craned his neck to peer at the canvas over skekGra’s shoulder and let out a satisfied hiss.

“Another successful conquest, hmmm?” he said. “How excellent! Is best if have all been eradicated, yes, lest Gruenaks’ dangerous machines be used against Skeksis. Though, it is almost a shame, if none were brought back as slaves. Would have made valuable servants, with such knowledge metal and machinery. And they are not talkative!”

SkekGra clicked his beak, forcing out a snicker. “Ah, they could have given you lessons.”

“Yes, of course,” the Chamberlain continued, taking a step backward; if he was annoyed by the comment, he didn’t show it. “But oh, Conqueror, why must I find out about Skeksis victory by lovely painting and not hearing for myself? Why was Chamberlain not present during report to Emperor?”

Turning away from the canvas again, skekGra flashed him a grin, letting the light catch his jagged teeth. “I don’t know, skekSil. Why was Chamberlain not present during battle with Gruenak? Hmmmmmmmm?”

The other Skeksis ducked his head and blinked owlishly. “Battle?” he crooned. “Oh no, no. Perhaps in light of own achievements, Conqueror has forgotten? Emperor strictly forbade me from going into battle, yes! Many trine ago! I am not fit for war! Am not strong like Conqueror or General, or especially Hunter. I would be viciously dismembered by Gruenak machines, or worse!”

SkekGra let out a light chuckle and eyed his painting again, scrutinizing the dark, drying marks for any areas of detail he’d left out. “Do not worry, skekSil, I jest, I jest! There are few Skeksis I would take with me into battle, and you—” he turned quickly and prodded the Chamberlain, who had ventured much too close again, in the chest with his paintbrush handle, “—were never among them!”

The Chamberlain let out a horrified, undignified squawk and checked over his outer garments for paint drips, though any spots would be difficult to see on his red robes.

"But really, I would have told you all about it if you had been there," skekGra went on. "I went to the Emperor as soon as I returned, and he didn't want to wait. I suppose we forgot to send for you." And you might have suspected I was hiding something in my report, Chamberlain. That sounds like you.

"Hmmmm. I was with Gourmand, making sure plenty food would be prepared for friend Conqueror's arrival. If only I had known had returned already..."

SkekGra’s eyes brightened. “The celebratory feast?”

"Yes. With roast nebrie, fresh from Podling village, special for Conqueror. I was hard at work with much preparations for skekGra!"

"Well..." SkekGra smiled. "I guess you'll just have to hear all about the battle at the feast tonight. I have a show prepared."

"...Yes," skekSil said, tipping his head. "Friend Conqueror is most kind and creative. Will see you at feast."

With that, skekSil finally stepped back out of the room, and skekGra turned back to his painting at last. He caught sight of the inside of his paint bowl and huffed, prodding the hardened pigment with a claw. SkekSil had kept him talking for too long—he didn’t understand the care that needed to be taken with this particular medium. Grumbling, he poured water into the bowl to thin it out again.

Blood had the annoying tendency to clot.

—~~~---

This was almost his favorite part of any conquest: the triumphant return to the Castle of the Crystal, the welcoming feasts held in his honor, and the artistic treat he would be sure to give his fellow Skeksis every time.

Tonight his audience consisted of nine other Skeksis, mostly talking amongst themselves but a few watching him with expectant, beady eyes over hooked beaks. They all sat along the curved table at the front of the hall, waited on by bustling Podling servants while a small group of other Podlings hovered over the music machine in an alcove at the top of a set of stairs, waiting for skekGra’s cue.

He stood in the center of the room, facing the table with a covered object next to him, and cleared his throat loudly; the idle chatter died away and every eye focused on him.

“Fellow Skeksis!” he cried, brandishing his arms. “Podlings! Gelflings! ...Gelflings? Are there any Gelflings here?” He glanced around but spotted none, and felt oddly disappointed. “Have we stopped allowing Gelfling in the Banquet Hall since I was last here?”

“Gelfling made one too many derisive comments about our eating habits,” skekOk called out from one end of the table, in a clipped voice. “They were rude. Now they are forbidden!”

“It’s just as well,” skekSo said. He sat in the place of highest honor at the table’s center. “I did not get any joy from watching them scarf down their food, either.”

A few along the table let out creaky laughs. Seated at skekSo’s right side, the Chamberlain slowly stirred his bowl of boiled crustaceans and swamp weeds with the utensils on the ends of his claws. Though he wore his usual smirk, he did not laugh with the others, and his narrowed eyes were fixed on skekGra.

“Come onnn,” skekLach complained from the other side of the table, in the midst of hacking into an old handkerchief that had probably once been white. “Are we watching a show or what? Give us some entertainment!”

“Yes, of course! But first…” SkekGra made a grand, sweeping gesture with all four arms and a ripple of crimson robes. “Fellow Skeksis! Podling slaves, one and all! I present to you my latest work… the Conquest of the Gruenaks!”

With a single smooth motion he grasped the tattered cloth covering the object next to him and ripped it away, revealing his newest painting. A collective “Ooh!” issued from a few of his audience members’ beaks.

The finished painting—monochrome, of course—depicted himself standing triumphant over the vanquished Gruenaks, who bowed to his glory. Behind him he had squeezed in some of those who had joined him in battle: skekVar and skekUng, who were as similar as they were different and had squabbled constantly as bitter rivals, yet both fought like warriors against the enemy. He had even included a number of the Gelflings who had fought by his side (none of which could speak a word of Gruenak, of course—he had handpicked them all with that very requirement). The whole thing was likely his greatest composition yet.

“Why, that’s wonderful!” skekEkt exclaimed in delight. “Do one of me next, I want a portrait!”

There was a chorus of agreement as everyone clamored for a picture of themselves, to which skekGra bowed deeply.

“My lords! You must know these things take time! The arts are simply my hobby, not my greater role to benefit all Skeksis,” he said. “But if my Emperor wishes me to paint portraits for you, I will.”

All eyes turned to skekSo, who stroked the side of his beak thoughtfully. "Perhaps," he said, and the Ornamentalist clapped his talons in delight. “Once there are no more important matters to attend to."

"But of course, sire!" SkekGra gave a short bow. "Nothing is more important than bringing every inch of Thra beneath our Emperor's rule. And speaking of..."

A brief glance was all it took for the Podling slaves in the balcony above to begin beating against the instruments, producing a crude tune that slowly rose in tempo and grandeur (or as close as simple Podlings could get to such a thing). In turn, two other Podlings quickly wheeled out a well-sized, mobile puppet stage, which they then ducked behind.

With a flourish, SkekGra pulled away the curtains on the stage to reveal a landscape painting (disappointingly made with common pigments). Next, he swiftly produced two objects out of his pockets, keeping them hidden behind his back. “Behold the spectacle of my greatest show yet: The Conquest of the Gruenak, in puppetry form!”

The music swelled, and he showed the first object: an intricately detailed wooden puppet of himself, which he made to march onto the stage. With another musical flourish, he brought the second object forward—this one a marionette, the appearance of which made the majority of his brethren lean forward in interest, skekOk adjusting a couple pairs of his glasses.

Unlike the first puppet, this one was made of more... interesting materials: fabric torn off the garments of a Gruenak, and a body made of segments of carved bone, taken from the same creature (with a great deal of satisfaction on his part). Even if the others couldn't see these details for themselves at this distance, they were familiar enough with his artistry to know the materials he enjoyed working with.

“Pay close attention!” skekGra continued in a cry, really warming up now. “I’ll be requiring audience participation!”

Everyone slumped backward with audible groans.

What followed was a mostly unscripted, blow-by-blow account of the battle, illustrated with the standard, intricate puppets he used for every show (the one of himself, and two Gelfling puppets), along with the couple that he had put together during the carriage ride back home. He had his Podling assistants act out a few of the simpler, background roles, and also put them in charge of effects—which turned out to have been a bad idea, as half the time they forgot their cues and he had to work around their frustrating clumsiness. He left a few choice details out of his performance while ramping up others, keeping one eye trained on the Skeksis to gauge their approval.

A few seemed to grow bored as he carried on, apparently more interested in the nearest tureen of soup or other delicacies than in skekGra’s hard work. However, he glimpsed the shadows in the wide doorway behind him shift slightly and noticed skekTek slip into the light—late to the feast, as he often was, but drawn from his lab below by the smell of food and now watching the performance with rapt attention.

His production gradually expanded from the stage to making the puppets run along the banquet table, forcing a few Skeksis—namely skekAyuk—to yank their plates away from him with noises of protest. As his manikin self fiercely battled Gruenak machinery he attempted to have several Skeksis pretend to be Gruenaks and set up obstacles along the table, though the response to this was lackluster at best and downright contentious at worst, so he dropped that tactic.

“Ugh. Isn’t it over yet?” skekLach griped to skekShod next to her in a rather carrying whisper, while reaching out to grab something from the Treasurer’s plate. SkekShod growled and swatted her hand away.

“He’s giving himself too much credit with all this,” skekVar, sitting on skekLach’s other side, grunted. “I haven’t even been mentioned.”

It looked like now was as good a time as any for the finale. SkekGra spun around, twirling the train of his magnificent red robes impressively, and brandished his puppet self at his audience.

“The fight had lasted for hours,” he said, slowly making his puppet stumble over the table, a sword hanging limply from its claws. “Neither side could hold out much longer, and we knew we must end it. It was when the final brother had set over the horizon and the last vestiges of light faded from the sky, that we found ourselves facing the Gruenaks’ last, secret weapon.”

He had reached the puppet stage again, where behind his back one of his secondary arms slipped under the stage and retrieved a rough sculpture of wood and metal.

“An unnameable, unknowable creation!” he went on, his voice hushed. “A mechanical device the likes of which I had never before seen!”

There were startled gasps; skekGra had secretly flipped a lever that made the stage’s curtain apparatus collapse in on itself, in the same motion raising the metal sculpture onto the stage and whipping away from it in a flurry of robes. The overall effect was that the machine seemed to have appeared from nothing. A flick of his tail signaled the Podling operators behind the stage to crank the machine with their fingers, causing the thing to grind together, sharp metal jaws snapping open and closed.

Quietly making his way over to his seat next to skekZok, skekTek gave him a tiny nod of satisfaction. The Scientist had obliged to build the prop in exchange for blood and bone samples procured from the battlefield.

“Granting protection to the last of the Gruenaks riding its hull, it bore down on us!” skekGra announced to the audience. “One… hm… unlucky Gelfling fell victim to its horror…”

The machine gave a particularly savage snap; in the light, the mechanical parts seemed to gleam with splashes of pink and red.

He ducked down, raising up puppets with three of his arms—himself, a rough model of skekUng, and the rattling Gruenak marionette; the Gruenak stood atop the machine, its body language taut with savage triumph as it looked down at the two Skeksis beneath, who gazed up at it and then at each other.

“There was only one thing to be done,” skekGra said. “I must burn it to the ground.”

At the table, skekVar jerked his head up. “I was the one who burned it!”

“Ah, but, you see, the torch is in my hand!” skekGra said, holding up one talon.

A Podling lit the match for him, which he took unseen and transferred it to the hand of his puppet proxy with a quick movement. The puppet now held a blazing, miniature torch.

“For Thra!” he cried, his voice ringing in the cavernous room. “For the Skeksis!” And he made to toss the tiny flame onto the metal sculpture.

But his hands were empty, and were not his own.

He was standing in a dark, narrow tunnel; he could hear murmuring voices and saw three figures shuffling near him, looking tense and nervous, glancing over their shoulders repeatedly as though worried about being followed. They were Gruenaks, all of them, from the same tribe he had just purported to have wiped out. The ones he had been forced to let escape…

Words issued from his own throat, though he did not speak them. They were uttered in a deep voice, achingly familiar, repulsively familiar: “Go, hurry. You will be safe here. They are not following… yet.”

It was his own voice. But it was also not.

The Gruenaks pressed past him and headed on down the familiar-looking passageway ahead. One turned back to give him a last look—part grateful, part terrified; and its eyes widened slightly, mouth agape, as though it had noticed something odd about his face, a shadow of something lurking in his eyes—

Panicked yells brought him back to himself, snapping him back to his senses like he had been yanked out of deep water. His Podling assistants had abandoned the puppet stage and encircled him, crying out. Along the table, most of the other Skeksis had jumped to their feet, shouting or screeching with laughter, and skekTek was rushing back toward him with a soup tureen in hand, a hiss issuing from his beak.

Out of the corner of his eye, skekGra saw something flickering brightly. He turned his head, and his breath caught in his throat.

His stage was currently on fire, as were the hem of his robes.

“Fool! Curse your negligence!” the Scientist growled in a low voice as he reached skekGra’s side and doused the burning stage in soup. “You didn’t tell me you were going to light it on fire! I labor on that confounded mechanism of yours since before the first sunrise today and you incinerate it?” The fire had died down a great deal and he beat at the remaining flames with his robes, snapping to everyone in the general vicinity, “Well, help me extinguish it! Do we want to be consumed in a great conflagration?”

If the others had been laughing before, they were howling now, skekEkt going so far as to hammer the table with his fist and skekOk very nearly toppling off his chair.

SkekGra paid them no mind, stamping out his smoking robes and assisting skekTek in beating out the fire on the stage, biting back a hiss when the fire burned and blistered his hands.

Part of him relished the pain. The thought of that creature whose mind he had shared for a brief instant, his… other half… feeling this too was comforting, in a way. He felt sullied at the shared contact, corrupted, unwhole—

But that’s the point, a small voice in the back of his head whispered. You are unwhole.

He crashed his hands over the last of the flames, snuffing them out, and hoped urGoh felt every blister.

Why was this happening? And why now?

Next to him skekTek, panting, shook his head vigorously and stepped back from the smoking wreckage. No one else had rushed to help put out the fire—the Podlings still cowered away, and while every Skeksis was now standing, none had left their spot at the table. Most seemed to still be struggling to breathe.

“Er—the end!” skekGra called, and gave another low bow. He nudged skekTek, who, rather than bowing, just grunted and gave a stiff nod to the audience; then he marched back to the table to finally claim his seat, muttering darkly to himself.

“Another performance getting out of hand, I see,” the Emperor said, sitting back down and prompting everyone else to do the same. His eyes flashed with dark amusement. “One can only imagine what you’ll have in store for us next time.”

“It was a momentary distraction!” skekGra called back, idly fiddling with a piece of charred wood from the stage. “Humblest apologies, Emperor. It will not happen again!”

Only after he had spoken did he wonder if he could have gotten away with blaming skekTek for building a faulty, overly-flammable prop. Then again, the Scientist had been the only other one to do anything about the fire.

On skekTek’s left, skekVar snorted. “Wonderful time to be distracted. Handling fire.”

He seemed disgruntled. Perhaps he was upset that there had been time to build a puppet of skekUng, but not of him.

“Well I thought it was excellent,” skekOk said, leaning back in his chair with the light reflecting off every pair of his glasses, turning the lenses white. “A brilliant finale. I do so love when these shows of yours end in fiery disaster, Conqueror.”

“Which is every time!” skekAyuk laughed heartily, then choked and had to cough up a leg bone from his entree.

With the show definitively over, they all fell back into aimless chatter and feasting. SkekGra directed the Podlings to help him clean up the ruined stage, taking care to examine his puppets for damage. None of them had escaped unscathed. He didn’t notice skekSil slip away from the table until he heard the Chamberlain’s characteristic whimper emanate from right behind him, making his hackles rise.

“Are you very well today, Conqueror?” skekSil asked. He shifted his sleeve over his hand and gingerly swatted at a bit of the stage that was still smoldering. “Is not usual for skekGra, always so focused on task at hand, to be so… distracted. So… forgetful.”

“Yes, well, it has been a very long day—and night—for me,” skekGra said nonchalantly. “I suspect I’m merely tired. In fact, I may just take some food to my chamber and retire early tonight.”

SkekSil nodded. “Of course, of course! Tired from sleepless night on long carriage ride back to castle, yes? And from days spent fighting Gruenak war machines, with no rejuvenation from Crystal, yes, yes. SkekGra must have rest. Would not want to make further careless mistakes, especially in upcoming battle… against Arathim.”

SkekGra nearly dropped a broken piece of machinery and scrambled to catch it with one of his secondary arms. "What?" he cried, whipping his head in skekSil's direction.

With an obnoxious hum and a tilt of his head, the Chamberlain picked up the singed Gruenak puppet from the floor and turned it in his hands. "Yes, while friend Conqueror was busy preparing for puppet show, I talked with Emperor and General. Gelfling scouts from Stone-in-Wood came to us, told us of Arathim invasion at Caves of Grot. Poor Grottans have managed to fight back some, but will need Skeksis help, hmmmm?"

"You volunteered me?" His lips twitched, fangs gleaming. He would have said yes to the proposition regardless, but the fact that the Chamberlain had done this without his consent…

"Yes, yes. After all, I know friend skekGra well. Emperor knows this. And I know skekGra would be willing to aid Skeksis in whatever needs vanquishing, even if it is short time after recent battle!" With a stroke of his claws, he brushed the soot off of the Gruenak puppet's outfit. "If Conqueror can talk to Emperor about important matters without friend Chamberlain, surely he trusts me to do same."

"...Of course, of course." He snatched the puppet out of skekSil's hands, swiftly pocketing it. "I will gather the details and plot our course of action when the first brother rises."

With that, he took the handles of his mobile stage and wheeled it out of the room, leaving the Podlings to mop up the ashes on the floor. He hadn’t eaten anything at his own feast, but he’d quite lost his appetite.

"Good night, Conqueror," skekSil called after him. "I eagerly await your report in morning!"

SkekGra merely flicked his tail behind him as he retreated to his quarters.

—~~~---

Everything the Skeksis owned—their castle, their outfits, their banquets—was quite ornate, and their bedchambers were no exception. Small diamond-shaped windows, a plush carpet on the floor, an enormous wardrobe (hand-carved by Gelflings—which tribe, he couldn't recall) with enough room to store a single outfit, and a massive bed with a dense quilt and several layers of blankets.

What separated skekGra's room from the rest were the paintings that hung on his walls (all monochrome, each a different shade of red, brown, or black), several canvases stacked up in one corner, a mess of art supplies (papers, charcoal, brushes, carving knives) scattered across the floor, and the shelves that featured his puppets—each depicting a different race he'd conquered. It was on this shelf he placed the Gruenak puppet, and by a blank space of wall he set his recent painting, to be hung up later when he had the time.

Which certainly wouldn't be anytime soon.

Sighing, skekGra began the arduous task of removing his layers of clothing: his armor, his collar, his outer robes, and so on, carefully placing each in the wardrobe. He examined the singed hems of his robes, thinking of repairs, but decided it wasn’t too noticeable.

As he changed, he kept his mind focused on the challenge he would face tomorrow: of fighting the Arathim, again, and of protecting the Gelfling tribes that served the Skeksis. He thought of the defenses of the Arathim, how he'd fought them before to drive them out of the Caves of Grot, of whether or not he'd be able to track down skekUng again on such short notice, and the strange and exploitable connection that the Arathim shared—harm one, and the rest cry out in pain with him…

So intent was he on focusing on these matters that he didn't notice he'd forgotten to pull one arm out of its sleeve before starting on the layer beneath it, and the two sleeves caught on his wrist, and pulled—

The grasp was as unexpected as it was strong when the hand flew out and caught his arm to block his strike, and the look in the Mystic’s eyes was unusually piercing; but urGoh’s sudden arrival at the battle wasn't what nearly made him drop his weapon in shock. It was the feeling, even through the layers of clothing, that bolted through him, like a sudden blow to his chest—

With a snarl he ripped all but one of the layers off, shoving them roughly into the wardrobe and slamming the doors shut. He grit his teeth, his breath hissing between his fangs, as he kept his talons pressed against the cool wood, focusing everything on keeping his mind away from that scene.

From that memory.

And yet he could still feel it, in whatever passed for a heart in his twisted body. One hand pressed into his chest, and it took a surprising amount of willpower to not claw at it, if only to give himself something different to feel.

After a moment he clicked his beak, shaking his head; he wasn't going to stand here all night, not when he had a battle tomorrow. But as he slipped into bed and began to drift off to sleep, the memories trickled back into his mind.

The low voice of the urRu, uncharacteristically harsh as he stood in front of the three cowering Gruenaks: “You... have done enough here today, skekGra. Leave these few... and go slink back to the rest of your kind."

The unfamiliar, vague sense of completion at the contact, when his light half appeared in the downpour and seized his wrist to stop his sword.

And for the first time since he'd taken this form, for the first time in hundreds of trine...

The feeling of guilt that pierced through his heart.

You have done enough.

#skekgra #urgoh #skeksil #the dark crystal #the dark crystal age of resistance #skekso #skekvar #skektek #for unity #my art #my writing #ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS ARE BY JAYWINGS!

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anonthenullifier · 5 years ago

Text

To Avoid a Scene

Vision and Wanda meet for the first time after Leipzig.

AO3 link

The uneven cobblestones cause an odd pressure against his soles, the rounded bumps jutting up at varying angles and depths creating a sense of uneasiness in his usually confident gait. His ankles react immediately, stabilizing him, and Vision discovers that the whole experience is charming in its simplicity, a new sensation he has not encountered before. The alley he traverses is narrow, rows of brightly painted houses snuggled close together, the colors random and appealing, some of the stucco sides trimmed with ornate patterns, while others have murals of royalty and piety. Vision reaches out a hand, trailing it over a basketball sized stone built into the wall of one of the houses (or perhaps the house was built around the stone, a philosophical debate only time travel might solve).

A group of young men round the corner, their presence instantly setting his body into a quiet terror, the disguise he’s wearing is new, only tested three times in public back in New York. Vision shoves his hands into his pants pockets, shoulders lifting defensively as he tucks his chin down, and he inches closer to the wall. The men don’t seem to notice him, or if they do there is no indication they think anything of his presence. He is almost clear of the group when one of them veers off, distracted by his phone, and Vision tenses as he fights the urge to phase his body through the man. Instead he allows their shoulders to bump, jostling the stranger slightly. “Przepraszam*.” Vision’s apology is quiet, worry about his accent being too off or his pronunciation horrific tempering the sureness that typically instills his voice. The man, thankfully, continues without another look and Vision releases a breath.

The alleyway gives way to a square, the same types of buildings, these colors perhaps more diverse and bright with their red shingled roofs, line the perimeter. In the middle of the square, atop the smaller, more even brick foundation, are white tents housing tables and chairs, lanterns hanging on posts next to each table while other, smaller string lights twine around the rods at the ceiling of the tent. It is serene, almost like a painting, the colors blending into a surreal and comforting conglomeration of twinkling lights and happy voices. An accordion player adds to the overall ambience, the music moderately paced and carefree, creating an almost fairytale-like quality.

Among all of these lights somewhere is Wanda.

It has been exactly 38 days since the Raft breakout, 38 days of relative silence in the compound, Tony occasionally conversing with him, mostly concerning Rhodes and finding Steve, but those moments are fleeting. Tracking down the rogue Avengers was not easy, nor did he necessarily follow the Accords’ protocol to locate them in Wakanda, particularly the part that stated once he found them he had to turn them in. Somehow he missed that step, instead amending his own internal protocol and contacting T’Challa. From there he received little news, thinly veiled comments suggested the fugitive teammates were fine but nothing truly substantial. He had attempted more pointed inquiries about Wanda, yet those were never answered. That is until he received a heavily encrypted and straightforward message - Warsaw, Rynek Starego Miasta, 23rd of June, 21:00, disguise required - W. He immediately destroyed all evidence of the message and then proceeded to convince Tony to allow him to follow a lead on Steve’s whereabouts.

There are many things he hopes are connected to this invitation. First is that it means she had actually received his own communications. Second, that what he said in them was enough to convince her of his intentions, or lack of intentions to turn her back over to General Ross (another convenient breach from the Accords that should concern him, but silence and 38 days of thinking has changed his perceptions on the rigidness of loyalty to laws). Third, and this is perhaps the thought that causes the greatest increase in his pulse, the arhythmic beating of his heart deafening when he considers the possibility, perhaps she has missed him too.

Vision methodically meanders around the perimeter of the tents, ocular sensors reprogrammed to specifically search out Wanda (and all the other fugitives). The facial recognition software was fine-tuned and updated courtesy of Stark for the purpose of being better able to find their teammates, though he doubts this meeting was the intended outcome of the upgrade. An invisible rope loops around his chest, squeezing the excess air from his lungs when he finally locates her, his heart drumming so quickly it clashes horribly with the rhythm of the accordion player in the square. His hands seek an even deeper refuge in his pockets, fingers clenching nervously as he approaches the blonde-haired hostess standing at the front of the tent, who smiles at him, “Dobry wieczór**.”

“I-“ Natasha, during the time when they were all together, before the Accords, always insisted on having a working knowledge of any language required for a mission. This did not mean being conversational but at least being aware of the tasks involved and having enough of a vocabulary to function within the constraints of the mission. Vision, unfortunately, did not factor in to his language acquisition that he would be meeting Wanda at a restaurant, he had assumed their meeting would be more clandestine. What he is never, ever, under any circumstance supposed to do in an undercover mission (not that he has actually been on such a mission but he has attended all the trainings) is betray his foreignness to the area. It’s a good thing Natasha is not here to see his utter failure. “I um, am meeting a friend.”

“Ah okay,” the woman smiles politely, transitioning into English while waving her hand towards the tables, “enjoy your meal.”

Vision offers a grateful smile and a “Dziękuję***” before winding slowly through the maze of diners until he sees her sitting at a two person table in the corner.

A term he comes across often in reading books of varying styles and genres is having one’s heart in their mouth. It never quite made sense to him since it is anatomically impossible and quite an exaggeration and yet, currently, if not for his reliable physiological assessments that say otherwise, his heart is beating so furiously that it feels as if it has journeyed upwards to writhe anxiously on his tongue. He is overwhelmed at the sight of her, not fully convinced she is actually at the table, his mind attempting to rationalize that he may be hallucinating. The woman has strawberry blonde hair and is wearing warmer colors than he’s ever seen on Wanda. Yet the way the lantern next to the table illuminates her face, highlights her defined cheekbones and the gentle curve of her lips, glistens off the rings adorning her fingers, leaves little doubt that it is actually Wanda. Then she makes eye contact with him, the sly smirk on her face further cements it is her and he isn’t consciously aware of his feet continuing to move until he reaches the table.

“Wanda…” her name trails off, his voice caught between ending at her name or continuing on to inform her it is him, given his vastly different appearance. She, in her typical fashion, rescues him from this awkwardness.

A tight smile accompanies her, “Hi, Vision.” The message was clear on the time and place, thus it shouldn’t be a surprise she can logically conclude the blonde haired man standing in front of her is him, but he is still amazed at the seamless acceptance of his disguise. Wanda studies him with a detached sort of interest, one not nearly as warm as before the Accords. “Your mind feels different from everyone else.” The explanation is acceptable, the notion she sensed him with her powers stirs a longing inside him, a desire to feel the touch of scarlet in his mind, lose himself in the serenity of her presence. “You can sit.”

“Yes, sorry.” Vision’s hand trembles slightly as he pulls out the chair and lowers himself down.

“That’s,” she points a finger at him, moving it up and down in the air, “a new look for you.”

One of the hardest normative behaviors to understand after he was created was the use of humor; the timing, the content, the tone, and the delivery all requiring numerous factors to determine the efficacy of the joke. He practiced so much with Wanda (she was the most willing to help him and he enjoyed her laughter the most) that he finds it comes naturally now, without thought. Vision pointedly plucks the polo he’s wearing. “I attempted to study Polish fashion in order to fit in.”

His victory is a minuscule smirk and an even less perceptible shake of her head before the amusement vanishes from her face, replaced by a reserved seriousness. “How does it work?”

Vision had not expected to need to speak so openly about his powers in such a place, his eyes reluctantly leaving Wanda’s face to assess the attention of those around them . No one seems at all interested in their conversation, far too lost in their own. So he turns back to Wanda and proceeds. “It is an integration of Mr. Stark’s,” she bristles at the name, something Vision would normally and politely point out, only he does not bemoan her it now and so he continues, “latest nanotechnology and my molecular manipulation. We have found the nanotechnology helps to stabilize my abilities for longer durations and also when I am caught off guard.”

“You’ve never lost your clothing by being surprised or,” she shrugs, head bobbing in time with her thoughts, “ever, actually, regardless of how long you were in them.”

“This is true, but the effort for a complete shift of appearance is significantly greater and requires a constant level of conscious awareness. The nanotechnology serves the role of my awareness, essentially.”

The waiter comes to the table, silencing Vision’s next thought, and places a white porcelain mug (that sits on a matching little saucer) along with a plate containing what looks to be a mix between an apple pie and a cake. The man turns towards Vision, “Dla ciebie****?”

Much to Vision’s appreciation, given his clearly poor preparation and the fact his mind cannot focus on anything other than the way the lantern casts shadows on Wanda’s face, Wanda saves him. “On nie jest głodny*****.”

A polite annoyance instills the nod of understanding, the man bowing slightly towards Wanda, “Smacznego******.”

“Dziękuję,” the friendly smile tugging the corners of her mouth up falls once the man is gone and it is just the two of them once more, “I assume you aren’t hungry.”

“Correct.” Vision is uncertain how to enter into the conversation he knows they should have, the polite, surface level words pleasant so far but he understands the wounds of their actions are far too deep to be alleviated by pleasantries. Yet, watching her wrap her fingers around the mug, lifting it to her face where she inhales the aromatic steam, a soft smile on her face, makes him want to remain right at this level of camaraderie. “You have a new look as well.”

She takes a sip, eyes watching him over the rim of the cup. “Yeah, Nat requires a new hair color every two weeks, new clothing needs to be cycled in periodically.” Another sip and still her eyes won’t leave him, something of a challenge forming on her face. “Luckily she said we can repeat colors once we run out of options.”

“Perhaps you will not need to do so for long.” The comment escapes before he can reel it back in, betraying the thoughts he’s had almost hourly since the airport. Vision understands (mostly, at least) the complicated relationship and clashing of ideology between Tony and Steve so he is well aware of the naivety of the statement. As is Wanda, whose demeanor slides from distantly warm to frigid, her eyes narrowing.

“Oh? You think we’re going to cave, agree to sign the Accords?”

Vision’s hands rise up slightly, palms facing her in hopes of conveying his apologies at the muddied intention of the comment. “No, not at all-“

“Is Ross rescinding them then?”

“No, I-“

The cup clinks defiantly against the saucer, her body bending forward as her voice lowers, likely to keep her anger hidden so the people around them won’t begin to take notice of the disruption to their pleasant evening, “Then why say it?”

If it was 45 days ago, Vision would consider reaching out, employing the tactile comfort he had only recently become more comfortable using with Wanda, but he knows it would be a mistake to do it now. There is an invisible but defined boundary between them, one he will not cross in fear of losing the potential of future meetings. This line is not just physical, clearly his words have set off alarms already. “Because I-“ the truth of his loneliness is undeniable though he isn’t certain if that will invoke more ire or if it would be well met, perhaps even reciprocated, “it is so different now.”

A commiserate nod goes along with her dry, “Very different.”

The silence that encases their corner is bloated with all the words that need to be said, the truths of their actions and all that has befallen them. He even practiced his apology on his flight, stumbling over the growing list of regrets including his persistent guilt over keeping her at the compound, his decision to leave her on the tarmac to check on Rhodes, his inability to garner security clearance to see her at the Raft, and his cowardice in not shirking the rules earlier to get to her. None of that comes out though, the silence punctured only by the scrape of her fork and the distant disembodied conversations of the happy people around them. When he finally finds something to say it is embarrassingly empty. “What are you eating?”

“It’s szarlotka - apple pie.”

A sense of deflation occurs at the answer, at the depth of conversation they are having. His hopes of deep understanding and reconciliation dropping away as the silence crawls back in. “Why did you wish to meet?”

Wanda puts the fork down.”Why did you try to contact me so many times?” So she did receive them.

“I-” Vision feels the eyes of the world on him, whether it is true or not, he always feels watched and judged. “Can we go somewhere more private?”

Her “No” is unflinching and then it morphs into a weapon, “I chose this place because you don’t like to make a scene.”

The depths of his missteps have haunted him, every decision that led them to this restaurant closes in on his mind as he realizes the severity of their severed trust. “I have no intention of sending you back to...” He can’t say it, not after the security videos he watched, after seeing the torture they put all of his teammates through, the worst of it always reserved for Wanda. “Please believe me.”

Wanda studies her nails, rubbing at the chipped polish on the tip of her thumb, returning to her prior question with a little less anger and an increased sense of desperation. “Why did you try to contact me so many times?”

This is the moment he has wanted, needed to experience, has spent hours and hours ruminating about what exactly he will say and how she will respond and whether she will smile at him and take his hand like she used to or if she will stand up in disgust and walk away, lost to him forever. A third option exists now, a possibility that she responds apathetically and then tells him it was nice to see him, the way old friends do in movies when they know this is the last time they will meet, too different now, too far along diverging paths for anything more to happen. Vision has no control over her reaction, something he has told himself over and over again. He only can control his own self. “Because I miss you.” She doesn’t stand in anger. “Because I have spent every minute since Clint came to the compound thinking about all of the harm I have caused you. I am ashamed of my behaviors and of the consequences I did not realize they would have.” Her face is not filled with apathy, instead it is a brimming with melancholy. “I needed to apologize to you.” It is a pathetic version of what he had scripted, less eloquent and verbose, having prepared separate apologies for each transgression. Except he can’t seem to remember his words around her, a factor he should have included in his calculations.

“Thank you.” The weight of those two syllables is immense, the start of his atonement evident in the way she says it, without anger and without annoyance.

The other factor in his prior correspondence attempts had been to assess her well-being, something he believed he may be able to do now given her less guarded tone. “How have you been doing?”

Immediately her countenance shifts, returning to a cool detachedness. “I’m surviving.” As she always does, her resilience awe-inspiring. “You should probably leave now.”

Vision has a feeling of his heart dropping down into his stomach, which is not true but he can’t seem to make his mind think otherwise. “Why? Was it something I said?”

“No.” A fleeting curve pulls her mouth up. “I have to do a video check in with the others soon.”

“May I walk you back?” As he asks the question he is already aware of the answer. One brief conversation is not nearly enough to repair what has been done. If she already was worried for her safety, him knowing her actual location is too big of a danger.

Wanda confirms his thinking, “No. I’m going to sit here by myself a bit longer and then see if I can get back safely.”

“Wanda I-” no doubt she believes there is an ambush, that he is the bait used to bring about her complacency before the others surround her and take her back. If meeting him at the restaurant was to avoid a scene, she will remain in public as long as she can. The best he can do is attempt to allay her fears, “I promise, no one else knows you are here.”

The stare she gives him is heartbreaking, stitched with threads of pity and skepticism. “I trust you, Vision,” words that fish his heart out of his stomach, giving it wings to flutter in his chest, “but I don’t trust Stark. How do you know he didn’t track you?”

Immediately he thinks Because I trust him and is glad when he does not actually say that, because even if he truly believes Stark would not do that, he cannot say it with 100% certainty. All of them have been greatly affected by falling out of the Avengers. Suspicions and tensions are high. While Vision was corresponding with T’Challa, he and Tony had many carefully worded and suggestive conversations that always left a bitter taste in Vision’s mouth and a fear that Tony somehow knew. What if the upgrades with the sensors are relayed directly to Tony? What if he has been listening the entire time? Vision did a full body scan prior to coming and found nothing of concern. But it could be in the nanotechnology, it could be in his communicator, Tony could be waiting down the street to arrest Wanda. “I don’t.” A tight, forgiving line closes her mouth. “May I at least remain in the skies to ensure nothing comes for you?”

“I can’t really stop you from doing it.”

For the first time in a long time he genuinely smiles, an action she almost mimics completely. “I should go then.” Wanda nods, watching as he stands. This is where he should apologize once more, wish her luck and a safe night. “How did you know I had a disguise?”

“I didn’t.” A whirlpool of questions swirls in his mind, unsure which one to pluck out. A pressure on his fingers calms the storm, his gaze turning down to see her lightly gripping his last two fingers, the disguise fading from the skin directly under her touch. “But I had a feeling you’d find a way to see me.”

Vision knows if he allows the surge of joy in his heart to rain from his eyes that it will cause a scene, so he tamps his hope and provides her with what he intends to be a friendly tone. “Good night, Wanda. May our paths cross again.”

The softness of her “Goodbye, Vizh,” remains in his mind for the rest of the evening as he hovers above the city, keeping a careful watch.

*Przepraszam = Excuse me

**Dobry wieczór = Good evening

***Dziękuję = Thank you

*****Dla ciebie = For you

*****On nie jest głodny = He is not hungry.

******Smacznego = Bon appetit

#scarlet vision #wandavision #wanda maximoff #vision #thescarletvisionnetwork #the vision #mcu #i know there have been a lot of these #but i finally came back to it after two years #mine

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wanheda0313 · 5 years ago

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Time Will Never Heal this Wound

This is my first fic I’ve written for the fandom and the first thing I’ve written for a long time so it’s probably not very good. This is based of an incorrect quote me and @thedorkofoz were discussing over vc on the sixcord which is Maggie told Lizzie about Anne’s death so... Enjoy

She knew that Anne had heard the whispers. Everyone had heard them. Henry moving on with another woman. A rumour like that was hard to hide and even harder for it not to spread around the court like the plague.

She wasn’t dumb. She saw the looks Henry gave to a particular to one Jane Seymour. Anne’s own Lady-In-Waiting. Her friend.

It briefly brings her back to time when Jane Seymour was Anne Boleyn. Long ago to a time when a Spanish Princess ruled side by side with an English King.

The king, bewitched by the new arrival at court and had quickly forgotten about his wife and daughter for a new and younger plaything. Someone who could give him a son.

For Anne, sneaking around with the king behind the Queen’s back, it became a game. Only to arrive by morning to help the queen get ready for the day with her none the wiser. Until she was.

Maggie had seen it all during her time as Lady-In-Waiting for two of Henry’s wives. In her opinion, soon to be three wives.

From Aragon to Anne. Anne to Jane… Now, history is repeating itself and Maggie can tell this will not end well. It never ends well, she’s begun to see. Never for the wives that is.

Secrets among the courtiers and ladies is never a good thing. When one secret is about a certain queen and reaches the ears of a king who wishes to wed a new wife, that's when it starts to become a dangerous game where someone will get hurt.

And in Maggie’s experience, it's never the husband who gets hurt.

Once upon a time, Henry was happy and in love with Anne. It is true. The fire, the intelligence, the wit and the charisma that Anne was so well known for, Henry loved it all.

Once upon a time he loved her but not anymore.

Maggie should’ve done something. To warn Anne. She’d do anything to make this outcome different but what could she do to persuade the king. She was powerless. Helpless. She’d be given the same fate as Anne without any questions asked. And who would look after Lizzie once she and Anne were gone.

What Henry wants, he gets no matter the innocent lives that get ruined in the process

She’d been with Anne since Anne was a new Lady-In-Waiting for the new queen. They’d become close friends quickly. She supported Anne through miscarriages and stillbirths. She helped Anne with Lizzie. Watched with Anne as she grew up into a curious toddler.

Anne was playing with Lizzie in the nursery when the guards came. Maggie was there watching and waiting.

“Look after her. Please,” She had pleaded.

“Dear friend, whatever they say about me. What slander they announce or have decreed I have done. Make sure she knows the truth. That I tried my best to be a good queen and that her mother loved her very much and would do anything for her,” Anne had whispered that sorrowful night, before walking away with the guards.

Her head held high and her gaze straight. And a crying Lizzie and a mournful friend left behind. The sounds of footsteps fading away.

Days later Anne’s been condemned to die. The accusations, the crimes, they’re untrue but when a king is convinced that Anne must be gotten rid of, there is no winning. She was doomed from the start but that didn’t help smother the flicker of hope she had until the verdict was read out.

Guilty of incest, the judge called out. The echo revelation around the room. Yet, Anne kept her gaze towards the front. Her mouth barely moving in a prayer. A punch in the gut.

Guilty of Adultery. It rings out. The death sentence. Anne doesn’t falter. It leaves Maggie spinning.

Guilty of treason. Silence.

The silence rings around the room. Anne Boleyn will die for her actions against the crown. Against an unjust crown and ruler. Maggie feels the wind knocked out of her.

The next few days are the most vivid days of her life. She remembers everything she did. Every moment spent with Lizzie. Every time Lizzie asked for her mum but Maggie didn’t have the heart to tell Lizzie that her mum wasn’t coming back.

One day though, she will need to know.

One day she will hear the whispers of court about her mother. The disgrace of the country. The whore. The witch for leading Henry away from being on the path of God and onto a path of damnation.

She’ll never hear about Anne’s kindness to others, her intelligence and wits to rival the great men of the court. For all these will be swept under the rug. Forgotten as Henry moves onto the next wife. And then the next. Then the next. Until his death. Never satisfied.

Until it becomes a distant memory in the ever changing court goers.

Maggie will never forget though. She will never forget the nights talking to Anne when they were young Ladies-In-Waiting serving a foreign queen to when Anne herself was queen. She’ll never forget the quiet fire that roared in Anne’s eyes. Blazing away during the countless arguments she heard.

Her quiet night time talks about improving the lives of the commoners. The intelligence and the grace that Anne was villainized for, were the very traits that Maggie admired the most.

The night before Anne was to be executed, Maggie sneaks out. Under the cover of darkness, she leaves the castle. And she runs.

Runs to the place that if she’s caught, she’ll be sent to. Runs to the place where her best friend, is being held. Counting down the seconds, minutes, hours to her death.

She runs through the tower with an ease. The guards know her, she won’t be stopped.

She stops at the cell she’s been running to.

“Anne,” She whispers into the darkness

A ruffle of cloth is barely audible in the ever present silence.

“Maggie?”

The dim candle light barely envelopes the room but it's enough to see the bag under Anne’s eyes. The tears she’s cried.

“Is, is she safe?” A whisper. A voice of a mother who knows she isn’t leaving this cell alive. The voice of someone who only cares about the safety of her daughter.

“Yes. She asks for you. Every single time. I don’t have the heart to tell her but I fear I may need to.”

A sigh echoes around. Bouncing off the walls into the silent night.

“Please. Tell her. She’s young… Too young for this but she deserves to hear it from someone who loves her unconditionally. And since I’m not going to be there and Henry only loves with conditions, you need to tell her for me.”

Anne chuckles softly but it quickly fades away. Replaced by an ever thickening silence.

“I will.” A nod barely visible in the dim candle light.

“I will tell her that you loved her very much and you wish it didn’t end like this. I will tell her what an admirable woman her mother was from the moment I met her, to the moment she died.”

“Thank you. You have always been a true friend. I will miss you but please, leave. Do not get in trouble for visiting me, for Henry will have you in here with me.”

“I will.” A silent promise.

As Maggie turn away into the darkness she hears a whisper.

“Maggie,” She turns around.

“Promise me you’ll raise her to me intelligent and witty and to never think she is less than anyone. You promise me that she will know that her mother loved her more than anything that this world could produce. You promise me that she will know the truth of me and my life.”

The final wishes of a condemned queen.

“I swear upon my life that I will uphold this promise. She will never forget you Anne,”

Maggie spots the familiar smile and fire that she has come to know. It fills her with melancholy for this may be the last time she will see Anne alive.

She slips out of the tower and into the dark and cold night. Dread filling every part of her body for the coming morning.

The next morning was cold and miserable. Maggie makes her way to the Tower of London with the other Ladies.

The mood is dark and somber. No one wanting to make conversation for one of their own, a beloved mistress was soon to be gone.

The wait is anxiety inducing. Then she sees the familiar brown hair and face.

Her head is held high. Her gaze straight, scanning the crowd. Even walking to her death, she holds the grace of a queen.

She kneels down. Laying her head on the block. She has come here to die. And no one can take this away from here.

“Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, according to law, for by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it.”

This captures the crowd’s attention. The chattering and cheers from the crowd silenced by the last words of a disgraced queen.

“I come here only to die, and thus to yield myself humbly to the will of the King, my lord. And if in my life, I did ever offend the King’s Grace, surely with my death I do now atone.”

Nothing Anne did for the king was ever enough. No matter the heartbreak, the stress. Henry kept pushing. And pushing until he had enough. And condemned her to death.

“I come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak anything of what whereof I am accused, as I know full well that aught I say in my defense doth not appertain to you. I pray and beseech you all, good friends, to pray for the life of the King, my sovereign lord and yours, who is one of the best princes on the face of the earth, who has always treated me so well that better could not be, wherefore I submit to death with good will, humbly asking pardon of all the world.”

Maggie can tell Anne is trying to sound genuine but she can hear the superficial words. Henry took Anne away from Lizzie. The only person Anne cared about.

“If any person will meddle with my cause, I require them to judge the best. Thus I take leave of the world, and of you, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. Oh Lord, have mercy on me! To God I commend my soul!”

A few moments pass. The audience replying her words in their minds then the sword comes down.

Maggie turns her head almost in preparation for the blow. She hears the thud and the cheers.

She walks away. Back to the palace. Noting that the king isn’t even attending. This time there is small chatter and conversation amongst the courtiers and ladies. Maggie stays silent the entire time. Too busy mourning the loss of her best friend to an unjust king who’s want for power and an heir cost the life of an innocent woman.

She walks into the nursery where Lizzie is playing. Her eyes light up upon seeing Maggie enter the room. It breaks Maggie’s heart.

She runs as best as she can on her short legs to Maggie.

“Maggie!” Lizzie squeals.

“Where’s mama?” She says looking around. Just like Anne would play where Anne would hide around the room and Lizzie would try to find her.

She walks around looking under things and moving things around.

“Mama!” She calls out into the empty room with a childish glee.

Maggie sighs. Knowing that Lizzie needs to know.

She picks up Lizzie and sits down on Anne’s favourite chair.

Maggie doesn’t know how to tell her.

“Mama…” She tries, “Your mama isn’t coming back home. She’s gone to heaven to be with angels. Before she flew away, she wanted me to tell you that she loves you very much,” Maggie starts to choke up.

She can see the tremble of Lizzie’s bottom lip.

“She didn’t want to leave you but she had to fly away. She wants you to know that she will never stop loving you and will always be proud of you.”

“Mama. Gone?”

A nod.

Lizzie starts to wail. Maggie starts crying as well. Unleashing her tears and emotions that's she’s been holding onto for the entire day.

It feels like hours passed. Lizzie long ago fell asleep on Maggie’s shoulder. Maggie feels as if she is right about to when she feels a hand on her shoulder and a whisper in a familiar voice.

“I’m so proud of you both. I will always love you Lizzie,”

She slowly turns around to see the barely visible smile of Anne Boleyn before she fades away.

#six the musical #anne boleyn #six the musical fanfic #maggie on the guitar

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geirskogull · 5 years ago

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Steel Reign - Chapter 1: Urth’s Font

tldr gonna be a short series based around Danica and Odin since Urths Font ate five hours of my life once and This is how im getting back at it

Archive Link

Rating: M

Count: 1.7 k

Leaves crunched under heavy, almost metallic, hooves. A sentry, high among the branches, snaps to attention, her white knuckled grip upon her spear tightening. Eyes narrowed, was this just another deer, wandering into the Font? Or some vain adventure not unlike herself seeking death and glory in equal measure? Or was this her target, her quarry, her hunt?

She held her breath, scanning the forest floor. Thinking back to the warm, dry rooms of the waking sand and the events that lead here this deep in the forest, alone save for the occasional squirrel climbing among the branches, curious what exactly the person shaped statue was doing in the trees.

“Pray, Lady Voss, art thee truly sure thee wish to go alone?” Urianger had asked her, not long after the two of them had finished parsing Lieutenant Scarlet’s urgent letter. Detailing the resurcents of the “Dark Divinity” Odin. The Primal so shrouded in myth, it was only fitting that he chose the Black Shroud as his hunting ground.

“What choice do we have?” She had asked back. “The others are busy with equally as important business, and It’s not like I don’t know how to call for backup.” Her voice had been sure, when in truth she had been far from the picture of confidence. Primals were group endeavors. Always the lot of them on the field together, not unlike the Company of Heroes. Or what was the group she’d been learning about recently? The Zodiac Braves? The Danica Voss of the present shook the thought from her head and focused back upon the sounds of the shroud.

It mattered not how she came to this situation, only that she was in it. Nestled among the trees, stalking the woods for sightings of the Dark Divinity with full intent to engage and hopefully dispatch him. At least temporarily.

In all honesty, she had very little faith O-App-Pesi’s plan to rid the woods of him forever was going to work. Especially with how little they knew about him. They knew not his origin. They knew not how he got his powers. They knew not who believed in him (though she had a theory on that one.) How were they sure that by killing him here that he’d stay dead? What made this place so special.

If the Padjal hadn’t been so adamant she immediately set out on her hunt, she’d have demanded she be given time to double check his research. She would have laughed, in another situation, even long after she had left the thaumaturges guild, it still had its claws in her in someway.

The forest was silent.

Dead silent.

She could hear herself breath if she focused hard enough. A smirk played at the edge of her lips, fools confidence. The time for waiting was over. The time for action was now.

Entering the clearing, she could see him. Armored from head to toe, atop a fiendish looking steed clad in the same black metal. The Master of the Hunt, perhaps about to be hunted. She watched him for a spell, barely breathing, committing every single movement - even those as simple as a roll of the primals neck - to memory. She found, over time, those same questions peaking into her minds eye, not as distractions, but as useful leads. How could she fight an enemy she did not truly know.

The Horsemen lead his beast towards the center of the clearing, and seemed to stall. Sheathing his sword unexpectedly and merely tilting his helm up in the rain. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was just a wandering knight of parts unknown, pausing to let the rain ease the stiffness in his old bones.

But he was a primal. An Unknown, perhaps even unknowable primal.

She, spear in hand, jumped from her perch in the trees to the wet grass of the clearing.

She would find out which it was. Knowable. Unknowable. God. Man.

Odin slowly looked down from the sky, following her path from the trees with obscured eyes. When she did not charge forward, he turned his horse to face her. Sleipnir she believed he was called, closer up he looked almost more voidsent than horse. Fiery red eyes, hair more akin to large feathers than a proper mane. She tore her eyes from the beast back to its rider, whose hand rested patiently upon his sword.

“Doth thou think yourself a worthy foe? Mortal before me.”

His voice echoed in the woods, the only sound for miles if she had to guess. His very presence breeding dread into the forest animals. She could feel that primal urge to flee into the night while she still potentially had a chance. Yet she stood firm. Yet she answered.

“I can’t speak for my “worth”” she started, her voice not betraying her shaken core. . “But I can speak for my curiosity. And if such a thing leads us to clash, so be it then ey?” She removed her spear tip from the ground, and began pacing around the primal. Far enough away she could retreat into the cloud tops if he advanced, close enough that she could watch him like a hungry animal.

If Odin could have, he would have smiled. Worthy prey indeed.

“Speak then, what is your query. Tis’ best to die without questions.” He kept his hand firm on the hilt of his blade. Helm tracking her movement, Sleipnir baying impatient. Part of her was disappointed that it need come to blows, another was surprised she saw any other outcome. She stopped her pacing, holding the primal at spear point.

“Who are you?”

The question rang out into the empty air, and the world itself seemed to come to a standstill. For the first time in their entire encounter thus far, Odin looked away. Odin faltered. With a smile on her face, she did not wait for his answer. Sailing through the skies with dragonfire in her veins, A hunter versus a hunter.

“Every Primal has a Story.” She spoke once more, diving backwards when his shield repelled her initial blow. Landing on her feet initially, she rolled to the side to avoid his mounts angry hooves.

“An Origin” Her strike rang true off the armor of the primal, a burst of aether signified. Yet one blow would not be enough. The primal drew his sword.

“Someone who believes.” She could not roll away, jump away, from his next series of blows. Thrown backwards by the force of Zantetsuken’s blows, all she could do was struggle to recover her footing. The blood trickling down her arm a sign of his own victory.

She stumbled back to her feet, taking a more defensive stance as the primal once again took note of her. The sword, she realized now, was beautiful. A massive curved blade of black metal that seemed almost to glow in the dark shroud.

“So tell me,” She began, as Odin advanced forward, fast. Realistically, he had the advantage on speed, but she had it on height. Jumping towards the edge of the clearing every time he grew close.

“Who are you, who believes in you?”

Those final words muttered, Odin once again faltered. His grip upon his blade less sure, less controlled. Yet, that made him no less Dangerous. What replaced the knights confidence was a feral rage as the Primal screamed at her.

Screamed at her and charged.

And thus, the fight began in earnest.

But thankfully, she was not upon her back foot. Charging as he did, Voss dodged the fell blade with precision and skill, looking for any gap in the black plate that might prove fatal. Rips? No the chest plate was solid. Knees? No the joints were welded with a masters hand. Helm? She couldn’t see his face beyond his...

Eyes, she’d aim for his eyes.

Jumping back, she landed hard upon the ground. The blood pooling at her feet proof of her mortality, proof of her humanity. Proof of where the primals blade had hit its mark. Her breath was coming heavy, apparently, in her search for weaknesses, she hadn’t realized the extent of her damage.

She would not stop now, not with an end so well in sight.

One for either of them. Perhaps even both of them.

The Primal raised his sword, high into the sky. Where it sparkled and gleamed with unholy intent. The Dragoons spear was held much the same, save her eyes were closed. The lights however, that congealed around both were different, antagonistic. Where one was a swirl of black and purple light, choking at her even then, the other was a brilliant blue. Taking the form of a Dragons head, as she leapt high into the sky. Hoping to find her mark.

Praying to find her mark.

When she once more opened her eyes, she was alone in the clearing, and her spear dug heavily into the ground as a cloud of aether quickly dissipated into the cool night air around her. Victorious.

Dropping the weapon, she let out a mighty cry, and it was as if all the forest cheered with her. Alive once more. Oh they would never believe this. She couldn’t wait to tell them all. The Scions. Haurchefant. Hells, maybe she’d even track down Estinien’s grumpy ass and tell him too.

She fell upon her butt, laying back upon the ground, and let out a content giggle. Gazing through the leaves to the quickly clearing night sky. At least until she heard the wet clatter of another blade than her own hitting the ground.

Jumping defensively, half expecting the primal to be lying in wait with some kind of fell trap, she was greeted by the sight of his blade. Strange, she thought, should have gone away with him.

Then again, most of the primals she’d faced before then hadn’t used weapons. Claws, fists, talons, but no weapons. Perhaps those stayed? Relaxing her pose, she remained curious. Strapping her spear to her back she approached the fallen sword, so much smaller now that the primal that held it was dead.

Should bring this in for study, her tired mind urged her, Urianger would probably have a field day. It glowed still, brighter now under the night sky. It was so beautiful. Waiting for its owner to return.

If only she hadn’t reached out, and taken it.

#ffxiv #ff14 #final fantasy xiv #Danica Voss #Odin #Chapter 1 #Steel Reign

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sweetmemories2606 · 6 years ago

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The Best Outcome (Gray vs Juvia)

Inspired by the following post by @sobatsu, I decided to write this really sad story.

I hope you have your tissues ready, because the angst here is higher than ever.

Summary: What if Gray had actually killed Juvia during their fight? An outcome that brought him immense guilt and sorrow, but she only felt relief.

Timeline: Final Season-Ep 30 or Chapter 499.

Warnings: This is really sad. It might make you cry. You might never recover.

Word Count: 1200

The Best Outcome

They knew that getting yourself distracted was the number one mistake you should never make, but once Natsu and Lucy got captured by Brandish, Gray and Juvia's attention deviated from the fight ahead.

In those few seconds that they looked away, Invel managed to trap them with his Ice-Lock; and things took a turn for the worst.

They couldn't move. They couldn't focus. They could barely think. Invel watched them struggle with a smile before he started dictating the rules. "Regardless of what you feel inside, you will now fight to the death."

Gray's blood ran cold. "Kill each other?" It couldn't be. He must be hearing things or imagining it.

"Yes, and you will remain in these shackles until one of you dies." The enemy explained and Juvia gasped.

This wasn't good. She couldn't bear the thought of hurting Gray, much less killing him. She had to find a way to destroy these shackles and soon.

It seemed as if he had the same thought because once her eyes met his again he was trying to break them.

It didn't work. The magic that had created the chains was far too powerful.

"No..." Gray's face paled once he realized the gravity of the situation.

"I can't..." Juvia began to panic.

"Now; you may begin." Invel commanded and suddenly their bodies moved and they started attacking each other.

Gray grew more scared with each blow he delivered and once his demon-slaying powers were released, he truly feared that he might end up killing her.

It was like being trapped the same nightmare that had haunted him over the past six months when he had been infiltrating Avatar. He remembered worrying that she would get hurt or that he may be forced to hurt her in order to prove his alliance.

Now it was coming true and there was nothing he could do about it. His thoughts weren't his own anymore, his body didn't obey him and his heart was breaking.

Unknown to him, Juvia felt the same. She was taken back to nightmares of watching him die back during the Grand Magic Games and the fear that he might get hurt in the months that followed.

However, instead of merely torturing her, she managed to convert her emotions into magic power. In this case, the power to get some clarity and control back.

Managing to focus for a few moments, she thought over what was happening and decided that the best outcome of this fight would be if Gray killed her.

There were so many reasons why he needed to survive. He was stronger than her, so he stood a better chance at defeating Invel later on. Their friends would also be sadder if he was the one who died and his death would make Ur and Ultear's sacrifices pointless.

But most of all, Juvia couldn't bear the thought of losing him. She never wanted to go through that pain again and knew that recovery would be impossible.

Thus she let her defenses fail, allowing him to hit her without fighting back.

"Juvia…I'm sorry." Gray cried once he delivered a powerful punch to her stomach, sending her back a few feet.

Both of them panted, trying to regain their balance, and their eyes met. There was so much pain in his; she knew it must be killing him. "It's okay, darling. I'm okay."

"I ordered you to fight, not chat." Invel intervened, but they managed to ignore him.

"I don't want to hurt you…" Juvia offered a pained smile.

"I know, my love." How would he manage to recover from this, she wondered? "But it will be alright."

Gray swallowed hard; tears threatening to fall. "No, it won't."

Both groaned once the Ice-Lock became stronger and all control was lost. The fight resumed, although this time it was more balanced and equal.

He would attack her, she would attack him and neither would back down.

At one point, Juvia managed to wound his chest with her water-slicer. It was a severe injury, but he quickly used ice to cover it.

Then, he created a sword and she knew it was over. Even before he came at her, burying the weapon in her stomach, she knew that this was the end of the fight.

Was it wrong of her to feel relieved even as she was about to die?

Gray removed the sword, letting it fall to the ground, and watched her impassively.

Then, as he regained some clarity once the shackles started to rot and the spell diminished, the reality of what he had just done sank in. "No! No, please…"

Juvia gasped due to the pain and her already weakened body fell forward. He acted quickly and caught it before she reached the ground; gently cradling her in his arms.

"Juvia…" The tears came; streaming down his face and onto hers.

"It's okay." She used what little strength she had left to raise a hand, bringing it to his face and wiping away a few tears.

"I hurt you." He looked down at the large gash on her stomach. "I didn't want to, but I wasn't strong enough."

"I know." She whispered, taking in a sharp breath.

"I'm so sorry." He sobbed even harder and she tried smiling.

"It's not...your fault." There were so many things she wanted to say, but even breathing was hard enough.

Noticing that she was quickly fading away, Gray started to get desperate. "Wendy! Where are you?!"

Nothing. No answer. He continued to yell for his friends; for anyone to come help them; but no one came. Juvia was dying and there was no one to save her.

Even as he tried his best to contain the bleeding, sealing the wound with ice, it wasn't enough. She had already lost a lot of blood and the cold wasn't helping improve her condition.

"Juvia, please." He cradled her in his arms, unable to stop crying.

"It will be okay." She could barely keep her eyes open. It wouldn't be long now.

"I can't...I can't lose you." Gray knew that he had no right to be upset when he had caused this. "Not like this."

"I didn't...want to lose you either." Juvia admitted and he tensed.

"Wendy! Please, come over here!" He yelled at the top of his lungs, but there was still no answer.

Gray was tired, exhausted really. His whole body hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain within his heart. Knowing that he had hurt her and was about to cause her death; he couldn't take it.

"Gray..." Juvia called him in a soft whisper and he immediately looked at her. "I just...wanted to..." She never got to finish her sentence since her heart suddenly stopped.

Just like that, she was gone. Gray couldn't save her, couldn't make up for abandoning her all those months before and, worst of all, he never got to tell Juvia that he loved her.

#fanfic #gruvia #angst #gray vs juvia #fairy tail #chapter 499 #final season #episode 30 #gray fullbuster #juvia lockser #what if he killed her #invel yura #this is so sad #the best outcome

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lukeskywaker4ever · 5 years ago

Text

Aljubarrota Battle

Date: August 14, 1385 Location: Campo de Sao Jorge, Calvaria de Cima, near Aljubarrota, Portugal Outcome: Portugal's decisive victory

Belligerents: Kingdom of Portugal with the support of Kingdom of England Castile with the support of Kingdom of France and Aragon’s Crown

Commanders: Portugal - João I of Portugal/ Nuno Álvares Pereira Castile - Juan I of Castile/ Pedro Álvares Pereira (Nuno’s brother)

Forces: Portugal side - About 6,500 men:

4,000 pawns;

1,700 spearmen;

800 crossbowmen;

200 English archers.

Castile side - About 31,000 men:

15,000 pawns;

6,000 spearmen;

8,000 crossbowmen;

More than 2,000 French heavy knights;

15 mortars.

Drops: Portugal side - 500 to 600 men Castile side - 4,000 to 5,000; 5,000 in the aftermath.

The Battle of Aljubarrota was one of the rare great camp battles of the Middle Ages between two royal armies and one of the most decisive events in the history of Portugal. It innovated military tactics by allowing men of armored arms to be able to beat a powerful cavalry. In the diplomatic field, it allowed the alliance between Portugal and England, which continues to this day. Politically, it resolved the dispute that divided the Kingdom of Portugal from the Kingdom of Castile and Leon, paving the way under the Avis Dynasty for one of the most remarkable eras in Portuguese history, the Age of Discovery.

Directly associated with the victory of the Portuguese in this battle, was celebrated the legendary figure of the heroine Brites de Almeida, better known as "the Padeira de Aljubarrota", who with her shovel killed seven Castilians she found hidden in her oven.

Background

By the end of the fourteenth century, Europe was struggling with a time of crisis and revolution. The Hundred Years War devastated France, black plague epidemics took lives across the continent, political instability dominated, and Portugal was no exception.

In 1383, King Fernando died without a male son who inherited the crown. Her only legitimate daughter was the infanta D. Beatriz, married to King Juan I of Castile. The bourgeoisie was dissatisfied with the regency of Queen D. Leonor Teles and her favorite, Count Andeiro, and with the order of succession, since this would mean the annexation of Portugal by Castile. People were bustling in Lisbon, Count Andeiro was killed, and the people asked the master of Avis, D. João, the natural son of D. Pedro I of Portugal, to remain the regent and defender of the Kingdom.

Faced with the revolt of the Portuguese population in various points and cities of the Kingdom of Portugal, the king of Castile decided in 1384 to enter Portugal. Between February and October of this year, sets up a siege to Lisbon, by land and by sea.

A Portuguese fleet from Porto faces, on July 18, 1384, at the entrance of Lisbon, the Castilian fleet in the battle of the Tagus. The Portuguese lose three ships and suffer several prisoners and the dead; however, the Portuguese fleet manages to break the much larger Castilian fleet and unload the food it brought into the port of Lisbon. This food aid turned out to be very important for the people who defended Lisbon.

The siege of Lisbon by the Castilian troops does not work out, due to the determination of the Portuguese forces to resist the siege, the fact that Lisbon is well walled and defended, the help of food brought from Porto and due to the black plague epidemic that plagued the cities. Castilian forces camped outside the walls.

In June 1385, Juan I of Castile decides to invade Portugal again, this time at the head of his entire army and aided by a strong contingent of French cavalry.

Preparation

When news of the invasion arrived, the military council was convened in Abrantes to decide what to do. Many considered the invading army to be too strong and suggested a fun march to Seville to attract the invading army until the English reinforcements arrived. The Constable opposes and defends to give battle to stop the enemy, because Lisbon was with weak resistance; The king seemed to be of the same opinion, but did not decide immediately. Then D. Nuno leaves with his host to Tomar. The king sent a message asking him to return to Abrantes, but D. Nuno refuses and continues the march to Tomar, where he would wait for the king. They then meet and travel to Porto de Mós.

The vanguard is commanded by the constable and the rear by the king.

Arrangement of the Portuguese Host

With the English allies, the Portuguese army intercepted the invaders near Leiria. Given the slowness with which the Castilians advanced, D. Nuno Álvares Pereira had time to choose the favorable ground for the battle. The option fell on a small flat top hill surrounded by streams near Aljubarrota. However, the Portuguese army did not appear to the Castilian in this place, initially formed its lines in another side of the hill, and later, already in the presence of the Castilian hosts moved to the predefined site, this caused much confusion in the troops of Castile.

Thus, at ten o'clock in the morning on August 14, the army took its position on the northern slope of this hill, facing the road where the Castilians were expected. The Portuguese layout was as follows: infantry in the center of the line, a leading crossbowman with 200 English archers, 2 wings on the flanks, with more crossbowmen, cavalry and infantry. At the rear, they awaited the reinforcements and cavalry commanded by D. João I of Portugal in person. From this highly defensive position, the Portuguese observed the arrival of the Castilian army protected by the slope of the hill.

The Portuguese were positioned in a south-north direction and the early Castilians were north-south.

The arrival of the Castilians

The vanguard of Castile's army arrived at the battle theater at lunchtime, under the scorching August sun. Seeing the defensive position occupied by what he considered the rebels, the king of Castile made the expected decision to avoid combat in these terms. Slowly, due to the 30,000 troops that made up its troop, the Castilian army began to circle the hill along the east road. The southern slope of the hill had a softer unevenness and that was where, as D. Nuno Alvares had predicted, they intended to attack.

The Portuguese army then reversed its disposition and headed for the southern slope of the hill, where the ground had been previously prepared. Since it was much less numerous and had a shorter course ahead, the Portuguese contingent reached its final position long before the Castilian army was positioned.

D. Nuno Álvares Pereira had ordered the construction of a set of palisades and other defenses in front of the infantry line, protecting this and the archers. This type of defensive tactic, very typical of the Roman legions, resurged in Europe at that time. These defenses included wolf pits and moats that were concealed with branches.

In the final position the Portuguese are in the north-south direction and the Castilians south-north, with Lisbon in the back.

Since it was holy eve, the fight could not take place the next day. On the Castilian side there were those who did not want to fight, but there were others who wanted to end the Portuguese resistance that day.

The king of Castile sends emissaries to the Constable: Diogo Alvares Pereira, brother of D. Nuno, Pedro Lopez de Ayala and Diogo Fernandes, Marshal of Castile. These wanted to convince the Constable to reject his king and join them. The Constable refused and threatened to shoot.

At about six o'clock, the Castilians not yet fully settled decide hastily, or fearing having to fight at night, to begin the attack.

It is debatable whether in fact there was the so famous "square" tactic or simply this is an imaginative view of Fernão Lopes from reinforced wings. However, traditionally this is how the battle eventually went into history.

The battle

The attack began with a charge of the French cavalry: full force and force to break the opposing infantry line. However the Portuguese defensive lines repelled the attack. The small width of the battlefield, which made it difficult for the cavalry to maneuver, the palisades (made with upright trunks separated only by the distance necessary for a man's passage, which did not allow the passage of horses) and the rain of Crossbow bolts (aided by 2 hundred English archers led by Sir Leon Baade) caused the cavalry, long before it came into contact with the Portuguese infantry, to become disorganized and confused. In the end, the cavalry casualties were heavy and the effect of the attack null.

Not yet profiled on the ground, the Castilian rearguard was slow to assist, and as a result the knights who did not die were taken prisoner by the Portuguese.

After this setback, the remaining and most substantial part of the Castilian army attacked. Its line was quite extended by the high number of soldiers. In advancing towards the Portuguese, the Castilians were forced to tighten (which disrupted their ranks) to fit the space between the streams. While the Castilians were disorganized, the Portuguese redeployed their forces, dividing D. Nuno Álvares' vanguard into two sectors in order to face the new threat. Seeing that the worst was yet to come, King João I of Portugal ordered the English crossbowmen and archers to be withdrawn and the rearward advance through the open space on the front line. Before advancing, D. João I orders the execution of the imprisoned French knights, as a way to prevent a possible counterattack from the rear.

Disorganized, without room for maneuver, and finally crushed between the Portuguese flanks and the advanced rear, the Castilians could do little but die. By sunset, the battle was already lost to Castile. In haste, Juan of Castile ordered the general withdrawal without arranging the cover. The Castilians then disorderly disbanded from the battlefield. The Portuguese cavalry launched their pursuit of the fugitives, decimating them without mercy.

Despite the great victory at the front, the Portuguese carriage led by Diogo Lopes Pacheco was attacked by the Castilians. The Constable orders the persecution to be suspended and organizes the counterattack, repelling the enemy offensive.

The king of Castile himself, debilitated and having been present in the battle in a litter, was rushed on horseback to Santarém as a way of escape to the Portuguese who were in pursuit of the Castilians. At that moment, and in an attempt to capture the Castilian monarch, one of D. Nuno Álvares Pereira's knights is killed, and was later buried in Alcobaça.

Some fugitives sought to hide nearby, only to end up dead at the hands of the people.

Here a Portuguese tradition arises around the battle: a woman by her name Brites de Almeida, remembered as the Padeira de Aljubarrota, deceived, ambushed and killed some escaping Castilians by her own hands. The story is certainly a legend of the time. However, shortly thereafter, D. Nuno Álvares Pereira ordered the suspension of the persecution and gave respite to the fugitive troops.

The next day

On the morning of August 15, the catastrophe suffered by the Castilians was in full view: the corpses were so many that they came to bar the course of the streams that flanked the hill. In addition to infantrymen, many noble Castilian nobles also died, which caused mourning in Castile until 1387. The French cavalry suffered another heavy defeat against infantry tactics in Aljubarrota after Crécy and Poitiers. The battle of Azincourt, already in the fifteenth century, shows that Aljubarrota was not the last time this happened. It should be noted that, as was customary at the time, the Portuguese forces remained there for 3 days, awaiting a possible attack by the Castilians, successively improving the defensive positions.

Outcome

With this victory, D. João I became the undisputed king of Portugal, the first of the Avis Dynasty.

To celebrate the victory and to thank the divine help he believed he had received, D. João I had the Santa Maria da Vitória Monastery erected and founded the village of Batalha.

Just as, seven years after the battle, the incumbent D. Nuno Álvares Pereira had the São Jorge Chapel built in Calvaria de Cima, where precisely the São Jorge military camp is located, and he had deposited his banner that day.

Today in this very last place, there is also a modern interpretation center that explains the course of events, their antecedents and their consequences.

#aljubarrota battle #d. nuno alvares pereira #king joão i of portugal #history #portugal #batalha #reblog

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