#that's not alliterative but again head empty

[kindahoping4forever]

x

[starrygenesis]

you won’t but you might

matt murdock x reader

synposis: after a heated argument with matt murdock, he abruptly leaves, only to later discover you alone that night, bruised and bloodied, on the edge of death. his everlasting wish, to keep you alive.

warning: angst, mentions of blood, guns, suicide, and injuries.

Your head had rested on the front door to the entrance of what was once Nelson, Murdock, & Y/L/N, as you had finished calling who seemed to be your last friend in the city. The office had been silent for a while, you stared at the empty desk in front of you, with the wooden chair that had been left untucked since its last use. Your hand softly traced over the name plate as your fingertips were met with the engravings of an alliterative name.

Several stains of coffee left footprints of Matt Murdock, since his lasts visits, he had been leaving accidental spills caused by carelessness, or perhaps there was something more.

“Are you not cold?” You heard as you flashed your head around in the direction of the voice. 

The breeze from the open window had made you uncomfortable, as he could almost feel the hairs on your arms rise.

“Gosh Matt.” You let out a scoff, placing your hand over your mouth in disbelief.

“-what are you doing here?”

“I came to,” the man cleared his voice.

“I left my documents here and I came to make my resignation final,”

“I just didn’t think you would come back” he continued as he shut the window.

“Why? I mean why didn’t you think I would come back?” You shot back.

“Well, I assumed you wanted this over as well.”

“Is that why you insist on doing everything alone?” there was vexed shift in your tone.

“Listen, you’ve been through so much y/n, I’m doing this for your own good.”

“My own good? Abandoning us when we need you, Matt..seriously?”

His mouth was devoid of any words, knowing there was nothing he could say to fix the situation, much better do.

“Because tell me, who’s going to be there for us when, when he rings the phone again huh?” Your sentences began to stammer.

The man, slickly dressed, had been left confounded at your response as his eyebrows burrowed.

“He what? Y/n who?”

“Fisk.” You blurted, eyes beginning to swell.

“He- I came home last night and the phone rung and I picked it up and it was him Matt... it was, and he threatened me and he threatened to kill foggy,” you explained, with racing adrenaline just being reminded of the occurrence.

“-The reason I came here is because I had a feeling you would be back. I just came to you because you’re the closest thing I have for help, but you’re making it really hard when all you do is push us away Matt.” 

Matthew’s glasses had concealed his teary eyes, the only give away was his the corners of his lips pulled down.

“I’ve been trying to protect you” was all he could come up with.

“No, no. Foggy and I have been trying to protect you.”

His head swiftly turned as he had tuned in on the sudden street noise. He snapped back, 

“Y/n can we not do this right now?”

“Fisk and his men have put a bounty on your head and this isn’t a good time for you? You know, when is it ever a good time for you?”

He sucked up how much that phrase really hurt him, as much as he tried to be there for you and foggy, there was always something in the way. He wanted you to know that once Fisk was gone he would spent his entire lifetime with you, you only. But until then, there was still crime, trafficking and such, which was a greater priority for him. The man in the suit was not the man you agreed to love, he was a symbol for the greater pain behind it all.

“I have to go.” Those were his last words to you as his senses led him farther and farther away from you, everytime.

- 

You climbed the fire escape, in fact, the top of the office building was a much better place for reflecting instead of going back home. Back home in the apartment that you used to share with Matt.

However, you wanted to feel the same desolation on the roof as when he had stopped staying those nights with you.

Instead, you had company.

The presence was thick, you felt watched. Your head lowered as you peered over your shoulders to the figure slowly taking steps closer. Alarmingly, you grasped at the gun you had strategically hidden at your ankle. Too slow. In a split second, you found yourself in the grip of a tight chokehold around your neck. You tried to tug away, the only thing working were the kicks that you had thrown at the man. 

But the man overpowered you, and through the darkness, you were unable to make contact with his eyes. With rapid speed you reached for anything in your pockets, only picking up your phone as you attempted to dial someone, anyone. 

Hastened breaths and trembling hands, you had reached a vulnerable point. With great force, your body was rushed up against the cement, head slamming against the frigid floors. You turned your head, attempting to regain any sort of consciousness, yet as you were lifting your body, a strike across your face.

Wracked with sudden affliction, you were unable to see clearly, you felt feeble. You felt stiff, stiff like the first moment you came in contact with Daredevil. That night, near your dumpsters, as you were about to get mugged. In fact, you were surprised at his decision that night, leaving death to the choice of the stars; and until now, you really wanted the man in red to arrive, he never did.

You sickly wept with the only pure idea of survival. But a mourn would have done you no good, neither would have whispering Matt’s name under your breath after each punch, each kick to the torso. 

Each blow had felt like the last, or at least thats what you wanted to believe. They didn’t stop. You grew sore, even more numb. Your face was contaminated with scrapes and bruises as the taste of blood along your lips began to lurk.

A few clicks were all you need to hear for you to shut your eyes and meet with your final wishes.

The cold steel pressed up against the temple of your head, the head that you rest on the concrete. 

A last exhale seeped from your dry, swollen lips. You had tried to mumble something, but no noise had been heard.

A hesitation had ceased the bullet in your head.

“The job is done Sir,” the stuttered words that had afforded your life.

The scythe was dropped, and those were the final words you had heard up until your collapse.

You lie there with only greetings of winter’s weather as your back was idle on the ground. For that entire night, your body was surrounded by the crimson liquid.

-

An abrupt door slam had caused your awakening. While you had not known how many hours had passed, you surely knew they were your last. It was still the hush of night, your slowed inhales had made you weary of your current strength.

A half smile appeared on your lips, the first smile of the night.

“Y/n!” he eagerly rushed to your side, dropping to his knees to see the sight of your lethargic body, your frail hands clutching your stomach.

His restless breaths filled your only waking senses, the only soft blows on your face that you had received that night.

Yet, these ones really worried you, after the first few punches you sustained, you felt weak and defeated.  But the man in the black suit had removed his mask and his face wreaked with pure agony, at least through what was visible from your beat-up eyes.

“What have they done to you?” he said as he carefully cupped your cheeks with his fingertips, a feeling of warmth shot through your body.

You uttered the sound of the letter f, with pacing breaths after every effort to create a sentence.

“Fisk’s men, he hurt me-”

“He hurt me Matt” you muttered as you tried to squeeze his hand from all the pain.

“Y/n, you’re okay, I’m here now”

He delicately lifted the fabric of your shirt to reveal the open gashes on your waist. You groaned at the penetrating lacerations on your body. 

“Matt I can’t, I don’t want to do this anymore” you expressed under your uncontrolled breaths.

And perhaps you wanted that night to be your last, answering the phone to Fisk that day was a suicide mission in itself.

“Y/n please stay alive.” he pleadingly spoke cupping your brittle, bloody hands.

You had tried to get rid of the tickle in your throat only to cough up blood.

“You’re a piece of shit murdock”  you said barely able to collect words.

His frown deepened, because through it all, he was self-aware. Matt Murdock had let you down, the pawn of your death was the heavy weight he would carry on his shoulders.

As he observed the continued bleeding, he placed pressure on the wound on your thigh to stop the streams of blood that trickled down your leg. He realized the man who had hurt you had left a bullet wound on your right leg.

He was surprised at your endurance as well as your toleration for pain. The man quickly acted in wrapping his black cloth tightly around your leg.

In reality, it was a miracle you could communicate with the man.

“Matt... Matthew” whispers flowed from your tongue

“Y/n i’ll help you”

He tried to pick you up to get help but something was off.

“No Matt, I can’t feel them”

“Whats wrong?”

“My legs.”

Then suddenly he knew.

The concern on his face grew even worse as he wiped the tear that was trickling down his face.

“Matt?” you begged a response from him

Instead, looking clearer and catching sight of the cuts on his face as well. Who knows what he had previously gotten into, where he had to be that he could’ve not arrived any earlier, possibly, none of this would’ve happened.

You placed your palms on the cold cement, attempting to lift your upper body up.

“Y/n no, don’t do that I need you to stay still.”

You slowly met his glazed eyes and then back to your lifeless limbs.

The reaction had left you frozen.

“Matthew.”

“Yes angel,”

You proceeded to place both hands on his jaw, wincing at the pain it had caused to move, even in the slightest bit.

In this moment, gleaming at his eyes, you had accepted your fate.

Caressing his face, running your fingertips on his lips.

“You, you are a part of me I need”

“Y/n without you, I’m not alive.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“You are the only one who gets it, who makes me feel– free.”

“Please I need you to let go.”

“I can’t, y/n listen, I’m not doing this without you.”

“Promise we’ll reunite soon Matthew.”

You placed a final, sweet, kiss on his lips, with a passion that you could’ve only ever given to Matt Murdock himself, as your dying wish.

[valdomarx]

Ok so I’ve seen a few one shots about if Jaskier suddenly was able to hear Geralt’s thoughts but like what about the other way around? Geralt would at first be like “fuck now I’ll never get silence” but then he starts to pick up on just how beautiful Jaskier thinks the world is. He can hear him trying to find the perfect rhyme for his new ballad. The affectionate words that Jaskier is too afraid to say. Geralt finds the beauty in everyday life from simply listening to how Jaskier sees the world

At first it was a godsdamned headache.

A fight with a mage, an errant spell, a loud pop, and then Geralt could hear every one of Jaskier’s thoughts. It’s not clear which of them this is worse for, but Yennefer had looked them over and declared the spell should wear off in a few days, so until then they’re going to have to tough it out.

Geralt thought Jaskier was loud when he talked, but that was nothing compared to his thoughts. They were a constantly running stream of irrelevant chitchat and trite observations, interrupted by childish daydreams and melodramatic narratives.

And the music. By gods, the music.

LA da da dah da da da dah da LA da da dah da da dah daaaaa

“Will you stop?“ Geralt snaps. If he never has to hear that accursed fishmonger’s daughter song ever again, it would be fine by him.

“Oh.” Jaskier looks chastened. “Sorry. I’ll try.”

And then Geralt has to listen to his agonised attempts to keep his mind quiet and to hide how hurt and embarrassed he is.

Geralt feels a bit guilty about that, but it’s not his fault Jaskier has so many feelings. It’s exhausting just listening to them.

--

It’s not always awful, though.

They pass a field of flowers, and Geralt sees it as he’s been trained: there is celandine, used for mixing potions, and there is bison grass, used for blade oils.

But today he hears how Jaskier sees it: the bright yellow flowers joyfully upturned to the sun, the soft green grasses undulating in the breeze like the waves of the sea, the heady floral scent intertwining with the dust of the road and the comforting background of Roach and of Geralt, mixing together into a perfume that suggests adventure.

Geralt recalls a conversation from long ago. You smell of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak. At the time, he’d thought those were empty words, flowery nonsense from a child who liked spinning fantastical poetry.

Now he wonders if this is genuinely how Jaskier sees the world. And if he’s been feeling this strongly and observing this closely all this time.

--

It’s not so bad when Jaskier concentrates, when he corrals his thoughts into order and focuses on a new song or poem. The whirling of his mind is more streamlined, less distracting.

It’s almost... nice.

Lovely garroter... hmm, no... gorgeous garroter. No, too alliterative. Or, hmm, keep it simple... garroter, jury and judge.

“The last one,” Geralt says without thinking about it. “It flows nicely. It doesn’t need a descriptor, the music carries the sentiment.”

There’s a whirlwind of emotions in Jaskier’s head which whip by too fast for Geralt to pick up on. In the end, Jaskier tilts his head and smiles, and Geralt can hear how much he appreciates his input. But there’s an undercurrent of sadness to Jaskier’s thoughts which he doesn’t quite understand.

--

Geralt sighs as he slides into the warm bath Jaskier has prepared for him. His whole body relaxes until he tries to comb through his hair with his fingers and finds it hopelessly matted with monster guts.

"Let me help," Jaskier says. "Don't pout at me. I know you enjoy this."

He's right, of course, and Geralt grunts his assent. Jaskier's careful fingers slide into his hair, gently untangling the mess.

I enjoy it too. You have no idea how much. The thought slips from Jaskier's mind, and Geralt chooses to respect his privacy by ignoring it.

He ducks his head under the water to wash the gunk away. When he breaks the surface, Jaskier is smiling softly at him.

You're beautiful, Jaskier thinks but doesn't say.

That's... well. Geralt has no idea what to think about that.

I'd make you feel good every day if you'd let me. The words crystallise in his mind, clear as day, and with them a rush of heat and affection. Overhearing it feels like the warm water closing over his head, soothing and terrifying at the same time.

Jaskier is giving him an out, he realises. He could ignore the thoughts, write them off, not respond. Nothing has been said out loud, nothing that can't be covered in plausible deniability.

He could ignore it, but perhaps he doesn't want to. Perhaps it's time that he uses his words. He knows what Jaskier is thinking, but he's seen to it that Jaskier has no idea what he's thinking.

He takes Jaskier's hand in his own. "I do enjoy this," he says. "I like it when you look after me."

A flurry of thoughts pass through Jaskier's head, sweet and kind and filthy by turns. Geralt hears them loud and clear, and judging by the way Jaskier is blushing, he knows he's been heard.

Geralt raises an eyebrow in interest. "Hmm."

Perhaps this thought sharing business wasn’t so bad after all.

[ace-malarky]

Thirty Questions Tag #1

@wannabeauthorzofija tagged me for this! the thread was getting long tho, so we’re striking out alone here haha

 (which means I’m wilfully ignoring how many blogs it told me to tag, like I don’t do that anyway)

 @pens-swords-stuff, @raevenlywrites, @zmlorenz if y’all feel like spilling the beans some ^^

name/nickname: Ace

gender: oh, uhhh.... no thanks... (I tend to stick with nonbinary but agender pleases me for alliterative purposes)

star sign: gemini

height: 5′8″

time: like three-ish? in the afternoon

birthday: June 19th

favorite bands: fuckin uhhhh American Authors. The Mowgli’s.

favorite solo artists: Lindsey Stirling, probably

song stuck in my head:none, surprisingly! probably bc I’m listening to music but I don’t know it and it’s background so like. head empty.

last movie: Mamma Mia

last show: The Good Place

when did i make this blog: December 2018, apparently

what i post: mostly tag games, today lmao. But uh, writing stuff!

last thing i googled: probably how old middle school was

other blogs: my dnd blog - @dorksndisasters - and my messy mostly-fandom main - @captainkaithr - and there’s also a private one where I just. vent. and muse. and it’s staying private lmao

do i get asks: occasionally!

why i chose my url: it’s uh. it’s just my online/”official” writer name haha

following: 131

followers: 137 (well that’s rad af. thanks folks!)

average hours of sleep: somewhere between 7-8 on a good night? I think?

lucky number: idk I don’t... think of numbers. used to say 13 bc. you know. contrary. thought it was edgy.  

instruments: flute, piano, and I was picking up guitar before. y’know.

This. (the guitar I was picking at is at my parents)

what am i wearing rn: loose trousers, leggings, socks AND slipper socks AND slippers, tshirt, uni hoodie, compression gloves. what. it’s cold.

dream trip: I just. I just wanna see Emma, ok? And visit brother #2 again bc he lives in Japan and that’s p rad (so dream trip; that one Emma and I have talked about where we both go to Japan when the Studio Ghibli theme park thing is fully open in like two years)

favorite food: sausage/egg pastry. mostly pastry.

nationality: Scottish

favorite song: It’s a toss up between Young Volcanoes (FOB), Touch the Sky (Julie Fowlis) uhhh it was Time to Begin (Imagine Dragons) for a while. also. again. Most of American Authors lmao

last book read: Ghost Cabin by Mariko Tamaki, one of the Lumberjanes novels

top three fictional universes: rly like Sanderson’s Mistborn world? My love for Redwall is coming back with a vengeance lmao. Also! Hyrule.

favorite color: purple. blue? both.

[goodlookingforagirl]

Oc-tober Day 14: Cornered

Today’s prompt is takes places in my main storyline, but it’s a conversation that’s only ever referred to. I decided to actually write it out for today! This takes place in 1980, right after Randy is released from prison. I did as much research as possible on the legal process so I hope everything I mention is accurate. No specific trigger warnings, just that there are some heavy things mentioned. Thanks to @oc-growth-and-development for making this list! 

Day 14: Cornered

Mom dropped me off at the church’s back door and waited until I went inside to drive away. The door led to a short flight of stairs down to the basement, where the only light came from a few hallway fluorescents, spaced far apart. It reminded me of an empty elementary school, except that instead of crayon drawings on the walls, there were solemn religious portraits. One of the fluorescents started buzzing, and I quickly walked down the hallway, searching for the door that read “Associate Pastor”.

    I finally found it — the last door on the left — and knocked. There was faint shuffling from inside, and I wished I could run back to the car and make Mom take me home. After all I’d been through, it was stupid to be afraid of one old pastor, but I was. He would probably tell me what a bad person I was, and how I needed to “get right with God” without offering any real help, like all the chaplain’s used to do.

    The door opened to reveal a well-dressed man, barely middle-aged and smiling broadly. “Good afternoon,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Reverend Burke.”

    “Randy Nicholson.” I shook his hand and tried to smile back, but it came out as a grimace.

    “Please, come in.” He stepped back and gestured to a red leather chair in front of his desk. “Can I offer you anything to drink? I’m afraid all we have is water and tea — we cleaned out the coffee on Wednesday night.”

    “No, thank you,” I automatically answered, then immediately wished I hadn’t. I really could use some water. My mouth already felt like sandpaper, and we haven’t even started our meeting.

    He sat down in his desk chair, so I sat in the leather chair. He folded his hands, so I folded my hands. Finally, he spoke.

    “Your mother called me last month. She said you were in need of reintegration counseling.”

    “Yes, I am.”

    “I’ve worked with many ex-convicts before. Usually, the first meeting is for us to get to know each other. In subsequent meetings, we’ll focus on goal setting and progress.”

    “Okay,” I answered, having nothing else to say.

    He looked at me expectantly. “So, what should I know?”

    “I — I don’t know. What do you need to know?”

    He chuckled. “Well, I need to know your story. Your crimes, your arrest, your incarceration, and anything other pertinent information.”

    Pertinent information. What did that mean to him? Did he want my whole life’s story? He must have noticed my confusion, so he said, “How about we start with the arrest?”

    I leaned back and tried to detach myself from my words as much as possible. “I was walking downtown late one night — or, really early one morning — making a delivery for my dealer.”

    “What kind of dealer?”

    I cocked my head. Could he really be so stupid? “A drug dealer.”

    “I guessed that, but what kind of drugs?”

    “Oh. Well, he dealt a few different ones, but that night it was heroin.”

    “Were you using heroin at the time?”

    “Yes.”

    He nodded, and I continued.

    “So, I was carrying the heroin and a stolen gun. I didn’t steal it myself, but still, it was stolen. And then I ran into some guy, probably a bum, and got in a fight. Then the police rolled up.”

    “Why did you start fighting him?”

    “I don’t remember. I was high at the time, and he probably was, too. The police coming was just a coincidence. We weren’t going at it long enough for someone to have called.”

    “So you were arrested for fighting?”

    “Yeah, and it didn’t take long for them to go through my pockets, check the gun’s registration, all that. They charged me with unlawful possession of a firearm, unlawful possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell, and aggravated assault.” I winced at those words. “I mean, the other guy got charged with assault, too. We both hit each other pretty hard. But that doesn’t matter — it’s still on my record.”

    Reverend Burke nodded and wrote something down on a legal pad. “How did you plead?”

    “Guilty.”

    “On all charges?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Did they offer you a deal?”

    “They said they’d drop the firearm charge if I told them where I got it from, but I didn’t. I pleaded guilty because I didn’t want to lie. And I mean, they caught me in the act.”

    “And this was all how long ago?”

    “Five and a half years ago.” I still couldn’t believe it. All that time spent in a cell because the cops happened to drive by right at that moment. No, because I decided to break the law and I was rightfully caught. Okay, fine, maybe because of both reasons. And for what? So I could get a little extra smack for being a runner?

    “How did you cope in prison?” Reverend Burke asked so casually, like it was an everyday question.

    “I read a lot of the library books. Some religious ones, too. Those helped me a lot.”

    “Did you make friends?”

    “I was considerate, but I kept to myself. That’s the only way to stay safe, really, unless you get involved with all the prison politics, which I didn’t.”

    “A lot of the men I counsel tell me that,” he commented. “Did you keep in contact with family and friends on the outside? Did they visit you?”

    I subconsciously gripped the armrests of the chair, my knuckles turning white. We were getting close to the subject that I really didn’t want to talk about. My least favorite subject in the world.

    “My family in Texas wrote to me sometimes. That’s my mom, my grandparents, and aunts and uncles.”

    “Your father?”

    “I’ve never met him.”

     Reverend Burke looked sympathetic but not surprised. “Did he pass?”

    “Almost ten years ago, but I didn’t know him before he passed, either. He and my mom — it’s complicated. The last time they saw each other was when she was pregnant with me.”

    “I see,” he nodded. “Did your family ever visit you?”

    “Sometimes,” I said, my throat getting tight. “My brother did.”

    Reverend Burke raised his eyebrows. “You have a brother?”

    “Had a brother,” I corrected him. “He died three years ago.”

    His face fell. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You were still incarcerated then?”

    “Yeah.” I stared at the floor and tried to ignore the pain that was rushing in. “He visited when he was still alive. Everyone else wrote, and I called them sometimes, too.”

    “I see,” he muttered, writing something else down. “So, you made it through prison without any major issues, it seems like. Relatively speaking, of course.”

    “I didn’t join a gang, if that’s what you mean.”

    He chuckled. “I guess that is what I mean. When were you released?”

    “My mom picked me up on Wednesday. You’re the first person I’ve talked to since, besides her.”

    “She’s the only one who came up?”

    “Well...yeah.” What did he expect, my extended family holding up banners, welcoming me home with open arms?

    “Are there any people in the area you could reconnect with? Old friends, co-workers, classmates?”

    I half-shrugged. “Maybe. I can’t think of anyone right now.”

    Reverend Burke tapped his pen on his legal pad a couple of times, then stood up. “I have some reading that might help you.” He grabbed three books off of his shelf. “I need to run by the copy room and Xerox some pages for you. Forgive me, but I learned long ago not to loan my books out. They have a habit of never coming back.”

   “No offense taken,” I replied with an awkward laugh. He excused himself and left me alone in the office, tense and nervous and itching for a cigarette, the only habit I hadn’t kicked yet. I resisted, smart enough to know that I shouldn’t smoke in a church. But I craved any kind of relief — anything to stop me from feeling like a frightened animal, cornered by my own past.

    People to reconnect with. There weren’t any. I didn’t have friends in high school — not real friends that would remember me. Most of my “friends” were other addicts, and I didn’t want to see them again. My family was in Texas, and I didn’t want to move there. And Roland — Roland was gone. The one person I actually wanted to reconnect with, and I couldn’t.

    Reverend Burke came back in and handed me a small stack of warm paper. “Fresh out of the copier,” he grinned.

    I flipped through the pages and read the headers: Finding God in Grief; Convict Turned Convert; The Road to Recovery. I didn’t even have to read them to know that I hated them. Life’s darkest chapters reduced to cute, alliterative phrases. Reverend Burke didn’t know what it was like. He had no clue what it felt like to be cornered by your past, every day of your life, only for someone to write a pat little paragraph about how easy it is to overcome. And I wasn’t mad at him for it — I was jealous. I wished it were that easy for me. 

[swanqueeneverafter]

What Dreams May Come, Pt.37

Kingdom Of Valencia. (Richard and Roberta stand together in the throne room as Henry enters.) Henry: "Let's saddle up. It's time for battle.” Richard: (Surprised:) “Henry. You’re back!” Henry: “As I promised I would be, friend.” (They clasp forearms.) Richard: “Then I am ready for war. And not just to sit in a comfy chair and watch up on a hill while eating cucumber sandwiches, although that was delightful. No, I am actually ready to stand next to you and fight.” Henry: “Sounds like you found your manhood, Richard.” Richard: “Bobby found it... A bunch of times, if you know what I'm saying, huh?” Henry: “Unfortunately, I do. (Extends his hand to Roberta:) Pleased to meet you, Bobby.” Roberta: “Oh, er, Roberta. Only Richard calls me Bobby.” Henry: (Smiles:) “Of course. (Jasmine enters:) Are the troops ready?” Jasmine: “As they’ll ever be. I’m just so relieved you and your family are back. Now we might just have a chance.” Henry: (Chuckles:) “Hey, that’s the spirit.” (Henry and Jasmine leave the room.) Richard: (To Roberta:) “Strange being in this room again. It seems like a lifetime ago I sat on that throne. So much has changed. Ah, if I ever got the chance to be a king again, I would do things so differently.” Roberta: “Richard, I have to tell you something.” Richard: “Hmm?” Roberta: (Clears throat:) “Um... It's hard to say, but, um... I can't go into battle with you.” Richard: “What are you talking about?” Roberta: “Richard, you're not a fighter, and I love you too much to watch you die. And... You will die. Horribly. Mutilated. Crying blood.” Richard: (Scoffs:) “Okay.” Roberta: “Having soiled yourself with people trying to cut off your head.” Richard: “Ooh.” Roberta: “People pointing and laughing, gloating on the battlefield. It's gonna be hideous.” Richard: “Okay.” Roberta: “It can be quite fun, but not for you.” Richard: “Got it.” Roberta: “I can't be part of that. It'll destroy me.” Richard: “My darling, you worry too much. I'll be fine. Yes, perhaps a bit less confident after your very charmingly graphic description, but believe me, I'll be fine.” Roberta: “No, let's forget this whole battle and leave and go and build a life for ourselves. My aunt has a farm across the lonely sea, in the shadow of mount spinster. It's so beautiful. Lots of cats. We can be happy there. I can get us one-way tickets, and...” Richard: “Bobby. I have to do this. I can't let Henry and Ella down.” Roberta: “And I can't watch you die.” Richard: “So, what are we saying?” Roberta: “I think we're saying goodbye.” (Roberta turns and leaves the room, Richard watching her go.)

Mount Fuji. (Gabrielle holds the urn containing Xena’s ashes over the water, removing the lid. She is about to pour when Xena’s ghost stops her.) Xena: “No, Gabrielle.” Gabrielle: “Xena.” Xena: “No.” (Takes the urn and places the lid back on top.) Gabrielle: “Xena... (Glances behind her:) the sun is setting.  I have to bring you back to life.” Xena: “No. Not if it means condemning the souls of the 40,000 who burned at Higuchi.” Gabrielle: “But the souls are free?” Xena: “They’re free from Yodoshi’s grasp. But for those souls to be released into a state of grace, they must be avenged. I must stay dead.” Gabrielle: “But if I bring you back to life-” Xena: “Those souls will be lost forever.” Gabrielle: (Tears in her eyes:) “I don’t care. You’re all that matters to me.” Xena: “Don’t you know how much I wanna let you do this? I can’t come back. I can’t.” Gabrielle: “But, this is not right. I love you, Xena. How am I supposed to go on without you?” Mulan: (Reaching the summit:) "Gabrielle is right, Xena." (Xena and Gabrielle both turn towards Mulan who is now helping Ruby reach the top.) Xena: "Who the hell are you?" Mulan: "We were sent to find the women who wield the chakram."

Gabrielle: "Xena..." Xena: "That's you now, Gabrielle." Ruby: "Actually, it's both of you. There is a battle looming, with many lives at stake." Mulan: (To Xena:) "Unlike the thousands of souls you have given your life for, our people will die without your help." Ruby: "Those 40,000 souls are already lost, Xena. It was a terrible accident, which was not your fault." Xena: "Who are you? (To Mulan:) Your armour bears the markings of warriors from Chin, not Egypt." Mulan: (Glances quickly to Ruby:) "We have come a long way to find you both." Ruby: "Please, we don't have much time. Won't you help us?" (Before Xena can respond, a surge of energy pulses though her. Clutching her chest, Xena feels her heart beating once more. Tossing aside the now empty urn, Gabrielle stalks past a shocked looking Xena.) Gabrielle: (To Mulan and Ruby:) "We will help you." Xena: "Gabrielle, what have you done?!" Gabrielle: "Trust me, Xena. We will be having many discussions about your plans to leave me forever, but they can wait. Because for now, (Turns back to Mulan and Ruby:) we fight."

Kingdom of Valencia. (It is the night before the battle. Having given a rousing speech to everyone, Tiana stands among the other leaders as a ball is taking place.) Tiana: "Hosting a ball before a battle certainly is a bold choice." Zelena: "And very alliterative." Regina: "What's the use of travelling through the night to get to the battlefield when we can simply use magic to get ourselves there in the morning?" (Regina smiles at Emma who is stood with her parents going over battle plans.) Tiana: "I suppose, but it's still very unusual." Zelena: "Hang around us long enough and you'll find unusual is our specialty." Regina: "Don't worry, Tiana. No alcohol is being served." Zelena: "Ugh, you mean this is just orange juice? (Puts down her glass, disgusted:) You could've warned me." Regina: "This is a chance for Emma and I- (Zelena coughs:) And our entire family, to thank those who've made the choice to stand with us tomorrow.” Facilier: (Appearing in a cloud of smoke:) "My, my. How pretty you all look. (Removing his hat:) Enchantée, Tiana." Tiana: "Facilier? What are you doing here?" Facilier: "You mean I'm not invited to the ball? (Chuckles:) I came to remind you all of the rules of the game. (Holds up the cards:) Even if your feeble excuse for an army does manage to win tomorrow, you still have Morpheus' Empress to contend with." Ella: (Stepping forward:) "We're not afraid of Madelena. Some of us are relishing the thought of taking her on." Facilier: (Smiles:) "Careful with this one, Henry. You've got a real spitfire on your hands." Regina: "Don't you dare speak to my son." Facilier: "Ah. How lovely to see you again, Regina." Regina: "I wish I could say the same."

Facilier: (Smiling over at Emma who stands frozen:) "When I heard what Lord Morpheus had planned for you two, I begged him to allow me to be a part of it. Unfortunately for me, I was needed elsewhere. Such a shame too as I regularly replay our time together in my mind, Emma. Alas, it was not meant to be. (To Regina:) Ingenious use of fairy magic to switch bodies by the way, I was very impressed." Regina: "If you're the real Facilier, why aren't you rotting somewhere in the Underworld?" Facilier: (Smiles:) "Because I convinced Lord Morpheus I would be invaluable to him. (Looks over to Emma:) Given our history. (To Regina:) And you were left trapped, reliving a pale imitation of what Emma's life was like under the curse. (Approaching:) Only Emma and I know how special our time together truly was. (Reaching up to stroke Regina’s face with the back of his hand:) But, if you play your cards right, I can give you a glimpse, if you'd like." Emma: "Enough! Everyone, leave." David: "Emma, we're not leaving you alone with this man." Facilier: (Chuckles:) "Listen to your father, Emma. You know you can't control yourself around me." Emma: "Stop talking. Please, I need everyone to leave Regina, Facilier and I alone, right now." Facilier: "Seems your family and friends don't trust you to do the right thing, Emma." (At this, the group begin to disperse, voicing their support for Emma as they leave the room. Hearing the door close, Emma addresses Facilier once more.) Emma: "You always did know how to push people's buttons." Facilier: "I most certainly do." Emma: "You're not welcome here." Facilier: "Hmm. Your friends are gone now. You can stop pretending you're not happy to see me." Emma: "I needed them gone because I didn't want them to see this." Facilier: (Grins at Regina:) "But you'd like your wife to watch? Now that is kinky." Emma: "Regina's here because she is the only one I have trusted with the knowledge of what you did to me. She's been with me through it all, the tears, the sleepless nights. Without her, I may not be standing here right now. You managed to get inside my head and made me feel things about myself that almost broke me, Facilier." Facilier: (Smiles:) "Almost?" Emma: (Looking to Regina:) "Her love pulled me through. My family's love and the love of those around me made me realise that those feelings you tapped into weren't true. The feelings that I've been carrying around with me for my whole life, they're not true anymore and perhaps they never were." Facilier: "Well hallelujah. Sounds like you've been saved, Emma. Is this what you had to clear the room for? Seems to me your family would have liked to have heard that." Emma: "No. I cleared the room because, while I may not listen to those voices anymore, I still carry some darkness inside me. (Regina watches as Emma transforms into the Dark Swan:) The only way to move past something is to confront it and Facilier, your time has come." (Facilier takes a step backwards while Regina takes a seat, eager to watch Emma's catharsis unfold.)

[aion-rsa]

The Green Knight Review: A King Arthur Movie Imbued with Dark Magic

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It’s been observed that to create, you must first destroy. There’s truth in this axiom, although at least in the case of Hollywood it’s worth a partial amendment. First, you must understand what it is you are destroying to make way for something new. Take the poems and tales of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, including Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: As centuries old IP, these stories have been adapted countless times, including recently—and often by filmmakers with no greater concern for their appeal than the public domain title they’ve decided to exploit.

Well, the team writer-director David Lowery assembled for his and A24’s The Green Knight understand Sir Gawain intimately. It’s there in the first scene when the alliterative prose from the 14th century poem is quoted near verbatim. And yet, by juxtaposing these words next to Dev Patel’s yet-to-be-knighted Gawain sitting on the throne of Camelot, stoic in all his kingly majesty, Lowery and company signal they’re doing more than just repeating an oft-told yarn. There is a darker force at work here, which can be as unsettling as the image of Gawain’s crowned head inexplicably being lit aflame at the end of this sequence.

The Green Knight is thus both a student of the past and a well-meaning raider of it; this is a film which will honor a story J.R.R. Tolkien singled out as one of the greatest works of English literature, as well as gracefully deconstruct it. There’s a singular, faintly mad vision at play in Lowery’s The Green Knight, and it’s led to one of the best films ever adapted from Arthurian lore.

When we meet Patel’s Gawain in earnest in the movie, he is clearly not yet a knight or a man of honor. After all, it’s Christmas morning when he’s awakened from his stupor in a brothel. As the nephew of old King Arthur (Sean Harris), Gawain is imbued by Patel with an earnest desire to live up to the laurels already bestowed on the Knights of the Round Table, but there’s also something unmistakably desperate and hungry about him when he arrives at his uncle’s court for a feast.

It is there that Arthur invites Gawain to sit by his throne on the high dais, next to Queen Guinevere (Kate Dickie), for the first time. Several chairs are conspicuously empty, including one intended for Gawain’s mother (Sarita Choudhury), but Gawain can sense his station is on the rise, even before the Green Knight (Ralph Ineson) enters. Carved from the literal leafy greens and weeds of the earth, Ineson’s knight better resembles a pagan god than any sort of man-at-arms. Yet it’s arms that concern this Yuletide intruder.

The Green Knight comes offering a game: Any man who has the courage to strike at him with a sword as harsh or kindly as he pleases can do so freely… so long as he agrees to endure the same blow in one year’s time. Gawain leaps at the opportunity to prove his valor, beheading the Green Knight in one smooth motion. The Emerald deity then picks up his rolling skull. It then laughs. A bargain’s been struck and they’ll meet again at the Green Chapel next Christmas.

The setup is painfully simple, including its roots in medieval notions of chivalry and the type of magical realism where talking severed heads are as common as ladies living in lakes. Yet the draw of Lowery’s film is how it encases viewers into this world with surreal splendor. There has not been another movie this year as sumptuously designed or elegantly framed. Nearly every shot of The Green Knight—particularly in the climactic Green Chapel—looks as if it was ripped from a fantasy novel’s cover or a 19th century canvas, and the inclusion of elements like ghosts, giants, and talking foxes (all of which Gawain will encounter on his quest to find that blasted chapel) only heightens the peculiar beauty of the piece.

Lowery is also allowed to lean into the painterly lushness of the piece because of the vitality and humanity Patel brings to every single scene he’s on screen: which is nearly all of them. Despite starring in a Best Picture winner more than a decade ago, Patel is an actor who’s seemed strangely underrated by the industry. As of late, the natural leading man has broken out with winning roles as David Copperfield and in Lion, but as Gawain he may have at last found a vehicle to display the full range of his charisma to a larger audience.

Patel’s Gawain is neither a hero nor a revisionist fiend. Rather he’s a well realized portrait of paradoxes. Here’s a young man who wishes to be noble and true, but is driven on his seemingly suicidal quest to find the Green Knight’s chapel entirely out of fear of shame and what others might say; he fears death to the point of seeming cowardly, and yet is eager to face the Green Knight’s axe, if only to learn what this game might really be about. Gawain is a flawed, potentially doomed protagonist, but Patel keeps the pathos of the would-be knight always at the surface, even during the character’s most scandalous and selfish moments.

The rest of the cast is also formidable in helping The Green Knight weave its enchantment. Despite being covered under makeup and prosthetics, The Witch’s Ineson brings a playfulness to the title character somewhat akin to a Disney character with a bloodlust; and Alicia Vikander pulls double duty in dual roles that it would be a spoiler to detail beyond that they represent twin sides of femininity for Gawain—and the inherent limitations of living your life by chivalric codes or medieval thinking. However, in one of these roles Vikander gets the best monologue in the film where she raises more questions than answers about what this quest is all about… including why is a green knight green?

That may be what challenges audiences most. Despite being based on a well-worn folk tale, The Green Knight is not an easy movie to follow once Gawain accepts his fate and leaves Camelot behind for a wilderness drenched in magic and weirdness. Shrouded in mysteries, both medieval and modern, it is designed to confound and intrigue, and probably be viewed more than once. It is a bit like discovering an ancient tome of witchcraft that’s not intended for young eyes. You’re not entirely sure what its incantations mean, but you cannot look away. For some that will be infuriating, but I found it spellbinding.

The Green Knight opens Friday, July 30.

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[womanwiththepoppytattoo]

Signs

February 22, 2021

I still haven’t been permitted any more dreams. But there have been other signs that he is with me. 

I’m buying a house. The house I’m buying is just a few blocks from my rental, but it took me a while to consider looking at it. Here’s the thing. Towards the end, I was using OnStar to track Rey’s car. That sounds extreme, but it was justified. I was afraid he would figure it out (he never did; he thought I was tracking his phone somehow) so I took screen shots of the maps in case I needed to locate him later, so I would have an idea where his “friends” lived. And one of the locations where he was parked once is a half block from my new house. That’s it, that’s the only reason I wouldn’t look at the house. Because Rey knew someone who lived nearby. Meanwhile every house on the market in town in that price range was sold, but not this one. It sat empty for 6 months for no apparent reason. I’m convinced he was saving it for me. My closing date was originally supposed to be March 30, but I wanted to move it sooner. I gave my lender 7 dates when I was available between February 25 and March 12. March 10 is a very painful anniversary for me of something that happened between us two years ago. I had asked Rey to please visit me on that day, if he could. So I was not surprised when my closing was scheduled for March 10. He might not be able to visit me, but he wants me to have something happy to distract me that day. 

Then, one day a couple of weeks ago, I was hugging my stuffed Rey (his old sweatshirt pulled over a pillow) and I felt like he was in there. Instead of squishing down like it usually does, it felt solid and firm. But somehow it felt lighter than air, and even the part of me touching it felt light, like something was holding up my weight.

Another day I slept fitfully and woke up with alliterative gibberish in my head, things starting with “b”. Like someone who is searching for a word, like a stroke victim. The last thing I heard before waking was “believe in me.”

And then this morning, I begged for the millionth time for an answer to one of my questions, What are we to each other? Because he felt like a part of me right from the start. That feeling of knowing each other deeply, of being inseparable, it came so easily and with so little justification. And now, almost 20 months after he left, I know I will grieve him forever. He filled up my heart and then he emptied it and nothing else will grow in the space he left behind. I need to understand why. I need to know if that connection is real, or if I’m just the most pathetic and broken person on the face of the earth. So I ask, again and again. And this time, I got some kind of response. Not what I would call an answer really, but clues. I got the idea of silver and gold, closely followed by an image of two hands clasped in a certain way that I would sometimes take his hand. These clues didn’t make sense to me and I kept asking for an answer I could understand. Then, I saw a ladybug. 

What I thought about silver and gold is, they’re usually kept (worn) separately. Does that mean we’ll never be together? And the ladybug really scared me. It immediately brought to mind the ones that emerge in the windows (trapped between the inner pane and storm window) here in many houses in winter. Out of place, out of season, doomed. Are we doomed? Will we always be born in the wrong place, the wrong time, to be together? I share these thoughts so that you can see that these are not images I would have made up. They were not immediately meaningful or reassuring to me. The symbols felt odd and random, like many communications from Spirit I have experienced. I often think, You had infinite options and this is how you chose to respond to my question? 

So then I asked myself, What else could the silver and gold represent? Well, they are precious. Could be as simple as that, we are precious to each other? The ladybug meant nothing to me though, so I looked up the symbolic meanings. This is what I found: 

https://www.spirit-animals.com/ladybug-symbolism/

(Google had other links of course, but two others I tried wouldn’t open, so I took that too as a sign.) The parts that spoke to me the most were: “In due course of time, our wishes will all come true,” and the meanings of enlightenment, faith, past lives, protection, trust, and wish fulfillment. I know this is like reading a zodiac sign - there’s a lot of feel-good stuff so everyone can find something they agree with. But, the symbol was sent to me. I’m still not super clear on what any of this means, but like I said, they are clues. I was finally trusted with clues to begin to understand a truth that maybe I haven’t been emotionally prepared to understand up till now. I am going to try to receive them with faith and love. 

[drawingsanddrabbles]

July 19th

i felt kinda bad that I didn’t know it was tim’s bday until it was already nine pm where i live so this is partially made of guilt. 

Happy bday timberoonie, i love ya dude <3

Summary: Some people in Gotham wish Tim a happy birthday, it’s not who you think. 

ao3    ffn

Despite the fact that it was summer, the air was cold. Then again it didn’t help that Tim happened to be standing on the top of the tallest building in downtown Gotham.

Tim liked it here. He liked the cold and the fact that he could see all of Gotham below him. He liked the way the streetlights and cars sparkled from this height like stars, and he loved that he could smell the sewage from the piers and factories not five miles away from where he stood. He liked that he could see the dusky clouds that were never clear enough for stars so the night always looked like a grayish-black and that the moon was nothing more than a fuzzy circle behind one of these clouds. He liked that he could swing down from the building whenever he wanted and he also liked watching airplanes fly past. He liked the way the wind blew through him and how when he stood on the edge of the roof he felt like he could fly. He also liked watching sunrise and sunset from here.

The batsignal shone dully in the sky, against a canvas of dusky, ever moving clouds. He watched from his perch. He never thought he would end up having ‘a perch,’ Bruce had one, and so did Dick and Jason. These places high up in the city where they liked to stay and just… watch. But Tim had one, and it was here. Far far away from the street below, and whatever crimes might have been happening, whatever merriment might have been celebrated, whatever lives people might have been having.

Tim liked it here. He liked being away from the hustle and bustle of the never empty streets. The calm and clear of the sky was what he lived for. He lived for swinging through Gotham’s twisted and dark streets. He lived for that one last mugging of the night that he stopped, swooping in and barely having to fight because it was so late that even the mugger himself was falling asleep. He lived for base jumping from these tall buildings, and he lived for the showdowns in front of the giant clock in the center of town, where, usually, someone was trying to kill someone else and they’d fight, dodging the ticking hands (what could he say, Clock King had recently had a crime-spree which led to just such a situation for Bruce).

“Fancy seeing you here.” Someone said.

Red Robin turned to see Selina Kyle saunter up to him. “I would have said ‘oh look what the cat dragged in,’ because, you know, cat-based pun. But I figured it would be too tacky.” She walked over to where Tim sat on the edge of the building, kicking his legs over the side, and sat next to him.

“Isn’t this a little high for you, Selina?” Tim asked.

Selina shrugged. “No worries, even if I do fall, I always land on my feet.” Tim resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “There, obligatory cat pun over.” Selina said, grinning.

“What brings you here?” Tim asked.

Selina didn’t listen to him, instead staring out into the city. “Beautiful, isn’t she?” Tim didn’t respond, he only followed her gaze to the sparkling, not so pretty city before him.

“Yeah.” He agreed.

“You know, people claim Metropolis is the most beautiful city, but… I think our girl has her beat. Despite maybe not being as… boy-scout-y as her.”

“Dark. I think the word most people would use is dark.”

Selina shrugged again. She looked at Tim and studied his uniform. “Don’t tell me you’re patrolling today.” She said.

“Why wouldn’t I? I mean, I’m not, but why wouldn’t I?”

“If you’re not patrolling then why are you wearing your uniform?”

“I like wearing it. Plus, you wouldn’t have been able to recognize me if I was me, just sitting up here in civvies.”

Selina snorted. “Oh please. Give me some credit, Red, I could tell who you were.”

“I really doubt it.” He said, an amused smile flickering onto his lips.

There was a pause, then: “Happy birthday, Tim.”

Tim froze. “Wh-what?”

Selina grinned. “Didn’t think I knew that, did you?”

“I-it’s not my birthday!” Tim said, flustered.

“Technically it is, as of right now, twelve oh one AM, so yeah, it is your birthday.”

“How-?”

“I have learned a lot about you all from your father, kid. Your birthdays? Please, that was one of the first things he told me.” Tim looked down at the street. “I… know, he doesn’t always remember on time, but he does know. Not that that exempts him, oh no, if he doesn’t remember your birthday this year I’m going to shame him until eternity to come, but… he does know.”

Tim still said nothing.

“Plus I think it’s only fair, you know my name and everything about me, I should be allowed to know your name and your birthday.” Selina said.

“Uh-huh.” Tim said, amused.

There was another pause and Selina mimicked Tim in his kicking of his legs. “Soo… I do have a little present.”

“A present.” Tim repeated. Selina nodded. “For me.” Selina nodded again. “From you.” Tim finished processing the statement. “Well, I sure hope you didn’t steal it.”

Selina rummaged around in a pocket that seemed to appear from nowhere on her suit, finally pulling out one of those little jewelry boxes they give you to hold your necklace-present-thing in. It was red, and about two inches by an inch, with black polka-dots and a matching black ribbon tied in a bow. “Don’t be ridiculous, I wouldn’t give you something stolen. You’d just return it. This you can’t return. Oh, it’s not just from me. It’s from all of us.”

“All of us?” Tim repeated warily. He took the box carefully from her, as if it might explode.

“Yeah. Me, Ivy, Harley, Riddler, Scarecrow, Penguin, y’know, all of us.”

Now Tim really did think it was going to explode.

“Oh don’t worry, Tim, it’s fine. They don’t know it’s your birthday so no secret-identity spillage there.” She waited patiently for Tim to open it, but he didn’t. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“How do I know it won’t explode?”

Selina rolled her eyes. “Red Robin, clearly you haven’t been in Gotham that long-”

“I have lived here my whole life.”

“-Gotham villains network. And sure we’re usually very evil and crazy, and a good bunch of us aren’t invited to other villain shindigs because of it-”

“There are ‘villain shindigs’?”

“-but we do care about our enemies, believe it or not. Well, sometimes. On a good day. Anyway, we thought you deserved this, it just happens that it’s happening on your birthday. Plus, Mad Hatter got a handful of people to help because they just really want to feel important enough for you to use this for them.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“If we were in Metropolis, I would be. This would probably be a trap, and then five other villains whom I have been secretly working with to lure you into this ambush would jump you and we’d do a villain monologue and have a stupid, alliterative name, but no. This is Gotham. And in Gotham… well, there’s a reason your father usually sends us straight to Arkham.”

“You’re saying a bunch of villains got me a birthday present, because they want… to see me use it on them?”

“Not really on them, more for them. It’ll make more sense when you open it.” Selina said. Tim looked at her, concerned, and she gave him an encouraging smile.

Slowly Tim unraveled the ribbon and opened the small cardboard box.

It didn’t explode.

Well, that was a good start. He opened his eyes hesitantly, and was (honestly) a little let-down by what was in side.

“Thanks,” Tim said as he picked the present off of it’s cotton cushion, “I’ve always wanted a USB drive.”

“Go home, and open it the file. You won’t be disappointed.” Selina promised as she stood. She stretched her arms over her head and cracked her back. “And don’t patrol tonight. Invite some friends over, maybe have a movie marathon. You’re only young once, Tim, don’t waste it away chasing us.”

“Thanks Mom.” Tim said.

Selina grinned. “And give your father a kiss for me.”

“Give him one yourself.” Tim said as she flicked out her whip.

“You know, it’s funny, usually you and your siblings are trying to tell me the opposite. I do recall a recent event where I kissed your father and you harmonized your fake-throwing-up.”

“Yeah… that was Steph’s idea. One of the good ones too.”

Selina chuckled. “Use it in good health,” she said, nodding to the USB, and then she jumped and was gone.

Tim decided to go home to see what horrors the villainy of Gotham had wished him for his birthday. Maybe he’d patrol a little after, just to spite Selina. Though he had to say, this was one of the most comfortable talks he and she had had in a long time.

Also he was going to kill Bruce for telling Selina when his birthday was.

He slipped into his apartment and changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt. As soon as he stepped foot into his bedroom he had an undeniable urge to fall face first into his mattress and not wake up until Steph would inevitably bound through the door with his birthday waffles (complete with candles and all) during an ungodly hour like nine am. But he pulled out his computer instead and stuck in the flash-drive, praying that he wouldn’t get a virus.

He didn’t.

What was on the drive was something… surprisingly better.

Security footage from the top of the Police Station that Commissioner Gordon worked at, the one on which the batsignal had been placed, shining, as it was at the moment, ever so brightly. A beacon of hope and comfort to the everyday residents of Gotham City. At first, Tim saw nothing out of the ordinary, then it happened.

Villains began to seep onto the top of the building like ants to honey (some of them, like Clayface, literally seeping). They swarmed the roof, some even waved to the camera, like they knew Tim would be watching this. They worked and worked, bringing pieces of scrap metal and wires and glass? Tim watched as the huddle five feet from the batsignal seemed to pulse as people walked back and forth. Sometimes the huddle grew larger, and sometimes it grew smaller. Villains left and came, and Tim watched for thirty minutes as this continued, but not once did he get a clear picture of what they were huddling around.

Then they all turned to the camera, waved as one, then they began to disappear, sliding and jumping and walking and flying from the rooftop.

That’s when Tim understood, because then Tim finally saw it. They’d built him his own batsignal, one with his Red Robin logo on it. Right next to Batman’s.

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 9 of 56

It begins before I exit the house. I am already notified of its potential presence by some instinctive reticence to go out, years and years of exposure to this funny thing embedding in me an almost 6th sense as to its proximity or distance, not to say that the speed that it can cover any ground could not overturn this basic awareness of its position in a blink of an eye. I know that the culprit is not booze today, nor is this knowledge garlanded in self-denial. I know myself, I know this condition, it and me? We are old friends. I would admit freely the identity of the culprit if I were possessed of the information, I don't know the identity, I just know what it is not. Aware of the interval twixt my last Bacchanalian revelry and now, knowing that I am free of that influence today, I fortify my resolve and insist that I exit. I want to have coffee, not for coffee's sake but for the opportunity to participate in the local milieu, an environment I oft times deny myself when housebound by you know what. To prove I can do it. It is after all, only coffee, me, alone, no need even to entertain or engage with anyone, just simple coffee. I want to extend my range beyond that today and go to the library for a brief respite from my cocooned environment, my home, which is the primary backdrop to the lion share of my day, of every day. I see no reason why I cannot accomplish this ambition, heaven knows, it is a most modest ambition. I am irritated that I am struggling. I was able to execute the same task yesterday with fluid facility, and that was closer to the temporal fallout zone following cessation of my vice than is today.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OmpOc94s1a8

As I am walking up my road, rucksack in place, straps positioned in such a way to allow a tight tug as I walk to tense my arms and then release them, practical yoga on the go, the subtle relaxation technique concealed and hidden from any observer by the seeming authenticity of the natural purpose of pulling straps tighter on a backpack, I am aware that I may fool them, but I am not fooling me. It is definitely bad today. Damn. I will not turn back. The feeling is building and gathering momentum. But this is not the House of Commons, this is not an airport terminal, this is doable. Do I really care if people spot me struggling to walk in a straight line? Do I care if they look askance at my self-tactile behaviour as a sudden, abrupt sensation tickles my chest demanding the immediate attention of an arm to check that all is in order? Yes I care. I care very much. I am not yet ready to start jerking my head back and forth publicly, I am not yet prepared to consign myself to maniacal gestures or lend myself to hysterical vocal outbursts in public. I am sure I am not insane. Surely not. Did Aksenty Poprishchin know he had gone mad? I order my coffee, overwhelming relief that the establishment is half empty so that any unexpected and unintentional strange display as I order will be limited to the minimum number of observers, myself and the girl at the till. I go at once outside, isolated table as always, measuring my anxiety before the next phase of my expedition. Coffee. I really should avoid coffee. It is certainly not going to alleviate this sensation. But no, I think, why should I? I have tried giving up so many things, beer, sugar, companionship, I REFUSE to give up my one cup of coffee a day. Fuck that. I REFUSE to give up life in its entirety. A recurrent thought doffs its hat at me. Yes yes, maybe this does prove re-incarnation I say by way of acknowledgement, I am being punished to expiate the sins of some previous life, or lives perhaps. I smile in spite of myself. Silly sod! Drink your coffee and get on with it. I do that very thing. But as I walk towards the library, I am aware that my old friend is walking with me all the way, nice of it to take time out to keep me company. Dear friend. I stop in the Co-op. I'd rather not, but there is absolutely no reason for me not to be able to, the booze is historically distant. It cannot be that! What on earth is causing this? I collate my items, present myself at another till, another gargantuan effort, feigning all calm but fighting to suppress the screaming torrent inside. This is why I have never really put on too much weight. Such a funny thought to occur to me. Oh well, every cloud and all that.. I have bought some spicy thingamabobs, perhaps sugar levels are low, I didn't sleep well again, sugar spike or sugar degradation, I can't remember. I stopped all that research a while ago now. Eventually, the searching for a cause, an explanation, becomes too tiring, too frustrating, too disheartening and even when you think you've hit the mother load, suddenly the condition, playfully in abeyance for a while, teasing and taunting and dangling false hope, BOOOM, re-appears, wagging its finger as it whispers no, no! Not even warm, mate! Maybe being a mad Irishman would not be so bad, less effort...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DotsQoAQPoo

I eat my treats in the park adjacent to the library. I need a piss but that means crossing the bloody road. Oh ffs, more theatre, more stress but I'm not going to ask for the key to the library latrine (how alliterative is that, library latrine?). They might take pleasure in saying no today. I have no confidence in good things this Tuesday. The treats have worked, I feel better! It was a temporary sugar drop! Hurrah! I leave the park, prepare to cross the road. The treats haven't worked. Where are those damned straps? My sunglasses, they are a permanent fixture on my face, they absolutely attract attention, constantly worn all seasons as they are. Absolutely don't care about that, they stay, non negotiable. Without them I would be blinded by the unforgiving light of life. Deep breath, off I go. Misjudged. I look like a numpty as I'm suddenly running across a car-less road. Who cares? I don't care any more, nothing seems to work. Beer doesn't work either. I don't actually want a beer. No cravings at all. It's sugar. I am still quietly minded that sugar is a key issue. I make a detour to the shop to buy some Mikado chocolate sticks. After all, sugar probably isn't the issue at all. I want Mikado sticks. End of. Good price. Fifty five pence. What a palaver buying those.

I'm in the library. I'm writing this. I'm not fully focused as I am also contemplating the return leg of my fun filled jaunt. I want to go to the greengrocers. I want an avocado and eggs. Maybe I should give up all the things I eat and try a completely new diet. Oh yes, why not go to extremes again? Such resounding success resides in extremes after all. Yeah right. I wonder if I'll succeed in effecting my purchases or if I will be compelled to walk straight by, frustrated in my attempt. My old friend didn't come into the library with me. I am fairly sure it will be waiting for me at the door though. It is a good friend, it wouldn't desert me so readily. Loyal, faithful, proper pal. I am so tired. I could sleep but daytime sleeping you may as well kiss goodnight to a full night's repose. God knows I can't afford to lose any more sleep! I was fine indoors. I'm fine here, in this indoors, this library. It's the life in between that's the problem. I am beginning to think this condition is here for life. I'm not sure such thinking is helpful but after 35 years, well, perhaps I should wake up and smell the coffee. I wonder if smelling coffee is acceptable to my mate? I'll try it and see…..

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bkwc0RSihRI

Oh, my young friend called this morning, before I left. She's still with me, but...her use of language is a concern, she's making noises I've heard and made before. Her booze brain is working hard on her. It's trying to convince her that it wasn't booze that made her feel so awful that she wanted to stop. It's telling her that something else was/is responsible. It is conveniently not telling her that the reason why she is more in control, more able to cope, is precisely because she desisted from chucking down her throat the very thing that it is suggesting, gently at the moment, that she should try again now. It is being gentle with its argument thus far, but it won't be long before it begins to shout, to scream, to DEMAND that she obeys. It is a spoilt child, it is a monster fighting for survival itself, it will not cede lightly, it will fight, it will fight hard. Is she strong enough to resist? Am I?

PS I am about to leave the library and guess what? It has begun to rain, it is pouring down! Me in shorts and summer attire, a flimsy hooded fleece my only protection against the precipitation. Everyone in the vicinity in their summer garb. Good news at last!!! The streets will be emptying, people will be taking shelter under shop canopies, the rain is my best canopy, it is my escape hatch! I will be able to run, act aberrantly under the guise of normality in the face of these unsavoury conditions! I will make it to the greengrocer now, I am in no doubt. I will be able to run across car-less streets with reason, I will be able to hide beneath a fabricated hood of pretence, I can dance in the rain if I want, no-one will mind. I LOVE the rain. Today is not the first time the rain has been my best friend. The other friend, the nasty friend, that friend won’t be able to keep pace with me on the way home. Not now. Not now the rain is here. This could be the beginning of the best day EVER!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1ZYhVpdXbQ

Pps I can't wait to get home, this time I don't think I will ever go out again.

[readbookywooks]

APPENDIX (1) THE EVOLUTION OF THE GREAT TALES These interrelated but independent stories had from far back stood out from the long and complex history of Valar, Elves and Men in Valinor and the Great Lands; and in the years that followed his abandonment of the Lost Tales before they were completed my father turned away from prose composition and began work on a long poem with the title Turin son of Hurin and Glorund the Dragon, later changed in a revised version to The Children of Hurin. This was in the earlier 1920s, when he held appointments at the University of Leeds. For this poem he employed the ancient English alliterative metre (the verse form of Beowulf and other Anglo-Saxon poetry), imposing on modern English the demanding patterns of stress and 'initial rhyme' observed by the old poets: a skill in which he achieved great mastery, in very different modes, from the dramatic dialogue of The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth to the elegy for the men who died in the battle of the Pelennor Fields. The alliterative Children of Hurin was by far the longest of his poems in this metre, running to well over two thousand lines; yet he conceived it on so lavish a scale that even so he had reached no further in the narrative than the assault of the Dragon on Nargothrond when he abandoned it. With so much more of the Lost Tale still to come it would have needed on this scale many more thousands of lines; while a second version, abandoned at an earlier point in the narrative, is about double the length of the first version to that same point. In that part of the legend of the Children of Hurin that my father achieved in the alliterative poem the old story in The Book of Lost Tales was substantially extended and elaborated. Most notably, it was now that the great underground fortress-city of Nargothrond emerged, and the wide lands of its dominion (a central element not only in the legend of Turin and Nienor but in the history of the Elder Days of Middle-earth), with a description of the farmlands of the Elves of Nargothrond that gives a rare suggestion of the 'arts of peace' in the ancient world, such glimpses being few and far between. Coming south along the river Narog Turin and his companion (Gwindor in the text in this book) found the lands near the entrance to Nargothrond to all appearance deserted: . . . they came to a country     kindly tended; through flowery frith     and fair acres they fared, and found     of folk empty the leas and leasows     and the lawns of Narog, the teeming tilth     by trees enfolded twixt hills and river.     The hoes unrecked in the fields were flung,     and fallen ladders in the long grass lay     of the lush orchards; every tree there turned     its tangled head and eyed them secretly,     and the ears listened of the nodding grasses;     though noontide glowed on land and leaf,     their limbs were chilled. And so the two travellers came to the doors of Nargothrond, in the gorge of the Narog: there steeply stood     the strong shoulders of the hills, o'erhanging     the hurrying water; there shrouded in trees     a sheer terrace, wide and winding,     worn to smoothness, was fashioned in the face     of the falling slope. Doors there darkly     dim gigantic were hewn in the hillside;     huge their timbers, and their posts and lintels     of ponderous stone. Seized by Elves they were haled through the portal, which closed behind them: Ground and grumbled     on its great hinges the door gigantic;     with din ponderous it clanged and closed     like clap of thunder, and echoes awful     in empty corridors there ran and rumbled     under roofs unseen; the light was lost.     Then led them on down long and winding     lanes of darkness their guards guiding     their groping feet, till the faint flicker     of fiery torches flared before them;     fitful murmur as of many voices     in meeting thronged they heard as they hastened.     High sprang the roof. Round a sudden turning     they swung amazed, and saw a solemn     silent conclave, where hundreds hushed     in huge twilight neath distant domes     darkly vaulted them wordless waited. But in the text of The Children of Hurin given in this book we are told no more than this (†): And now they arose, and departing from Eithel Ivrin they journeyed southward along the banks of Narog, until they were taken by scouts of the Elves and brought as prisoners to the hidden stronghold. Thus did Turin come to Nargothrond. How did this come about? In what follows I shall try to answer that question. It seems virtually certain that all that my father wrote of his alliterative poem on Turin was accomplished at Leeds, and that he abandoned it at the end of 1924 or early in 1925; but why he did so must remain unknown. What he then turned to is however not mysterious: in the summer of 1925 he embarked on a new poem in a wholly different metre, octosyllabic rhyming couplets, entitled The Lay of Leithian 'Release from Bondage'. Thus he took up now another of the tales that he described years later, in 1951, as I have already noted, as full in treatment, independent, and yet linked to 'the general history'; for the subject of The Lay of Leithian is the legend of Beren and Luthien. He worked on this second long poem for six years, and in its turn abandoned it, in September 1931, having written more than 4000 lines. As does the alliterative Children of Hurin which it succeeded and supplanted, this poem represents a substantial advance in the evolution of the legend from the original Lost Tale of Beren and Luthien. While The Lay of Leithian was in progress, in 1926, he wrote a 'Sketch of the Mythology', expressly intended for R.W. Reynolds, who had been his teacher at King Edward's school in Birmingham, 'to explain the background of the alliterative version of Turin and the Dragon'. This brief manuscript, which would run to some twenty printed pages, was avowedly written as a synopsis, in the present tense and in a succinct style; and yet it was the starting-point of the subsequent 'Silmarillion' versions (though that name was not yet given). But while the entire mythological conception was set out in this text, the tale of Turin has very evidently pride of place �C and indeed the title in the manuscript is 'Sketch of the mythology with especial reference to the "Children of Hurin"', in keeping with his purpose in writing it. In 1930 there followed a much more substantial work, the Quenta Noldorinwa (the History of the Noldor: for the history of the Noldorin Elves is the central theme of 'The Silmarillion'). This was directly derived from the 'Sketch', and while much enlarging the earlier text and writing in a more finished manner, my father nonetheless still saw the Quenta very much as a summarising work, an epitome of far richer narrative conceptions: as is in any case clearly shown by the sub-title that he gave to it, in which he declared that it was 'a brief history [of the Noldor] drawn from the Book of Lost Tales'. It is to be borne in mind that at that time the Quenta represented (if only in a somewhat bare structure) the full extent of my father's 'imagined world'. It was not the history of the First Age, as it afterwards became, for there was as yet no Second Age, nor Third Age; there was no Numenor, no hobbits, and of course no Ring. The history ended with the Great Battle, in which Morgoth was finally defeated by the other Gods (the Valar), and by them 'thrust through the Door of Timeless Night into the Void, beyond the Walls of the World'; and my father wrote at the end of the Quenta: 'Such is the end of the tales of the days before the days in the Northern regions of the Western world.' Thus it will seem strange indeed that the Quenta of 1930 was nonetheless the only completed text (after the 'Sketch') of 'The Silmarillion' that he ever made; but as was so often the case, external pressures governed the evolution of his work. The Quenta was followed later in the 1930s by a new version in a beautiful manuscript, bearing at last the title Quenta Silmarillion, History ofthe Silmarilli. This was, or was to be, much longer than the preceding Quenta Noldorinwa, but the conception of the work as essentially a summarising of myths and legends (themselves of an altogether different nature and scope if fully told) was by no means lost, and is again defined in the title: 'The Quenta Silmarillion . . .. This is a history in brief drawn from many older tales; for all the matters that it contains were of old, and still are among the Eldar of the West, recounted more fully in other histories and songs.' It seems at least probable that my father's view of The Silmarillion did actually arise from the fact that what may be called the 'Quenta phase' of the work in the 1930s began in a condensed synopsis serving a particular purpose, but then underwent expansion and refinement in successive stages until it lost the appearance of a synopsis, but nonetheless retaining, from the form of its origin, a characteristic 'evenness' of tone. I have written elsewhere that 'the compendious or epitomising form and manner of The Silmarillion, with its suggestion of ages of poetry and ''lore" behind it, strongly evokes a sense of "untold tales", even in the telling of them; "distance" is never lost. There is no narrative urgency, the pressure and fear of the immediate and unknown event. We do not actually see the Silmarils as we see the Ring.' However, the Quenta Silmarillion in this form came to an abrupt and, as it turned out, a decisive end in 1937. The Hobbit was published by George Allen and Unwin on 21 September of that year, and not long afterwards, at the invitation of the publisher, my father sent in a number of his manuscripts, which were delivered in London on 15 November 1937. Among these was the Quenta Silmarillion, so far as it then went, ending in the middle of a sentence at the foot of a page. But while it was gone he continued the narrative in draft form as far as Turin's flight from Doriath and his taking up the life of an outlaw: passing the borders of the realm he gathered to himself a company of such houseless and desperate folk as could be found in those evil days lurking in the wild; and their hands were turned against all who came in their path, Elves, Men, or Orcs. This is the forerunner of the passage, in the text in this book p. 98, at the beginning of Turin among the Outlaws. My father had reached these words when the Quenta Silmarillion and the other manuscripts were returned to him; and three days later, on 19 December 1937, he wrote to Allen and Unwin saying: 'I have written the first chapter of a new story about Hobbits �C "A long expected party".' It was at this point that the continuous and evolving tradition of The Silmarillion in the summarising, Quenta mode came to an end, brought down in full flight, at Turin's departure from Doriath. The further history from that point remained during the years that followed in the simple, compressed, and undeveloped form of the Quenta of 1930, frozen, as it were, while the great structures of the Second and Third Ages arose with the writing of The Lord of the Rings. But that further history was of cardinal importance in the ancient legends, for the concluding stories (deriving from the original Book of Lost Tales) told of the disastrous history of Hurin, father of Turin, after Morgoth released him, and of the ruin of the Elvish kingdoms of Nargothrond, Doriath, and Gondolin, of which Gimli chanted in the mines of Moria many thousands of years afterwards. The world was fair, the mountains tall, In Elder Days before the fall Of mighty kings in Nargothrond And Gondolin, who now beyond The Western Seas have passed away. . . . And this was to be the crown and completion of the whole: the doom of the Noldorin Elves in their long struggle against the power of Morgoth, and the parts that Hurin and Turin played in that history; ending with the tale of Earendil, who escaped from the burning ruin of Gondolin. When, many years later, early in 1950, The Lord of the Rings was finished, my father turned with energy and confidence to 'the Matter of the Elder Days', now become 'the First Age'; and in the years immediately following he took out many old manuscripts from where they had long lain. Turning to The Silmarillion, he covered at this time the beautiful manuscript of the Quenta Silmarillion with corrections and expansions; but that revision ceased in 1951 before he reached the story of Turin, where the Quenta Silmarillion was abandoned in 1937 with the advent of 'the new story about Hobbits'. He began a revision of the Lay of Leithian (the poem in rhyming verse telling the story of Beren and Luthien that was abandoned in 1931) that soon became almost a new poem, of much greater accomplishment; but this petered out and was ultimately abandoned. He embarked on what was to be a long saga of Beren and Luthien in prose, closely based on the rewritten form of the Lay; but that too was abandoned. Thus his desire, shown in successive attempts, to render the first of the 'great tales' on the scale that he sought was never fulfilled. At that time also he turned again at last to the 'great tale' of the Fall of Gondolin, still extant only in the Lost Tale from some thirty-five years before and in the few pages devoted to it in the Quenta Noldorinwa of 1930. This was to be the presentation, when he was at the height of his powers, in close narrative and in all its bearings, of the extraordinary tale that he had read to the Essay Society of his college at Oxford in 1920, and which remained throughout his life a vital element in his imagination of the Elder Days. The special link with the tale of Turin lies in the brothers Hurin, father of Turin, and Huor, father of Tuor. Hurin and Huor in their youth entered the Elvish city of Gondolin, hidden within a circle of high mountains, as is told in The Children of Hurin (†); and afterwards, in the battle of Unnumbered Tears, they met again with Turgon, King of Gondolin, and he said to them (†): 'Not long now can Gondolin remain hidden, and being discovered it must fall.' And Huor replied: 'Yet if it stands only a little while, then out of your house shall come the hope of Elves and Men. This I say to you, lord, with the eyes of death: though we part here for ever, and I shall not look on your white walls again, from you and from me a new star shall arise.' This prophecy was fulfilled when Tuor, first cousin to Turin, came to Gondolin and wedded Idril, daughter of Turgon; for their son was Earendil: the 'new star', 'hope of Elves and Men', who escaped from Gondolin. In the prose saga of The Fall of Gondolin that was to be, begun probably in 1951, my father recounted the journey of Tuor and his Elvish companion, Voronwe, who guided him; and on the way, alone in the wilderness, they heard a cry in the woods: And as they waited one came through the trees, and they saw that he was a tall Man, armed, clad in black, with a long sword drawn; and they wondered, for the blade of the sword also was black, but the edges shone bright and cold. That was Turin, hastening from the sack of Nargothrond (†); but Tuor and Voronwe did not speak to him as he passed, and 'they knew not that Nargothrond had fallen, and this was Turin son of Hurin, the Blacksword. Thus only for a moment, and never again, did the paths of those kinsmen, Turin and Tuor, draw together.' In the new tale of Gondolin my father brought Tuor to the high place in the Encircling Mountains from where the eye could travel across the plain to the Hidden City; and there, grievously, he stopped, and never went further. And so in The Fall of Gondolin likewise he failed of his purpose; and we see neither Nargothrond nor Gondolin with his later vision. I have said elsewhere that 'with the completion of the great "intrusion" and departure of The Lord of the Rings, it seems that he returned to the Elder Days with a desire to take up again the far more ample scale with which he had begun long before, in The Book of Lost Tales. The completion of the Quenta Silmarillion remained an aim; but the "great tales", vastly developed from their original forms, from which its later chapters should be derived, were never achieved.' These remarks are true of the 'great tale' of The Children of Hurin as well; but in this case my father achieved much more, even though he was never able to bring a substantial part of the later and hugely extended version to final and finished form. At the same time as he turned again to the Lay of Leithian and The Fall of Gondolin he began his new work on The Children of Hurin, not with Turin's childhood, but with the latter part of the story, the culmination of his disastrous history after the destruction of Nargothrond. This is the text in this book from The Return of Turin to Dor-lomin (†) to his death. Why my father should have proceeded in this way, so unlike his usual practice of starting again at the beginning, I cannot explain. But in this case he left also among his papers a mass of later but undated writing concerned with the story from Turin's birth to the sack of Nargothrond, with great elaboration of the old versions and expansion into narrative previously unknown. By far the greater part of this work, if not all of it, belongs to the time following the actual publication of The Lord of the Rings. In those years The Children of Hurin became for him the dominant story of the end of the Elder Days, and for a long time he devoted all his thought to it. But he found it hard now to impose a firm narrative structure as the tale grew in complexity of character and event; and indeed in one long passage the story is contained in a patchwork of disconnected drafts and plot-outlines. Yet The Children of Hurin in its latest form is the chief narrative fiction of Middle-earth after the conclusion of The Lord of the Rings; and the life and death of Turin is portrayed with a convincing power and an immediacy scarcely to be found elsewhere among the peoples of Middle-earth. For this reason I have attempted in this book, after long study of the manuscripts, to form a text that provides a continuous narrative from start to finish, without the introduction of any elements that are not authentic in conception. (2) THE COMPOSITION OF THE TEXT In Unfinished Tales, published more than a quarter of a century ago, I presented a partial text of the long version of this tale, known as the Narn, from the Elvish title Narn i Chin Hurin, the Tale of the Children of Hurin. But that was one element in a large book of various content, and the text was very incomplete, in keeping with the general purpose and nature of the book: for I omitted a number of substantial passages (and one of them very long) where the Narn text and that in the much briefer version in The Silmarillion are very similar, or where I decided that no distinctive 'long' text could be provided. The form of the Narn in this book therefore differs in a number of ways from that in Unfinished Tales, some of them deriving from the far more thorough study of the formidable complex of manuscripts that I made after that book was published. This led me to different conclusions about the relations and sequence of some of the texts, chiefly in the extremely confusing evolution of the legend in the period of 'Turin among the Outlaws'. A description and explanation of the composition of this new text of The Children of Hurin follows here. An important element in all this is the peculiar status of the published Silmarillion; for as I have mentioned in the first part of this Appendix my father abandoned the Quenta Silmarillion at the point that he had reached (Turin's becoming an outlaw after his flight from Doriath) when he began The Lord of the Rings in 1937. In the formation of a narrative for the published work I made much use of The Annals of Beleriand, originally a 'Tale of Years', but which in successive versions grew and expanded into annalistic narrative in parallel with the successive 'Silmarillion' manuscripts, and which extended to the freeing of Hurin by Morgoth after the deaths of Turin and Nienor. Thus the first passage that I omitted from the version of the Narn i Chin Hurin in Unfinished Tales (p. 58 and note 1) is the account of the sojourn of Hurin and Huor in Gondolin in their youth; and I did so simply because the tale is told in The Silmarillion (pp. 158�C9). But my father did in fact write two versions: one of them was expressly intended for the opening of the Narn, but was very closely based on a passage in The Annals of Beleriand, and indeed for most of its length differs little. In The Silmarillion I used both texts, but here I have followed the Narn version. The second passage that I omitted from the Narn in Unfinished Tales (pp. 65�C6 and note 2) is the account of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, an omission made for the same reason; and here again my father wrote two versions, one in the Annals, and a second, much later but with the Annals text in front of him, and for the most part closely followed. This second narrative of the great battle was, again, expressly intended as a constituent element in the Narn (the text is headed Narn II, i.e. the second section of the Narn), and states at the outset († in the text in this book): 'Here there shall be recounted only those deeds which bear upon the fate of the House of Hador and the children of Hurin the Steadfast.' In pursuit of this my father retained from the Annals account only the description of the 'westward battle' and the destruction of the host of Fingon; and by this simplification and reduction of the narrative he altered the course of the battle as told in the Annals. In The Silmarillion I of course followed the Annals, though with some features taken from the Narn version; but in this book I have kept to the text that my father thought appropriate to the Narn as a whole. From Turin in Doriath the new text is a good deal changed in relation to that in Unfinished Tales. There is here a range of writing, much of it very rough, concerned with the same narrative elements at different stages of development, and in such a case it is obviously possible to take different views on how the original material should be treated. I have come to think that when I composed the text in Unfinished Tales I allowed myself more editorial freedom than was necessary. In this book I have reconsidered the original manuscripts and reconstituted the text, in many (usually very minor) places restoring the original words, introducing sentences or brief passages that should not have been omitted, correcting a few errors, and making different choices among the original readings. As regards the structure of the narrative in this period of Turin's life, from his flight out of Doriath to the lair of the outlaws on Amon Rûdh, my father had certain narrative 'elements' in mind: the trial of Turin before Thingol; the gifts of Thingol and Melian to Beleg; the maltreatment of Beleg by the outlaws in Turin's absence; the meetings of Turin and Beleg. He moved these 'elements' in relation to each other, and placed passages of dialogue in different contexts; but found it difficult to compose them into a settled 'plot' �C 'to find out what really happened'. But it seems now clear to me, after much further study, that my father did achieve a satisfying structure and sequence for this part of the story before he abandoned it; and also that the narrative in much reduced form that I composed for the published Silmarillion conforms to this �C but with one difference. In Unfinished Tales there is a third gap in the narrative on p. 96: the story breaks off at the point where Beleg, having at last found Turin among the outlaws, cannot persuade him to return to Doriath († in the new text), and does not take up again until the outlaws encounter the Petty-dwarves. Here I referred again to The Silmarillion for the filling of the gap, noting that there follows in the story Beleg's farewell to Turin and his return to Menegroth 'where he received the sword Anglachel from Thingol and lembas from Melian'. But it is in fact demonstrable that my father rejected this; for 'what really happened' was that Thingol gave Anglachel to Beleg after the trial of Turin, when Beleg first set off to find him. In the present text therefore the gift of the sword is placed at that point (†), and there is no mention there of the gift of lembas. In the later passage, when Beleg returned to Menegroth after the finding of Turin, there is of course no reference to Anglachel in the new text, but only to Melian's gift. This is a convenient point to notice that I have omitted from the text two passages that I included in Unfinished Tales but which are parenthetical to the narrative: these are the history of how the Dragon-helm came into the possession of Hador of Dor-lomin (Unfinished Tales, p. 75), and the origin of Saeros (Unfinished Tales, p. 77). It seems, incidentally, certain from a closer understanding of the relations of the manuscripts that my father rejected the name Saeros and replaced it by Orgol, which by 'linguistic accident' coincides with Old English orgol, orgel 'pride'. But it seems to me too late now to remove Saeros. The major lacuna in the narrative as given in Unfinished Tales (p. 104) is filled in the new text on pages 141 to 181, from the end of the section Of Mim the Dwarf and through The Land of Bow and Helm, The Death of Beleg, Turin in Nargothrond, and The Fall of Nargothrond. There is a complex relationship in this part of the 'Turin saga' between the original manuscripts, the story as it is told in The Silmarillion, the disconnected passages collected in the appendix to the Narn in Unfinished Tales, and the new text in this book. I have always supposed that it was my father's general intention, in the fullness of time, when he had achieved to his satisfaction the 'great tale' of Turin, to derive from it a much briefer form of the story in what one may call 'the Silmarillion mode'. But of course this did not happen; and so I undertook, now more than thirty years ago, the strange task of trying to simulate what he did not do: the writing of a 'Silmarillion' version of the latest form of the story, but deriving this from the heterogeneous materials of the 'long version', the Narn. That is Chapter 21 in the published Silmarillion. Thus the text in this book that fills the long gap in the story in Unfinished Tales is derived from the same original materials as is the corresponding passage in The Silmarillion (pp. 204�C15), but they are used for a different purpose in each case, and in the new text with a better understanding of the labyrinth of drafts and notes and their sequence. Much in the original manuscripts that was omitted or compressed in The Silmarillion remains available; but where there was nothing to be added to the Silmarillion version (as in the tale of the death of Beleg, derived from the Annals of Beleriand) that version is simply repeated. In the result, while I have had to introduce bridging passages here and there in the piecing together of different drafts, there is no element of extraneous 'invention' of any kind, however slight, in the longer text here presented. The text is nonetheless artificial, as it could not be otherwise: the more especially since this great body of manuscript represents a continual evolution in the actual story. Drafts that are essential to the formation of an uninterrupted narrative may in fact belong to an earlier stage. Thus, to give an example from an earlier point, a primary text for the story of the coming of Turin's band to the hill of Amon Rûdh, the dwelling place that they found upon it and their life there, and the ephemeral success of the land of Dor-Cuarthol, was written before there was any suggestion of the Petty-dwarves; and indeed a fully-developed description of Mim's house beneath the summit appears before Mim himself. In the remainder of the story, from Turin's return to Dor-lomin, to which my father gave a finished form, there are naturally very few differences from the text in Unfinished Tales. But there are two matters of detail in the account of the attack on Glaurung at Cabed-en-Aras where I have emended the original words and which should be explained. The first concerns the geography. It is said (†) that when Turin and his companions set out from Nen Girith on the fateful evening they did not go straight towards the Dragon, lying on the further side of the ravine, but took first the path towards the Crossings of Teiglin; and 'then, before they came so far, they turned southward by a narrow track' and went through the woods above the river towards Cabed-en-Aras. As they approached, in the original text of the passage, 'the first stars glimmered in the east behind them'. When I prepared the text for Unfinished Tales I did not observe that this could not be right, since they were certainly not moving in a westerly direction, but east, or southeast, away from the Crossings, and the first stars in the east must have been before them, not behind them. When discussing this in The War of the Jewels (1994, p. 157) I accepted the suggestion that the 'narrow track' going southward turned again westward to reach the Teiglin. But this seems to me now to be improbable, as being without point in the narrative, and that a much simpler solution is to emend 'behind them' to 'before them', as I have done in the new text. The sketch map that I drew in Unfinished Tales (p. 149) to illustrate the lie of the land is not in fact well oriented. It is seen from my father's map of Beleriand, and is so reproduced in my map for The Silmarillion, that Amon Obel was almost due east from the Crossings of Teiglin ('the moon rose beyond Amon Obel', p. 241), and the Teiglin was flowing south-east or south-southeast in the ravines. I have now redrawn the sketch map, and have entered also the approximate place of Cabed-en-Aras (it is said in the text, †, that 'right in the path of Glaurung there lay now one of these gorges, by no means the deepest, but the narrowest, just north of the inflow of Celebros'). art The second matter concerns the story of the slaying of Glaurung at the crossing of the ravine. There are here a draft and a final version. In the draft, Turin and his companions climbed up the further side of the chasm until they came beneath the brink; they hung there as the night passed, and Turin 'strove with dark dreams of dread in which all his will was given to clinging and holding'. When day came Glaurung prepared to cross at a point 'many paces to the northward', and so Turin had to climb down to the river-bed and then up the cliff again to get beneath the Dragon's belly. In the final version (†) Turin and Hunthor were only part way up the further side when Turin said that they were wasting their strength in climbing up now, before they knew where Glaurung would cross; 'they halted therefore and waited'. It is not said that they descended from where they were when they ceased to climb, and the passage concerning Turin's dream 'in which all his will was given to clinging' reappears from the draft text. But in the revised story there was no need for them to cling: they could and surely would have descended to the bottom and waited there. In fact, this is what they did: it is said in the final text (Unfinished Tales, p. 134) that they were not standing in Glaurung's path and that Turin 'clambered along the water-edge to come beneath him'. It seems then that the final story carries an unneeded trait from the previous draft. To give it coherence I have emended (†) 'since they were not standing right in Glaurung's path' to 'since they were not right in Glaurung's path', and 'clambered along the water-edge' to 'clambered along the cliff'. These are small matters in themselves, but they clarify what are perhaps the most sharply visualised scenes in the legends of the Elder Days, and one of the greatest events.

[justalittlebluetiefling]

Chapters 4 - 6: Sometimes I Can’t See Myself

Rating: T Fandom: The 100 Pairing: Bellamy x Clarke Chapter: 6/? Word Count: 1546 Words

Summary: (I suck at summaries) Modern AU set in college. This is the long journey through the lives of the Delinquents told almost entirely through Bellamy and Clarke’s POVs. This is a slow burn. And I mean really slow. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Also on AO3: Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6

Chapter 4

The first few days of classes had gone by without a hitch. Syllabus days were, in Clarke’s opinion, incredibly exciting. She had always been one of the only people in her class who loved going back to school and finding out what she was going to be learning that year. College was cooler, because she had chosen her classes from an insane amount of options. Granted, she chose them to get her mom off of her back, but she really did love science, so it wasn’t like the subject matter was going to bore her to death.

She and Octavia met whenever they had breaks between classes, and they compared their French notes for the first few days to make sure they could study together. Octavia’s quarter was going to be more physically demanding than mentally challenging. She was technically taking five classes, but three were technique, because she “didn’t want to lose her edge” and she wanted to "keep up with the competition.” They usually had time to study some of the basic French vocabulary gone over in each of their French classes before Octavia had to go to practice or after she got back to their room at night.

Clarke decided that she was going to like Tuesdays the best, because she had a chemistry lab in the afternoon instead of her 9:30 class. When she texted Octavia to tell her that she had an hour between the time that her Biology class ended and her Chemistry lab started, Octavia brought her lunch and they reviewed their French notes in front of the science hall. Before she had to run off and change for her Jazz class, Octavia promised to grab some food for Clarke, since she had her first shift at the clinic after her lab, and they couldn’t meet for dinner. True to her word, Abby had talked to her old friend, Eric Jackson, who was the current supervisor for any volunteers. And of course it wouldn’t matter if Abby’s daughter had to show up late occasionally. It only mattered that she showed up. Grumbling to herself, she made her way into the science building to find her class.

Clarke hesitated in the doorway to the stark-white lab. She had to squint against the harsh fluorescent lights for a moment to survey the room. About half of the class was full, four stools to each table. She was standing there, trying to decide if she should take an empty table and let people come to her when she noticed two guys waving in her general direction. She glanced behind her to make sure they weren’t waving at someone else before she joined them.

They grinned nervously as she set her bag on the stool and she reached her hand across the table to shake both of theirs. “I’m Clarke.”

“Jasper.”

“Monty.”

She smiled as she pulled her lab coat and safety glasses out of her bag. Monty looked pretty normal, shrugging out of a thin zip-up hoodie so he could put his own coat on. Jasper, on the other hand, was tall and skinny, and he didn’t appear to have safety glasses so much as tinted safety goggles which he wore on his head.

“You’re in our 9:30 lecture, right?” Monty asked.

“We thought you looked like you could use some friends,” Jasper said.

“Well, thanks.” I think. “You, uh… in the habit of picking up strays?”

They laughed. A little too hard. And a little too similarly, both hitting the table with their right hands and throwing their heads back.

“I think we’re both used to being strays,” Monty offered. “We’ve been best friends since birth, but I’m pretty sure no one else actually wanted to hang around us.”

That explained the similar laughs and at least made them more endearing. “Best friends since birth and you’re not sick of each other yet?”

Jasper grinned. “We’re sick of each other all the time.”

“But we haven’t been able to get rid of each other yet.” Monty mirrored Jasper’s grin.

“He’s my brother from another mother.”

Clarke was tempted to roll her eyes, but smiled instead. “Is this how you introduce yourselves to everyone all the time?”  

Monty shrugged. “Usually.”

“We like people to know what they’re getting into.”

“And you sat at our table, so you’re stuck with us all quarter.”

Clarke laughed, then, and was glad they had waved her over. “Somehow, I think I’ll manage.”

“So, what are you in Chemistry your first quarter for?” Jasper asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Pre-med? Kind of. What about you?”

“Chemical Engineering,” Monty answered.

“Just plain Chemistry. And how do you kind of pre-med?”

By the time the professor started up the lab, no one else had joined their table. The boys whispered to her across the table, occasionally making jokes about a girl across the room being made out of Copper and Tellurium, or another being made out of Florine, Iodine, and Neon. Clarke even snorted at one point, and tried to cover it with a fake cough when the professor glared at her. And as a nice change of pace from high school, she ended up following Jasper’s lead through most of the lab. It was refreshing to work with other people who actually liked science.  

After class was over, they even made plans to meet up and grab coffee before their lecture in the morning, and exchanged phone numbers. Clarke knew her mom would think she was crazy for giving her number out, but while Jasper and Monty were dorky, they were Clarke’s kind of dorky. And she wanted to make friends. Hell, she was taking the classes Abby wanted; she was volunteering at the clinic twice a week like Abby wanted; she could make whatever friends she wanted.

Clarke Griffin and Jasper Jordan are now friends. Clarke Griffin and Monty Green are now friends

Chapter 5

His sister’s dorm room had so much stuff in it and Bellamy was kind of pissed off. She had texted him and asked him to meet her in her room before dinner, and he was just… surprised at how lived in the room looked after only two weeks. But it had all been a trap. Instead of leaving for dinner, she stood in front of him, batting her eyes and pouting, because of course that would get him to cave.

“Fine. God, stop with the face. I’ll help you move your stupid furniture.”

“Thank you!” She jumped and clapped her hands, grinning.  

He just sighed. “Where do we start?”

Their first move was to flip Octavia’s bed so it was flat against the bathroom wall and slide an end table with a couple of drawers under it next to her desk. There was only minor drilling involved, but he was pretty sure this wasn't entirely above-board.

“Where’d you get the end tables? And the Keurig?”

“Clarke’s mom thought they’d complement the room. And Clarke brought the Keurig.” Octavia finished plugging it in on her table, and set two coffee mugs upside down next to it. She glared at him as he gave her desk a final push. “Don’t even start.”

“I didn’t say anything. What next?”

He rolled his eyes when she directed him to help her move her roommate’s bed to the opposite wall, closer to Octavia’s, and bit his tongue in an attempt to keep his thoughts inside. It worked when they pushed her desk across the room next, followed by the second end table. It stopped working when he set the mini-fridge on top of the end table.

“Why isn’t Princess the one helping you move this stuff?”

Octavia scoffed and moved to one end of the desk that had been partially blocking the door. The ridiculous third desk. “She’s at class for like, ever, today, and I didn’t really want to wait. Plus, I thought it would be a nice surprise for her to come in and see everything set up.”

It was Bellamy’s turn to scoff, but he moved to the other end of the desk to help O start moving it. “Seriously? Is she too good for a little hard labor?”

“I already told you that she likes to hike. I didn’t mean like those little baby hikes, either. No, keep it a little further from her ladder. Good. I meant, like those five hour hikes one way. Where do you think the drill came from anyway? She has this whole toolkit at the bottom of her closet, even though I’m not convinced she knows how to use any of them.” She wiped her forehead and then put her hands on her hips. “She already hates you, by the way.”

“How could she hate me? She doesn’t even know me.”

“You know, the whole ‘princess’ nickname crap.”

“Well,” he gestured around the room, “I rest my case. Do you want to move the closets over next to the desk?”

“Yes, please. Let’s get that done and go to dinner. I'm starving.” Octavia sighed as she moved away from the desk. “And do you want to know the first thing she said about you?”

“Should I say again that it’s weird that she’s saying things about me when she doesn’t even know me?”

“Nice alliteration.”

“Okay, dummy, when’s your English Comp course? Because you need it. I didn’t alliterate anything.”

“Whatever, dummy. She said that about your name.”

Bellamy wrinkled his nose as they pushed the second closet into place. He liked that his name was alliterative. It was the only thing he liked about it, really. “Do we really have to go out to eat so early?”

“Yes we do, because I have to study later. What time is it?”

He glanced at his phone. “5:00.”

“Okay, we can go in a minute. I know you don’t really want to meet Princess yet.” Octavia used air quotes when she used his nickname for her roommate. “Sit down for a sec. I have to fix a couple more things.”

He sat down and kept his mouth shut as his sister bustled around the room, rearranging a couple of things that she had moved earlier. First, she pulled a large purple, oval rug from her bed and threw it down in the now-empty space in the middle of the room. Then, she ran into the bathroom and pulled out a mirror to prop up against the empty wall. How do they have so much stuff?

Next, she ran to one of the closets and pulled out a small suitcase and set it on top of the new desk. She looked almost smug as she moved around the room. A couple of pictures came out of Princess’s desk drawer and Octavia put them up. From the distance, he could see a young blonde girl between her mom and dad in one, and a picture of the same blonde girl and some guy in prom attire standing next to a limo.  

Rich high school boyfriend. He had to force himself to stay quiet. He still had the same old Toyota Corolla he had in high school. Since he had been lucky enough to have a car, it didn’t make any sense for him to shell out money for a limo. His prom date hadn’t seemed to care anyway.

Finally, his sister shooed him out of her desk chair and pulled a few things out of her desk drawer. She set a picture of them at her sixteenth birthday party on her desk, along with another of them with their mother. She hung her old pair of ballet slippers by the ribbons from the bottom of her bed, and then the last thing she put up was an incredible charcoal picture of a ballerina on her wall.

“Where’s you get that, O? It’s really cool.”

“Oh…. I found it somewhere. I can’t remember.” She turned to him and smiled, but her eyes shone with a glee that unsettled him. “Let’s go, let’s go, big brother!”

He let her usher him out of the room. She was right. He didn’t really want to meet her roommate. Ever. The logical side of him knew it was inevitable, but he could put it off for a while.

“Hey, O?”

“Yeah?” She locked the door and linked her arm in his, pulling him down the hall.

“Do you really need these beds to be so close? I mean, usually in a small box, people want some separation from each other.”

“We don’t!” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “This makes it easier for us to gossip about hot people.”

“Good lord. I’m sorry I asked.”

The dorm room was beautiful. Clarke could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. While she had been in her Biology lab, Octavia had somehow managed to rearrange the entire room exactly as they discussed it. She had even set out her art supplies at the new desk, put Clarke’s pictures back up on her desk, and hung up the ballerina picture above her own desk again.

She checked her watch. 5:30. Octavia would probably be gone for another hour. There was nothing left for Clarke to do, except put the picture of her and Wells back in the desk, so she did the only thing she could think of as repayment. She took out her phone, took a step back towards the door, and took a picture to post on Facebook.

Clarke Griffin October 1 at 5:30pm Seriously? Best. Roommate. Ever. – with Octavia Blake Octavia Blake and 13 other people like this.

Octavia Blake i’m sooooooooo happy you like it. :) Clarke Griffin Like it? I freaking love it, O! Octavia Blake You called me O! Clarke Griffin I thought I’d test it out. :p How did you do all this? I would have helped! Octavia Blake i had a little help from Bellamy, but let’s pretend i didn’t tell you that. he wouldn’t want anyone to find out that he’s not actually an asshole…… Clarke Griffin I’ll refrain from commenting for now. Just tell him thanks for me, too.

Octavia grinned at him as he picked up his phone to check the notification he was ignoring. She had tagged him in a comment on Facebook that he didn’t want to read. Great. He read over the thread and glanced up at his sister, who was still grinning like an idiot.

“Just because she said thank you doesn’t mean I think she’s any less stuck up.”

Octavia just growled and kicked him under the table.

 Chapter 6

Less than two weeks into school, and Clarke was feeling right at home. She sat on her floor with Jasper and Monty, their Chemistry notes from their first week and a half of classes spread out between them. They would each ask a question and whoever answered first won a point. Clarke wasn’t entirely sure what they would win if they got the most points, but she was competitive enough that it made studying seem a lot more fun than it probably should have been. So, when they were both suddenly quiet, it caught her attention.

They stared at the front door, Monty with his eyebrows slightly raised and Jasper with his jaw dropped. Clarke turned to see Octavia grinning at the three of them from the door in her very thin, see-through sweater, sports bra, short dance shorts, leg warmers, and dance slippers.  

“Hey, Clarke.” She was obviously holding back laughter. “I forgot you were studying here.”

No you didn’t, dork. You wanted to see if they were cute. “O, this is Jasper. This is Monty. Guys, this is Octavia.”

“Right,” Jasper said weakly.

Monty cleared his throat. “It’s nice to meet you, Octavia.”

“I’m going to shower, and then I can take off if you guys need me to.”

“Oh, please don’t.” Jasper jumped up and adjusted the goggles on he always seemed to wear on his head. “You won’t bother us at all.”

Clarke snorted. “You don’t have to leave, O.”

It was hard to restore order after O closed the door to the bathroom. Clarke and Monty took turns throwing things at Jasper when it was his turn to ask or answer a question. When Octavia came back out fifteen minutes later wrapped in a towel and fumbled through her closet, Clarke almost choked on her water. Jasper’s eyes bugged out in his head, and it obviously took a considerable amount of effort on his part to keep his eyes trained on the ceiling. That was the point that Clarke realized that finishing their review was off the table.

“Should we all just go get ice cream or something?”

Jasper choked out something unintelligible while Monty chuckled under his breath.

Octavia grinned, clutching clean clothes to her chest. "I thought you'd never ask!"

"God, Clarke," Jasper exhaled when O went back into the bathroom to change. "Why didn't you ever mention how hot your roommate is?"

Monty gently shoved his friend over. "She doesn't have to tell you whenever she sees a hot girl."

"I think it should be a requirement of our friendship, actually."

"Clarke points out hot girls all the time," Octavia said, popping back out of the bathroom, once again in jean shorts and a tank top. Jasper blushed brightly. "Well, and guys, too. We at least have similar taste in guys."

Jasper jumped up. "Well, I sure hope she mentioned us."

Clarke and Monty rolled their eyes at each other. "Can we just go?" Monty asked. "I'd like to finish studying at some point this evening and now I won't be able to focus until we get some damn ice cream."

Octavia Blake and Jasper Jordan are now friends Octavia Blake and Monty Green are now friends