#the grand denouement: | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mdhwrites · 9 months ago

Text

Why Is Liar Reveal So Big?

It's hated after all. Maybe behind fridging and some other miscommunication plots, it seems to be one of the all time hated tropes ever. So why would a writer be dumb enough to use it? Let alone so many writers, even ones considered to be great, use it?

Because on paper it's a perfect plot structure.

I'm not exaggerating and I'm not setting something up. I'll of course talk about why so many of these plots face plant but from a writer's perspective, the use of lies like this is tantalizing. It comes with a three act structure baked in after all:

The cause for the lie and using it.

Growing closer to those you have lied to and realizing that other people and the truth are better than whatever you're getting out of the lie, creating a character arc for the main character and an underlying tension to everything.

Big climax when the lie comes out, people get upset and something has to be done to showcase that growth before a denouement that highlights how the liar is a better person now.

And even better is that you don't have to justify the conflict essentially at all beyond why the person is lying. After all, lying is one of the very few universal taboos that someone can do while still be redeemable to a general audience. You can't really walk back murder without it being almost entirely altruistic after all. You can have someone lie for selfish reasons though, or even good reasons, and have everyone understand that you just need to learn a lesson but that people will be justifiably pissed at you, even if you claim to have a good reason.

This is actually a really big deal with how The Liar Reveal trope is seen nowadays because, frankly, I think some people have been desensitized to the fact that lying is a big fucking deal actually. Everyone focuses on what the lie was about. Why the person lied. If they lied for a good reason or the thing they were lying about is nothing major, doesn't affect anyone in the grand scheme of things, what did it matter?

Well... Why did the person lie then? Lying is a universal taboo because it is a breach of trust and a show that someone around you doesn't deserve honesty. For one reason or another, lying to them was preferable to even a short conversation explaining what the fuck happened. This is weirdly actually why cheating, or more so getting caught cheating, is such a big deal. It's not that you cheated, it's what cheating represents: A break in how you let your partner see reality, a breach of trust and a dismissal of their worth because they didn't deserve to be talked to about these issues but instead, you decided it was better to run around behind their back. In both cases, worse yet, you only do it like this because you KNOW you wouldn't get away with it otherwise, or you believe that, so rather than own up to the consequences or put in the work to earn what you want to do or make up for the mistake you made, you lie.

That's genuinely reprehensible and will hurt people when they find out regardless of the reasons you had. You still broke their trust and they now have to deal with that. It's frankly why when I talk about Luz lying in The Owl House, i emphasize both how she's willing to tell the truth to some people but then explicitly, after being called out multiple times and making a promise to be more open/honest to her girlfriend, she lies to her partner more than ANYONE ELSE in the entire show. That is just strictly unhealthy and Amity should be fucking losing it by the end, either with self loathing by the diminishment of her person hood that having her partner so flippantly dismiss any reason to communicate with her would cause, or with fury at Luz for the fact that despite so many times seeing how lies hurt her, Luz just keeps fucking doing it!

But that would lead to the classic third act breakup in a romance story and EVERYONE hates that... Right?

Yeah no. The Third Act Breakup from lazy writers is admittedly where a LOT of the hate for this trope comes from but that's usually because the lie itself is dumb. You've already been chafing at the lie the entire time because frankly no one in their right mind wouldn't have just told the other person. That or it wasn't actually a lie and instead just the other person finding out something that their partner had literally no reason to ever bring up and then wildly overreact to. The lie only exists for this moment of cheap drama rather than having actually been a conflict in the story.

BUT. A good romance that has lying as a part of its premise will recognize that that's not okay. That it's just a dog shit foundation for a relationship. So... Then we get the climax I talked about. We get this big moment where the liar has to prove that they've changed, that they've learned and are willing to put the work into fixing the trust they broke and abused and come out the other side stronger for it. You know, actually give a satisfying conclusion to the fact that we've had to put up with this character lying about this from anywhere from ten minutes to fucking HOURS. Without that payoff, especially if the character doesn't appear to learn anything or grow without it... Why the fuck did we put up with the lie?

It's why SpyxFamily's conclusion can ONLY be when the three lies are likely revealed at the same time to Loid and Yor. Or, potentially better, Anya's lie is revealed first and as they deal with that, they realize each other's lie. Now SpyxFamily is actually one of the best examples of a liar reveal plot because you understand the stakes of these lies and why they must be kept, even by the child, VERY WELL. After all, in that story, if the lies come out, everyone? dies. Maybe Anya just gets sent back to an orphanage but that already is pretty bad but there's no doubt that Loid dies and Yor's job going public would still mean the Secret Police likely having to kill her. There's no doubt in any viewers' mind that these secrets HAVE to be kept.

But that tension has to pay off eventually. If the whole series goes by without our principal cast learning these secrets... Well, it's a Chekov's gun that never fires. You're waiting for it, it clearly needs to happen to resolve this plot point... And then it never does. If it does happen and Yor goes "Oh, you may be an enemy of my country but you're a good guy so I'm going to skip along," that's equally dissatisfying. It was such a big deal that an anti-climax like that would just kind of rob every bit of weight to it and probably cause rewatches to be a lot less satisfying than a big, knockout brawl over it or a big, heartfelt speech about how it doesn't matter what country they're from, what matters is that they're good people.

TOH spends like an hour and a half having the main character freaking out about how everyone will hate her for her what she thinks she needs to lie about... And then it never leads anywhere. It even gets resolved and then continues, making the very small, minuscule bit of payoff feel like nothing for a plot point that has been making the tone of the show MISERABLE. It's not even like we get a big group hug with Luz being overjoyed about being wrong to payoff all that angst. We get essentially nothing and the arc is left pretty much unresolved for no reason despite them having such a clear opportunity to wrap it up when her friends do get told the truth.

But people praised it because it didn't follow the formula. But... Did that actually make it better? Tropes exist for a reason. The Liar Reveal trope especially exists for a reason. They're very good at giving audiences the satisfaction they may want or to create good drama. If you do all the initial steps, include all of the deeply frustrating elements to a trope like this, all of those that have good drama and tension, and then only subvert the payoff?

I'm sorry but that's not clever storytelling. That's just bad. It's like when a tutorial makes fun of hand holding tutorials as it's painstakingly holding your hand through every step of the process. All you're doing is making the pain of the tropes worse while patting yourself on the back. While lying to me about not doing the thing you're doing.

And sorry but... Apparently you need to go through your own arc of this trope then since even only okay/mediocre versions of this trope like Over the Hedge recognize that by the end, it's better to be honest than being self congratulating and lying. Almost like themes like that are baked into the trope.

So maybe stop jumping on the band wagon and actually ask what the other problems are with how this trope is used rather than claiming this trope as a whole should never be done. It's a tool in a writer's toolbox like any trope and (besides fridging) it shouldn't be thrown out just because it has a bad rep. Not when it so clearly exists for a reason.

======+++++======

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead. If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

A Twitter you can follow too

And a Kofi if you like what I do and want to help out with the fact that disability doesn’t pay much.

#Liar reveal #Tropes #writing analysis #writing #TOH critical #spy x family

48 notes · View notes

literary-illuminati · 9 months ago

Text

2024 Book Review #15 – Vietnam: A New History by Christopher Goscha

This was my third history book of the year, and is about what you’d expect from the title and knowing it’s written by an academic historian – right down to the solid 100 pages of notes and citations at the end of it. I honestly picked it up because, well, because there was a tumblr post with a really intriguing quote from it floating around a few weeks back, and because I haven’t read any East/South-East Asian histories in a couple of years, and most of all because my library had a copy with no one ahead of me in the line for it.

The basic conceit of the book is that a great many English (and French) language histories that purport to be about Vietnam are in fact about the Vietnam War. That is, they are in truth about the years from 1945 to 1975, with the whole rest of history being either prelude or denouement, and, what’s worse, that they’re at least implicitly histories of Vietnam from the perspective of Americans. So it is trying to be a corrective, writing from the viewpoint of the Vietnamese and paying more attention to internal developments and contradictions than either Cold War grand strategy or the minutia of military operations. It...mostly succeeds?

The book’s very much...I want to say postcolonial, but honestly it’s been so long since I was in an actual seminar I’m probably butchering the term. Anyway, it is very suspicious of both colonial mythology and the sort of patriotic, anticolonial propaganda that a distorted version of is probably the median western anglophone’s only exposure to Vietnamese history. The book Fire in the Lake comes in for a lot of criticism, both in its own right and just as a synecdoche for the whole corpus of work that subordinated careful history or sociology with presenting Vietnamese history as one monolithic tale of glorious resistance to foreign imperialism – which, whatever its merits as political interventions in the America they were published in (then doing its level best to bomb the country into a corpse-strewn hellscape), simplify and exaggerate the actual history they’re telling to the point of deception.

Which really starts with the idea that there’s a singular, coherent Vietnam that has a history vanishing into the ancient past, let alone one always on the side of resistance and independence. The first several chapters of the book are devoted to Vietnam’s precolonial history, with a great deal of emphasis paid to the fact that its present borders are the result of a multi-generational imperial project of conquest, forced assimilation and mass settlement that was still active and ongoing as the French first moved in to colonize Cochinchina. This is complimented by an admittedly slightly tacked-on feeling section at the end of the main narrative that’s basically an explicit counterhistory, covering the same period of the rest of the book from the perspective of the Cham and the highland peoples who ultimately lost out to the Viet and Vietnamese state-making projects.

The book makes a whole organizing principle out of analogizing this Viet colonial project with first the Chinese (both Han and Ming) and later the French colonization of both the Viet and the whole region. It’s very interested in how they interacted with each other, as well – how post-Ming Viet rulers used Confucian/Han high culture to differentiate themselves from other SEAsian peoples and justify conquering them, how the French often continued and intensified campaigns of Viet settlement so as to have easily legible labor to exploit, how the romanized script introduced to make colonial administration easier became the medium of nationalist mass politics, that sort of thing.

The meat of the book is dedicated to the French colonial period and to a lesser extent the wars of independence, focused on the different national and colonial projects dedicated to developing or creating a ‘Vietnam’ or ‘Indochina’ or ‘Tonkin’ or what have you. Something it keeps returning to is that neither the French nor the Viet nor the various highland peoples ever had any singular, unified project they were all united behind – internal contradictions were often just as great as the conflicts between them.

Which, even if I didn’t know for a fact, I more or less took as a given regarding the colonized. But I really hadn’t realized how riven with contradictions and self-defeating the whole French colonial project was? There actually were fairly significant constituencies among the Vietnamese intelligentsia and bourgeoisie for the whole schema of colonial republicanism, for a liberal capitalist or social democratic state in some sort of wider French orbit. The French, in turn, used them or imprisoned them seemingly at random, and gave them basically nothing but words. The Catholic Church was better at indigenizing its hierarchy than the French Republic. They made the British in India look like reasonable honest brokers! (The end result of all this being, of course, that anyone who’d been willing to work with the French on anything but mercenary terms ended up marginal and delegitimized.)

The reasoning is pretty obvious (in that it mostly just boils down to ‘le racisme’), but it is kind of interesting how right up until the end the French colonial authorities were convinced Vietnam was a land of naturally conservative, traditionalist Confucian peasants, and that if they could just get a pliant Emperor to play the part and establish his ‘natural connection’ to the mandarinate and the peasantry the whole nation would be at peace. (Relatedly, Bo Dai’s whole biography reads like a parable).

Goscha’s natural sympathies are pretty clearly with what you might call the cultural intelligentsia, especially as the book moves through the war years. The members of the Literary Self Strengthening Movement, the writers of pacifist novels, poets and academics. The tragedy of inconvenient artists, whose perspective on the war was too bleak or mournful for either the Communists or the Nationalists and who ended up repressed regardless of which side of the partition they were on, gets a particular focus.

As does the similar fate of liberal democratic nationalists – the political tendencies Goscha pretty explicitly sympathizes with. He holds something of a grudge for how the Communist Party formed coalitions or alliances with these groups then systematically sidelined or violently suppressed them as soon as it was tactically convenient – but he’s also pretty clear-eyed that the French, Diem regime, and Americans did more or less the exact same thing as needed. The whole process is portrayed as a bit of a tragedy.

Despite the book’s professed intentions, the war years still eat up something like a third of its page count – but in its defence, those pages are far more interested in nation-building an cultural shifts than the specifics of military operations (with the two exceptions of Dien Bien Phu and the Tet Offensive, for obvious reasons). As far as high politics go, the book loses interest in the Nationalists almost entirely after the fall of Diem, which has the effect of portraying the American client governments that followed as hopeless and purely mercenary even compared to the plantation owners who collaborated with the French.

The sections covering post-reunification Vietnam are easily the book’s weakest, which is rather a shame. It’s essentially one long epilogue – the section on the Chinese invasion and the events preceding it was tantalizing and just crying out for more details (and I, uh, did not realize the degree to which the government just fell back on discourses of near-explicit racism and collective responsibility re: the large Chinese ethnic minority, especially in the south).

The rest of the book after that – there’s a passage I read at an impressionable age, about how every history book since the ‘90s has been obliged to end with a hopeful chapter about the connective power of the internet and the rising middle class and the irresistible spread of freedom and democracy, and how as time goes on more and more things happen but that future never seems to really get any closer. This is not a perspective I’d really generally endorse (certainly less so now than in peak End of History years), but it’s one that really comes to mind reading the book’s perspective on the years since the economic reforms and opening to global markets. Power and government policy are talked about in vague, general terms, and individual activists and civil society members are highlighted and lionized instead. The talk about how the communist party has functionally transitioned into a class-iniclusive formation legitimized by nationalism and consistent economic growth and how that growth might in time force it to liberalize sounds identical to how people talked about China in the 2000s.

(The tragic irony that, from 10,000 feet, the United States has everything it might have wanted out of Vietnam – strategic partner against China, enthusiastic participant in the mechanisms of global capitalism – and killed millions of people over a decade of warfare for functionally nothing is repeatedly remarked upon.)

Anyway, that disappointment aside, still a very interesting and informative book. Not one that really lives up to its promise, and its strongest chapters are specifically those focused on the more distant past – but even its weakest chapters still have at least some interesting anecdotes thrown in for colour. Potentially grading a bit generously because I’m comparing this to my last big 600 page history book in my head, but I don’t at all regret reading this one.

#book review #history #Vietnam: A New History #christopher goscha

36 notes · View notes

cyborg-squid · 1 month ago

Text

Its been rather (understandably) overshadowed by the Sarkaz and Theresa and Originium parts of the main story, but with Siege and Victoria, I love how her chant, when returning the sword (a motif reversal of the Arthurian sword and stone), started with "For the Glasgow Gang" followed by "For Londinium" and "For those we have lost. For those we can yet save". And this is spectacular because just the scene prior, she is lifted and carried through the air by the Last Steam Knight, which while being Charles Lynch also represents Allerdale, while it says "Glorious Victoria!". And while the Knight (and thus Allerdale) fight (or fought, in Millscar's case (maybe?)) for those specific ideas, it is not what Siege fights for, she is not the King of Victoria, shes not out here for glory, and she knows well by now the sins of the Victorian empire, but she is the leader of the Glasgow Gang, and shes seen how the people of Londinium suffer under both the Sarkaz and the Dukes, and how the Duke's own soldiers are sent to fight without proper PPE and are abandoned by them, and it is for her people that she fights.

And this is capped off really well in her Operator Record, where she fully declares she will be stepping into the 'ring' with Victoria, to put an end to the nations history of corruption and exploitation…

And give em the old one-two, Glasgow Gang style!

(I'd had some doubts over whether the Victoria Arc would be able to stick the landing, and if it just ended with Siege=King it wouldn't have, but it managed. And I know the denouement will continue with Ending a Grand Overture. I've gotta know what happens next!)

#arknights #my posts #arknights meta

12 notes · View notes

theresattrpgforthat · 2 years ago

Note

Hello! Do you have any recommendations for rpgs about wizards, particularly solo rpgs?

THEME: Solo Wizards

Hello, I think I've found some interesting games that deal with magic in some shape or form, from witches, to necromancers, to evil wizards!

Everyday Enchanter, by Beth and Angel Make Games.

We all face all sorts of struggles in our lives, but what if we could lean on a little bit of hidden magic to help us through it?

Everyday Enchanter is here to help! Enchant your glasses with VIBRANCY to allow you to feel wide awake when you put them on, give your favorite shirt RESILIENCE to make physical and mental pain feel more manageable, and when things really get bad, snuggle up to your favorite GROUNDED-enchanted stuffed animal to regain a feeling of safety and control.

To make the enchantments stronger, simply focus on them in times of need! Reminding yourself that you've got help, even if it's just your favorite pen in your pocket, can help make the tough times a bit more bearable or give you that extra boost of confidence to try something new! And if you really want to strengthen the enchantments, journal about your experiences. When you write about how you really wanted to buy that candy bar at the grocery store checkout but clutched your STAND FIRM-enchanted keychain and resisted temptation, you'll embed that power deeper into your mind. One day you won't even need the enchantments anymore...but until then, they're here for you!

If you bought the TTRPGs for Trans Rights in Florida (or the similarly-titled bundle for Texas), then you already own this game!

The Magus, by momatoes.

The Magus is a solo journaling tabletop RPG that takes you on a sweeping journey for power, ambition, and arcane mastery, at great personal and interpersonal cost.

As a journaling game, you will roll dice, track stats, create spells, and write imaginary experiences from the perspective of your character: a wizard, newly embarking on their quest for power, their head filled with grand visions of mastery.

This RPG is crunchy. You will use several polyhedral dice to manage four traits: Focus, Power, Control, and Scars, which shape how the protagonist overcomes challenges and meets their denouement after seven, fateful events.

This game is also beautiful. It has a number of stunning images used as backdrop against the text of the game, illuminating each part of your character sheet before diving into the meat of the game. The game itself pits your character between two choices: increasing the bonds between them and their loved ones, or sacrificing those opportunities to gain in power. You’ll roll a number of dice equal to your power in order to learn more spells, which are created using a combination of prompts and your own imagination.

Miscast, by Paradox Press Games.

You are undergoing training to become the successor of a Master Conjurer, but the only problem is that the Master Conjurer has a major Dragon's Dust addiction and spends most of their days higher than the mountains of Mar' Hollok. This leaves you solely responsible for your own training while also having to conjure up the creatures that eager customers come to your Master’s shop seeking. Long story short, you miscast spells a lot and end up conjuring a wide assortment of weird and fantastical monsters.

This game can be played solo, or it can be played in a group. You are using a deck of cards and a d6 to conjure different kinds of creatures; unfortunately, you’re only an apprentice, so the creatures don’t always come out right. You’ll use the cards from the different suits to determine the physical aspects of the monster, while you’ll use the d6 to determine how big the monster is, the monster’s nature, and what further Abnormalities it might be suffering. A game for funny random creatures, great for getting your creative juices going!

Sigils in the Dark, by Kurt Potts.

You have a need, a deep burning needthat drives you. Is it love, regret, desire?

The darkness whispers, “I can help you…”Minutes turn to hours as you try to focuson the voice. Symbols, shapes, swirl in thedarkness at the edge of your perception.If only you could grasp them, your needs would be met and more.

Sigils in the Dark is a journaling game and GM supplement. The goal of the game is to create an evil mage’s spellbook. You’ll take up the role of this wizard with a desperate need, in search of arcane power to get what they want. They will try to understand dark sigils just outside their perception by randomly generating spells and adding liner notes to their grimoire. In the end, you’ll have an in-game artifact that you can pass on to players and hopefully know a little more about what your evil mage has sacrificed to get where they are.

Using random roll tables, you’ll slowly create an artifact and a number of spells invented by a dark wizard. Each spell will also have a cost, and the wizard may choose to write notes that betray their own personality as they edit the spell the way an expert baker edits a recipe book.

This is great for slow character creation, as you try to figure out the motives and goals of a wizard character, and can also put together pieces of their life before they meet anyone else.

The Final Undertaking, by kay w.

Tonight you will prepare the body. You will hang the heavy black curtain, and you will put out the call in the town paper. Tomorrow night, when the sun sets, the chosen mourner will arrive, with their matter to discuss. You will sit with the body on one side, coaxing the soul back to the body, and the mourner will sit on the other. The final undertaking will begin.

THE FINAL UNDERTAKING is a one player journaling game about grief, resolution, necromancy, and a town. It uses a d4, a tarot deck, and pen and paper to tell a story about an undertaker, who works in a town to prepare bodies for burial, briefly brings the spirit back to the body, and then facilitates a conversation between a single mourner and the deceased about their unresolved business.

In this game, you will use the tarot cards to form a spread that tells the bones of a story -- the deceased, the object they are being buried with, the mourner here to visit them, and the unresolved business between them. From your spread, you will be able to construct small narratives and write them down as journal entries.

This is a lovingly written and designed game about putting the dead to rest. You will write journal entries from the point of view of an Undertaker, someone who is responsible for facilitating one last conversation between the spirit of the deceased and their mourner. You will play through 3 phases, which involve determining how well you knew the deceased, the situation at death, and what needs to be resolved before they can pass on to their final rest.The book comes with an oracle of Solemnities, which give you prompts to help you interpret each spread. You can play through the three phases as many times as you like, journaling for each one.

Grimoire, by Anna Landin.

Sparks of magic dance on your palms, flow like rivers through the world around you, and you can weave them into something powerful. You are a witch - and just as a tailor draws their patterns out, and cooks will write their well-kept secret recipes down, so you, too, will bind your spells in ink and paper and make for yourself a grimoire - a spellbook in which to keep your knowledge.

Grimoire is a roleplaying game for one person, played with a deck of regular playing cards with the jokers taken out, a six-sided die, and something to write your spells down with. The latter can be a blank notebook or a sketchbook, or one of the templates provided with these rules. Over the course of the game, you will make a spellbook of your own, a collection of spells you craft out of magic power and components available to you.

If you desire a character that’s a bit less evil wizard and a bit more homebrew witch, Grimoire is another great way to put together a spell book using randomly generated prompts and whatever components your witch has available.

#dnd #solo games #indie ttrpgs #tabletop games #wizards #game recommendations #asks

131 notes · View notes

luluwquidprocrow · 1 year ago

Text

sometimes a family is three orphans, their adopted daughter, one not-so-sad writer, and two triplets

frank, beatrice the second, the baudelaires, lemony, ernest, implied ernest/lemony

gen

3,598 words

In the grand tradition of all parents, the extended baudelaire family find themselves trying to pull a fast one.

for @asouefanworkevent's woevember day 4, the hotel denouement! some rambling headcanon nonsense half-fic about post-canon family that i had great fun doing. my favorite thing in the whole world is post-canon babybea interacting with her absurd enormous family. i love them all so much.

okay. so bear with me here

so i think most parents/guardians are at one point or another faced with Pulling The Ultimate Fast One on their children. this is related to Your Beloved Pet Died But We’re Telling You We Sent Them To Live On The Farm, but this version, in particular, is infinitely easier and harder. this one is The Switch. The Replacement. The Double. when the intrepid parent or guardian, under the cover of night, goes to the pet store to purchase The Exact Same Animal because the first animal had an untimely death. i will admit, this is the easiest with like, a goldfish, or something else small where you can usually get one that looks very similar.

now, for babybea, it’s a pumpkin.

so babybea (who is twelve at the time this story takes place), at the very end of september, carves a pumpkin, and she goes in with a VISION. she spends a couple hours on this pumpkin, carving an owl. It’s not, yknow, a realistic owl, but she adds a lot of tiny details, lots of lines for the feathers, and she carves a little mouse on the side too, and even gets the side of a tree in there, and the pumpkin carving kit the baudelaires purchased that year came with these little stick lights, to put in the owl eyes after carving, so it has orange eyes!! this is!!!! The neatest thing babybea has ever seen, and she is so thrilled with the results and very proud of this pumpkin. (for the record – violet carves a few pumpkins into a starry night with a moon, klaus carves monstera leaves, and. let’s be real. sunny bites a series of turnips into jack-o-lanterns.) (and then she stabs a couple white pumpkins into bigger jack-o-lanterns, for variety. all of them get different expressions!

sunny, arranging her carved vegetation on the baudelaire porch in order of emotion: perfect.) (no, i don’t know what order of emotion means. But sunny does.)

Then they all pile into violet’s car – pumpkin included!! – and drive almost an hour out of the city to the bildungsroman bed and breakfast. (frank and ernest decided, at this point in their lives, if they were going to commit to anything, it may as well be The Bit.) (it has a local reputation as a place with solid wifi, stellar bread, and great mattresses. The owners are considered minorly eccentric, mostly for the portrait they have in the lobby, of, just one of them.

some impassioned yelp review: okay so the stay was great big recommend PLEASE try the bread but i cannot figure out the story behind the portrait in the lobby????? it's just one one of the owners?????? but I don't understand why bc they're twins and it's just ONE of them?????? and he's wearing this frog-patterned tie in the painting and when you see them like in person. neither of them wear the tie. what's the deal here

the locals are sure it's not an ego thing, bc the owners don't seem to be self-centered or anything like that. In fact, if asked about the painting, both of them will say, “oh, that's a painting of my brother.”

an additional yelp comment: I think. there's THREE of them a third yelp comment: don't be silly, they're definitely twins.)

frank and ernest have a very elaborate series of outdoor autumn decorations, with lots of pumpkins and mini gourds and hay bales over the front steps and corn stalks on all the porch posts, and babybea wants to not only show her uncles her hard work, but also put the pumpkin on their steps where everyone can see it!!

(her uncles also include lemony, of course – I think he did live with the baudelaires for some time after reuniting babybea with them, but has recently moved into ernest's side of the private apartment at the back of the hotel. this was mildly distressing to babybea, who likes everyone she loves under the same roof, but she can't deny that lemony is very happy. and so is ernest. and now she can see all her uncles in the same place whenever she wants!! so the baudelaires tend to spend weekends at the bed and breakfast, because they also miss lemony. and they get to know frank and ernest better, which is very important to them, as people who are important to babybea, and to lemony, and, to the baudelaire's past.) (not to like, detract from the sentiment here, but i do need everyone to know that i imagine ernest spends like, 80% of his working hours just making out with lemony.) (okay maybe not 80%. ernest does legitimately get work done, it’s his hotel too. ………but like, a lot of time.)

AND SO. the baudelaires arrive at the bed and breakfast, and frank and ernest and lemony are very proud of their niece's pumpkin. they take a lot of pictures. (re: my previous post-canon thoughts, frank has actually acquired a phone now, and does text. it is a flip phone.) babybea places it, very gently, on the third front step, and is so pleased. sunny steals two mini gourds while looking ernest dead in the eye. ernest approves.

But october turns out to be unseasonably warm, and babybea’s pumpkin, while lovingly carved but now lacking the support an uncarved pumpkin has to keep itself A Pumpkin, does not take kindly to the weather, and babybea actually becomes very distressed at the smallest signs of rot beginning to form in her pumpkin, when it is only the second week of october. She doesn’t TELL anybody, because there’s not really much you can do about a pumpkin doing what a pumpkin does in warm weather, but she’s very upset. (almost uncharacteristically so. usually she’d say, oh, well that’s how it happens, and rather pleasantly move on, but lately, she’s been kind of. quieter than usual.) And frank, who spends a great deal of time at the front desk, closest to the pumpkins, becomes Concerned.

now, in general, babybea’s family is like, pretty good at being realistic with her. She is of course an optimist, but still Aware of a great deal of the ways of the world, given her family, her upbringing, lemony’s books, her own adventures, everything. You can’t really shield this twelve year old from the ways of the world, even if that way of the world is, a rotting vegetable. All things have their time, and it cannot be stopped. Including seasons, and in-season foods.

However. She put SO MUCH WORK into that pumpkin, and as the week goes by and the pumpkin starts to shrink in on itself, turning all of babybea’s work black from the inside out, those charming little glowstick eyes CAVING IN, and the baudelaire’s weekly weekend visit grows closer and closer, frank has been imagining her devastated reaction when she sees the pumpkin, and decides, He Must Pull The Fast One. he will re-carve the pumpkin, exactly as babybea carved it, replace the pumpkin, and no one will be the wiser. They get a little more time with the pumpkin, presumably at least until halloween, and his niece gets to see her beautiful handiwork as much as she likes. Maybe, you know, there is a little magic in the world after all, to make a pumpkin look so nice.

(also, i think frank has. A shaky relationship with babybea, from his end. She loves him, as much as she loves everyone else in her family, and babybea herself would NEVER rank her uncles in order of how well she knows or admires them, but i, lulu vandelay, putting this together, have no qualms in saying she knows lemony the best, bc she has spent the most time with him, between trying to find him and both of them trying to find the baudelaires and all of them having lived together, and she’s rather deeply attached to him – ernest is very personable, and funny, so he’s easy to get along with – and she and frank both like tiny detail work, so they have things in common, but frank always seems very awkward around her. And he is. It’s bc he’s very nervous around her. Frank doesn’t think he’s good with kids. And he is usually acutely aware that in an ideal world, he isn’t the one she’d be spending her time with, that dewey would be so much better at all of this than he is. A better parent, a better brother, a better everything. Because dewey always was, to frank. but, dewey would probably want frank to do as much as he could for her, and would believe him absolutely capable of doing it, without a doubt. So he wants to be a proper uncle to her and THIS is his opportunity, he thinks. He so desperately wants to do something kind and considerate and important for her, like family is supposed to do for each other.)

the thing about pumpkins, though, is that, for some reason, mid-october, THEY ALL DISAPPEAR. I’m serious, you ever try and find a good pumpkin even like a little over halfway through october? It can be hard.

frank: i need your assistance. ernest: i’ve killed my quota for the month. frank: i – ernest, please. ernest: alright, my apologies. What do you need? frank: a pumpkin. lemony, from the kitchen: jarrahdale or red warty? frank: no, i mean a carving pumpkin.

The three of them take a good, long look at babybea’s pumpkin. Uncle Instincts Have Activated. They, very solemnly, bury the pumpkin in the back garden (lemony is the one who takes one for the team and removes the glowstick eyes from the depths of sad, sad pumpkin). And then embark on a mission. Please imagine the three of them packed into a mint green 1960 chevy corvette. Sunglasses optional. Who’s driving? That is up to you, my friend. Oh, google informs me it is cascade green. Imagine accordingly. (yes, no corvette has ever been made with more than two seats, but isn’t that just funnier? They really are packed in there. Lemony sits in the middle.)

The hunt for the right pumpkin is long. Grueling! Kinda chilly! This is october!! Much comparison is made between potential pumpkins and the pictures they took of babybea’s pumpkin. Snacks are purchased. (lemony, who has recently been introduced to instagram, posts a picture of his pretzel. [ernest is out of focus in the corner, eating a chocolate ice cream cone.] [#pretzel.]

sunbad: what is that lemonysnicket: I have purchased a pretzel sunbad: without me sunbad: you’re dead to me.)

(it was actually not sunny who introduced lemony to instagram, although she was his first follower. It was klaus.) (klaus uses instagram mainly to never post anything ever, just to follow his favorite authors, so he wanted lemony to have an instagram, especially since he just moved out.) (klaus……..my heart………..) (oh, frank bought chex mix. he likes those gross rye bread pieces.)

(don’t get me started on lemony with an instagram……….I think this is a hilarious but also heartwarming thought – this man who has avoided being photographed for years and years and years and YEARS (yes that much repetition was in fact necessary) is at a point in his life here he is not only comfortable of taking pictures of his life, but he is capable of doing it, he’s allowed!! It’s still probably mostly food and it’s so good!!!!!!!! and think of the amount of pictures he keeps just in his phone gallery, too!!! violet’s inventions and klaus’ library displays and sunny’s baking and babybea’s school projects and ernest’s record collection and frank’s breakfast spreads, and nature shots with lemony’s thumb in the corner, AAAAAAAAAAAA) (uh, anyway, these men are on a mission. back to the mission.)

Eventually, they do find a comparable replacement pumpkin! Does it fit in the car? Lemony, by virtue of sitting in the middle, holds the pumpkin.

They return to the bed and breakfast. Between the three of them, many different knives, and all of their photos, frank and ernest and lemony painstakingly recreate babybea’s pumpkin, down to the last, smallest detail. Including the little mouse and the side of the tree and the feathers and everything. (frank does do most of the work, because ernest and lemony very much see that this is important to him, but he doesn’t mind them helping, because, yknow. This is about family, and babybea is their family too.) (frank feels like he owes lemony a lot. for trying to set the record straight about their past. or as straight as one could try and set it, with what all of them did. for their niece. for making ernest happy.) (ernest deserves to be happy, with everything they put each other through. ernest thinks the same for frank, too.)

(ugggggg if you told the three of them when they were so much younger that one day they’d stay up late recreating their niece’s perfect pumpkin masterpiece so she’s not upset about the passage of time………..)

(who’s in charge of the bed and breakfast while all of this is happening??

ernest: mallory, you’re in charge. mallory, a twenty-two year old with a major in hotel management who runs the front desk when ernest and frank can’t: sounds like a plan.

mallory has a deep respect for the denouements. meanwhile –

mallory: so you’re lemony snicket. lemony: i am, yes. mallory: you don’t look like your photo. lemony: that’s my legal representative. he has a stamp.)

meanwhile meanwhile – it is not necessarily about the pumpkin.

For babybea’s part, she already firmly believes that there is some sort of magic in the world. Even at twelve. Especially at twelve!! Look, she knows it wasn’t magic that reunited her with her family, that it was her and lemony’s hard work, but she wound up with SO much more family than she expected, when she first contacted lemony. And like, that is what there’s magic in. this whole group of people who care about her and love her and want to spend time with her. Babybea thinks she has the best family in the whole entire world. (AND SHE’S RIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!)

But that is also babybea’s problem right now. She loves her family so much, and she loves having them, and it’s been a couple months but she is still not entirely comfortable with people she loves being so far away from her. Not now! Not when they’re all supposed to be in the same space, like they’re supposed to be!! And some kids at school have teased her, not so much about her puzzle-piece family but that she talks about her uncles so much. She’s just proud of her family and she loves them!! But middle schoolers are like, rude as fuck sometimes, okay. And they don’t even think they’re saying anything wrong, just offhand comments about how much she talks about them. They don’t even know anything about her parents, not really, but babybea starts to feel like, it’s the unspoken throughline in what they’re saying, why doesn’t she ever talk about them? Why only her uncles, her guardians? They’re her family, but –

she feels almost guilty, that she goes through periods where she doesn’t even think of her parents at all, and periods where she can’t stop thinking about what they would look like and what they would be like, and that makes her feel like she doesn’t value the family she DOES have. So it’s not necessarily about the pumpkin starting to rot, what’s making her upset. It’s that, the pumpkin is another thing in a line of things babybea is Thinking about, things that aren’t Going the way she thought they were supposed to go. Her uncle moving out, missing somebody who was supposed to be there, her pumpkin not staying like it’s supposed to, she’s SUPPOSED to love her family but is she loving them right? Is she loving the right people right? Can you miss people you didn’t even know? And babybea has it very set in her head, the things she knows and is supposed to do – this is something she hasn’t quite worked on, but she’ll get to it eventually, she is still twelve – and they keep not happening like that. And now. Something else she worked really, really, really hard on, that isn’t going right either.

So she spends the week a little gloomy about her pumpkin, and worrying the whole ride friday afternoon after school to the bildungsroman bed and breakfast. Violet and klaus and sunny are very aware of babybea’s mood, and try to cheer her up by asking her about what she’ll be for halloween, but babybea’s heart is not super into this conversation. (she has ideas about a big group costume where they’re all different local birds, but now she’s not even sure about that.)

And then! She sees her pumpkin!! Glowy eyes and all!!!!! And, mysteriously, those little spots of rot she’d noticed the week before are gone, and, in fact, it looks a little sharper than it had before? And she didn’t think she’d cut the lid quite like that, but! That’s her pumpkin, exactly where it’s supposed to be!!! And it makes her feel just a little better. That’s good. That’s right. But she still can’t, entirely shake off all her previous feelings, about family. But. right now. Her pumpkin still looks very special.

Later, babybea can’t sleep. So she sneaks out of bed and goes down to the lobby, and sits down on the floor in front of the front desk, and looks at the big painting on the wall, that ernest did of her father.

This, of course, is where frank finds her. (because frank has never been very good at sleeping consistently, even when there’s nothing to worry about now, and he likes to walk through the hotel to make sure it’s secure.)

(ernest would say something very clever, like, aha, with a raised eyebrow, but all frank says is – )

frank: hello, beatrice. beatrice: oh! beatrice: hello, uncle frank. frank: may i sit down? beatrice: yes, please.

They spend a little while looking at the portrait.

beatrice: um – beatrice: does it –

What she wants to ask is, does it look very much like my father, which she then realizes is such a STUPID question if her father was a TRIPLET and she has a mirror image of him right in front of her, who acts like she thinks a father is supposed to act, so, but, it’s not like that doesn’t mean dewey didn’t look like dewey. Just because dewey looked like frank doesn’t mean he only looked like frank. And beatrice forgets, sometimes, that he would’ve just looked just like her uncles. But still!

beatrice: i mean – the painting, is it –

But she thinks it’s such a terrible thing to ask!! But frank knows EXACTLY what she means.

(some time ago, when the hotel had just opened and ernest had just painted the portrait of dewey –

ernest: i wanted it to look like him. And, it’s not like i, don’t know what he looks like. Looked like. I mean – that could just be me or you up there, couldn’t it. It doesn’t look like it’s him. frank: no, it does. frank, knowing exactly what he means and feeling like, he needs to make ernest Not look so abjectly miserable: you don’t look nearly as happy. ernest, in tears, very amused and touched and still terribly upset: wow!

The point being, god of course it looks like dewey. It couldn’t be anybody but dewey, even if dewey looks like other people. Dewey looks like himself, he looks like his family, he looks like beatrice, around the eyes. And family means lots of things. It means your guardians raising you, and your uncles raising you, and your father’s portrait on the wall and never knowing him at all, and loving so many people and being loved back by them, whether or not it’s Supposed to be a specific way, and sometimes it means missing somebody, sometimes it means missing different people, sometimes it means being sad for something you’re not sure if you should or could miss, sometimes it means not missing anyone at all, sometimes it means your uncle going to live with his definitely boyfriend even if they won’t say the words out loud who’s also your uncle just on the other side of your family and that doesn’t mean anyone’s going anywhere. Sometimes it means your pumpkin rotting, because things change. uh, does this make sense.) (admittedly, i put a lot of things in this.)

frank: yes, it looks very much like him. frank: i think about him a lot. beatrice: ......would he like my pumpkin? frank, without hesitation: absolutely. beatrice: do you like it? frank: i do.

of course babybea already knew that, but it's nice to hear. it's just. nice. it's not, like, everything? just like before. but beatrice is loved by a lot of people, and she loves them, too, and. she feels loved, right here, like she's supposed to, and that's what's Supposed to happen.

beatrice hugs him, and it's not the first time she's hugged frank, but it means more? frank hugs her back.

beatrice: thanks for fixing my pumpkin. frank: i’m sure i don’t know what you mean, beatrice.

beatrice hugs him again, and then goes back upstairs. frank looks a little longer at the portrait, and then goes to bed himself, and doesn't get back up until his alarm goes off.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #woevember #tadaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...................#you know what. for as much as i Did In Fact jam in here. bc my thoughts get away from me. i DO think i wrapped it up rather nicely.#the capitals are inconsistent bc i wrote this in googledocs and it just wants to capitalize EVERYTHING. AGAINST MY WILL #i am as stunned as you are that this is frank-centric. but sometimes the words happen.#if you were wondering. yes my parents did in fact Pull This Fast One on me. with. yes. fish.

35 notes · View notes

westeroslive · 4 months ago

Text

the warm breeze midsummer breeze dwindles down as long days slowly make way for long nights - autumnal equinox is nearing but her majesty's esteemed guests still enjoy the radiant sunrays the reach offers. the keen eye of lords, ladies and lieges of court alike notice the increased activity on the lands of highgarden ⸺ something is brewing but could it be more than just harvest season ? days pass and so do the lunar phases, nothing out of the ordinary until the host - the ruling lord tyrell has an announcement to make during dinner. under the approving eye of the queen, he speaks poetry of his wife, each of his declarations echoing louder and louder in his great hall until the denouement of the long - winded speech is reached. a celebration - grand festivities honoring the name day of the ruling lady tyrell ⸻ to provoke delirium instead of misfortune that haunts westeros at each turn. while the servants continue their strenuous performance behind the scenes - finalizing the details for the one week long feast that must make all forget about the recent tragedies, the westerosi aristocrats and foreign dignitaries from essos rest in their quarters on soft pillows and poster beds to brace themselves for seven days of celebrations. it is time for a new beginning, a blank page with an ending unplanned ... to persist and thrive, no longer just survive.

a single envelope with pale green seal and golden rosette stamped on it resides on the floor of each noble house's chambers, slipped under heavy wooden doors by attendants. little secrecies revealed by quill - penned ink on parchment paper, detailed phrasing on the activities during the weeklong festivities ⸺ the star of the name day jubilee written in simple riddle, shrewd minds resolve it with ease while even the less unfortunate can read between the lines.

" the heart of chivalry is not complete without a knight and their crowned queen. "

a grand - scale event that will take place over several days while other endeavors never stop. the noble guests are able to enjoy different types of activities - from archery contests on the training grounds to dancing on westerosi tunes during the lavish feast each night but beware the ruling lady will have some conditions. for those who wish to enjoy the beauty of highgarden, the gardens offer plenty games for youngest members of court, which includes games of hide and seek with sweet treats hidden in the green maze, apple biting in the fountains, plucking the home - grown fruits of house tyrell and bake treats with them in the outside kitchens, and many other carnival games. even the highborn who wish to unwind can watch a play composed by artists unfold with ivy and climbing roses in the backdrop, or sail along with a pleasure barge along the clear blue and calm water of the mander with a cup of freshly brewed tea in the hand. one thing is certain, everyone will be entertained as the ruling lord does everything to ensure the pleasure of his guests and the success of his wife's celebrations.

OUT OF CHARACTER: LET THERE BE CAKE

our event will last approximately two weeks, starting on friday august 16 until sunday september 1st, to give everyone enough time to write and create some scandalous little adventures. the event will be followed by a little revelation that brings us in a new chapter, with fun galore.

make sure to tag all your open starters under westeros.cake and not the main tag - that way all event related starters will be at one place. don't be afraid to cap your open and closed starters - it's better to not overwhelm yourself. be sure to include everyone when doing a closed starter call but also respect everyone's cap !

as you guessed correctly, we will be having a mini - event that is the joust tourney. members have until friday ( noon est ) to sign up for the activity. with regard to the favours typically given to joust participants, we will post more information in our server asap ! on friday, we will post more details on the joust but the outcomes will be chosen by the wheel of fate.

#asoiaf rp #period rp #fantasy rp #got rp #westeros.event #westeros.cake

8 notes · View notes

jeremiahofphilo · 8 months ago

Note

@talia-sings:

Under the soft glow of the morning sun, the renowned opera diva, Talia, stepped away from the limelight and into the quaint serenity of a little-known flower shop. The shop was a stark contrast to the grand stages she was accustomed to—a place where delicate fragrances mingled with the earthy scent of greenery, and the vibrant colors of the blooms seemed to sing a silent aria of their own.

Talia, draped in a flowing silk scarf that did little to hide her identity, moved with a grace that belied her turmoil. Today, she wasn't the star that commanded the adoration of the masses; she was a woman about to close a chapter of her life. Her eyes, usually so bright and commanding on stage, now searched for the perfect symbol of farewell—a final gift for the man who had once been her greatest fan and confidant, soon to be her ex-husband.

As she looked around, her mind echoed with the memories of a love that, like the most haunting of operas, had soared to the heights of passion before descending into a quiet denouement.

"Hi welcome!" Jeremiah greets in the usual cheerful tone he assumes at greeting his patrons. His gaze and his hands, however, are busy, clipping stems as he works towards deadlines. It had been a long night, tracking a lead for his best friend, and the lack of sleep was starting to show.

"What can I do for you, pretty Miss? Let me know if I been help you find anything in particular."

Although he had developed into a better actor, especially for these moments, tone even and cheerful, the redness in his eyes would often betray him.

#rp #The Performer; Talia #//ohh hello!#answered #jeremiahs bouquet box

10 notes · View notes

louisetaylor · 2 years ago

Text

The novel we all need:

Beatrice's 200-page novel/letter to Lemony containing all of the many reasons why she can't marry him. The darkly elegant turn-of-the-century opera/ballet/high-society vibes of Lemony, Beatrice, Esme, Jerome, Kit, Jacques, and perhaps Olaf, all scheming and murdering and flirting in The Unnamed Big City.

Cab rides fraught with menace and apprehension, with Jacques whistling up in front as he drives. Beatrice narrating everything with a grief (and loquacity) similar to Lemony's, but looking toward the future rather than the past. Sometimes she writes "a word which here means" because Lemony says it so often. Food and fire as recurring themes. Beatrice might have an unnerving attraction to fire...and one instance of intentional fire-setting because she knows two instances would legally make her a pyromaniac.

Her uncertainty between Lemony and Bertrand, two very different men who are equally pretentious in different ways (and subtly fight over her in Clever Verbal Skirmishes, which she loves). The whole story taking place in the melodramatic atmosphere of the opera, perhaps divided into acts. Brief arias of soliloquy from Beatrice, letters from Lemony (!!!) and her friendship with the mysterious Duchess R of Winnipeg. GORGEOUS clothes on absolutely everyone.

Lemony and Beatrice bonding over their love of root beer floats, not to mention questioning the whole system of V.F.D. thinking violence is never acceptable and the world should always be quiet. I've always wondered why Beatrice chose Bertrand over Lemony, and if she really loved Lemony more. LEMONY COOKING FOR BEATRICE AT 2 AM IN HER APARTMENT AFTER A SHOW. Lemony crying on her shoulder at the bitterness of the world, disapproving of her preference for sweet milky tea. Bertrand symbolizing fire (candles, chandeliers in operas and restaurants), and Lemony symbolizing water (rain, the sea, lunch at Briny Beach, splashing with her in the fountain).

The fated tea party, the friendship turned simmering rivalry between Esme and Beatrice, the theft of the sugar bowl when Beatrice finally turns her back on Esme. Kit's subtle glances at Olaf, who's still young and kind and handsome and full of hope and mischief, even though he's a bit of a jerk. Kit believes in him. Everyone else just believes in Kit. Jacques flirting with anything in a skirt just because he likes making people blush and giggle.

The denouement is the grand opera where Beatrice's performance is followed by the death of Olaf's father and the breaking of the fellowship.

Notes in the margins written by Lemony and punctuated by tear stains.

At the end of the book, she quotes Robert Frost. "Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire."

After the quotation, Lemony writes "She burned too bright for this world" from Wuthering Heights, which she loved.

Perhaps the overall meaning of the book could be that Beatrice (a name which here means "she who brings happiness") loves Lemony, and always will, because he symbolizes grief and lost love and wishing for the safe childhood that none of them ever had. But Lemony is the past, and Bertrand is the future. Beatrice has always been surrounded by people who wrote and spoke and sang of the beauty of grief, the glory of sadness. But Beatrice couldn't help holding a happiness as deep as grief. She loves dark stories and art as much as anyone (she's an opera singer, after all) but she's hungry for happiness.

And she had happiness with Lemony when he gave her food, when he hugged her and told her all the ways he would love her, when he played the accordion so well it made her cry. The manuscript is stained with her tears too. She needs to make people happy, and as much as Lemony loved her, she could never make him happy. He saw and adored her deep capacity for happiness, but he couldn't receive it. Like Dante, he admired Beatrice's glow from afar. Now he descends into the inferno, where his angel can't go with him.

The novel is perhaps named A Series of Fortunate Events. Because they all happened with him at her side. Although she has to leave him, she mourns for him, for his endless wandering on the run, and never regrets the time she spent with him. She finally learned to see herself as he always saw her--a beacon of light and warmth who held all the friends together, even as the times grew dark and the force of destiny worked on them all.

Perhaps it was really Beatrice who symbolized fire all the time, not Bertrand. Lemony was water, and water smothers fire and dims its light. But Bertrand might symbolize air. Bertrand might be a fresh breath of air on Mount Fraught, liking the outdoors more than Lemony, making mischievous jokes with Olaf, slurping loudly from a straw while Lemony does a Dramatic Philosophical Monologue, meeting her on windy streets with newspapers (articles written by Lemony) blowing around their feet. Bertrand pining in the background as Lemony kisses Beatrice's hand. She feels more alive and awake with Bertrand. Water reflects fire, but air feeds it.

The whole novel contains foreshadowing of all the unfortunate events to come, some of the references quite clever and amusing even as they break your heart. But one comes away from the book with a sense that though Beatrice was always doomed to die...she LIVED. The book must be warm and full of life, contrasting the books about her children in a world that is often too cold and too quiet. The world is too quiet without her. But it's not a sad ending. Because she left a legacy of warmth and hope and love. Lemony wrote the children's stories for her sake, because he loved her and remembered her.

He loved her for her fiery happiness, even as she loved him for his grief and vulnerability. In the scene where Lemony confesses his love for Beatrice, a moth flies into the candle on the table between them, symbolic of Lemony wishing his heart out to be with her warmth, even as it doomed him to exile in a cold and quiet world.

But even this is not the end. Because someday, after Beatrice and Lemony have had their say, young Beatrice Baudelaire II will drop a note through the ceiling of Lemony's office, and the old Beatrice somehow gave Lemony a child to love and take care of, in a strange and roundabout way.

Edit: Allusions to heaven and hell throughout the work, hell being the arson perpetrated by the Bad Guys, and purgatory being the wide empty hinterlands that lie outside the city. Lemony chooses to stay in hell to help the unfortunate people in it, making him a bit of a Christ figure. Bertrand climbing his way up out of hell and reaching for the heaven of a safe home and family. Beatrice symbolizing an angel who fell, or was pushed, from heaven a long time ago and being a bit of a Christ figure herself for going deep into Lemony's sadness and understanding him, thus saving him even as he saves her.

#long post #beatrice baudelaire #lemony snicket #a series of unfortunate events #story idea #symbolism #poetry #V.F.D.#vfd #literary analysis #of a novel that doesn't actually exist #classic literature #dark academia #religious symbolism #religious imagery #dante alighieri #dante's inferno #paradise lost #which i haven't actually read

86 notes · View notes

duckielover151 · 10 months ago

Text

Some OPLA Thoughts: Episode 7

This one was really interesting. There were some definite changes made to Nami's backstory that I honestly haven't decided yet whether I like or not. (Or maybe 'accept' is a better word than 'like'...)

I think it's a shame that live action-only viewers won't get as complete a view of Bellemere. Of how she used to be a troublemaker just like Nami... only to straighten herself out in the Navy... and then surprise everyone by giving that life up to raise two orphans she'd found when she was still so young... There was this palpable sense of pride in the town regarding Bellemere in the anime that I just didn't get here. But there may still be time for more flashbacks in the denouement, once Arlong's taken care of.

What we're not going to get back is that Nojiko definitely has... maybe not less of a personality, but I feel like there's less purpose to her presence here.

This is where I'm a little torn, because I think Nami's backstory as the live action depicts it does still work. The one where she offers herself to Arlong willingly and genuinely doesn't let on to anybody that she's doing it to try and save the town and not out of greed or a more selfish sort of survival.

But the anime's version was just so powerful. That Nojiko knew her sister's true intentions... that she was the only person Nami could rely on (or so she thought) whenever she returned home... It just gave a whole different kind of depth to their relationship. And a different kind of strength to Nojiko for being in on it, her sister's confidant.

I think the emotion behind the scene where Nami tells her everything is still really great. I don't think the live action's version is a bad portrayal. And I understand that it was likely tweaked because the nuances of the original would have taken more time to get across than they had. ...Like I said, I'm just a little torn. Mourning the things we lost a bit. (But it's nowhere near how I felt about them leaving out some fundamental things about Kuina so...)

I've gotta say, shoutout to Lily Fisher, who played young Nami. It's not like I've had any complaints about the acting/casting so far, but she really killed it. There are big name adult actors who don't achieve the kind of emotion she poured into her lines here.

They did not skimp at all on Arlong's crew and Arlong Park, and it's been really great. (Though I have to say, I haven't noticed Hachi anywhere in the crowd yet... I'm hoping to see him show up in the battle.)

There's been so much included in every single episode... This one was almost entirely spent in Nami's village, exploring her background and motivations... but it still feels so dense. I'm really glad they were prepared to dedicate so much time to it. (Though I really loved the scene at the Baratie this episode. Helmeppo and Koby getting shit done while Zeff and Garp are on their date... Koby actually brought up an angle I've never considered before-- that Helmeppo might be able to relate to Luffy... just a bit? for growing up on the reign of Axe-Hand Morgan, maybe wanting some freedom? I'd like to see that explored.)

And you know what? I'd actually already seen the scene where Nami finally breaks down and asks for Luffy's help, and I wasn't all that impressed by it. It felt kind of awkward in the live action. But seeing it again, as part of the whole episode, right after Arlong's speech, preparing his crew to destroy the village... Seeing it as part of the whole episode, it evoked all the emotions it was meant to.

I am just a little bit worried about the last episode maybe feeling rushed? I've seen the screenshot of that iconic scene where they all formally announce their dreams as they're heading into the Grand Line and... There's just no way they can get there with only one episode to go, right? Loguetown can't happen in season one, if we haven't dealt with Arlong yet. They must move that scene up, because there just isn't time.

But this adaptation has made me so eager to see this crew reach the site of Roger's execution... I haven't even finished it yet, and I'm already impatient for season two!

#one piece #opla #episode 7

7 notes · View notes

chevaleri · 11 months ago

Note

Over the years, he has contented himself with knowing there are some people he may never see again. Life's path does not always intersect with those he holds most dear; so he continues forward with a smile, enjoying whatever he's doing and whoever's doing it as his side.

He never loses the hope that perhaps a day may come where he will again see a long-lost friend. This Academy has a peculiar way of bringing back those lost faces.

Laslow hides a yawn behind his hand as he enters the professor's lounge. Classes mercifully start later today, and he'd taken full advantage by sleeping in. His jacket hangs off his shoulders; he hadn't yet bothered to properly put it on. The dishevelment adds to his charm!

"Good morning!" He chirps, smiling at the few people milling about the room. A rather imposing figure gives him pause. Their back is to him, but there's something familiar about the hair--

"Milord Xander?"

his voice is enough.

it is enough to send a surge of adrenaline through the king, jolting through his stomach and blossoming into his chest. eyes widen, fixated on the calendar, mouth slightly agape before he seals it once more into a thin line. it has been a long time.

xander is imposing. muscular, strong, a figure that stands on the frontlines and a tone that does not request but demand respect. long has it been since he has raised it in genuine intent ( that is to say - to cut, to slaughter, to pierce a path through that is both clear and safe for his people to walk ), and yet all the same the habits of war had not ebbed from his being. to those who saw his back, they would see nothing but the sturdy and stalwart figure in which he always is.

and which, he always will be. it was laslows departure that came, and left, and the forgiveness he vowed to present him with never had to arrive - it was long since presented in the hypothetical denouement of their relationship. spoken in ' what ifs ? ' in the privacy of campgrounds ( or was it his quarters ? or was it the garden ? it had been some time since , and yet xander recalls the conversation with grand clarity. laslow , who he had chastised for his troubles , he remembers it well. the surroundings did not exactly matter ).

( and yet, he does remember the day in which he departed. the frost of the air and the bite of loss, but the seasons changing and the return to peri. )

( she cried. xander did not. )

( he knew that it would be the last time he saw laslow. and that was okay, so long as he abided by the sacred vow of simply living. )

( ah, laslow kept his vow. . . dutiful retainer, albeit removed. )

slowly does he turn around to meet his gaze, a nod of acknowledgement and a pace towards him.

"so you have continued to draw breath, laslow," and yet, he still speaks to him with the same tone he always did - that of familiarity, that of a friend. not the rigidity he usually is host to, or the forced eloquence of nobility in a nohrian court. "i see you've followed my wishes even in my absence. well done."

but, laslow was no longer his retainer, was he? the lines were no longer neatly arranged and organized as xander always liked.

"but you did not need my forgiveness for your disappearance. i was rested to know you were likely alive," and he assumes there is awkwardness from laslow, one in which he concealed under his fine-tuned smiles and charismatic gestures. "and though nohr misses your company, i am sure fodlan will cherish it in equal amounts."

xander never tried to track him down. he had once vowed, a long time ago, in their earlier conversations - and yet, it had dawned on him in the latter that such was not the wishes of his companion. it was moreso the painful wounds of his formers retainer torn anew, seeping with blood he never wanted to bleed in front of others.

". . . and from your rather relaxed appearance," he sighs, but the faintest of a smile perks on his lips. "you seem to be cherishing fodlan just as much."

usually, he would tell laslow to present himself better. to look the part of a retainer. but for now, he will rest on such a statement, as a grand exception in the scheme of things.

but, it was still strange to see laslow now. "as we stand, you and i are equals," and he wants to ask him if hes still his retainer. there is a mass in his throat that refuses to settle, an instinctive desire to request laslow comes home-- no. back. he does not know if nohr is his home, and yet he hopes laslow found a degree of warmth in her cold from the people he had met. ". . . i . . ."

he doesn't say it. face changes, and he changes the track of what he was going to speak.

"am glad to see you well."

#MAN WHAD DA HELL.WHAT TH EFUHELL #WHAT THE HELL WHAT THE HELL KOMAEDA NAGITO WHAT THE HELL #✗ ┈┈ in character.#✗ ┈┈ laslow.

7 notes · View notes

romanovsonelastdance · 2 years ago

Note

Also a Russian article about Alexander and Olga Nikolaevna: (so that it would not be difficult for you, translation)

Speaking about the loves of Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna, it is impossible to ignore this one. Probably, it was a very short infatuation – maybe just a WILLINGNESS to fall in love – but it was this feeling that had every chance of getting continued. After all, Olga finally liked an equal in position: the prince of a foreign power.

In December 1913, Olga realized that her "sun" was Pavel Voronov (more?) he does not reciprocate her, and made several emotional entries about him in his diary, using a secret cipher. His behavior confuses and worries her, feelings are looking for a way out... on December 21, the denouement follows: "I found out that my S. is marrying Olga Kleinmichel. God send him happiness, my beloved S. It's hard. Sadly. He would be pleased." Olga also encrypted this entry. It would seem that the time has come to immerse yourself in experiences for a long time, but after a few weeks the mysterious cipher appears in the diary again. And if earlier he hid only declarations of love for Voronov, now Olga writes about something else (further encrypted fragments are italicized): "January 12. Alexander Serbian arrived (In Russian uniform. Wow, what eyes). January 15th. At 9:00, my Dad and Aunt and I went to St. Petersburg for the consecration of the new church of the Fedorovskaya Mother of God in honor of the 300th anniversary. It lasted from 10 to 1 ¼. Metropolitan, etc. A bright, large, good church. I was standing next to Alexander the Serbian, he was a little further away. Wow, wow what. January 17th. We had breakfast with Dad, Aunt, Kostya and Alexander. I sat with him. Cute, embarrassing and beautiful horror. Wow wow what. January 19th. Mom I don't know how. I fell asleep after 3 hours at night. God save her and everyone , and Alexander S. January 23. After in the Winter Courtyard. a big breakfast. Then we talked. I've been with Alexander for quite a long time. God save him. The 25th of January. We had breakfast with Papa, T. Olga, gr. Fredericks and Alexander S. He came to say goodbye. He's leaving in 2-3 days, it's a pity, dear."

Alexander Karageorgievich was 7 years older than Olga. He had a lot to do with Russia: he had Russian tutors, was the godson of Alexander III and the named son of Nicholas II; studied at the School of Jurisprudence and in the Page Corps in St. Petersburg. He became heir to the throne in 1909, after his elder brother George was forced to give up his rights to the throne under the pressure of a scandal. In the same year, Alexander almost asked for the hand of Princess Tatiana Konstantinovna. The Serbian minister and even the father-king personally made a cautious reconnaissance on this matter. But to the Konstantinovichs, the position of the Karageorgievich dynasty on the throne seemed too shaky. K.R., Tatiana's father, wrote in his diary: "I told her in detail about the claims of the Serbian court and about the reasons prompting us to advise her to refuse this offer. Although she rather likes Sandro Serbian, she did not hesitate to give him up." However, a year later the families still became related: Alexander's sister Elena married Grand Duke John Konstantinovich. For the Karageorgievichs, this was a great success, because they took the throne only in 1903 by a coup. In Europe, they were not really recognized, and not all Romanovs were disposed to them. In 1912-13, Alexander managed to show valor in the Balkan wars. And then he thought about getting married again, but now he was interested in the daughter of the tsar himself. ONLY WHICH ONE?

In this newspaper for November 1913, it was suggested that Olga would become the wife of Alexander of Serbia, and Tatiana – Karol of Romania. On the other hand, the English Wikipedia, with reference to Serbian archives, assures that Prime Minister Nikola Pasic wrote to Nicholas II in January 1914 about Alexander's intention to marry one of the Grand duchesses. Nikolai did not object and even noticed the interest that his daughter showed in the prince – but it was allegedly not Olga, but Tatiana. (And Russian Wikipedia generally assures: "Tatiana and Alexander wrote letters to each other until their death. When Alexander found out about Tatiana's murder, he was confused and almost committed suicide").Alexander's sister Elena, in her memoirs, which I have not yet been able to find, seemed to say that she noticed some "chemistry" between Alexander and Olga. Well, Olga's diary allows us to conclude that Alexander was not indifferent to her, and I think the Serbian heir himself paid attention to her. You can only guess what prevented you from taking the next step.In the spring, Olga is fond of Molokhovets, then the war begins, but all this does not prevent her from remembering Alexander on various occasions:"February 24.At 12 o'clock my mother received the Bavarian, Belgian, Danish and Serbian envoys (Nalajovic. So reminds Alexander C).February 25.(in small print: I haven't seen Alexander for a month since)March 25.I haven't seen Alexandra for 2 months. <...>(added, apparently, later) I haven 't seen Alexander S. for 2 months .September 4.The Pope gave Alexander of Serbia the St. George Cross 4 art . I am very happy. God help me.October 6.John, Gabriel and Kostya and Elena had lunch. They told me a lot of interesting things. She's a piece of Alexander, and I love her.October 16.At 7 o'clock we went to the infirmary with Mom, we went to everyone, and talked to K. and I. in the corridor. Everyone knows Alexander by his body."

Alexander was a thin brunette with a mustache and large facial features (and with "WOW" eyes) – this is exactly the type of appearance that has always attracted Olga. Besides, apparently, he was a really nice person. "The prince turned out to have a kind and friendly character," writes the grandson of his tutor, the famous priest Gleb Kaleda. "To please his tutor, the prince wrote to him in Russian, asking for forgiveness in advance for possible mistakes, although there were none." He was remembered as a tactful person, sometimes shy and prone to melancholy, a lover of reading – there is some similarity with Olga's character.Olga did not see Alexander again, but a year later she noted in her diary the anniversary of his arrival:"January 12, 1915.The year that I saw Alexander at Vsevolod's christening.January 15th.The year is consecrated. churches. Alexander.January 17th.Mordvinov and Count Fredericks were having breakfast. And a year ago Alexander. God bless him."It seems that even in the spring of 1916, Pasic expressed the hope that Olga would become the Serbian queen. But in January of this year, the date of the meeting with Alexander was not noted in the diary. At this time, Olga hardly thought about anyone other than Dmitry Shah-Bagov. (By the way, here her fate again intersects with the fate of Tatiana Konstantinovna, who was very friendly with the elder daughters of Nicholas II. Instead of the Serbian prince, she married a simple Caucasian officer for love, and he even served in the Erivan regiment – like Olga's lover. Because She even knew Shah Bagov and calls him a "cute, cute boy" in a letter. Surely Olga was thinking about what could repeat her path).But in 1917 Olga remembers again:"January 17th. Exactly 3 years ago today Alexander Serbsky had breakfast with us." Here the name is also written in cipher, and this is the last encrypted entry in the diary.

Olga Nikolaevna's biographers like to repeat that she wanted to stay in Russia, so she did not marry the Romanian heir Karol. The interest in Alexander the Serbian shows that, most likely, it was not in the country: it was just Karol who was unsympathetic to Olga. I think she understood that sooner or later she would have to leave her homeland. It is unlikely that the rumors had passed her by, she knew who her husbands were supposed to be, and she did not mind falling in love with a cute Orthodox prince. Maybe by the beginning of 17, she returned to thinking about him because someone had dispelled her hopes for a happy morganatic marriage? Although what could be a wedding when the revolution is already at the threshold. What kind of fate would await her in a small semi-literate kingdom, forever torn apart from the outside and from the inside?Alexander married in 1922 the sister of the same Karol (there is a version that he dragged on for so long, because until then he did not believe in the death of Olga). It seems that he became a good family man, ruled his country for more than 10 difficult years. Yugoslavia in the 20s became a fragment of the Russian Atlantis, the center of white emigration. Sometimes there is an opinion that Alexander was so supportive of Russian refugees in memory of his first love – "Olga/Tatiana." But I think Russia meant a lot to him anyway. Alexander was killed in 1934 by a terrorist, his family fled the Nazis during the war and never returned to their homeland. Well, instead of Maria, Olga could become a Romanian widow and exile… No matter how her fate turned out, it would not be easy. The time of the Slavic monarchs has passed.

Thank you for sharing!!

#otmaa marriages

27 notes · View notes

sabraeal · 1 year ago

Text

All That Remains, Chapter 11: The Prince and the Princess [Part 1]

[Read on AO3]

Written for both Obiyuki Bingo and also a very, very overdue birthday gift for @lusakina, who has nearly waited a year for me to be able to sit down and write this. It’s a slightly shorter chapter than these typically are, but this one needed to be more of an interlude between parts...

With a flourish of the pen, the girl escapes.

That is how a story would tell of this, wouldn’t it? A grand climax racing into the gentle arms of a denouement. An exultant cry of victory followed by a blank page.

Our fingers straddle the border between two words; one in which there is the possibility of failure, and the other which brings us the relief of success. It is so easy for us to turn the page, to shift from those dire hours to the moment of safety. A girl escapes, and in the space of a breath, she is far away, only pale echo of that danger buried beneath the next step of her journey.

There is no time to dwell on the between; on the sleepless hours wondering whether you will awake to the sounds of stomps and shouts, of whether you can afford to stop to catch a breath or must chance a push onward, hoping your own legs won’t give out beneath you. On the page there is only room for failure or flight, and anything in between...

That is where the story abandons you. Escape is only a small sliver of survival, and the the rest, the rest--

Is living. And oh, that is by far the hardest part.

Lata taught her how to ride on one of the sparse spring days in Lilias; Shirayuki had been the one to ask, only a day or so before, and he had huffed, at least it might make you more useful. A tepid response, one she thought had been as polite a refusal as a man like him could come, until she bumped into him in the courtyard, mouth wrapped halfway around a good morning, before he hauled her off to the stable.

Unlike most of her studies, riding did not come easy. No, instead it came in fits and starts; months of taking two steps forward and ten steps back until one day her amiable little mare broke out into a canter, and Shirayuki kept her seat. Good, the professor had grunted, hunching his furs up around his ears. I thought I might just wash my hands of this and let that poor excuse for a knight cart you around like luggage.

Please, my lord, Obi had called from his perch on the fence, a gloved hand pressed courteously to his chest. She would be my precious cargo.

Whatever he chose to call it, it was baggage, and if there was one thing Shirayuki refused to be, it was a burden. Riding might not come easy, but she had kept with it until not even Zen could find a flaw with her seat, and yet--

And yet, beside Kiki she sits a graceful as a rock in a bucket; unlikely to tumble out but by no means proficient. At least, not the way she thought she was. That’s the difference between learning a good seat and being born to it, she supposes, which wouldn’t matter at all if the moment Kiki slowed them to a trot, she didn’t feel as if her own backside would fall off.

“Catch your breath,” Kiki tells her, voice raised no louder than the susurrus of leaves around them. “We’ll need to keep moving.”

A protest hones itself to a point at the tip of her tongue-- there’s no need to stop, it wants to say, I won’t slow you down-- but Kiki only stares at her, kindness leaving her no quarter. The fight sloughs off her like a skin-- no, like a gown, ill-fitting and heavy, made for someone else. Another Shirayuki, one more used to saddles and stirrups, who spent her days toiling in the gardens and summers riding across the North, who hadn’t been afraid to throw a blanket over dewy grass to stare up at the stars.

Not the one who had wasted two seasons trying to slip into a smile that pinched at the seams. Who hadn’t let her friend simply disappear while she chose which spoon to stir her tea.

Nails bite into the flesh of her palms, sharper than she ever kept them in Wirant. She’d needed them short, then; longer ones were liable to break, for dirt to get caked deep within the bed, but in the palace...

Ornamental, Haki had called them, hanging polished nails over the divan. The same as Shirayuki had been, when all the flounces settled. Nothing more but another face to decorate its halls.

Her breath steams in the air, a gasping specter that dissolves as soon as it appears, never quite solid enough to grasp. Glancing over her shoulder, the lights of Wistal still shimmering past the dark ribbon of the river, she feels much the same. Insubstantial. Hardly real. That if she just reached out she could touch those glittering lamps as if they were no more than shards of wunderocks, meant to settle in the palm of her hands and never burn.

The city’s so tame from so far away.

“We should go back.”

It’s barely more than a whisper, a toneless sigh into the night, but Kiki’s stare cuts to her, sharp as the blade at her waist. “Shirayuki. You have just fled the palace and its protections.” The night blurs the details of her expression into shadow, but the angle of her brows says sharp, skeptical. “Are you really so eager to return?”

“I-I didn’t say we should go back t-there.” She skips over her words like a stone on a still pond, hands clenched tight around her reins. “I just meant...the market. Or maybe one of the pubs. Somewhere...”

Somewhere there’s something left of him, she doesn’t say. There’s no point when Kiki is already shaking her head, gold shimmering silver in the moonlight. “You do understand, don’t you? We cannot go back. Not to the palace, not to the market...not to Wistal at all.”

“But that was the last place Obi was seen,” she insists, stomach as knotted as the leather strap in her hands. “If we’re going to find anything, it will be there. If we leave now--”

“Obi has made some...questionable decisions in the past” --the wrinkle between Kiki’s brows discourages further inquiry-- “but if he was trying to slip out of Wistal under the Watch’s nose, he wouldn’t stop for a drink.”

Her mouth works-- wasn’t he supposed to be a slither-outer? a man who abandoned his post to make a fool of himself in every tavern before he’d crawl back into our good graces?-- but that venom stings even her own lips, a set of lies too raw a wound in her to even scrape out a single sound. To pretend she could believe that of him for a moment, even just to win her way--

You do know that house plants don’t drink champagne, she informs him, poking her head around the improbable girth of this fiddle leaf fig. Even if it does reside in a manor house.

Gold flashes up from where he crouches, startled, flute hanging limply from his fingers. It’s only a moment before it smooths into an easy confidence, into a grin that’s right at home with all these silver platters and crystal glass. It’s either this or off one of these fancy little balconies, and I got to say, there aren’t ladies walking out from beneath these leaves. Well, except you, Miss.

His playfulness is contagious. You could just drink it, if you need to. I doubt this would give you anything more serious than a case of the hiccups. She leans in, conspiratorial. In my professional opinion.

You may be the granddaughter of a bar, Miss, but never on the streets I’ve visited. A corner of his mouth twists as he levers himself to his feet. Then you’d know that the only knife you carry with you is a sharp one.

--It would be a betrayal. Another way for her to turn her back on him, to forget the man he’d become over these past six years, the one who-- who--

So, it was worth having? Just asking makes her stomach lurch, like holding her foot over a precipice, trying to judge the distance down. It’s just a necklace, just Obi, and yet she’s tangled up in anticipation, breathless for that tilt of his head, that soft flicker of a smile.

Of course. Both fondness and confusion add an airiness to his laugh, as if his answer were as certain as the ground beneath their feet, or as necessary as the air between them. It would have been just for the fact that you lent it to me.

--It’s impossible.

Not that he loved her; of course he did, but in the way a key loved its lock, or a hand might miss its pair. The way she felt when she walked the streets in front of her grandparents’ old pub and heard laughing through the glass. She was a best-worn glove, a favorite meal, a half-remembered chorus to a lullaby.

She was home, the same way he was for her. And to think of it as the same as the knights in the palace tapestries, kneeling at the feet of their mistresses and longing, to think of it as desire...

They’re mistaken, is all. Of anyone, she knew him best. If his feelings had changed, then surely she would have noticed, she would have known--

You don’t know anything about me, Miss.

Her breath catches, painful in her chest. “But we don’t know where to look. If there’s a lead, then--”

“There’s nothing left to find of him there.” Each word hits her like a whip crack, a lash she’s not braced to take. “They will be looking for you, Shirayuki. Not now, but in the morning...”

In the morning, one of Haki’s maids would bustle into her chambers, throwing curtains wide and informing her of the gowns the consort had set out for her perusal. But today her hands would sink into the covers and find no flesh beneath it, no young lady to dress as her mistress pleased. No, there would only be a haphazard bundle of silk and velvet and down, and then, then--

Kiki’s eyes narrow as she gazes back, a hunter gauging the distance between her and her target. “It will take them time to search the grounds, to realize...”

That she was gone. No, that she, of her own volition, had left.

Kiki’s mare nickers as she leads her head around, back to the road ahead. “We should use what time we have wisely.”

It is simple to have purpose when there is trouble at your back, when there is the promise of menace nipping at your heels. One step yields to the next with such ease that it becomes nothing more than an instinct, heedless of fear and of good sense. Forward is so much more tenable as a directive than a decision.

Second thoughts are the luxury of those whose stories have an after.

Night passes into day, and what once seemed a steady, sustainable pace turns relentless. Kiki turns them off the main road at first light-- we can cover your hair, but two women riding hard is a rare enough sight still-- leading them first through fields of tall grass and wildflowers, so many Shirayuki is tempted to ask for a rest, if only to replenish her stocks--

But the grimness of Kiki’s jaw stills the words on her tongue.

It’s not long until fields give way to scrublands, and scrub gives way to the first stirrings of a forest, its canopy blotting out the sun’s heat as it climbs to its zenith. To her eyes, it seems untouched, a primordial kingdom of leaf and bramble and vine, but Kiki quickly picks out a hunter’s trail in the brush, leading them deep into its cool embrace.

It’s only then that Kiki lets their pace slow, that she lets her mare come to a panting halt. “We’ll stop here. The horses need to rest.”

There’s no block for her to dismount to, but Kiki provide a knee-- and then a net of arms in short measure, once Shirayuki’s leg fails to swing over and becomes a slow, terrifying slide.

“Sorry,” she gasps, clutching hard to her shoulders. “I didn’t realize that my, er, I mean...everything’s numb...?”

Her only consolation is that Kiki’s huff is at least amused when she finds her feet. “No need to apologize. We rode for a long time. Longer than we should have.”

Obi used to complain that too much time in the saddle made him bow-legged-- like some sort of hedge knight, Miss-- but it’s not until she hobbles across the clearing, too much space between her thighs, that she understands it.

“Oh, did we? That’s good. I mean--” there’s no comfortable way to rest; to stand means suffering her trembling legs, to sit only worsens the numbness “--I thought so, but if we were really riding for so long, then we would stop to switch out the horses...”

Kiki shakes her head, expert hands never slowing as she rubs down their mounts. “They’ll check the roads first, the post stations where it’s likely we’d need to stop. And any groom worth his pay will know these are from the royal stables, which means he’ll be the first to tell them what he knows.” Her mouth gives a wry twist. “Horse thieves always pay well.”

“But we’re not...” Kiki spares her a long, dubious look. They certainly hadn’t asked to borrow a pair of His Majesty’s finest mounts. “Are you so sure there will be anyone coming after us? Izana said that if I left, that I would be-- I’d--”

It should go without saying-- even now, the burden of his gaze weighs on her-- if you break this agreement, there will not be another offer.

She clears her throat. “I don’t think he’d be sending anyone for me.”

“Not Izana.” Kiki stretches out the words with care, the kind that warns of a ‘but’ before it can round the corner. “But Zen will turn over the whole city to find you.”

“Ah...” She hadn’t accounted for that, no. Not for Zen, who so often complained of tied hands, of how his brother’s wants ran roughshod over his own, using what little power he could bring to bear. “But Izana would never let him. Not when he was so clear...”

“Which is why this will all happen so quickly.” Kiki turns to her, as grim and serious as she had been in the stables. “Before Izana can hear of it.”

Her fingers tremble against the trunk, bark biting into flesh to keep her upright. “N-no. He can’t do that. When Obi disappeared it took him weeks to even get a single search party...”

Beneath the black of her jacket, Kiki’s shoulders tense. She does not speak but brace, and that is enough to draw Shirayuki up short, to remember--

A knife strapped to a belt. A seed pressed into her hand. Ah, she’d forgotten how easily a healed wound can run fresh, if she only pulls off the scab. “But he never sent anyone. Not for Obi.”

“Shirayuki...” A sigh soughs through her teeth. “We should go.”

But it cannot last forever. There always comes a time where fear banks, when tempers have cooled and the ceaseless war drum of the heart fades. And all that is left...

Is you.

Day fades into night again before Kiki allows them to truly rest, not just pause to catch a breath or let the horses drink. Their pace had been slow through the forest, careful as they picked their way along the knotted trails, but their mounts are exhausted, pulling at their leads as they plod into the clearing. Shirayuki can hardly blame them; she nearly balks until Kiki reaches for her, more falling from the saddle than dismounting it.

No matter how she might insist that she bore the mark of Tanbarun in her strong shoulders, or that heaving bags of soil from the cart to the greenhouse made her as capable as any of the male scholars, Shirayuki is hardly heavy. A girl her size might make Suzu stagger-- I can’t leave him on the walls by himself, Obi had confided once, grin peeking over his scarf, he’s got more in common with a sail than stone-- but even with the brunt of her weight slumping over her like a sack, Kiki is only driven back a step, solid when she plants her on the ground.

“You’ll have to forgive the accommodations,” she huffs, one half of her mouth hooking into a smirk. “I’m afraid it falls just short of royal.”

There’s no silk sheets or pillows of down, that’s for certain. But Kiki lays out her cloak to cover the soft sponge of the forest’s undergrowth, plumping her pack to make a kissing cousin to a pillow, and oh, what Shirayuki would have given for such luxuries during that breathless flight across the border, all those years ago. She stumbled upon that forgotten manor after a half dozen nights of only rocks and roots to lay her head on, with just that little hood to keep her warm.

“Ah, don’t worry about me,” she murmurs, unclasping her own cloak from around her neck. “I’ve slept on worse.”

Kiki’s smile stretches tight over her teeth. “Of course.”

Never one to need to fill the air with noise when silence would do, Kiki gathers their leads, nickering quietly at their mares as they tamp at the ground, impatient. Lata had taught her how to care for tack-- as any good horseman should, he sniffed, turning up his nose at the university’s groom-- but there’s a practiced efficiency to Kiki’s movements, almost meditative, that suggest any of her fumbling might only get in the way.

Still, Shirayuki isn’t about to stand idle. Not anymore.

“If you’re going to take care of the horses...” Her slippers shuffle, uncertain, beneath the hem of her skirt. “Should I gather some wood for--?”

“No fire.”

Shirayuki blinks. Wistal may be warm, even into its winters, but its nights still grow cold late in the season, enough that some mornings leave a lick of frost on the windowpanes. “But it will get cold soon. The sun’s already--”

Kiki shakes her head, sharp. “We can’t risk the smoke.”

She doesn’t so much snap as rasp, a dire note scraping her voice raw. Kiki has stood tall before kings and traitors both, and yet her whisper is nothing more than a live nerve that her desperation skins open. And it-- it seems so silly. They aren’t running from some first’s prince’s wounded pride, from four dozen of the kingdom’s most loyal knights and a half dozen dogs, but...

“But it’s only Zen.” It’s strange that she’s the one to say it, that in this twilight of her escape, she’s the one to speak sense. “He won’t hurt us. He’ll just...”

“Convince you.”

Her mouth falls slack. “I...?”

“Zen loves you.” It’s stunning how easily Kiki can say such a thing when Zen never had, when it had always been something hidden in the wrinkles of his smile or the longing in his eyes. “The fear has never been that he would hurt you. It is that you will listen.”

Shirayuki wants to protest, to say there would be nothing he could say to convince her to abandon Obi now that she’s set herself on his trail--

But even now her heart leaps to her throat not in dread but anticipation as she imagines Zen stepping into the light of their fire. Hope sears as he kneels before her, the fire casting his pale hair golden as he tells her, it’s all been a mistake. The anguish would turn itself to earnest apology in his eyes, and he would say that they can do this together, if only she would come back with him, if only she would stand by his side.

A breath shudders from her lungs, so full of wanting it burns.

It is so easy to say that she would not turn her back on Obi again, but three months ago, she would have sworn no one could get her to forsake him the first time.

“Right,” she rasps, chest tender beneath the hand she presses to it. “No fire.”

Oh, how easy it is for the doubts to set in, when it is only your tender heart to stand against them.

These are not Lilias’ nights, so cold that even a warm pan beneath the pallet and a heap of furs can’t keep the chill out, but they do have to press close beneath the weight of her cloak, tucking it tight around their shoulders and back, scrunching to keep their feet beneath it. It’s hardly the first time she’s had to huddle for warmth under the blankets, tucking deep into open arms to keep out the elements, but she’s used to a warmer body beside her, a furnace wrapped in flesh. And Kiki, well--

What do you expect? Obi lilts into her ear, as soft as he always spoke beneath the stars. Miss Kiki’s got a reputation to keep.

Her body is weary, bruised and battered from the ride, but even still-- her heart leaps when Kiki lays next to her, the sweet scent of lilac wafting from where her hair knots at the back of her neck. For a moment, it feels like that night so long ago, when snow had pressed at the inn’s windows, and her heart had raced from how close she had come to-- to something in that room. Not with Kiki, but with Zen, the pillows collapsing in among them and the urgency to see, to know had pressed her in for that next kiss. Her lips stung from it, tingled, and she had wanting nothing more than to say something, to ask if it was right that she felt so torn between her head and her heart.

But instead she had stared at the nape of Kiki’s neck, where her hair parts around skin like waves around a breaker, and worried. The same as she does tonight, as she does the next, and the night after. She is a font of concerns, an endless well of anxiety that burbles through the early morning hours, ceaseless until the sun rises.

You understand, don’t you? Even now, she feels Kiki’s fingers at her ankle, a single thoughtful tap on her boot. What all this might cost when it’s over?

If you break this agreement, Izana warns her, his tone implying fine print, there will not be another offer.

Think about what you might lose, the silence urges her, sounding more like Kiki than any words ever have. Think about what you might not get back.

Her fingers clench tight in the wool of Kiki’s tunic. But what about you? she wants to ask into the soft skin of her nape. What do you lose, coming with me?

Kiki is a royal knight, an aide to the second prince, the heir to Seiran. Soon to be married, too, after her father’s summit. One so important that it even peeled Zen’s aides from him, one Kiki herself is supposed to be handling the arrangements for.

And yet here she is, with her. Because a princess needs her knight. Except Shirayuki has never wanted to be a princess, and Kiki...

Must have her reasons. Good ones. The kind Shirayuki wants to know, to understand--

But instead her body betrays her one last time, and all its anxiety abandons her for sleep.

Oh, how stories never speak of this part, of that space between the wanting and the knowing. A woman wakes from her thousand year slumber in the arms of her true love. Children outsmart a witch and find their way home without a single wrong turn.

A girl escapes the garden of a sorceress, and stumbles straight onto the trail of her boy. No doubts, no second thoughts, no leads that have gone cold over the long months she spent, a prisoner in paradise.

How much easier it must be to suffer knowing that there is purpose to it in the end. How much easier it is to go forward, when every step will lead you true.

It’s impossible for her to say how many days it take for them to travel through the forest, or how many more there are before Kiki leads her back to a road. Obi had always been the one with the map in his head, unerringly leading them through hill and dale and drift; Shirayuki had only followed, putting her boot prints beside his own, a matched set.

It’s only the hangings above the inn’s door that give her pause when they pass it, that remind her that they’ve been here before. They’d run across this very courtyard with rain dogging their heels, standing in front of the desk soaked entirely to the skin. The five of them, traveling back from Tanbarun, breaths caught up in laughter as they skidded to a stop in the tile. It’s impossible, she thinks, that they could have been so young only such a short time ago.

“How about it then?” Kiki grunts, voice rough from disuse. “Would you like a bed tonight?”

Her back would certainly appreciate it. “They had baths here, too, didn’t they?”

For the first time in days, Kiki’s mouth curls toward a smirk. “You know, I think they did. Good ones, too.”

Strange, is it not, how we never know the precise moment the story finds us again?

Steam curls thick in the air, a palpable curtain between her and the bath. A welcome one; it’s been so long since Shirayuki last removed her dress that the cuffs stick to her wrists. It’s a miracle of the humidity-- and her own ingenuity-- that it peels away, leaving pink skin in its wake.

“Oh.” The warmth of the bath clings to her as thick as any cloak, coaxing out a sigh. “Where...?”

“Leave it,” Kiki urges her from farther in. “The maids will look after it. If there’s anything that can save those things.”

She hums, uncertain, letting the fabric hang from her fingers. This is her own sweat, her own mess; it hardly seems right to expect someone to clean it...

But she wants to deal with it even less. “All right.” The gown drops into the fog, lost. “I’m coming.”

When it is not just our own will that moves us forward, but the narrative, pushing us inexorably to the next turn of the page.

It’s a good, solid scrubbing that Shirayuki gives herself; she’s no stranger to the sort of dirt that a body can gather over a day’s work, but this, this is a week’s accumulation of grime and filth. It doesn’t wash away so much as flake, chipped off by the application of horsehair and grit until the only think left is pink, scoured skin beneath.

“We’re alone,” Kiki assures her through the partition, one pale foot sliding a sudsy bucket beneath. “If you want.”

Shirayuki blinks for a moment, staring down at the bubbles uncomprehending--

“Oh.” She reaches up, unwinding the towel from her head. It’d be generous to call what’s under it brown, let alone red, but with a good wash, well... “Thank you.”

Kiki hesitates. “I’ll meet you in the bath.”

Even in the most mundane of moments, the times in which we feel the most off the trodden path, lost and left with only our hopes to guide us, we can be so close that only a step would traverse the space between. That only a breath could speak it into being.

How many times must we come close to relief, and then never know it? How many doors must close while we hope for a mere window, all unknowing?

If Shirayuki had thought the steam thick before, it is nothing to how it rises from the actual bath. It might well be a curtain for how well it shields the edge from her; she risks a few toes at first to feel for it, and with a steeling breath, sinks a whole foot right down to the knee.

It’s hot, enough that the fresh skin these prickles with pain before the heat soothes it away. Her other leg follows, then the rest of her, sinking down into its warm embrace.

As much as it stings, it’s pleasant as well. As if she’s been made new again, the Shirayuki of the palace washed away, and leaving behind only her.

And then, when we least expect it--

“Caw, caw,” the crow says, swooping down to the little girl, “Good day, good day, little one, what brings you here?”

“Well, well, well.” A lithe body slides into the pool, tawny trailing after her like a comet’s tail. “Didn’t think I’d find a fine young miss like you here.”

--We are found once again.

For better or for worse.

#obiyukibingo23 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #fairy tale au #all that remains #snow queen au #my fic #ans #this took so long because i truly wanted to join back up with the story frame before it finished #and i tortured myself for SO LONG thinking this chapter wouldn't be long enough without it #and then like halfway through the first scene i was like #oh no the whole pacing of this chapter is literally like...an interlude #the point is that this is the part of the story where the narrative has abandoned shirayuki #because this isn't the INTERESTING part #and it can only come back in at the end #YES IT TOOK ME LIKE 7 MONTHS TO REALIZED THIS #I DUN WANNA TALK ABOUT IT

23 notes · View notes