#this election has been a kick in the arse for me

[sicklysidecharacter]

Kind of hate that i need to vote labour to get the tories out and stop reform from getting in

[anthonysstupiddailyblog]

Anthony’s Stupid Daily Blog (814): Sat 8th Jun 2024

Rishi Sunak is in even more hot water as it was revealed today that left the D-Day landing celebrations early hich has upset the veterans and a lot of his remaining supporters. His reputation was already in tatters after embarassing himself during his debate with Starmer but now he has really shot himself in the foot with this D-Day scandal which is ironic because shooting himself in the foot is exactly how I imagine Sunak would avoided participating in the D-Day landings. This evening I tuned into as much of the leadership debate as I could stomach and my big takeaway was that I think all the sweat has finally left Lee Evans’ body. Seriously what was the point of this? This is like the directors of all the direct to DVD Disney movies being pissed off that they haven't been granted a cinematic release so they decide to get together to screen their shitty movies in a room above a laundromat. Even though Farage has learned a lot from Trump about how to appeal to gullible voters a month isn't enough time to get enough support to make a sizeable dent in the election. All he can do is take more votes away from the Tories who are going to lose anyway. The Tories are the platitudinous one legged man in the arse kicking contest and Farage is like someone running in to kick the one legged man in the ankle. I tuned into the 20th anniversary of TNA iMPACT! and fuck me do I feel old. I still remember the time when this show launched like it was yesterday and it was fucking TWENTY YEARS AGO!! I don't remember the actual first episode but I do remember the anniversary show that took place the same month featuring the debut of Jeff Hardy against AJ Styles. What a run TNA have had, when I first became aware of them I was so intrigued to see a lot of the ex-WWF, WCW and ECW guys mixing it up and being wowed by the spectaular high flying action of the S Division which was filling the gap that was left by the closure of WCW and it's cruiserweight division. I really do hope that TNA finds a way to get back on proper TV because I think if these guys were still on Spike with their current programming they would perhaps be getting more attention and praise than AEW because over the last few years theyve done a great jobof finding the balancebetween in-ring action and entertainment. Well done to TNA for managing to still be in the game twenty two years on when many said that they wouldnt last six weeks. 

[mllemaenad]

WRT the "Alone" choice, I think there's a factor that's missing from your analysis. A Magister (himself a significant threat, most people in Thedas are TERRIFIED of Magisters) shows up flanked by armed guards, in a location with no witnesses, far from the City Guard or the Templars. "Give me Fenris" implicitly carries an "or die". Isabella isn't going to judge Hawke for choosing safety over principle, and Varric/Merril will understand too. The danger of refusing to give up Fenris is non-trivial.

Oh come now. It’s utterly trivial. I prep a bit, for fighting the rock wraith or the high dragon. The Arishok is almost literal murder with that impaling attack. But for Danarius I can pretty much wander in with whatever is in my pockets. He’s a mini boss, no more.

He’s incredibly threatening to Fenris specifically, because of Fenris’s experience of trauma at his hands, but he’s not notably threatening in the general sense. And this is an Act 3 quest. By this point in time, some of your likely opponents will have been:

an ancient rock wraith

the Arishok of the Qunari

Duke Prosper and a damn wyvern

a high dragon

Corypheus (!!!!)

templars, numerous

blood mages, numerous

demons, very numerous

Danarius’s apprentice Hadriana

Danarius barely rates. This quest takes place in The Hanged Man, possibly with the captain of the guard present, possibly with a blood mage and a healer present, definitely with plenty of capable backup of your own. If your argument is that the average barkeep or dockworker would not be able to handle Danarius, I agree entirely. But this is the Champion of Kirkwall. Your friends are awesome, powerful people, several of whom like Fenris personally and/or object to slavery in general. You kick Danarius’s arse. It’s fine.

Also, I strongly believe that you are misreading the tone of that discussion. Listen to this. Danarius is a condescending aristocrat, but he clearly regards Hawke as a person in a way that he does not regard Fenris. He’s certainly prepared for a scrap, but he’s as surprised as Fenris when he doesn’t get one.

Hawke: If you want him, he’s yours.

Fenris: What?

Danarius: Interesting. I’ll make it worth your while, of course. The power of the Imperium will be at your disposal.

Fenris: Don’t do this, Hawke. I need you.

Hawke: You’re on your own, Fenris.

It is absolutely worth Danarius’s while to bargain for Fenris rather than trying to fight the damn Champion, and Hawke does not sound fearful. Hawke sells Fenris for favours and influence. And Danarius opens correspondence with them afterwards. This is Hawke being a terrible person.

However, to my larger point: it doesn’t matter. The issue here is that the story completely and utterly fails to give this the narrative weight it deserves. Hawke has known Fenris for years at this point. We are all keenly aware of how much he personally dreads being enslaved again, and that’s before we get to the broader moral consideration about supporting slavery at all. Fenris is a companion! A main character! This is a huge story beat. It’s questionable to even put something like this in a story. But if you do, you have an obligation to do something with it.

And Bioware emphatically does not.

If, as you say, the party was simply overwhelmed by Danarius then this ought to have been a scene of utter grief and despair. We got in over our heads and lost one of our own. And they would have needed to derail most of the third act to deal with it. Things just got much harder, but we are not out of options. There are a lot of Tal-Vasoth in the city, and they may well have respect for both Hawke and Fenris. Can we hire some mercenaries then and catch them on the road? Feynriel might be in Tevinter - can we get in contact with him to help Fenris escape? What about Maevaris? Could Varric reach her?

Of course, none of that happens. Bioware has a story about the political fracturing of Kirkwall, a step on the road to the mage rebellion, and the discovery of red lyrium that they’re committed to telling. They do not have time for this.

On the other hand if, as I would strongly contend, this is a Hawke at their most evil, then this ought to have provoked a crisis in the party. Most of their companions ought to have left, because a Hawke who will sell their friends for personal gain is incredibly dangerous. Merrill and Anders could be sold to the templars; Sebastian could be sold to his political enemies; Isabela to Castillon or the Qunari; Varric to business rivals; Aveline to anti-Fereldan interests in the guard. In all likelihood at least some of these people should have stepped in to fight for Fenris. At bare minimum they should all have walked away for their own safety.

That doesn’t happen either. Bioware is aware of the concept of a companion crisis: they’ve used it before and will again. They elect not to here. It would break the party combat system. You can have occasions in the game where a companion leaves, but if all of them break with you at once you have pretty much destroyed the gameplay.

So instead, we have some throwaway lines and some minor approval changes. Everyone just remarks on it and moves on in a way that is utterly disturbing if you think about it for five minutes. They make it trivial.

So while I agree that it is tacky that it exists, I’m not going to waste my time angsting about Anders’s +5 to friendship because I am also not going to angst over Isabela’s lack of approval change or the little +10 bumps to rivalry from the other party members. I’m not going to angst about Varric saying “That’s our Champion”, like Hawke just made an awkward faux pas at a party. I’m not going to assume that any of this accurately reflects the characters’ views on handing a person over to a slaver because to do so I’d have to assume they were all monsters.

This is just shitty writing. There’s some really awesome stuff in Dragon Age: good dialogue, heart rending quests, fantastic world building. I know I write way too much about it. Think too much about it too. Because the good stuff is fun. But sometimes you just go - “What the actual fuck, Bioware?” and move on.

[mfingenius]

I kind of love how you casually mention Harry’s parents in some fics 😭 So here’s a prompt: Harry and Draco start dating in Hogwarts and it gets serious and they catch feelings super quickly and Harry brings Draco home one weekend, sneaking out of the castle so that Draco can meet his parents proper 🥺❤️

Babe I took so long to reply to this I’m so so sorry

To make up for it,,,, here’s a roughly 2.4k fanfic :D

21.11.2019

“Potter,” Snape drawls, managing to sound unimpressed even in the middle of the night. “What are you doing here?” 

Harry glares at the professor while rubbing Draco’s back soothingly. It’s the day before the start of the winter Holidays - they’re both in a boarding school called Hogwarts - and they’re going home tomorrow. Draco’s having an anxiety attack - he has them worryingly often - over meeting Harry’s parents over the break; it’s the third time, and Harry has told him multiple times that he doesn’t have to meet his parents yet, if he doesn’t want to, but Draco refuses to cancel now.

And Harry refuses not to be there for his boyfriend.

“I’m helping,” he says, much less aggressively than he wants to. He wishes he could punch Snape - he hates him - but Draco’s anxiety attacks don’t do well with harsh voices, and the last thing Harry wants to do is make things worse.

“These are the Slytherin dorms.” Snape says, as if one of his students isn’t retching right in front of him. “You’re not a Slytherin. You can’t be here.”

“Are you going to physically throw me out?” Harry asks in return. “Because if you’re not, you can get out now. I’m not coming with you.”

Draco retches again, and Harry grimaces and moves closer to his side, touching the back of Draco’s hand lightly. As soon as he does, Draco’s hand latches onto his with a death grip, ashen and sweaty, and Harry squeezes tightly.

“Twenty five points from Gryffindor, Potter.” Snape says disapprovingly.

Harry doesn’t give a fuck.

Draco rests his head against Harry’s shoulder, shuddering, and Harry presses his lips against his hair, wrapping an arm around Draco and holding him tightly.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs. “It’s alright. Everything’s okay, love.” Draco lets out a shaky breath and wraps a hand around Harry’s jumper weakly. Harry places his hand over Draco’s and kisses his hair again. “Think about the road trip, alright? At the beginning of the school year? We had fun, right? It was fun.”

“Yes,” Draco says, trembling. “Yeah.”

*

13.09.19

“Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.” Sprout calls out.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Harry groans.

“What did you expect, Potty?” Malfoy sneers next to him. The corners of his lips are pulled down, and he looks just as unhappy as Harry is about being paired together.

Honestly, Harry doesn’t know. They always end up as partners for anything Elective-related - it’s Botany this year, an elective Harry isn’t really interested in. He only chose it because Malfoy and him have ended up not only in the same elective every single year they’ve been at Hogwarts, but also paired together in them.

He’d thought Botany would surely be Malfoy’s last choice.

Apparently, Malfoy had thought the same thing.

Still, he was hoping that this time, by some miracle, he’d be paired with Ron, or Hermione, or even Ernie McMillan. Anyone but Malfoy.

They’re going on a school trip to the mountains, so being paired together not only means working together to identify plants and cultivate them when they come back, it means sharing a room while they’re in the cabins.

Harry honestly doubts he’ll survive an entire two weeks staying in the mountains with Malfoy. He doesn’t think he’ll survive the first night sharing a room with Malfoy. Getting stabbed in the stomach with a fork and bleeding out would be a quicker, less painful death.

Still, it looks like Harry will have to suffer through Malfoy instead of the fork.

Oh the joy.

“I’m not doing our work by myself.” Malfoy informs him snidely as everyone goes to find their partners. Ron gives him an empathetic pat on the back and makes a face at Malfoy before he walks off. 

“Have you ever done our work all by yourself?” Harry asks, annoyed even though Malfoy has barely said a dozen words to him. It’s a special ability that only Malfoy seems to have, of pissing Harry off without even opening his mouth.

“I don’t know,” Malfoy says. “Calculus? Geography? Fucking Christ, Physics?”

“Bite me.” Harry tells him.

*

21.11.19

“I was an arse.” Draco says in a low voice, damp eyelashes fluttering gently against Harry’s shoulder. Snape left some time ago, Harry thinks, but he doesn’t know how long. He’s too focused on Draco to notice anything else. “We hated each other.”

“I don’t know if that’s what it was.” Harry shrugs lightly. He’d thought he hated Malfoy at the moment, obviously, but, now that they’re dating, Harry sees it differently. “We were always awfully invested in each other’s business. We could’ve just avoided each other.”

Draco snorts tiredly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Awfully invested sounds about right. Pansy had the theory that all of our problems would just be solved if we fucked. She postulated it in fifth year.”

Harry snickers. “And was she right?”

“Well,” Draco says with a light smirk. “We fucked. And now here we are.”

Harry laughs.

*

17.09.19

“Potter I fucking swear to god,” Malfoy groans, glaring at Harry tightly.

It’s only the second day, and Harry’s already been driven half insane by Malfoy. The room they’re sharing is tiny, and it has quickly become evident that they’re very different people; Malfoy hasn’t left a single belonging in the room, and half of Harry’s clothes are already thrown about. 

It seems to annoy Malfoy, so Harry hasn’t picked them up.

“What?” Harry asks, rolling his eyes as he picks plant samples. “I’m doing my part of the work, aren’t I?”

“You’re supposed to wear gloves you moronic git.” Malfoy snaps, tossing a pair of gardening gloves to Harry. “Some of the plants are poisonous.”

“As if you care if I get poisoned.” He says.

Malfoy doesn’t answer.

*

21.11.19

“You should thank me,” Draco says, teasingly, before he begins brushing his teeth. The vomiting is over, finally, as is the anxiety attacked. Harry can’t imagine what Draco feels like; his anxiety attacks leave Harry feeling drained and not quiet like himself, and he’s not even the one to go through them. He imagines it’s much worse for Draco. “I saved your arse by carrying extra gardening gloves.”

“Don’t act like that was for my sake,” Harry responds, amused. Because he can read Draco quite well now and knows every sign of exhaustion and worry that there is to look for, he has his hands on Draco’s hips, half out of the need for comfort and half because he’s not entirely sure Draco doesn’t need his actual support. “You didn’t carry extra for me.”

When his anxiety attacks are particularly bad, he can’t quite move afterwards, and this one was Bad, capital B. He’s almost sure he’s the only thing holding Draco on his feet. 

“Saved your arse anyway,” Draco says around his toothbrush.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, squeezing his boyfriend’s hips lightly. “Well, I saved your arse the next day.”

Draco scowls at him through the mirror.

*

17.09.19

“Get out of my way.” Malfoy snaps.

“You’re sick,” Harry says, unimpressed. This camping trip has been surprisingly fun for Harry. Mostly because it hasn’t been fun for Malfoy. Turns out his skin burns easily, and he’s had red cheeks and a red nose for the last three days. He’s also been sick for two of them, but Harry had thought it was none of his business.

It still isn’t, really, but it’s harder to ignore when it’s pouring rain and Malfoy still wants to go outside instead of staying in the bloody cabin like Harry is telling him to.

“So?” Malfoy snaps. “Thirty percent of our grade depends on how this goes.”

“I’ll pick the samples today.” Harry rolls his eyes “And I’ll take notes, and pictures, and do the work. I’m not an idiot, you know?” Malfoy shifts uncertainly, looking back towards the empty cabin, eyes focusing on the flickering candle. The cabins are old, and, because of the rain, the light isn’t working. All they have is the candle, and neither of them know how much longer that’ll last. Harry raises an eyebrow. “What? Scared to stay here alone?”

“No!” Malfoy snaps, much too quickly.

“Then stay,” Harry says, and slams the door closed behind him, pulling on his raincoat.

*

21.11.19

“You don’t have to do this,” Draco says, but his hand tightens around Harry’s when he turns the bathroom light off. They’re both seventeen, and, in Draco’s opinion, too old to be afraid of silly things, like the dark. 

He’s fine, most of the time. Whenever he’s stressed or particularly anxious, though, he gets terrified of the dark, though. Harry doesn’t mind grabbing his hand and reassuring him things are alright. He needs reassurance in other things that other people might think are silly, and he never wants to make Draco afraid that he’ll laugh at him.

“I know.” Harry pulls him towards the bed - honestly, he doesn’t know what he’d do if Snape had actually kicked him out - and gets in first, waiting for Draco to snuggle against him comfortably before pulling the covers over them. Draco’s roommate and best friend, Blaise Zabini, is in the other bed, still soundly asleep. Harry pulls the drapes around the bed closed.

“Better?” He asks, and Draco nods against his chest, moving closer. Harry wraps an arm around him while Draco throws a leg over his waist.

“Do you remember our first kiss?” Draco whispers, and Harry smiles softly.

“Obviously,” he says. He can’t believe it was only two months ago; it seems like much longer. He looks at the clock Draco keeps against his headboard and smiles. “It’s already after midnight. Our first kiss was officially two months ago. Happy anniversary.”

Draco shakes his head and grins. “Sap.”

“Only for you, love.” Harry vows.

*

21.09.19

“Malfoy,” Harry says hesitantly.

He’d had a great time during the day. Since Malfoy was sick, he’d been able to be with Ron and Hermione the entire day, but he’d come back from picking samples to find Malfoy in a full blown anxiety attack. It had been hell calming him down. It had taken almost half the night, and now they’re both lying in their respective beds, Malfoy shivering and with a slightly distant look on his face, and Harry feeling immensely uncomfortable.

“Hmm?” Malfoy hums lightly.

“I didn’t know you had anxiety attacks.” He says.

He doesn’t think he’d want to talk about it, if it were him, but Malfoy hasn’t told him to shut up yet, and Harry’s a nervous talker.

“Oh,” Malfoy says lightly.

“Don’t you… take meds?” He asks cautiously.

Malfoy blinks at him - Harry can see his wide eyes in the pale moonlight, looking almost transparent with how light they are - and his voice sounds oddly unguarded when he answers.

“No,” He says. 

“Why?” Harry asks.

“My mom doesn’t know,” He says. “I can’t tell her.”

Harry knows very little of Narcissa Black - because she’s Sirius’s cousin, he knows that she got pregnant with Malfoy when she was seventeen - four years younger than Lily, Harry’s mother, and pregnant at the same time - and that she was disowned for it. Sirius told him that she’d married Malfoy’s father - Lucius Malfoy - briefly, but she’d divorced him when she was nineteen, when Draco was barely a year and a half. 

“Why not?” he asks.

“I can’t worry her.” Malfoy says.

Lightning cracks outside, and Malfoy flinches, sitting up in bed quickly. Harry sits up too.

“I - I need to get out of here,” He says, voice trembling. Harry throws back the covers and stands quickly as Malfoy begins to scramble off the bed desperately. “I - I can’t-”

“Stop,” Harry says, softly but firmly, grabbing Malfoy’s arms. “Stop.It’s alright. It’s okay. Let’s sit down, okay?”

He leads Malfoy to the bed again, sitting him down and sitting beside him. He doesn’t know much about panic attacks, if he’s honest, but Lavender Brown had one, once, in the middle of the common Room. He remembers how Parvati Patil calmed her down.

“Tell me something,” Harry says. “Five things you can hear. Five things, come on Draco.”

Malfoy doesn’t seem to notice that Harry called him by his first name, and he flinches again when lightning cracks again. Harry squeezes his arm.

“Five, come on. I’ll start.” He says. “Lightning.”

“Lightning,” Draco repeats shakily. “R - rain. I - I can - the wind outside. I-”

“That’s three,” Harry tells him. “You’re doing good. Two more, come on. Two more.”

“I - wood creaking. Your voice.” 

“Good,” Harry says immediately. “That’s good.”

They get through four things you can see - Harry’s shoes by the door, the trees outside, the blanket on the bed, the suitcases under the bed - three things you can smell - rain, dirt, and mint, which is Harry’s shampoo - and two you can taste - blood, because he’d bit his lip too hard, and toothpaste.

“One you can feel.” Harry tells him. “Just one.”

The wind howls outside, and there’s a loud sound outside the window, which makes Malfoy nearly jump off the bed.

“I - I can’t - Harry-”

And Harry can see that everything they’ve done isn’t working, so he does the only thing he can think of. 

He kisses Draco.

*

22.11.19

“Mr. and Mrs. Potter, it’s nice to meet you.” Draco says. He’s smiling uncertainly, and for all that Harry enjoys his dad’s and his godfather’s pranks, he prays they won’t say anything weird now. Draco’s anxious enough without them doing something, and though Harry made them promise to behave, he’s still anxious himself.

“Call me Lily, sweetheart,” Harry’s mom says immediately, smiling and shaking his hand. Draco shakes James’s hand, after. Harry can hear Sirius singing from the kitchen, deafeningly loud, Remus laughing and telling him to shut up at the same time.

“I, err-” Draco begins, and Lily immediately wraps an arm around his shoulders. 

“Are you hungry? You’re terribly thin, sweetheart, are you sure you’re eating enough?” And she leads him inside, Draco sending a slightly panicked look back at Harry a moment before turning the corner towards the kitchen.

“So,” James says, after a bit, grinning brightly. “Draco Malfoy, then? No chance of someone else?”

Harry snorts and shakes his head. “No dad, no one else.”

James sighs, seemingly long-suffering, but then he laughs and claps Harry in the back. “Oh well,” he says. “If it can’t be helped, it can’t be helped. Come on. Let’s go save him from your mother.”

Harry laughs.

-------------------------------------------------------

Send me a Request :D

If you enjoyed this, please consider buying me a kofi

Masterlist: [1] [2]

Commissions

[butterflies-dragons]

I read on a Reddit forum that Jon's scene where he beheads Janos Slynt in has been altered. Initially Jon would hang the frog guy, but in a reading to the audience a fan changed Martin that this is not "the Stark way of doing it" and that was why there was this change to the version we know. Couldn't that compromise the question of Jon being "Sansa's hero" as has been speculated?Sorry for the inconvenience, but it was something that didn't get out of my head.

Hello Anon:

I know about this subject. 

I wrote about Jon Snow being Sansa Stark’s hero/true knight before, and this affirmation is not solely based on Jon Snow beheading Janos Slynt. 

Now, let’s answer your question:

THE FORESHADOWING:  

Sansa Stark wished for a hero that cut off Janos Slynt’s head as punishment for his participation in Ned Stark’s death: 

Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. But a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes, and she remembered what Lord Petyr had said to her, here in this very hall. “Life is not a song, sweetling,” he’d told her. “You may learn that one day to your sorrow.” In life, the monsters win, she told herself, and now it was the Hound’s voice she heard, a cold rasp, metal on stone. “Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants.”

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

And four books later, Jon Snow beheaded Janos Slynt using his sword Longclaw: 

“You are refusing to obey my order?”“You can stick your order up your bastard’s arse,” said Slynt, his jowls quivering.[…] “As you will.” Jon nodded to Iron Emmett. “Please take Lord Janos to the Wall—”[…] “—and hang him,” Jon finished.[…] This is wrong, Jon thought. “Stop.”[…] “I will not hang him,” said Jon. “Bring him here.”“Oh, Seven save us,” he heard Bowen Marsh cry out. The smile that Lord Janos Slynt smiled then had all the sweetness of rancid butter. Until Jon said, “Edd, fetch me a block,” and unsheathed Longclaw. […] The pale morning sunlight ran up and down his blade as Jon clasped the hilt of the bastard sword with both hands and raised it high. “If you have any last words, now is the time to speak them,” he said, expecting one last curse.Janos Slynt twisted his neck around to stare up at him. “Please, my lord. Mercy. I’ll … I’ll go, I will, I …”No, thought Jon. You closed that door. Longclaw descended.“Can I have his boots?” asked Owen the Oaf, as Janos Slynt’s head went rolling across the muddy ground. “They’re almost new, those boots. Lined with fur.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon II

If you read the entire Jon’s chapter, you will find that during his conversation with Janos Slynt, Jon was thinking about Ned Stark and the participation of Slynt in his father’s death at King’s Landing. Jon even thought about how easy it would be beheading him with Longclaw. And maybe that was the reason why he opted for beheading him instead of hanging him, just as Sansa wished.

Also, take note that Janos himself had mentioned that beheading is for highborns (Like Ned) and hanging is for lowborns, like Jon, because he was a bastard. Janos was wrong tho, because Jon is not any bastard, is a highborn bastard, that’s why he has a surname, only highborn bastards bear surnames. 

And during his interactions with Jon, Janos was the one that repeated over and over again that Jon needed to addresses him as “My Lord” because he was Lord of Harrenhall; so, following that logic, as “A Lord”, Janos deserved beheading and not hanging as punishment.  But this was also wrong, at that point the Lord of Harrenhall was Littlefinger, not Slynt. Janos was wrong at everything. 

Also, take note that after ordering Janos’ hanging, Jon thought: 

[…] This is wrong, Jon thought. “Stop.”

[…] “I will not hang him,” said Jon. “Bring him here.”

What was wrong, Jon? Hanging Janos and not beheading him like “A Lord” deserves? Or maybe you remembered what Ned always said: 

The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran I

This would also explains why Jon asked Janos for his finals words: 

“If you have any last words, now is the time to speak them,” he said, expecting one last curse.  

And believe me Anon, GRRM doesn’t need the fans tho remind him this. He is very thorough and he also have a very competent staff that helped him with his work.  

THE CHANGE:

MARCH 2008: GRRM reads ‘A DRAFT’ of a Jon Snow’s chapter from ADWD, the one where he orders the death of Janos Slynt’s by hanging:

This morning at Technicon George read a Jon chapter. It was totally awesome. It covers the discussion between Sam and Jon from Jon’s point of view. Here’s what happens. 

(…)

Next Janos Slynt comes in. Jon tells him that he is getting the command of a fort, with 20 Watchmen and 10 King’s men. Janos flips and is totally impertinant, calls Jon a boy, and says that he is not going. Jon says ‘yes you are. be ready at first light.’ Janos leaves, scoffing at Jon.

Next morning, Janos isn’t in the yard ready to leave. Instead he is in the hall eating breakfast with Aliser Thorne and their cornies, laughing about the whole thing. The hall is full of men, Grenn, Pip, Donal, King’s men, Thorne’s supporters, etc.

Jon walks in with like 7 guys behind him. He says ‘Lord Slynt, you are supposed to be preparing to leave.’ Slynt’s all ‘whatever.’ He and Thorne laugh. Jon says ‘I’ll give you one more chance.’ Janos says some stupid ass shit about how he doesn’t have to listen to a boy, that he has friends in King’s Landing.

Jon gives the signal, but he knows he is making a gamble because so many watchmen supported Slynt and Thorne in the election. Two guys grab Slynt and pull him out of his chair. Everybody in the hall is like ‘oh shit.’ Thorne grasps his sword hilt, looks at Jon, and then removes his hand, slinking away from Slynt. Janos now realizes that he is in serious trouble. He is dragged from the hall into the yard. Slynt makes a big scene, yelling about his friends in Kings Landing. ‘I was the Lord in Harrenhal’ he cries. Stannis and his men come out to watch and so does pretty much everyone else at Castle Black.

Jon says, ‘Take him to the wall.’ He thinks, 'I could send him away somewhere else, but if I send him to east watch, he’ll come back to cause trouble.’

'Take him to the wall,’ Jon says, 'and hang him.’

Slynt freaks, yelling, struggling, kicking as they throw him into the cage and start lifting. 'I have friends, if Tywin Lannister were alive you would never…’ His voice fades away as he is lifted to the top. The rope they found was a hundred feet long but the wall is seven hundred feet tall. They hear his neck crack as he hits the end of the rope.

Jon glances back at Stannis. Stannis nods, then turns and goes back inside.

(…)

Yes, I forgot to say that part. I think (if I remember correctly, I didn’t take notes) that Jon looks at Janos while in his office and wonders how big of a part he played in killing his father. He thinks about how easy it would be to pull out his sword, cut through bone, fat, sinews, and chop off his head.His anger about what’s happened to his family really comes out in this chapter.

-Posted on westeros.org by “LugaJetboyGirl-irra” (Source)

—MORE THAN TWO YEARS LATER—

OCTOBER 2010: GRRM reads ‘ANOTHER DRAFT’ of a Jon Snow’s chapter from ADWD, the one where he beheads Janos Slynt’s himself:

Liliedhe: Since GRRM read this chapter at Octocon, can somebody please tell us if there were any differences to what was reported here?

Ran: It’s been suggested that there is a difference, not so much as to what happens but how it comes about exactly. Poking someone to provide details. *poke poke*

Brush Guy: Luckily I was at Octocon. The ending’s been changed slightly. Although I’m not too sure I am allowed to tell.

Aw, what the heck, Jon beheads Slynt with Longclaw while Stannis is watching. It’s a pretty awesome scene, much better than the other version.

(…)

If I remember correctly, Jon says something along the lines of

'Fetch me a block.“ When a suitable block was found, Jon pushed Slynt and placed his head on top of it. “You’re going to die, but if you move your head it will be a lot more painful, and you will still die. Any last words, my lord?’ Slynt started babbling. “Please, m'lord I’ll go… I’ll go.” You already closed that door, Jon thought. “Can I have his boots?” Edd asked as Jon swung Longclaw down in a savage slice. Janos Slynt’s head rolled on the ground. “They’re made of fine leather, y'know, nearly new!” Jon sheathed Longclaw, and looked at Stannis. He gave a small nod and then turned around and walked away.

This is the basic ending, and the dialogue is almost word for word, I think. I’ve forgotten the little flourishes GRRM added to it but that’s pretty close. Maybe it was because he was reading it, but the part with Dolorious Edd asking for the boots seemed a bit out of place.

-Posted on westeros.org (Source)

Take note that none of the two drafts of the chapter is the final version that got printed.   

Anyway, the thread in westeros.org about this subject has 13 pages Anon, you can read it yourself, but none of the guys that attended those two events has reported that a fan told GRRM that hanging is not the Stark way, so he need to changed that.  I think the discussion happened on forums and fan-sites and two years later, when GRRM read that new draft of the chapter where Jon beheads Janos, the discussion became a rumor and the rumor became a “fact”…. 

A reddit user has already stated this:

This is one of the famous rumors-turned-fact that really irk me.

The page that you’re citing here as your source is largely responsible for this particular rumor. Basically, someone went to a reading Martin gave for an early draft of that Jon chapter from ADWD. The poster tried to recall, the best he could, what happened in that chapter from memory.

He wasn’t the only one. I remember several write-ups about this at roughly the same time (2008-2009) because, well, I read anything and everything about ADWD during that period. Each one was slightly different, which makes sense since people were simply writing what they remembered. I recall only one that claimed to be an actual word-for-word transcript (a post that was made to either westeros.org or some other site) but it was taken down as Martin usually asks people not to record his draft readings and whichever site it was had moderators who took exception to the violation of that trust. That so-called transcript one ended abruptly with Jon’s order to have Janos hanged. Most of the others ended with Stannis nodding to Jon after Jon gave the order but didn’t include the exact method of Janos’ death.

Now, here’s the part that irks me. Later, as people digested and debated these readings over and over again, some people began to theorize that that this proved Jon wasn’t Ned’s son because if he were he would have him beheaded, not hanged (note: most of the writeups did not include seeing Janos actually being hanged). Conspiracy theorists figured, “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword,” and all that, so clearly R+L=J is true! Jon can’t be Ned’s son!

There was also a lot of open speculation about how much of this draft was complete; as in, was this the full chapter? Was the Janos sentence a cliff-hanger? Some said that it was, some said Martin had stated the chapter wasn’t finished yet, some argued, that sort of thing.

Flash forward to the release of ADWD. Suddenly every fanboy who recalled these early readings started to claim that Martin must have read their post/comment/etc. because he had obviously changed the chapter to suit the Internet’s desires and/or decided to squash the conspiracy theories. Not only did the chapter not end on a cliff-hanger, but he had taken the Internet’s advice and made Jon ask for the block rather than the rope.

There’s just one problem with that theory: Martin has stated many, many times that he does not read fan-theories on the Internet nor does he follow any fan-sites in any capacity.

In any event, while it’s certainly possible that Martin did change the chapter due to fan feedback received either at a reading, via fan-mail, or (if he’s a liar re: fan-sites) browsing the Internet, there is no concrete evidence to prove it. The fact that he foreshadowed Janos’ manner of death via Sansa in AGOT suggests to me that it’s far less likely he changed the chapter due to the fandom and far more likely that the readings he gave for this chapter were early drafts that he had yet to complete. He’s been doing the same thing with TWOW; reading chapters that aren’t yet complete.

In summary: there is no proof that this rumor is true. It could be, of course, but I get annoyed when people state a rumor as fact. This is not a fact; it’s simply a neat story that many of us fanboys want to believe is true. For all we know Martin always had Jon asking for the block even in the original draft. Or perhaps the original draft included the Stannis nod as the last line of the chapter but without Janos being killed and later Martin decided it didn’t want to make that chapter a cliffhanger. Or perhaps one of his editors read the draft and said, “Wouldn’t it be cooler if Jon killed him the Ned Stark way?”. We simply don’t know the truth but the rumor persists that it was the people (i.e. fans) who raised a ruckus and that Martin decided to placate their desires and change his story to suit their needs/wishes. But does that sound like Martin go you?

Posted on reddit by “jmk4422” (Source)

I couldn’t have said it better myself, thanks “jmk4422”!

IN ANY CASE…

Sansa wished for Janos’ death and she got it: Janos was sentenced to death by Jon, and Janos died.  No matter the way of death, no matter if Jon did it himself or ordered others to do it. Janos died as punishment for his participation in Ned’s death, as Sansa wished, and Jon was instrumental in making that wish real.

But the author decided to make this connection even stronger.

Jon didn’t know that Sansa wished for Janos’ head to be cut off as ‘the exact’ punishment for his participation in Ned’s death, but Jon did cut off Janos’ head honoring the Stark way, to avenge Ned. And this Anon, is an epic, very strong connection, that no one can deny. 

Also I recommend you to read some metas about Sansa’s wishes becoming real, her wishes actually happen.  So I think this change in Janos’ way of death also followed that pattern.    

Indeed, If the first draft read by GRRM had Jon ordering Janos death by hanging, but a later draft had Jon beheading Janos himself, I think the change was intentionally made to match Sansa’s wish, following the pattern already stablished in the Books. 

So, no Anon, the change didn’t “compromise the question of Jon being -Sansa’s hero-”; the change has made this Jon and Sansa connection, canon.

And remember, as I said before, the reason why I think Jon is Sansa’s hero/true knight is not solely based on Jon Snow beheading Janos Slynt. 

Thanks for the ask.

[radramblog]

WA election aftermath

The aftermath of an election is always a tenuous time, with seats in doubt for some time well after the election is called, and a massive number of people effectively gaining and losing their jobs. In a two-party system, there’s always a winner and a loser, and as a result at least one side is going to have emotions running high.

I’d like to delicately consider the results of this election, and the potential impacts of such on the state. With that in mind…..

Holy shit I knew this was going to be an easy labor blowout but I didn’t expect that kind of result.

I don’t think I’ve seen a bigger blowout in any election, ever. It’s absolutely farcical. I love it. I can’t stop grinning thinking about it. The Liberal Party got fucked. This feels like vengeance for all those years suffering under Premier Barnett, cunt as he was.

Alright, bit more seriousness, let’s break it down.

Labor

Labor winning this election was pretty much a matter of course. There was no universe in which they didn’t succeed, even the opposition knew that. The people have seen the state government’s response to COVID-19, and how well it went for us, and saw the opposition dragging their heels and arguing against them, which is not a good look. I think there are three big things that brought Labor so far forward this election, and I genuinely think that COVID-19 was one of them- it might literally have been the best thing to happen to WA Labor last year, and I mean that without a hint of irony.

The second big thing was Clive Palmer. More specifically, that WA Labor got to have Clive Palmer as an enemy. Now I don’t know about over east, but it’s presumably less pronounced since he got a couple seats there at some point. But Clive Palmer is monstrously unpopular over here, and his attempt at subverting WA border restrictions for his own ends was not something anyone wanted to see- so the current government completely shutting him out was very welcomed. I do genuinely think that the dislike for Clive Palmer gave WA Labor a huge advantage, since they were the ones standing up to him. We all saw his fucking annoying advertisements 2 years ago in the Federal election, and we kicked his farce of a party out then- it’s no surprise that we don’t want him around now.

Last but certainly not least, of course, there is Premier McGowan. Marky boy is probably the most approved-of politician I can think of in recent memory, cultivating a minor cult of personality that isn’t locked to one side of the political compass like, say, Trump’s. That does, of course, leave him as a bit of a centrist, which is not exactly great in my eyes, but it could be a lot worse.

Labor now has a massive amount of power, holding every seat they had and gaining many more. And while the opposition is rather weak, it’s likely that any influence the Libs/Nats would try to have isn’t something I’d want to see anyway. Regardless, now that the immediate threat of election is over, Labor does need to be held accountable for mistakes they make, because they are far from perfect- McGowan’s position on fracking is a good example.

Liberal

I never thought I’d feel any form of sympathy for a Liberal leader, but it’s hard not to feel sorry for Zak Kirkup. He’s a relatively young politician essentially thrown out as a lamb to the slaughter, becoming the first Labor/Liberal leader in 90 years to lose their own seat in a state election.

With that said, I feel no reason to similarly sympathise with the remainder of the party losing their seats. They’ve got to rebuild now, with a maximum of 3 seats to work with, which leads me to believe they’re going to need a complete redo of their positions/branding/policy if they want to succeed next time around. They might end up straying dramatically from their political positions, which could be good, or it could be very bad.

I’m interested to see what happens to the Liberal party in the coming weeks. But I suspect they aren’t going to be especially relevant in government for some time.

Nationals

The Nats look set to become the new opposition, a sentence I never thought I’d say or write, but it does sort of make sense. If the Liberal party continues to suffer, they may end up in that position for quite some time, which would make WA a pretty unique political landscape in the country as far as I am aware (hahah I don’t know shit about other states politics)

I’m not super aware of Nats policies aside from their regional focus, which doesn’t apply too much to me specifically. But if their regional focus includes big business operating in rural WA (which a lot of it does) then colour me disinterested. If they are the major opposition, though, then I’m expecting some amount of increased regional spending on Labor’s behalf as appeasement, or to get them to agree to other bills. We’ll see.

Greens

If you go by total vote counts, the Greens actually have a fair few more than the Nationals- but that’s not exactly how that works, is it. We didn’t have any seats, but hey, at least that means we didn’t lose any seats.

Maybe next time, folks.

Others

At time of writing, the third most dramatic swing in votes was in One Nation, everyone’s favourite xenophobes- except, it’s a 3.7% swing away from them, which is huge considering they now only have 1.2% of the votes. It felt like at the last election we kicked Pauline’s grotty arse out of the state, but now I’d be surprised if they made much of a reappearance here at all.

The fact that the No Mandatory Vaccination party has the 5th most votes total is both staggering and terrifying. They’re still about a third of the Nationals, but that such a fucking hellscape of a party got that high upsets me greatly- especially since I don’t want to know where their preferences ended up.

The WAxit party only has about 4000 votes, so I guess we aren’t seceding after all. But hey, apparently more people want to vote for that than to legalise weed (by ~1500 votes), so they’ve got that going for them.

At time of writing, the Animal Justice Party, the Daylight Savings Party, the Health Australia Party, and the Great Australian Party (which I only found out afterwards is an offshoot of One Nation) all have exactly 0 votes counted for them. Better luck next time, or better yet, just don’t bother next time.

[swanning-around]

Possibly the best thing written on current UK politics, from Rex Varro, British Intelligence magazine - www.british-intelligence.co.uk

PRESSGANGED : BORIS JOHNSON AND THE BRITISH MEDIA

REX VARRO

1st September

​

It seems that people on the Right in Britain are broadly split into two camps: those who say Boris Johnson is a bullshitting waste of space, and those who think the prime minister will come good if we can just get past coronavirus.

I can see both sides of this. Yes, coronavirus dropped from a clear sky onto a government fondling an 80-seat majority and a country collectively sighing with relief at having avoided a Labour Party captured by communism and also having voted in a prime minister who promised an end to Tory lies about Brexit. Just like the moments in movies when someone asks what could possibly go wrong now, everything went pear-shaped very quickly.

Readers of British Intelligence being clever and well informed sorts, I do not need to recapitulate the sorry story of the past six months. True, Johnson became very ill – and some say he has yet to fully recover – but his absence made it all the more clear that the cabinet is like a giant rock band with a great front man: once he goes it is fatally reduced. I know that people pay good money to see Queen and The Blockheads, but as far as I am concerned, without Freddie and Ian it is a complete waste of time. True, you still have Priti Patel on bass as it were but it’s not enough.

Then there is the media’s obsessive hatred of Johnson. Back in the Eighties when I held left-wing views about society I often heard people moaning about Tory control of the media. It is hard to credit how strong and aggressive newspapers were in those days, yet even then I was sceptical about the supposed control papers such as the Sun held over public thought. The public’s innate conservativism was reflected by newspapers, not the other way round. It is typical that the Left got this arse about face, and still does. I still have Labour-supporting friends who rant about ‘Tory hate comics’, imagining that dying publications such as the Sun, the Daily Express and the Daily Telegraph are all that stands between them and a socialist Britain.

In any case, the ‘serious’ media, including many ‘broadsheets’, the BBC, Sky News, Channel 4 and ITV news, is now largely controlled by what is best described as a Blairite worldview. This means they hate Johnson. That they cannot see him as one of their own is indicative of how ignorant, unimaginative and saturated in received wisdom these institutions are. For Johnson is very close to the kind of politician they want: a social liberal, a can-kicker on debt, a wildly enthusiastic burner of public money and very much pro mass immigration. What, as they would say, is not to like?

Well, what they don’t like is that he’s posh – though that is OK if you are in the Labour Party –  went to Eton and above all has at times described women and certain minorities in jocular and pejorative terms. Yes, in his journalism he deployed a sub-Wodehousian style which while threadbare is not, to any sane grown-up, an indication of fascism.

The man deployed levity! He joked. He mentioned piccaninnies, bumboys and made mild fun of burkas. This is the most serious heresy for the media left. They know perfectly well that what Orwell said is true: every joke is a tiny revolution. The Left’s power increasingly resides in the controlling and policing of social attitudes. Real jokes, jokes that reflected events and behaviour in the world, were effectively banned a long time ago in the comedy revolutions of the Eighties and Nineties. The Left rejoices in snide sarcasm and social satire aimed at white people but jokes that kick against the fortress of identity politics can never be tolerated or forgotten, because if political correctness falls then the whole leftist project falls with it. Johnson’s crime is that he has never taken it seriously enough. That and also having the cheek to say he would stand by the result of the Brexit referendum.

Compare Johnson with the ultimate cuckservative Theresa May, with her capitulation to the Left on identity politics, policing and, don’t forget, her Frida Kahlo bracelet. What an easy ride she got from television news reporters (the most aggressively Blairite operators in the media)! She bought in to all their wrong ideas, accepted their premises and above all was committed to emasculating Brexit in broad daylight while promising the electorate that she was doing the opposite – a good old fashioned member of the political class in other words. If the media elite was not so fanatical and lost in a hammock-spin of fury over Brexit and Trump etc, it would realise that Johnson is not so far from May as his grassroots fans think: he has the primary Tory vice of seeking to work round issues caused by left-wing mischief making and wrongheadedness  rather than openly confronting and fighting them. Much of this will be due to entrenched public relations micromanagement inside Number Ten. Nevertheless, if Boris was the kind of freebooting maverick he is often sold as then he would have gone off-piste long ago. He hasn’t. The Conservative Party believes that it is easier and more electorally advantageous to ride the tiger of cultural Marxism rather than fight it, despite it being obvious that making war on PC is a vote-winner and, in the long game, the only way liberty, free trade and the rule of law – in short the centre right’s vision of society – will survive.

It must be recognised that revolution is being propagated in the West but Johnson is yet to show he is taking a different line to the Cameron/May governments. Cameron, a weapons-grade bullshitter, made speeches about social justice as did Theresa May, who in 2017 even instituted the pure socialism of a ‘race audit’ to tackle ‘burning injustices’. Johnson has been more practical with his talk of levelling up, but now Covid-19 has offered the Left the chance of perhaps its biggest power grab since 1945. It doesn’t want the crisis to end, at least not until it has seen society permanently changed, essentially a vast expansion of state power, state spending and interference in private life along with a new drive towards supranational relations to militate against the Brexit revolt. Worryingly, this is the agenda for the global elites. See what the World Economic Forum is doing with its ‘Great Reset’ initiative. Johnson fans often ask me how this can be achieved if there is no Labour government in Britain. Even asking the question reveals naivety: media campaigns, a left-leaning civil service, PR, forums, think-tanks, green papers and the like are the methods employed to chivvy ministers along, rather as a sheepdog herds its charges into an enclosure.

This all means that Johnson’s in-tray is massive and ominously fateful. This is not a time for standard soaking wet Tory tactics: fudging, ‘British compromise’ and managed decline. If this government gets the Covid fallout wrong the consequences will be far reaching.

What should Johnson do? Until it gets the sort of echt centre-left leader it craves, the media likes to present Britain as a pandemonium of dissent and protest. It is true that the revolutionary urge is growing, but race and environmental activists are comparatively small in number yet Johnson’s media handlers evidently live in fear of them or rather in fear of the media’s constant propaganda in their favour. Johnson should get all this in perspective and realise that the ‘silent majority’ does not want to live in the future the Left are dragging us all to. Therefore he is a lot safer than he thinks he is. In any case he is years from a general election so can afford to take gambles, be radical and forthright across the fields of education, law and order, sexual politics and international relations.

The lingering popularity of Margaret Thatcher, which was quite out of proportion to her actual achievements in office, was based on her straight talking and unqualified patriotism. Every prime minister since her time in office has more or less spoken with a forked tongue, aided and abetted by the media. Most reasonable intelligent ordinary people over the age of about 40 know the public have been lied to for years across a range of issues, the biggest one being immigration. Johnson must break the mould and set a precedent. Otherwise, and rather sooner than you think, this country will be truly ungovernable.

Rex Varro is a national newspaper journalist

Online Magazine of Ideas | British Intelligence | The Life of the Mind | Politics and Arts

©2019 by British Intelligence. Proudly created with Wix.com

[upstartpoodle]

Evens for the WIP meme ask? Thank you! ❤️

Hi, thanks for the ask! Since the number of WIPs I have are well into double figures, I’ll probably just choose a bunch of random ones for these out of the ones I’ve got on my computer.

2. Post a line from your WIP without context.

Once they had returned home, he had wanted nothing more than to head up to his room and hide, but his uncle’s iron grip on his upper arm pulling him into the drawing room had thwarted that wish. He hadn’t dared fight against the man. Uncle Cary had made it quite clear upon his arrival back from school that he expected to be obeyed in all matters, and George knew his future was far too uncertain to risk provoking his only remaining family member with displays of defiance. 

4. Describe the setting of your WIP.

Hmm, I think I’ll go for my JS&MN AU for this one, an extract of which I have posted here. So this is basically an AU set in the universe of the novel Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell--for anyone who might be unfamiliar with it, it’s a book (and a pretty decent TV adaptation) set in a regency England where magic was once frequently practised but has declined after the Raven King, a medieval magician who conquered the north of England with a fairy army, left his kingdom behind to return to Faerie. The fic is set in Poldark’s s1 timeline, so about fifteen/twenty years before the events of JS&MN canon, featuring Dwight, Ross and Francis as magicians, George as a fairy nobleman from a neighbouring Faerie kingdom, and Elizabeth as a magician’s wife whom George ends up taking an interest in.

6. Search for the word “dream” in your WIP. If you find it, paste the line and explain the context.

I haven’t been able to find it in any of the extracts I have on my computer, but I’m sure it’s probably there somewhere in one of my notebooks. Unfortunately the majority of those are in a box over three hundred miles away so I can’t really check through them ha.

8. What is your biggest challenge?

Actually getting anything finished. Honestly, it depends on the individual fic but for a long time it’s been writer’s block. My undergrad dissertation took a lot out of me and I wasn’t really in the mood for writing for a long time afterwards. S5 airing gave me a bit of a kick up the arse writing-wise though, so I’d say my biggest challenge at the moment is trying to figure out where everything goes in my super long post s5 AU where George gets shot by Hanson. At the moment I’ve just got loads and loads of random bits with only a vague idea of what order they go in and how they join up to each other, and it’s getting to be so long I just keep putting off planning it out properly. Also finishing that last chapter of The Cornish Way damn I can’t even remember when I last updated that I feel so guilty about it ha.

10. How would you describe your WIP’s narrative style?

Well, as I’ve already mentioned I have a whooole bunch of WIPs, but I always write in 3rd person (1st person grates on me, both reading and writing, for some reason--I don’t know why). I’ve got several multi-chap fics in the works, some short, some long. Most of my shorter multi-chap fics tend to alternate between Elizabeth’s POV and George’s, but my long post s5 AU will feature the majority of the characters’ POVs at some point, depending on when they’re needed, though since the fic is George-centric, his perspective is the main one. When it comes to my one-shots, they’re usually either from George or Elizabeth’s perspectives, sometimes both if it’s a particularly long one. I tend to lean towards using Elizabeth’s POV for one-shots for some reason, but there’s a fair few from George’s as well, and a couple of angsty ones told entirely from Valentine’s perspective.

12. Which character do you have the least in common with?

Since my post s5 AU includes Merceron, Hanson and Dr Penrose, I’m glad to say that I haven’t the slightest thing in common with any of those three. But if we’re talking about a main character, I’d say probably Ross. The only thing I have in common with him is a tendency to get fed up at parties ha.

14. Have you chosen birthdays for any of your characters? If so, when are they?

Not really--tbh, I’m not sure how many of them, if any, were given birthdays by WG. I tend to headcanon George’s birthday as being in October, but that’s about it.

16. What would your characters be for Hallowe’en?

Well, I’ve got a couple of WIPs set in the modern era which this could work for, but since one of them is a modern witchcraft AU (in which Elizabeth, Caroline, Demelza, Morwenna and Verity live together in Truro as a secret coven of witches, Francis is a melancholy ghost who haunts the building and they’ve never been able to exorcise, and George, their landlord’s nephew, is their baffled neighbour who only puts up with their weird shenanigans because he has a soft spot for Elizabeth), I guess that’s appropriately Hallowe’en-y ha. For that AU, I reckon Elizabeth would probably dress up as something kind of classy, like as an Ancient Greek lady or a medieval queen, something like that. Caroline would dress up as a witch, I reckon, for the sake of irony (Horace, of course, would have a complementary costume :P). Verity, I think, would make a cute angel, and one of those wood nymph/woodland fairy costumes would probably suit Demelza. Morwenna might dress up as a Hogwarts student or something like that, and Francis insists that since he is an actual, literal ghost, there’s no need for him to dress up. George, on the other hand, absolutely does not do Hallowe’en, but they still manage to drag him down from the flat upstairs, put a pair of little Devil horns on him and make him watch scary films with them. Which he hates every minute of. Absolutely. Totally.

18. What’s easier, dialogue or description?

It depends, but I generally find description easier than dialogue. When I have dialogue-heavy scenes to write, I generally write them out in my notebooks basically in script form so I can figure out where the scene is going and once that’s out of the way, I find it much easier to add all the description in around it rather than having to constantly stop to figure out what the characters are meant to be saying to each other.

20. Post a brief excerpt.

So there’s a whole load to choose from, but I’ve decided to go with this one, which is from a ghost Elizabeth AU I’ve been working on ever since the end of s4 and have been really struggling to get on with because there’s so much bloody angst in it ha :--

The days leading up to Christmas dragged slowly on, and with each long hour that passed, George found himself regretting his decision to allow their initial plans for the festivities to go ahead with ever increasing certainty. The Blameys were neither unkind nor insensitive—quite the opposite in fact; their presence seemed to restore some faint but much needed cheer to Geoffrey Charles, and the company of another boy near his own age had restored Valentine to a fraction of his usual liveliness—but he, who had never been a friend to Verity, and was not well acquainted with her husband or stepchildren, felt the constant pressure of their scrutiny, alongside the horrible awareness of his own inadequacy as their host, whenever he found himself in their company. Verity, in particular, had taken to sending him at frequent intervals, whenever she saw him decline a meal, or else stumbled across him staring up at Elizabeth’s portrait hanging above the mantelpiece in the drawing room, what he had come to refer to in his mind as Looks. Verity had always been a kind and well-meaning soul, but there was a distinct pitying quality to those Looks which he had come to both resent and despise. He could have far more easily borne it if she had scorned his conduct. Her pity, however, wounded what little care he could summon for his pride in the wake of Elizabeth’s loss—he had no need to be reminded of the wretched creature he was fast becoming every time he met her gaze.

Finally, after what seemed like an age, the morning of Christmas Eve came. It had snowed once again during the night, and upon seeing the unblemished blanket of white through the window upon waking, Valentine and young master Andrew had rushed outside, accompanied by the Blameys Senior and Junior and Geoffrey Charles, in order to enjoy it. As the young Esther, whom it had not taken George long to discover was somewhat reticent in nature, had elected to break her fast in her room, that, unfortunately, left he and Verity alone together at the dining table, save for little Ursula, who was playing quietly and contentedly with her own feet in her cradle beside his chair. At barely a few weeks old, however, she was not quite an accomplished enough conversationalist to distract Verity from engaging with him. With a barely audible sigh, George reached for a slice of toast despite his lack of appetite in a vague hope of fending off another Look which he was sure was on the verge of rearing its unwelcome head above the horizon.

“I am glad to see that the boys have regained a little of their usual cheer,” she spoke up suddenly, causing George to pause halfway towards taking a bite out of his unwanted toast; a glance her way confirmed that, despite his best efforts, he was being treated to what could only be described as a Look. “It is a terrible thing to lose one’s parent, no matter one’s age, and certainly not a burden one should face so early in life.”

WIP Ask Game

[caiminnent]

glass houses [Shaun & Lucy with mentions of one-sided shaundes & deslucy, rated T]

Prompt(s): sleep deprivation (BTHB, 2/25) + 14

Summary: “We’re in love with the same person. Friendships have been built on less common ground.”

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed

Tags: College AU, Bonding, Pining, Unrequited Crush

2.3K || Also on AO3.

Forty three—no, forty two minutes left to have lunch, get his essay printed and rush to Leonardo’s office on the other side of the campus—and Rebecca is still droning on and on about the part next Saturday, because clearly the life he doesn’t have is more important than the grade he won’t be getting unless they pick up the pace already. Murder on school grounds would probably get him expelled, among other things, which is why he’s only contemplating it; but an under-slept, under-caffeinated man has his limits and he is approaching his fast.

“No, Rebecca,” he repeats on a deep sigh as they finally get in line behind a couple in matching PJ’s, seemingly having a heated argument through sharp looks and contained gestures in that way only couples can. “I do not want to come to the party, thank you very much. I’m not even invited, remember?”

“I could ask Lucy,” she offers, unfazed. “We’re having lunch with her anyway, I could mention it then—”

His stomach drops.

“—I’m sure she won’t mind. I mean, the more the merrier—”

Taking a deep breath through his nose, “We’re what?” he cuts in. The Couple glance over with raised brows and pursed lips, as if he sullied their petty issues by having his own.

She frowns. “What?”

He just shakes his head. Lunch with Lucy, Christ. Today just keeps giving. “You won’t ask her to invite me,” he says, pinning her with his I Mean It, Rebecca look. “Or don’t even hope for a single page from my notes ever again.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ll swear on anything, Rebecca.”

Fishing her phone out of her pocket, “Whatever,” she throws, fingers already dancing on the screen. His own remains suspiciously silent in his bag. “What’s your beef with Lucy anyway?”

The Couple aren’t even pretending not to listen in, half-turned in their direction as they are. He glares steadily at them until they get their noses out of his business and back into their own, although some of those meaningful looks are probably about him this time. Hell if he cares.

“I don’t even know Lucy,” he points out, rubbing at the throbbing spot over his brow—not that that’s ever helped. “Why would I have a problem with her?”

“You get weird whenever I mention her, man. Coulda thought you had a thing for her if I didn’t know better.” Pockets the phone again, shrugging a shoulder at his look. “It’s either that or hate.”

Oh for the love of— “I don’t hate her, either,” he says—the truth, too, no matter the disbelieving face she makes at him. He has no real reason to hate Lucy. He just... doesn’t prefer to share space with her if he doesn’t absolutely have to.

If he sometimes goes out of his way to make sure he doesn’t, well.

By some miracle—more likely, because they’re finally within reach of food—she drops the subject, shoving a tray into his hands and grabbing one of her own. His stomach curls into itself at the sight of half the containers, the other half he can’t even recognise beyond had it before and didn’t die.

He accepts a serving of each and trails off after Rebecca.

Once they push past the growing crowd towards the tables, scanning the sea of heads, “You should try to get along with Lucy, you know,” she pipes up—because Rebecca leaving anything alone would’ve been too much like good luck to happen to him. “You know who she’s friends with.”

“Rebecca.”

“I’m just saying. Sheesh, someone’s touchy today.”

And whose fault is that, he’s about to snap when he spots Lucy off to the side, dumping an ungodly amount of sugar into her coffee—from Creed Coffee, no less. His first stop as soon as he drops off his essay; he’s earned a treat.

Because it’s just that kind of day, Lucy chooses that moment to look up and catch him staring like a buffoon. She beams at him like there was no one she would’ve been happier to see, waving them over.

“There she is,” Rebecca says, taking a sharp turn in her direction. He follows suit, squeezing between tables she breezes through and almost spilling his chow all over people on three separate occasions until they safely take their places across from Lucy.

To his credit, when Lucy smiles at him again, he does try to return it. His face muscles ignore the command entirely.

The women have already jumped into conversation on nothing he particularly cares about; he tunes them out for the most part and buries himself into his ‘food’ instead, fielding Rebecca’s attempts to lure him in with one-word responses and the occasional grunt when he can get away with it. About twenty minutes left; he can make it if he hurries. Maybe. Hopefully.

“Ignore him,” she stage-whispers to Lucy—with ‘him’ sitting right next to them, thank you very much. “His coffee machine broke last night.”

The audacity. “She means she broke it,” he clarifies around his spoon. It’s not grumbling if he’s right.

“Semantics,” she waves it off, reaching for her coat. “I’ll fix it when I get back, promise.”

“Wait, where the hell are you going?”

Raising her brows, “To turn in our papers, like we talked?” Rebecca says, confusion so thick in her tone that he almost doubts his own memory—except he could recognise that glint in her eyes anywhere. “You’ll keep Lucy company while I’m gone, right?”

That meddling little—

“Right,” he says for Lucy’s benefit, who is glancing between them with polite curiosity, doing his best to convey you owe me so much for this with one look. “Of course I will.”

Rebecca dares to grin at him, dropping the pretence altogether. All of three seconds and she’s off, leaving only an unused fork behind.

Without her around, the table has gone alarmingly smaller, Lucy everywhere within his sight unless he stares straight down at his tray. Had he ever been alone with Lucy before? Alone alone, within speaking distance, without anything or anyone to hide behind?

He doesn’t even have coffee to hide behind now.

One slides in front of him.

Raising her hands, “You look like you need it more,” Lucy explains, that too-warm smile on her lips; he feels shittier the longer he looks at it. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He did catch a sight of himself on the way here—not his best moment.

The polite no, thank you he should say is on the tip of his tongue—almost impossible to get out with the warm temptation is sitting right there in front of him, right under his nose, smelling—well, sort of like a unicorn exploded in there and caramel. Not that he can afford to be picky.  

Besides, he’s survived vending machine sludge; it only goes up from there.

“Come on, take it,” she insists, honest-to-god batting eyelashes at him. “So that I can feel a little better about asking for your ComLit notes next week.”

He snorts and accepts the bribe, only too eager. It’s syrupy to the point of nauseating, not unlike those energy drinks Rebecca fills the dustbin with, except with a lot less immediate kick. He doubts there’s any caffeine in there, even.

Magic might be involved, however, given the way he’s already feeling a tad closer to human.

He nods his thanks. She returns it.

“You know, Shaun,” she starts slowly, with an odd sort of caution—or maybe he’s just not used to people who think before they speak anymore. “I don’t know what Rebecca threatened you with, but you don’t have to sit with me just to be nice. I know you don’t really like me.”

He can’t help a wince—then a deeper one, when it hits that this was probably among the worst ways he could’ve reacted to a statement like that. Leave it to him to put his foot in his mouth without even opening it.

“It’s fine,” she adds, saving him from himself. “I mean it. Not everyone has to be friends.”

That’s not it, not at all.

Thing is, under different circumstances, they could’ve been friends, he and Lucy. He doesn’t know her, not really; but by the electives they keep coming across each other in and the books she carries, he doesn’t doubt they could find plenty to talk about if, if, he could get his head out of his arse and get over—

Well. He obviously can’t tell her all that.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not you,” he allows, the closest thing to an explanation he can afford to give.

“It’s okay,” she says gently, those huge, impossibly blue puppy eyes of hers trained on his. “I know.”

Blood freezes in his veins.

It’s a simple phrase. It doesn’t have to mean anything beyond the face value. There’s no reason for it to; he’d been careful—more than, really—but that smile, all sadness and sympathy—

He swallows against the bitter taste in his mouth, a light burn all the way down his throat, pooling in the pit of his stomach. “You do?”

“I do,” she confirms, jerking her head somewhere to his far right. He follows her gaze to—

Oh, hell. She does.

“He doesn’t know,” she answers his unasked question, lowly enough that the rush of blood in his ears almost drowns out the words. “Don’t worry, you’re not obvious about it or anything.”

Clearly he is, if she noticed.

He risks another glance—he is sprawled on his seat with an arm resting on the other one, laughing at whatever bollocks story Cross might be telling, that stupid one-strap bag of his sitting on the table.

“You’re sure he doesn’t?” he has to ask, heart both at his feet and racing in his chest somehow.

She nods. “Positive. He’s the worst when it comes to this sort of thing, you wouldn’t believe it. He won’t notice unless you come at him with a brick that says I like you.”

Something at the back of his mind prickles like static.

See, past the initial shock, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where he’d gone wrong. As far as social circles go, his and his are on different planes entirely. They don’t have mutual friends beyond the tangential; they don’t frequent the same places unless Rebecca drags him out to Bad Weather; they hardly talked enough for him to develop this… thing he’s been saddled with, even. He’d thought—as long as he kept to his corner of life where he doesn’t have to face them, he’d thought he could pretend his feelings away.

It had never even occurred to him that someone might notice him not looking. That someone might have reason to care why.

He’s fairly certain of the answer when he asks, his stomach heavy with dread, “Speaking from experience?”

Her face goes carefully blank. It’s as good a confirmation as any.

He takes a deep breath, locking the irrational sting of disappointment down and away, where he can pretend it doesn’t exist, either. What does it matter if she is the competition? He had decided not to pursue that line of thought long ago. What does it matter if he’d already lost?

“You’re not obvious, either,” he tries. She smiles, if that rueful little curl can be called one. “He doesn’t know?”

She shrugs, too nonchalant to actually be that. “Or doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. I dropped, like, a lot of hints; no one’s that oblivious.”

Would it be awkward if he kind of sort of maybe wants to give her a hug?

It would, wouldn’t it.

What even is his life.

“Anyway,” she sighs, glancing at her watch. “Time to leave. Vidic’s class.”

Ugh. That he doesn’t envy her for. “Good luck,” he offers, reaching for the cup again—a bit sorry to have taken it from her, now.

She makes a face. “Thanks.” She drops her spoon on her mostly full tray, Rebecca’s abandoned fork with it. “By the way, it’s his birthday next Saturday. We’re having a party at our place; you should come.”

He almost chokes on the next sip, saved by a stray half second. “Me?”

She raises a brow, a perfectly arched duh.

His brain stutters. Why does she—why would she want him there, if she knows? If she—

It makes no sense.

Lucy is still seated across from him, calmly waiting him out like there’s nothing odd to this. Just two friends making casual weekend plans.

Not all that sure it’s not the exhaustion fucking with him, he licks his lips. “So you’re fine with…”

“That you’re on the same boat?” She shrugs again, zipping up her jacket. “We’re in love with the same person. Friendships have been built on less common ground.”

Huh.

Digging into her bag, she comes up with a blue marker, reaching for the other cup. “My number,” she says as she writes on the sleeve and puts it back, written part facing him—all neat, efficient lines, because of course. “Let me know if you make up your mind.”

He nods blankly, for lack of a better response. She smiles, standing up with her tray.

She’s already halfway to the door when he remembers: “I’ll bring the notes!”

She winks at him over her shoulder, fixes her bag and disappears into the crowd.

[benisasoftboi]

Tales From A Christmas Carol(s)

I work props at a local amateur theatre, and we just finished our run of A Christmas Carol - 19 shows in just under two weeks, massive cast of both adults and children. I was there for 15 of the performances, plus rehearsals. I’ll miss the cast and crew very much - wonderful people, the lot of them - but I never want to hear a word about ghosts and making merry and Tiny-bloody-Tim ever again. 

Here’s some stories that the audience didn’t get to see:

So the first thing I have to talk about is the Cursed Prop. Here he is, at first dress rehearsal:

Someone in the cast named him Dead Tom. He stayed on stage right, where I worked, and played the role of Scrooge’s corpse during a Christmas Yet To Come scene (hidden under a blanket, luckily for the audience). We all hated Dead Tom for being the scariest part of the whole production - except the kids, who were oddly entranced by him. I once watched one reverently stare at him, and then reach forward to gently caress his face. Spooky as hell. As the show went on, and he had to be dragged about every night, he got a bit worse for wear, and by the final performance looked like this:

Someone (*cough* me) accidentally kicked him in the face during the final rehearsal, which is why that dent is there. Surprisingly, doing this didn’t doom the show by unleashing an ancient evil. I suspect it instead explains the UK general election result. Sorry, everyone

Working props can be really fun because unlike a lot of other backstage jobs, you get to spend a lot of time with the actors - you come to personally rely on each other, which leads to a weird, but special bond. Like the girl who played Belle (Scrooge’s ex-girlfriend), who relied on me to help her with a quick change at the end of Act 1 - I had to button a cape around her neck, which is really difficult to do under pressure (I’ve always admired quick changes, but now I am in absolute reverence of some famous ones having experienced the pressure of it first hand). I am very grateful she trusted me with the task - and also quite surprised I never accidentally groped her, considering how often my hands were frantically moving about in that area

However - actors are also useless and cannot ever be trusted with anything, it must be said. We had this plate of (real!) jellies that went on stage for a party scene, it looked like this:

(They look better on stage). I would cover them with a sheet of foil, and a note reading ‘DO NOT TOUCH’, as they were fairly delicate. The first night, the note went missing. I later found it on the other side of the stage, meaning some one must have carried it across. And it also means that some smart-arse touched the DO NOT TOUCH sign. Never found out who it was

On the last night, I figured they knew the rules by now. I didn’t have to cover up the jellies, they’d seen the sign for two weeks, I’d be throwing them away in an hour anyway - I could trust them to leave them alone for one more act. I leave them out, turn around for five seconds, and turn back to discover the actors taking it in turns to SLAP the jellies

Actors are despicable creatures and I hate them (I don’t <3)

There’s always one prop the actors consistently forget to return. In this show, there was a set of pocket watches that people would constantly leave in costume pockets. At one point we had three shows in a row where a different person forgot each time. This was perhaps my punishment for getting bored in rehearsals and setting all the clock hands to 6 and 9

We had a few props that were spares, in case something went missing or got broken. One was a bowler hat. On the last night, as it clearly wouldn’t be needed, I wore it the whole show, just for fun. Someone told me I looked ‘effortlessly cool’, which is the only time that has ever been said about me

There were a lot of kids in this show, and they were really sweet, and often more well-behaved than the grown-ups. I had to skip both sets of performances on the Thursdays for other commitments, and one of them told me he missed me while I was gone, and my soul ascended

Another time, we were doing a matinee for a school group, who were being very rowdy. One of the kids came over to me, gestured in the direction of the audience, and said ‘I hate children’. I nodded and handed him his prop, while internally losing it because sweetheart, you are children

That same day, the actor playing Christmas Past lost his wig - he had to walk through a curtain, and it got pulled off. Cue laughter from audience. He handled it very well, though. The wig wasn’t used again in any performance after that, which I think was actually for the best, with the costume and make-up he actually kind of looked spookier without it 

Another school group wolf-whistled Scrooge at the end - kids are wild

I had to spend a lot of time coming back and forth from the theatre’s props room due to those jellies I mentioned earlier needing to stay in the fridge when not in use. Props rooms are where all the most recently or soon to be used props are kept (we’ve got like five other rooms and a whole basement for stuff that’s not in use), and they’re the best. You never know what you’re going to find, and you spot something new every time. It can range from weird:

To creepy:

To very funny if you’re on your tenth performance of A Christmas-goddamn-Carol and you barely slept last night and you have a highly immature sense of humour:

I would watch the absolute hell out of a Night At The Museum spin-off set in a theatre props storage

Being an amateur theatre, everyone involved with these shows is, well, an amateur. A lot of people still like to jokingly call themselves professionals, though, usually under one of two circumstances - the first is when no one really feels like being there, but we’ve got to do it, we’re professionals, *self-deprecating laughter*, and the second when someone gets caught doing something silly

For me, the latter happened a few times during my favourite part of my role in this show - decorating the scooter. For some reason, this version of A Christmas Carol featured a boy on a scooter who would ride through various scenes. The scooter was then gifted to Tiny Tim at the end (I don’t get it, but whatever). Throughout most of the show, it was just a scooter, but before the last time it came on, I would decorate it like this:

Now, it had to be ridden across the stage, so it was very important that the decorations didn’t all come off. So of course, I would be required to make certain of that, surely? And what better way to do so than by riding it around the back corridors while everyone’s on stage? Right? It’s a very professional thing to do, is how I explained it every time someone caught me

Scooters are fun and more adults should have them

At the end of the show, the whole cast is on stage and ‘snow’ falls from the ‘sky’, and everyone cheers as the curtain falls. One matinee, the snow failed, and we spent the wait until the evening show unsure whether they’d be able to fix it. When it did fall at the end of the performance, the cheers the actors let out were, unbeknownst to the audience that night, actually 100% genuine - I could hear the difference, having listened to it every night for a week. Which was why I spent the entirety of bows that evening silently laughing my absolute arse off

To be a little cheesy - these past few weeks have been some of the best of my life. If anyone out there has just moved, or is moving to a new city, and is looking to socialise a bit, you could do worse than joining up with a local theatre. Best case scenario, you end up like me, and have a great (if repetitive) time with a group of lovely people. And worst case? You at least get really good at quoting long sections of plays. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with someone who can do that?  

[heavyelectricity]

I’m so excited about our trip to Japan, and honestly I’m struggling to convey it. I have pretty limited experience of international travel, since our family has always been pretty poor. Most of our holidays were in the UK, and even then we always had to share a caravan with other parts of the family, or family friends.

We were lucky enough to win vouchers that took myself, my mum and my sister on our first trip abroad together, which took place in 2005. Even then, we had to do it cheap - we went on a coach tour to Germany, visiting a number of locations along the Rhine valley. It was a great time, although we did struggle a bit financially (thank the gods we opted for half board). It was certainly an eventful trip too, as we arrived in Cologne on the same day as Pope Benedict XVI, kept running into election campaigns, and got chased by a mad toilet lady. We went out via the Channel Tunnel and came back on the ferry (hence the photo above). Fun fact: I took issue 18 of Retro Gamer with me as reading material.

I’ve only been on one real holiday after that - a semi-solo weekend trip to Lille in 2012, for a Magic: The Gathering tournament. I arranged my travel and hotel myself, but spent the weekend with friends from my local store while I was there. I’d won a Grand Prix Trial tournament for three byes and decided to go, but unfortunately a new set rendered my deck obsolete between then and the major tournament. I struggled with indecision over what to play and ended up going mono-red since it was expected to be good against a field of UB Control. I didn’t play against many UB Control players that weekend, but did get my arse kicked by a top Swedish pro and a future member of the German world cup team. I nearly didn’t make it out of town, a snowstorm hit on the morning of departure and I was on the last train through the tunnel for most of the day.

Since then I’ve been abroad three more times, but all for work. In 2014, I visited Nintendo’s European HQ in Frankfurt to interview Junichi Masuda and Shigeru Ohmori, and preview Pokémon Omega Ruby & Alpha Sapphire. That was all business - straight there and straight back on the same day, marking the first (and second!) time I’d ever flown. In 2015 I went to Paris to see Master Of Orion, but the producer was ill and couldn’t make the demo/interview session, so the presentation was limited to a tour of the Wargaming office and a half hour, hands-off preview session. As a result I had plenty of free time before my flight home, so the staff drew me a Metro map to get me near the Eiffel Tower, and I got to explore Paris on foot for a bit and see some of the landmarks. I went back to Paris last month for the Yu Suzuki interview, and although I didn’t see any more of the city, I did get to visit the enormous Japan Expo.

This trip to Japan will be my first time outside of Europe. There’s so much I’m hoping to see, to do and to buy, and I’m sure I won’t be able to cram it all into a week. But I’m fortunate that I’ll be able to do it at all, and that I’ll be getting to share that experience with two really good friends. I can’t wait.

[loversandantiheroes]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: F/M Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford Characters: Cullen Rutherford, Female Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Lyrium Withdrawal, Lyrium Addiction, Mild Gore, Hurt/Comfort, first comes the hurt, then comes the comfort, I swear there will be comfort

The threat of Adamant looms, and the cracks begin to show.

Perpetual love and thanks to @songofproserpine for the beta reading <3

--------------------------------------------------------------

“And people say I’m stubborn!” Cassandra shouted after Cullen as the door shut.

Aadhlei stood staring at the door, thunderstruck.  “Maferath’s balls, Cassandra, what was that about?”

The Seeker folded her arms with a sigh, arranging her face into a rough semblance of her usual irascibility.  But there was an unusual, uneasy edge to it, the expression ill-suited to her face. Cassandra was worried.

“Cullen told you of his decision to stop taking lyrium?”

“He did.  I can’t say it’s a decision that hasn’t worried me, but it was clearly important to him.”

The image of him came to her, bent over his lyrium kit.  Some go mad, others die.  A cold little knot landed heavily in her stomach.

Maker don’t you dare, she thought, and swallowed hard.  “Am I to take it the attempt is going poorly?”

“Most attempts do,” Cassandra said with a sad shake of her head.  “He is ill, yes. He pushes himself too hard. He always has, but more so now.  The man has not stood still since we received word of Adamant. He has seen two Circles fall, and more than his share of demons because of that, even before Veil was breached.  He is afraid that he cannot protect our people, or you, from what we will face. He is a stubborn man, driven, but that same stubbornness has twisted in on him.”

“He thinks he can’t do it without the lyrium,” Aadhlei said.  For all his anger at the Order, Cullen still held - and, she suspected, always would - an unflagging loyalty to the people that served in it.  The Templars were instruments crafted with a purpose, and even as he shed the chains the Order imposed he still sought that purpose, still sought to prove they could do the good he’d been raised to believe in.  But now the Order was all but shattered, and so few Templars still stood that had not been cut down in the war or stained with red lyrium.

A familiar wave of regret twisted through her.  Thoughts of Therinfal Redoubt and the things they had found in its deserted halls clutched at her with a thousand tiny hooks, each one a bright and burning red.  For the thousandth time, she wondered if there was more she could have done, if there had ever been a chance….

Too late for that, she told herself.  It’s done, let it lie.  She dropped her head, letting the straggled mess of her hair hide her face.  All the wear and worry of the past two weeks seemed to be landing in her at once.  And above it all sat a new weight, a heavy, pressing concern that what was wrong with Cullen was beyond her ability to help.

Pulling her focus back, she realized Cassandra was still speaking, either unaware of the her distress or electing not to acknowledge it.  “Cullen has the chance to break that leash to prove that it is possible, to himself and to anyone else who would follow,” she said, more than a little pride in the words.

“What can we do?” Aadhlei asked, trying to brush away her tears as discreetly as she could.

“Not we, Inquisitor.  I have done what I can.  He wants me to recommend a replacement for him.  I will not. It is unnecessary, and quite frankly it would destroy him.  He has come so far, and weathered so much already, I will not take this chance away from him simply because he is afraid.”  

Cassandra took a step back, spreading her hands.  “I cannot claim to know what he needs, but I know that he is capable.  He can do this, he just needs reminding.  And he needs care that he is too stubborn to seek out on his own.  In that I must defer to you. You are the healer. And your bedside manner is certainly preferable to mine.”

Aadhlei sighed, long and tired.  “We were to gather at the war table in an hour.  Please inform Josephine and Leliana the meeting is postponed until we may all attend.”

“As you say, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said.  The Seeker regarded her a moment longer, mouth pursed.  “May I ask you something?”

Aadhlei nodded, barely listening.  Already she was running down remedies in her head, trying to think of things to say, things to do.  Anything that might help.

“There have been rumors around Skyhold for some time.  About you and the Commander. I knew that he had long held you in high regard, but tell me, is it true?  Are the two of you-”

“Would it be a problem if it was?” she asked, words worn to a needle-sharp point.

Cassandra gave a slight shake of her head, a strangely satisfied look on her face.  “No. He needs someone. As do you, I suspect.” She cast a quick glance over Aadhlei, as if finally taking in the state of her.  “I don’t suppose telling you to get some rest before you see him will do any good.”

A short, barking laugh escaped her.  “Maker, as if I could sleep after - no, Cassandra.  No it would not.”

“Then go.  I will see to the council for the time being.”

The sight of him stayed with her as she rushed up to her quarters.  Ashen-faced and shining with sweat, making for the door on legs that bore him up through strength of will only. The worst of it had been that jagged catch in his voice as he’d passed her, muttering for forgiveness.  The shame in his voice, the defeat, had been overwhelming.

Her traveling clothes hit the floor in showers of dirt and sand.  Every inch of her ached. Exhaustion left a tingling thrum in her limbs that made it feel as if she was still on horseback, rattling around in the saddle.  All she’d held onto on the long, punishing ride back to Skyhold had been the promise of a hot bath and the thought of Cullen’s arms around her again. She hadn’t written.  Not once since they rode out of the Western Approach. There had been no time. All the world for her had been fitful sleep and hoofbeats. Maker, she regretted that now.

What if I can’t fix it?  Wounds she could heal.  Breaks she could mend. Maker’s sake, she could even stitch up holes in the sky these days.  But what could she do for wounds she couldn’t see?  When the break was not a bone but something deeper and far more essential.  When his body was tearing itself apart for want of a thing that poisoned his mind.  What then?

Her mind kept returning to his words the day he’d told her about the lyrium - some go mad, others die - worrying over them again and again like a tongue on a loose tooth.

“Maker, don’t you dare,” she said aloud.  Pointing a shaking finger skyward, she called up in a stern but breaking voice, “You hear me?  Go kick over someone else’s ant hill. Or better yet, get off your omnipotent arse and do some fucking good for a change!”

Steady, child.  Kenna’s voice, cracked and kind.   You’re no good to anyone all twisted up.

Aadhlei braced herself against her desk, a strangled sob caught in her throat.  Kenna, her foster mother, had taken ill one winter, not long before the war broke out.  A cough came creeping in with the sharp winds and settled deep in her lungs. No remedies would touch it, no matter how hard Aadhlei tried.  As the weeks wore on and her condition worsened, Aadhlei grew desperate. In the end she had given Kenna a sleeping draught to keep her settled and, in one last frantic attempt to save her, she had tried to heal her by magic.  A powerful spell, not dangerous, but strong .  The sort of thing she had always been discouraged from using, lest she risk drawing the attention of the Templars that roamed the village from the Chantry.  

And it did nothing.  But she was stubborn, a bull-headedness fuelled by love as much as fear, and she had refused to see the truth of the matter: Kenna was old, and Kenna was dying.  And so she had kept on trying again and again, pouring magic into the old woman’s flagging body until she had run herself dry, collapsing out of sheer exhaustion.

When at last she woke, Kenna was dead.  Her first failure. The first taste of real loss.

Hardly your fault, poppet.  There are some hurts in this world that aren’t yours to heal.  But that doesn’t mean you give up, and that doesn’t mean you sit about and do nothing.  So you steady up, now. You’ve work to do.

“Aye, mum, so I do,” she muttered.

She threw open her wardrobe, breath shuddering through the tears that flowed steadily down her cheeks, grasping half-blindly for something clean and uncomplicated to pull on.  A small pile formed beside her - things that were an ungodly mess of buttons, laces, and buckles - before she pulled free something ivory-colored and lace-trimmed. Either some form of fancy night dress or a long chemise meant for more formal wear.  “Fuck it, that’ll do,” she mumbled, pulling it over her head. If it stained, Maker knew she could afford to have it replaced. Her apron hung near her potion cabinet and she tied it on rapidly, stepping into a pair of soft leather slippers and thumbing the catch on the cabinet.  

Inside was an odd mish-mash of prepared potions.  There were still a few bottles of the basic tinctures she’d mixed up for Cullen, and she scooped them up.  Three squat bottles of a purplish-red liquid sat lined up on the far right side. Midnight Oil, she usually called it, something she’d put together to keep herself going when sleep wasn’t an option.  A bad thing to make a habit of, but a help when necessary, and right now it was deeply necessary.  

Aadhlei grabbed two of them, considered, then took the third as well.  She cast a long, hard glance at the small wooden box on the bottom shelf, the one she kept a few lyrium potions in.  If worse came to worst and she had to heal him with magic, if he’d even allow it, taking one now might not be a bad idea.  Yet she had found herself almost unwilling to take them after Cullen had confessed he had given it up. It felt wrong somehow, offensive, almost, knowing what the substance had cost him.

In the end she decided against it, closing the door a little reluctantly.  A faded green shrug lay across the back of her desk chair, and she slipped it on, too hurried to drag on a proper cloak.  She pulling her big leather satchel off its peg, stowing the tinctures and two of the potions inside, and slung it over her shoulder.  

Popping the cork from the third potion, she knocked it back swiftly and set off down the stairs for the Commander’s office.

The path felt like a gauntlet, deflecting staff and redirecting messengers with short barks of “Later,” “Fine,” and “On my desk.”  Solas, looking worn enough himself after the journey back, regarded her perplexedly from his desk as she passed him, making with more than a little haste for the door to the catwalk.  The coldness of the air hit her like a physical blow. The nervous buzz in her limbs subsided bit by bit as the potion began to take effect, but it did little for the tight coils of tension that wound up her back and around her ribs, squeezing tighter as the cold sank into her.  Maker, why hadn’t she thought to take a damned cloak?

Unthinking, she pushed open the door to Cullen’s office without knocking.  A mistake, to be sure, and hardly courteous to boot, but she was still too unnerved for the sake of courtesy, and now too cold to want to linger on the doorstep.  As the door swung open she heard Cullen’s cry of frustrated anger and a flash of movement and brought the large, heavy bag up like a shield, ducking her head behind it.  Something collided with it hard, ricocheting off to splinter against the door frame. The remnants of his lyrium kit lay scattered at her feet, a small shattered phial of crystalline blue glinting prettily in the weak torchlight.

“Maker’s breath!”  Cullen lay half splayed against his desk, breath short and eyes wild, the momentum of his throw and the shock of her appearance knocking him off what little balance he still had.  “I’m sorry! I didn’t hear you enter, I didn’t, I would never, are you -” He let out one long, shaking breath as she lowered the satchel and he saw she was unharmed. A fraction of the shock drained from his face, but what replaced it was a look of such utter misery it hurt her to look at.  “Forgive me,” he said again.

Kicking the broken box away, Aadhlei closed the door, considered, then bolted it and crossed to do the same to the others.  The last thing he needed was another interruption. “Talk to me, Cullen,” she said, willing her soothing voice to service, the one she kept in reserve for the sick or gravely injured.  “What’s wrong?”

The creases in his brow deepened, shoulders slumping.  “No, you’ve been riding for days. You don’t have to-” he began, and then his legs finally gave out and he collapsed against the corner of the desk with a groan.  Aadhlei rushed to him, taking his weight, waiting for his breathing to slow and whatever spell had gripped him to pass.

“Aye, I do,” she said.  “Come on, you need to sit.”

“I never meant for this to interfere,” he said as she eased him into his chair, sounding so small it was as if he was a child in armor, waiting to be punished for his failure.

“It’s alright, Cullen.  But I need you to talk to me, and I need you trust me, alright?”  She swiped a hand across his brow, felt the heat of fever under a slick of sweat.  It gave off a sour smell, but beneath that Aadhlei realized she could smell the faintest scent of burning, like a lightning strike.  “Are you in pain?”

He hesitated.  Then, again, so very small, “Yes.”

“Where?”  

“Everywhere.  All over. My joints are on fire.  And my head.”

“Dizzy?  Sick to your stomach?”

A nod.  “Both.”

She began unbuckling his vambraces and pulled off his gloves.  His hands were like ice, and covered in that same thin, slimy sheen of sweat.  “Squeeze my hand, hard as you can.” He began to mutter a protestation and she put a finger to his lips.  “Meant what I said. Hard as you can. Tougher than I look, remember?”

He nodded against her finger.  The hand closed, squeezed just barely as firm as a handshake, then shook violently.

“You feel hot or cold?”

“Freezing,” he said.  As she moved her hand from his mouth he caught it, pressed it desperately to the side of his face, and closed his eyes.  “Forgive me,” he said again. Not just an apology now, but an appeal.

Aadhlei bent double, pressing her forehead to his, feeling the fever baking off him in waves and not shrinking.  “There is nothing to forgive, Cullen.”

She did not expect him to laugh, or the for that laugh to sound so hard and bitter.  He pulled away sharply, letting her hand fall.

“You should not sound so sure.”  There was a horrible, manic sparkling in his eyes, feverish and wild.  “You have no idea the things….you asked me once what happened in Ferelden’s Circle.  Shall I tell you? It was taken over by abominations. One of the senior mages, Uldred, decided a Blight was a fine time to push for an independent circle.  When the Grand Enchanter refused, Uldred and his ilk resorted to blood magic to get their way. We shut the Circle down so the maleficars could not escape, but that only trapped us in there with them.  The Templars were slaughtered or corrupted. Most of the mages who would not bend the knee to Uldred’s coup were bent with blood magic or killed outright. Demons took care of much of the rest. My friends were cut down in front of me.”  

A haze fell over his eyes, not dimming their fire but making it distant, and Aadhlei shivered.  She had treated enough soldiers now to recognize that look, to know where he had gone, and that all she could do was hold on and wait for him to come back.

Cullen took a long, measured breath.  Then another. A third breath, sharper and shallower, and Aadhlei thought briefly of a man preparing for a deep, sudden dive.  “I was tortured,” he said in peculiar, toneless voice.

The word hung in the air, pendulously, like a body on the gallows.  It seemed to hold such a foreign weight on his tongue that she wondered truthfully if he had ever said it aloud, ever allowed the admission of such a deep and private injury to be spoken.

“I don’t even know how long.  Days, I think, but it felt like years.  No food, no water, no lyrium. Demons scrabbling at my head.  Or maybe it was the maleficars, I can’t be sure. I cannot be sure of much.  It’s all…I...they tried to break my mind and I - how can you be the same person after that?”

He carried on, barely blinking, seeming to breathe only to keep the words moving.  “For years I was nothing but fear and anger rattling in a suit of armor. Still, I wanted to serve.  What else was there for me to do? And they sent me to Kirkwall.  Maker help me, I thought I knew then.  I thought I knew what needed doing, who needed protecting.  I thought I knew who the enemy was. Meredith used that against me .  Told me what she wanted me to hear and hid what she knew even I would oppose.  I was her bloody lapdog for years while she abused the Mages - abused our people for standing up against her - and she used us to do it.  And the Chantry did nothing.  Not for anyone.  Andraste preserve me, neither did I.  I trusted my Knight-Commander,” he said, his face contorted in revulsion.  “I aided her, for god’s sake!   I defended her!  By the time I saw through her, when the lies were finally too large to swallow and I saw the fear in the eyes of our charges for what it was, it was too late.  It all happened again. Kirkwall’s circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets.”

At last his eyes focused again and locked onto her with a desperate ferocity.  “Can’t you see why I want nothing to do with that life?”

“Of course I can,” she said, striving for a soothing patience, but her voice shook with tears she could barely keep in check.  She wanted to help, she always wanted to help, but what cure could she offer for this?  What remedy for wounds of conscience and memory? She sucked in a breath, trying for reassurance, for understanding.  “Cullen, you don’t have to-”

“Don’t!”  He turned his head away, throat working.  

He wants the blame, she realized with an awful sinking in her chest.   Wants disgust and anger, not sympathy.  It’s all he thinks he deserves, especially from a mage.

The urge to reach for him, to give some kind of comfort was overwhelming, but she kept her hands locked on the edges of his desk, the knuckles slowly turning white.  Not yet.

“I’m not going to blame you, Cullen,” she said softly.  He winced, too raw for softness, but she kept on. “If that’s what you want of me, then I’m sorry, because I can’t do that.  I won’t. When they sent you to Kirkwall, they didn’t send a Templar, they sent a man who was scared and wounded and looking for someone to blame.  And that made it very very easy for the wrong kind of people to hook their fingers into you and get you to follow. That you’re trying to do better now, that you’re trying to change and make up for that - and bloody well succeeding at it - takes more strength than I think you give yourself credit for.  And that it hurts you so deep says you have far more goodness left in you than you think.  In my experience, bad men have little time for remorse.”

She reached out a tentative hand and laid it on his arm.  He flinched, hard, and she drew back immediately.  “Whatever happened before, you’re not that man now,” she told him.  “You told me once that you joined the Order because you wanted to help people.  And that is all I’ve ever seen you do. You’re a good man, Cullen Rutherford. If you want my forgiveness, for whatever it’s worth, you have it.  But you’ve come far enough that maybe you should try to forgive yourself, too.”

A strangled sob escaped him and he twisted away.  As if finally unable to bear her kindness any longer, he launched himself to his feet and set to pacing, unsteady but frantic.  

Aadhlei’s heart sank.  Wrong, wrong, Maker help me I got it wrong.

“How can you - why aren’t you angry?” he cried thickly.  “How can you say such things - how can you even stand to look at me?  Can you not see the blood on my hands? You should be questioning what I’ve done, the decisions I’ve made!  Blessed Andraste, how can I atone for something when I can still feel it happening? I thought it would be better without the lyrium, that I would gain some control over my life, but these thoughts won’t leave me,” he said, harsh and strangled, a scream made quiet.    

He fell to an anguished babbling, words falling from him faster and faster.  His hands tugged at his hair, raking it into wild, ragged furls. Tears cut fresh tracks down his cheeks.  It was a terrifying contrast to the controlled demeanor he had always upheld, but the small part of her, the part that spoke patient truths in Kenna’s voice, was almost relieved at his frenzy.  A bone that had set poorly would need to be re-broken again before it could be set true.   Break clean, Cullen, she thought, hopeful now in spite of her fear.

"Blessed are those that stand before the wicked and do not falter.  I cannot falter.  I cannot.  How many lives depend on our success?  Adamant waits for us, a demon army in its walls, and I am meant to lead our people into that!  I must send you into that!  And I do it hobbled for the sake of my own selfish pride!  I swore myself to this cause - I will not give less to the Inquisition than I gave to the Chantry!  I should be taking it!”

With that last he lashed out finally, fist driving into the bookcase with enough force to crack the shelf and send books scattering to the floor.  For a moment he simply stood there, teeth bared and hand bleeding, and then he slowly folded, the fight and fire extinguished all at once. “I should be taking it,” he said again in a voice heavy with defeat.

There it is.

She crossed to him slowly, and this time when she touched him - feather-light, a question of permission made with fingertips - he did not recoil.  “Cullen. Listen to me. Forget the Inquisition, forget the war. Is that what you want?”

A look of horror settled on his face.  “No. Maker, no. I want to be free of it.  I need to.”  Desperation and exhaustion shook his voice ragged, but his eyes seemed clearer and more focused.  

“Then do not put your neck back in that leash for our sake.  Please, Cullen. You can do this. I know you can.”

Cullen pulled his hand away from the broken shelf.  A ragged gouge cut across his knuckles. He stared down at the trembling mess of his hand with a furrowed brow, listening to the gentle patter of his blood against the stone floor.  “The sickness I can take,” he said slowly, “but these memories have always haunted me. Even with the lyrium. If they become worse, if I am not strong enough to endure it-”

“You are,” she said, and carefully cradled his bleeding hand.  “I have never seen a match for the strength in you, Cullen. If anyone can do this, it’s you.”

He hitched in a watery breath.  “I’m sorry. I did not want to - I was afraid let you down.”

“You never could.  I’m proud of you.  But I will not stand by and watch you suffer and do nothing.  You don’t have to do this alone. Let me help you, Cullen. Please.”

Something settled in his face then, something like gratitude, and he seemed all at once steadier with it.

“You’re still here,” he muttered in a wondering voice.

“Aye, so I am.”

He leaned into her with a shuddering sigh, and Aadhlei thought she had never heard such a singularly relieved sound in her life.  He nodded, forehead rocking against hers. “Alright,” he muttered.

Aadhlei shouldered her bag again and pulled Cullen tight to her hip.  “Come on, lean on me. Let’s get you to bed.”

[emospritelet]

KOL prompt: Dorothy witnesses a particularly painfully awkward encounter between Belle and Gold once Belle comes back to work. She harasses Gold about it.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14] [Part 15] [Part 16] [Part 17]

AO3 link

Belle was relieved when she could return to work, and made her way to the hospital with a lightness in her step that she hadn’t felt in days.  Even the weather seemed to be celebrating her newfound freedom, the winter sun shining brightly on the snow, ice crystals glittering on the boughs of trees and the top of the park fence.  She greeted Mary Margaret cheerfully as she entered the locker room, shrugging out of her coat and shoving it with her bag into an empty locker.

“How are you feeling?” asked Mary Margaret.  “You look pale.”

“I’m okay,” said Belle, turning to face her.  “A little tired, that’s all.  Glad to be back at work.”

“Hmm.”  Mary Margaret looked amused.  “Even with the impending naked photo shoot?  I heard you agreed to do it too.”

Belle pulled a face, but couldn’t hide her grin.

“Dorothy called me yesterday,” she confessed.  “I don’t mind - it sounds like a bit of fun.  You’re in too, right?”

“I’m in,” said Mary Margaret, blushing a little.  “I just hope none of the school kids see the finished product.  I’m counting on the townsfolk to hide their innocent eyes.”

Belle grinned.

“So, do we have a full dozen victims?” she asked, smoothing her skirt, and Mary Margaret nodded as they turned to head for the ward.

“Six girls and six guys,” she confirmed.  “Literally no one was shocked that Doctors Whale and Milliner stepped up.  Dr Gold was a surprise, though.”

Belle stumbled, arms flying out to keep her balance.

“Dr Gold?” she said.  “He’s doing it?”

“I couldn’t believe it either,” said Mary Margaret.  “He’s always buttoned up to the neck.  I guess you just never know what someone’s really like underneath it all, huh?”

Belle thought that she knew exactly what he was like, down the last inch, but she elected not to say anything.  They rounded the corner and went into the long term ward, where Mary Margaret picked up a tray and began collecting empty water jugs from patients’ nightstands.  Belle left her to it, crossing the ward to where her little mobile library cart was stashed beside the waste bins.  She wondered if anyone had been doing the rounds in her absence, or if the patients had missed out on reading material.

Once she had made the rounds of the long term patients, she pushed the cart out of the ward, almost running into Dorothy, who swerved to avoid her.

“Sorry,” said Belle.  “I should slow down, I’m just excited to be back.”

“Well, it’s good to see you on your feet again,” said Dorothy cheerfully.  “We could use all the help we can get.”

“Just let me know where you need me,” said Belle.  “I was going to do the library rounds but I’m free after that.”

“We need supplies in the kids’ ward,” said Dorothy.  “I’ll get you the list, if you can swing by on your way around.”

“Sure thing.”

Dorothy nodded, and put her head to the side with a tiny grin.

“So, the photo shoot,” she said.  “Jefferson says the photographers are coming tomorrow.  I vote we go for drinks at the Rabbit Hole afterwards.  You in?”

“Sounds good,” said Belle.  “Who are the photographers?  Someone local?”

Dorothy shook her head.

“Couple of Jefferson’s friends from New York,” she said.  “Apparently they’re big time - do a lot of work for Vogue.  Nice of them to do him a favour.”

“Well, now I’m even more interested to see what the finished product looks like,” remarked Belle.  “Is there a theme or anything?”

“Other than ‘hospital staff strip off their clothes and their dignity for cold hard cash’, not that I know of,” said Dorothy, with a grin, and Belle giggled.

The tap of a cane made her look around, and she felt her heart thump as Dr Gold came into view, his hair brushing his cheekbones, his eyes a little tired.  Belle beamed at him as he approached, and he nodded to her.

“Miss French,” he said.  “I trust you’re feeling better?”

Belle gave him a flat look.

“If you start Miss French-ing me again, I’ll have to revert to calling you Dr Gold,” she teased.

“Well, we are in a hospital,” he said, a little stiffly.  “Given my professional status, perhaps that would be best.”

Belle felt as though a cup full of cold water had been thrown over her.  He wasn’t quite meeting her eyes, fingers twitching on the cane handle, and Dorothy was frowning at him.  She tried again.

“You must be enjoying having the house to yourself,” she said.  “Although if you ever want someone to kick your arse at cards again, feel free to give me a call.”

She grinned at him, and he looked away, off down the corridor.

“I’m enjoying the peace and quiet,” he said.  “No doubt you’re pleased to be back in your own bed.  As am I.”

“Right,” she said, feeling awkward, and Gold sighed.

“If you’ll excuse me, Miss French, I have a busy schedule,” he said.  “I’m glad you made a full recovery.”

He set off down the corridor with his limping stride, and Belle chewed her lip, sharing an awkward glance with Dorothy before pushing her cart on down to the children’s ward.  It seemed the close friendship they had been nurturing had taken a strange turn.

Gold was almost to the next ward when Dorothy caught up with him, swerving to stand in front of him and blocking his path.

“What the hell was that?” she demanded.

“What the hell was what?”

“Could you have been any more rude and dismissive?” she asked.  “I thought you two were friends!”

“How was I rude?”

Dorothy put her hands on her hips.

“What, so telling her she has to call you Dr Gold and you’re glad she’s no longer in your house wasn’t rude?”

“I told her I was glad she’d recovered!” he said, aggrieved, and she puffed out her chest, raising her chin.

“’My dear Miss French’”, she said, in a ridiculously deep and somewhat plummy voice. “’I’m delighted both that you didn’t die and that you’re no longer bothering me with your foolish chattering’. That’s how you sounded!”

“I did not!”

“You know, the next time you talk to someone you like, I’m just gonna record a video of their face going through the five stages of grief and show it to you.”

“She didn’t do that!” snapped Gold, and blinked.  “Wait, what do you mean ‘like’?”

Dorothy leaned forward, fixing him with a beady eye.

“You like her,” she whispered.  “Don’t you dare try to tell me you don’t, because you’ll be a lying liar who lies!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” he growled, and strode off.  She trotted at his heels like an insistent terrier.

“Don’t walk away from me, you know I’m right.”

“I don’t know any such thing!” he snapped.  “And I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my personal affairs.”

“Oh believe me, if you had any personal affairs going on, I’d be more than happy to mind my own business.”

“Then do so.” 

“Can’t do that.”  She slipped in front of him again.  “Look, just ask her out.  I bet she’d say yes.  One date.”

“I don’t date,” he said stiffly.

“Since when?”

“Since forever,” he said, and she straightened up, looking surprised.

“Oh,” she said.  “Not ever?”

“No.”

Dorothy looked awkward.

“Oh,” she said again.  “I didn’t realise you weren’t attracted to people that way.  Guess I read you wrong.  Sorry, dude, my bad.”

Gold grimaced.

“It’s not that,” he said, his voice cool.  “When I say forever, I just mean - I mean not for decades.  It has nothing to do with attraction.  It’s a personal choice, and frankly it’s none of your business.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said, stepping back so he could pass her.  “Sorry.  I’ll - I’ll butt out.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” he said, in a dry tone.  “Perhaps we might get on with some work.  I believe I have a photo shoot tomorrow, and given that I’m dying inside just thinking about it, I’d prefer to get around as many of the patients as we can.”

Dorothy snorted in amusement, falling into step beside him as he walked on.

“Okay, you win,” she said.  “I’ll stop teasing you.  For, like, at least a day.”

x

Gold couldn’t recall why he had agreed to be photographed naked, and was convinced that he had still been sick at the time and that Jefferson had taken advantage.  There was no other reason for him to be standing in the corridor outside one of the operating theatres, which was thankfully not in need of use, along with four other men from the hospital staff.  Jefferson and Whale were looking positively gleeful, Leroy appeared his usual grumpy self, hands shoved in his pocket and a woollen hat pulled down over his head, and Dr Hopper, the psychiatrist who ran a clinic in the hospital every Thursday, had an expression on his face that suggested he was facing a painful death.  Gold could understand how he felt.

The doors to the operating theatre swung open, and two women swept into the corridor, arms folded as they looked the little party over.  One had rich brown skin and shining dark hair worked into elaborate curls with gold highlights, a cream silk blouse above loose brown slacks. The other was pale and thin, her white-blonde hair cut into a bob that fell to her jaw.  She wore tight black leather pants and a white silk vest, and her red lips curved upwards at the sight of them.

“The first victims,” she purred.  “Jefferson, darling, how the devil are you?”

She stepped forward, kissing Jefferson on both cheeks.

“Thanks for agreeing to do this, Ella,” he said.  “I owe you one.”

“Oh, Ursula and I simply had to come,” she said, waving a hand.  “Shocking the residents of small towns always was our thing, you know.”

“Hey, I thought there were supposed to be six of you,” said Ursula.  “We need a Mr February.”

There was a patter of feet further down the hall, and Graham, one of the nurses, came hurtling into view, skidding to a halt as he reached them.  His firm chest heaved beneath his dark blue scrubs, perfect stubble setting off a handsome face.

“Sorry I’m late,” he gasped, and Ella and Ursula looked him over with approval.

“Oh, I think we can forgive a couple of minutes,” said Ursula.  “Why don’t you go first?”

They put their hands on his shoulders, steering him towards the double doors, and Graham glanced at the others with a faint look of panic in his eyes.

“Great,” grumbled Leroy.  “I’m supposed to follow the guy that looks like an underwear model?  The camera’ll break.”

“I don’t think any of us is expecting to come out of this with our dignity intact,” said Gold, in a very dry tone.

“Just smile for the camera and suck in your gut,” said Jefferson helpfully, and Leroy glared at him.

“Hey, this is muscle!” he snapped, patting his midriff.

Gold sighed, exchanging a glance with Archie and shaking his head.  Why the hell had he agreed to do this?

x

The photo shoot went reasonably quickly, considering, but Gold was made to wait until last.  He was growing steadily more irritated as each man came out and a name was called other than his.  When Jefferson came out, with a grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye, Ursula stuck her head around the door and beckoned to Archie, which made Gold sigh. Great.  So I’m Mr December. Bloody feels like it, too.

“This calendar is gonna be an artistic masterpiece,” announced Jefferson, spreading his arms.  “You should have seen me, Gold! Tall and stoic - and almost impossibly handsome - gazing off into the distance as though I had just come up with the miracle cure for all ailments!  Dr Milliner, a modern day god, walking upon the earth so that mere mortals can—”

“Yes, alright,” interrupted Gold.  “I’m sure the camera shattered into pieces rather than be forced to take a picture of anyone else.  How much longer are they going to be?”

“Not long, keep your pants on,” said Jefferson.  “Or not, I guess.”

He waggled his eyebrows, and Gold rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”

“Because I’m a good friend and you’re a good sport,” said Jefferson.  “You want me to come in with you?”

“No,” sighed Gold.  “I’ll be fine.  Is it just us?  Dorothy said she was posing, too.”

“Yeah, the women should be turning up any minute,” said Jefferson. “Speaking of, I’d better get back to work. Try not to kill them with how awesome you are, okay?”

“I’ll try not to give them nightmares,” muttered Gold, and Jefferson chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder before heading off down the corridor.

By the time Archie Hopper came out, looking a little shell-shocked, Gold was beginning to lose patience.

“How did it go?” he asked Archie, who blinked at him from behind silver-rimmed glasses.

“I was reclining on a couch with an arm behind my head and a copy of Psychiatric Times over my genitals,” he said, with a pained expression. “Please don’t ever speak of it again.”

He hurried off, straightening his jacket, and Gold couldn’t help grinning.  The sound of the double doors behind him made him turn, and Ursula was smirking at him.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr December,” she said.  “Come on in.”

“At least let’s make it Dr December,” he said dryly, and strode forwards as though he was going to his doom.

The inside of the operating theatre had been transformed.  The equipment was still there, including the table and instruments, but there was also a couch, as Archie had mentioned, a radiography film viewer, a IV stand complete with a bag of saline, and large amounts of photographic equipment. The woman called Ella looked up from her camera, pursing her lips as he walked in.  Music was playing from a stereo to her left, and Gold really wished they hadn’t elected to play You Sexy Thing.  He felt anything but.

“Right,” said Ella briskly.  “Let’s have a look at you, then.”

She straightened up, dusting off her hands and stepping closer.  She over-topped him by several inches, and she took his chin in between cool fingers, turning his head this way and that.

“Excellent bone structure,” she mused.  “Great hair.  I can definitely work with this.”

“You think people are going to be looking at my hair?” he asked, in a wry tone, and she released his chin and stepped back.

“Well, that’s really up to you,” she said.  “Take off those scrubs, let’s see what you’re hiding.”

“Nothing of any interest, I assure you.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, darling,” she said.  “We’re here to make you look as delicious as possible.  Just do as you’re told and it’ll all be over soon.”

Her matter-of-fact tone and air of brisk efficiency made him feel oddly at ease. He supposed that as photographers, they saw bodies all the time. Much as he did, as a doctor.  He was simply a tool, a piece of material they used to create their art. It made it far easier to shed his clothes, and pretty soon he was naked, wriggling his toes on the cold floor as they stared at him with folded arms as though he were an interesting museum exhibit.

“So, you’re a doctor, right?” said Ursula.  “Do me a favour and loop that stethoscope around your neck.  You can use that clipboard to cover yourself if it makes you more comfortable.”

Gold obeyed, holding the clipboard over his groin, and she leaned in close, frowning slightly as she studied his face.

“I think we need a warmer filter,” she said to Ella.

“Agreed,” came the response.  “Something a little more golden.  Give me a second.”

“The pose is wrong, too,” said Ursula.  “Is there any position you’d prefer, Dr December?”

“I’d prefer it if no one could see my face, does that count?”

She chuckled.

“Oh, we can manage that,” she said, and turned her finger in a circle.  “Spin it around.”

Gold turned, putting his back to them, and heard a sharp intake of breath from Ella.

“Now that,” she announced.  “Is definitely something I can use.  Turn ever so slightly to your right, Doctor.”

“Oh yes,” said Ursula approvingly.  “Raise the chart - there!”

Gold could hear the clicking of the camera from behind him, so he stood as still as he could, the clipboard with its chart held up in front of him, as though he were checking someone’s vitals.  Naked. He supposed it wasn’t too bad, really. If cold.

“If you could raise your left arm?” asked Ella.  “Just run your fingers through your hair and breathe in.”

He obeyed, feeling a slight stretch on his left side, his back arching a little as he sucked in a breath, and he heard a sound from the both of them that was almost a purr.

“That’s perfect, darling,” drawled Ella, and the camera clicked and whirred.

They asked for a couple more poses, instructing him to turn slightly, bend a little, or raise the chart in his hands.  He was starting to get cold, and he was relieved when they announced from behind him that they were done.

“Marvellous, darling,” said Ella.  “I think you’ll like the finished product.”

“I won’t exactly be making it into my official Christmas card,” he remarked, wriggling back into his scrubs.

“Oh, you may not,” she said slyly.  “But I have a feeling many a woman with a doctor kink will be getting hot and bothered this Christmas.”

Gold closed his eyes with a pained expression as he shrugged on his lab coat.

“I didn’t need that mental image, thank you.”

“Well, you’ll be happy to know you’re free to go,” said Ursula.  “Tell Jefferson he owes us a drink, and we’re coming to collect when we’re done.”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted,” said Gold, and bowed his head.  “Ladies.”

They sent him almost identical grins, and he sighed to himself and headed for the door, pushing it open and stopping dead.  Six women were staring at him, most of them grinning. Dorothy was in front, and sent him a wink, but behind her were Astrid, Alice, Zelena Mills, Mary Margaret Blanchard, and - to his horror - Belle.  She was staring at him with wide eyes, and he wanted to sigh. Well, Jefferson did say everyone…

“Hey Dr Gold,” said Alice, winking at him.  “Sorry we missed the show. If you want to give us a sneak preview I’m sure there’s time…”

“I think not,” he said severely, and she giggled.

“I’m just teasing,” she said.  “You’re not my type. I mean you’re really not my type.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” he said.  “If you’ll excuse me.”

He could feel their eyes on him as he walked off.

“Well,” he heard Zelena say, in a satisfied tone of voice.  “Guess who’s pre-ordering twelve copies of this thing?”

[scienceoftheidiot]

Just un followed 3 American blogs for the sole reason that they said voting was ineffective and they wouldn't go

VOTE

For the rest of the world, vote.

At this point I tend to say if you get a bad guy you've called it on yourself because America has been a fascist-leaning country already for a long, long time, but the problem is that YOU fucking influence the world

Probably these people were unable to remember, they were too young or not born yet, but post 9/11 it was extremely easy to see things happen in the US that then drifted to Europe, for example. Using things that were already there (dudes you haven't invented racism sadly), some politics used the USA as an example. See Bolsonaro who get called "Tropical Trump"? I don't think people in the whole world would feel as free to claim terrible things like to put people in camps or kill journalists if the "leader of the free world" (HAH let me laugh) had not said it before and see it work. It was the same with Bush (Jr, I'm too young to remember Sr.,but I'm sure it's the same, hey remember the Gulf WarS?).

Not counting someone needs to slap on the hand of this giant overspoilt obese orange baby before he sends some nukes to someone on a whim, you know this is going to happen someday

What I'm saying is : shut up and vote, you silly baby morons who don't know what life was before 9/11. You do not have spent enough time on earth to make fun of older people who tell you how bad it has turned.

And I SEE YOU EUROPEAN TUMBLR

NEXT YEAR IS THE EUROPEAN ELECTIONS AND YOU ARE GOING TO VOTE TOO

I am closer to you and I will come and kick your fucking arse if you don't take said arse to a voting booth to counteract populist/fascist movement. I WILL.

[marvelousbirthdays]

Happy Birthday, backwardsandinhighheels!

MockingHunter for @backwardsandinhighheels, written by @ozhawkauthor

He was trapped. Again.

“Why is it always the bloody boot?” Hunter groused to himself, feeling desperately around for the safety catch. Those bastards had fucking removed it, he finally realised. He had no way out until they pulled him out, no way to get to Bob, to help her. Agonised, he shut his eyes, squeezing them for a minute.

It had seemed like such a simple job. Hunter had liked Pete Wisdom the moment the fella introduced himself; he’d seemed straight-up and the intel he’d given them had certainly been good. Wisdom had been a little vague on exactly why his own MI-13 people couldn’t infiltrate the neo-Nazi cell themselves, but he was offering bloody good money and both Hunter and Bobbi fit the bill physically. Bobbi, with her height and her blonde, blue-eyed beauty, was the absolute ideal that the extremists were looking for.

He hadn’t realised until too late that their leader really wasn’t impressed that Bobbi already had a husband. By then they were well and truly embedded in the cell, and the smooth bastard was doing his level best to get into Bobbi’s knickers.

Hunter knocked his head on the floor of the boot. It was his own fucking jealousy that had got him in this situation, he freely acknowledged. Bobbi had no intention of sleeping with the Shithead (as Hunter was now calling him) but she did plan to flirt, to use the attraction to get close, to find out more about the cell’s plans.

Hunter hadn’t been able to take it. Seeing Bobbi on the Shithead’s arm, his fat pink hand stroking her slender thigh, had snapped something inside him. He’d jumped the gun and decided to search the command bunker.

Well, he’d found the plans, all right, but he’d been caught, and Bobbi was ‘convicted’ right along with him of being a spy. And now they were both being taken to locations unknown, for purposes undoubtedly nefarious. He only hoped that Bobbi was being taken to the same place. Together they might just possibly have a chance of kicking enough neo-Nazi arse that one of them might get away to warn Wisdom of the very real and serious threat to the country.

Lance Hunter had already tried to give his life more than half a dozen times to protect Bobbi. He’d somehow never managed it. This time, though, this was something bigger. This time he had to succeed, because it wasn’t just Bobbi he was protecting. It was the land of his birth, the home of his people.

Mother England.

“This is an unexpected surprise,” a voice said, and Hunter’s eyes snapped open; how had he not felt the car stop?

How was he no longer in the car???

He was still lying down, curled in the foetal position with wrists and ankles secured together with zip ties, but he now appeared to be in some sort of cave. He couldn’t see any visible light source, but the walls were glowing faintly golden - and there was an old geezer sitting at a table a few feet away, just now turning to look at him.

“I’m feeling kind of surprised too,” Hunter said, “don’t suppose you can cut me loose?”

“Certainly,” the old geezer said, getting up, and bringing with him, not a pair of scissors or a penknife, no, an absolutely bloody massive sword.

“Fuck me, what?” Hunter tried to scramble backwards.

“The only sharp tool I have on hand, I’m afraid,” Old Geezer said apologetically, and with surprising delicacy flicked just the very tip of the sword at the cable ties.

The archaic weapon had to be bloody sharp, Hunter acknowledged, as the plastic parted like butter. Old Geezer stepped back, set the sword down on the table again and sat down, as though suddenly exhausted.

A little unsure of just what the hell was going on, Hunter sat up slowly, got to his feet. “Excuse me if I seem rude,” he said, “but where the bloody hell am I, and who the fuck are you?”

Old Geezer actually smiled, as though amused, gestured to a chair opposite him. “Please, sit down.”

Hunter didn’t see that he had much choice. The cave had no visible exit. Slowly, he sat down, looking at the table. The sword was the only thing on it, apart from a flat wooden box a little bigger than his hand.

“My name is Merlyn, and you are in the Heart of Avalon,” Old Geezer said conversationally. “And your name?”

“Lance Hunter,” he said, almost by instinct, and then “Wait. Merlyn? Avalon?”

“Yes, that Merlyn and that Avalon, Lancelot. It has been many centuries since you walked this earth.”

“Lance, not Lancelot,” Hunter said hurriedly.

Merlyn gave him a secretive little smile.

“Okay, I’m hallucinating, right? Overcome by engine fumes.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Merlyn’s eyes were like polished black pebbles, peering out from beneath bushy grey eyebrows. Hunter couldn’t look into them for long.

“So, what?” he said finally.

“You have a mission you must complete. For Britain. Your need was great enough to bring you here, where few have ever come before. I see in you strength enough, and so I am empowered to offer you a choice. You may take up the Sword of Might, or the Amulet of Right.” Reaching out, Merlyn opened the wooden box, revealing a golden pendant with a deep red stone set in it, hanging from a heavy cord.

“And the catch is…?” Hunter asked suspiciously.

Merlyn smiled. “The Sword is the path of violence, the Amulet the path of reason.”

Hunter looked from the sword, gleaming silver and he already knew brutally sharp, to the softly glowing red stone in the amulet.

“Not so long ago, I’d have grabbed the sword and legged it,” he said slowly, “but one thing Coulson taught me is that you really have to use your head. So… I’m gonna ask why I can’t take both.”

Merlyn looked completely and utterly startled. “Nobody has ever asked that before!”

“Maybe I’m just a greedy ambitious arsehole, then, but I don’t think I like being tied down to one option like that. Violence has its place, but so does reason. Violence without reason is what the cocksuckers I’m trying to stop resort to; reason without violence is something they don’t respect. So again, is there some reason why you need to hoard one of them like a dragon sitting on its gold? I won’t keep them both, if that’s what you’re worried about. Bob always was better at being the voice of reason than me. She can have the amulet.” The sword called to him; he could almost hear it in the back of his mind.

“I am afraid that won’t be possible,” Merlyn said. “Give me your hand, please, Lancelot.”

“Please stop callin’ me that, you’re makin’ me really bloody nervous.” Hunter held his hand out, and Merlyn took it between his aged, withered ones, peering at his palm. “Did Lancelot get this choice?” he suddenly thought to ask.

“No. The sword was already held by another. Britannia needed two champions at the time, so I elected to give you - Lancelot - the Amulet anyway, hoping to balance violence with reason.”

“Why do I have the feeling that didn’t turn out so well for you?”

“Do you need to ask? They were never meant to be held at the same time by two different people.” Merlyn let go of his hand, stared at him again. Hunter had the uneasy feeling that the ancient being was staring directly into his soul.

“Love was their downfall,” Merlyn said, “that they both loved the same woman, yet not enough to be able to share her. You hold in you a greater love yet; the willingness to do whatever you must to see the woman you love happy, even if it means letting her go.”

“Already did that once,” Hunter said steadily, feeling somehow more able to hold Merlyn’s gaze now.

“Perhaps my downfall was not enough faith,” Merlyn murmured, as though to himself. “Very well. Britannia needs her champions, now more than ever, yet I will not risk dividing her against herself again.” He sighed, took the amulet from the box. “Nobody will ever be able to take this from you,” he told Hunter, “not even I. Should you die, it will return here to the Heart of Avalon, as will Excalibur.”

“Wait,” Hunter’s brain finally caught up. “Wait, that’s Excalibur? I thought it had to be given by the Lady of the Lake, or pulled out of a stone!”

“Roma is not here right now, and merely lifting it from the table will be proof enough of your worth,” Merlyn said with an amused smile.

“Does this mean I have to be King of England? Being filthy rich’d be nice and all, but I don’t think I’d be good at all the pomp and circumstance shit. I swear too much.”

Merlyn chuckled, standing up and moving around the table. “No, a king-champion is not what Britannia needs in this day and age.”

“I don’t think I’m really what she needs either,” Hunter said, “but since I’m still ninety-nine percent sure that this is a petrol-fume hallucination, go for it, me old son.”

The amulet felt very cold as it settled around his neck. He didn’t feel any wiser, but then, he supposed, it was a dream, so he wouldn’t, would he?

“Take up the sword,” Merlyn said quietly, and Hunter reached out.

The worn leather-wrapped hilt felt utterly natural in his hand, and though he’d expected the blade to be heavy - Merlyn had apparently struggled to lift it - it actually felt incredibly light, like a broom handle. Standing, Hunter swished the blade experimentally a few times.

Behind him, Merlyn started chanting something, in a language was sure he’d never heard spoken before but somehow found distantly familiar, like an ache at the back of his brain. Whirling, Hunter gaped to see the magician no longer ancient, but standing tall, his hair and beard still white but his face appearing no older than middle-aged.

“Wait a fucking min…”

************

He startled awake with a yell, jerked up and smacked his head on the roof of the boot.

“Fucking ouch!”

He put a hand to the lump on his head, cursing under his breath again. “Should’ve known it was just a fuckin’ dream, no way Merlyn would give me Excalibur…”

His hands were free. How the hell had he managed that? They’d been bound tightly with cable ties, more hooked around his ankles and linked to the ones on his wrists to disable him completely. The tight plastic was gone, though.

With a sudden feeling of unreality, Hunter felt at his neck. Inside his shirt was a cool lump of metal that definitely wasn’t there normally.

“So I’m still dreaming…” and now I’m dreaming myself locked in the boot of a fuckin’ car. Why can’t I get good dreams, like me and Bob on a beach in Ibiza, her wearing that little tiny teal-blue bikini… Twisting over, his hand brushed something cold.

Hunter froze before very carefully feeling along whatever he’d touched. If he was dreaming that sword in here, it was really, really sharp…

… it was the sword. His hand closed around the warm, leather-wrapped hilt.

Hunter swallowed.

“On the off-chance that this is actually not a dream,” he said aloud, “thanks, Merlyn.”

He thought he heard the ghost of a chuckle somewhere in the back of his brain, just before he wrapped his fingers more tightly around the hilt and stabbed the sword hard through the back of the seat in front of him.

************

 There were some thumps and thuds when the car stopped. Bobbi wasn’t quite sure what she expected to see when the trunk lid popped open, but she really hadn’t expected to see her husband, smiling cheerfully down at her.

“Hey, darlin’. You all right?”

Cramped and stiff, she blinked in the bright sunlight beaming down on her, unable to believe her eyes for a moment. “How…” There wasn’t even a mark on him. Lance had rescued her before, but she couldn’t think of a time when he’d done it without picking up at least a few contusions.

“Do you think you’re dreaming?” he asked, puzzling her immensely.

“It’s possible,” Bobbi allowed, “since I wasn’t really expecting you to escape. Farley took great pleasure in telling me all the horrible things he was planning to do with you.” The bastard had laughed at her screams of rage and fury before ordering her bound and chucked into the trunk of the car. Her last sight of Lance had been him being beaten to the ground by half a dozen of Farley’s men. Since she couldn’t see any sign of the bruises he had to have picked up in that beating, maybe she was dreaming.

“If it is a dream, I’m glad you’re here.”

He grinned, that old, rakish smirk that made her heart turn over in her chest. “Don’t freak out, but I’ve only got one knife to cut you loose with.”

She nearly screamed as he held up the sword. It had to be over four feet long. “Jesus Christ, Hunter, where did you get that?”

“That in and of itself is quite a story.” Cutting the cable ties that bound her carefully, Hunter reached in to help her up. She took his hand, climbed out of the boot, and looked up at him.

“Okay, so this is definitely a dream,” they both said simultaneously. Hunter looked at his feet to check that he wasn’t standing on a ledge or something, but no, his boots were on a level with Bobbi’s.

They were also dark blue, which they hadn’t been that morning.

“That’s an… interesting outfit,” Bobbi said slowly. “This is quite some dream.”

“I’ve never been taller than you even in my dreams,” Hunter said, puzzled. The boots didn’t look or feel like platforms, and he was looking down at Bobbi from about a six-inch height difference. Which should mean he was on stilts. He stamped experimentally.

“You look - bigger. Not just taller.” She touched his arm, measured the breadth of his shoulders with her hands. “You didn’t get given any super-soldier serum or anything, did you?”

“Maybe that fish oil pill finally activated or something,” Hunter shrugged off the shock, though he couldn’t quite explain the outfit. It looked like a British version of Cap’s dark blue battle suit, with deep red and thin white crosses overlaid on his chest. “Or maybe Merlyn threw the suit in along with the rest.”

“Who?”

“You know what, let’s talk about this later. I’m having a really weird day, but the fact remains that I think this is a public road and we’re surrounded by dead neo-Nazis.”

He wasn’t wrong, Bobbi realised, looking around. She was in the rear of two cars pulled up at the roadside, and there were quite literally bodies spilling out of the front doors, blood pooling in sticky piles on the road from the multiple stab wounds each of them were pierced with. One of them didn’t have a head. She looked back at the sword in Lance’s hand.

“It doesn’t seem to need cleaning,” he said, correctly reading her glance. “The blood sheets right off.”

She said nothing, just took a few steps forward and peered into the back of the other car. Most of the back seat had been literally cut to pieces, bits of plastic and upholstery mingling with the blood and body parts.

“I’ve seen some crazy shit in my time,” Bobbi said slowly, “even aliens, but this is right up there, Hunter.”

“I know.” For a long moment they looked at each other, and then Hunter said, “On the very small possibility that we’re not dreaming, luv, I really think we’d better get a move on. Farley isn’t here, which means he’s somewhere else, and we need to let Wisdom know what I found in that bunker.”

He was right, and Bobbi drew on all her training, pushed aside the impossibility of what Hunter had done and the evidence of her own eyes. “Phone,” she said.

“One of them must have one,” Hunter looked around at the dead men. “And then I think we’d better get the hell out of here before anyone shows up and starts asking really awkward questions. Excalibur isn’t very easily hideable.”

“Exca- no, you know what, I’m not ready to deal with that right now.” She’d rather search the bodies. The first’s phone had been neatly sliced in half. The second had a locked iPhone, which she could bypass with a bit of time - which they didn’t have.

The third man’s pockets turned up a wallet full of cash and a cheap, generic-brand, unlocked burner phone. Bobbi held them both up to Hunter, who nodded.

“Good job, luv!” He’d been busying himself pulling bodies out of the less messy car, the one she’d been travelling in. “Let’s go!”

She had to stare as he laid the sword down on the backseat before getting into the driver’s seat. “Shouldn’t you hide that in the trunk?”

“If we happen to run into any more of Farley’s thugs, I’m leaving it where I can get my hands on it, thanks very much,” Hunter said.

“Let me drive, then…”

“Luv, we’re in England. You know I love you, but on this side of the pond? I drive.”

“On this stupid side of the road, you mean,” she grumbled, getting into the passenger seat. There’d been blood all over it, but Hunter had done a fair job of cleaning it off with one of the dead men’s jackets. They’d have to ditch the car as soon as possible anyway and find another; finding her some clean clothes at the same time shouldn’t be too hard. She slid another sideways glance at Hunter.

On the other hand, her husband and partner had now suddenly become a whole lot more noticeable than he had ever been before.

She pushed the thought away as he started the car. Deal with what you can, right now. The longer things went on, the more convinced she became that she wasn’t in a dream.

Which means that seriously weird shit is going down.

Bobbi dialled Pete Wisdom’s phone number. 

[janiedean]

cicehihe ha risposto al tuo post

“so is this italian president thing good news or bad? please tell me...”

Still its not so black and white as you wrote it and putting a " governo tecnico" is unfair and should be done only if there aren't winners. Saying that M5 e Lega are 100% fascist is like saying PD is 100% communist and thats not true. At the end everything is sad and unclear, most importantly what will happen in the future with this situation as a 'precendente giuridico'? Mattarella should have talked more and sooner and Salvini and Di Maio should have given up Savona

well

a) this is tumblr and this is my opinionated blog. I’m gonna write a non black and white and 100% accurate version of the facts the day someone pays me for it, if I can’t be arsed I can’t be arsed *shrug*

b) the governo tecnico is there just because the people who won couldn’t come together on the SECOND day of the elections and start working towards a solution. they only started doing it when mattarella went like IF WE DON’T HAVE THE NUMBERS WE VOTE AGAIN. immature assholes and I can’t say anything nicer about it.

c) M5S is a party/whatever that works on the grounds that: if you disagree you get kicked out, if grillo doesn’t like your win you get removed, your data gets sold to fuck knows who if you use rousseau, the elections on their platform are inherently a joke, THE NET doesn’t vote for anything and grillo openly said he didn’t mind casa pound and THEY COULD BE TALKED WITH, and sure af they don’t disagree with lega on immigrants. reminds you of anything? manipulating information for the followers, kicking out people who disagree, one leader running everything? come the fuck on. I’m not saying they’re THE FASCIST PARTY REUNITED, I’m saying they work on fascist grounds and that’s how a fascist-oriented party works, I don’t make the rules. they did.

d) this is not a precedente giuridico, other ministers have been vetoed in the past and you don’t remember that because everyone else (renzi, b. and so on) just went and found another name instead of being an ass. mattarella already bended the constitution too many times because that entire government was based on 1) an alliance that didn’t exist pre-elections (technically not doable because IT’S NOT WHAT PEOPLE VOTED) 2) an electoral program made anew no one voted for (see above) 3) a non-politician PM that was never in politics nor ran for the elections and no one picked which is technically not a thing that should be done either (see above) and he still WENT ON WITH IT just to have them do the damned government. it was ONE thing he said he wanted and he’d have been fine with freaking giorgetti I mean forreal the bar is real low. they talked for a month and a half and they only started talking after realizing they might lose seats if elections happened again. I mean. mattarella should have talked to them more? I’d have slammed the door in their faces a month ago if really pushed. you can’t just go and hold a country hostage when you don’t have the numbers to do anything on your own but you could with other people and they’ve behaved like spoiled entitled children, mattarella is a saint for actually letting them do it for so long. please. and the only reason they didn’t talk sooner was that there were easter vacations in the middle of it and they had to elect the president of chamber/senate before doing anything and that took two weeks, so it’s not his fault XD

like I absolutely don’t see what mattarella did wrong here. actually he was even too nice imvho. *shrug*