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nofomogirl · 6 months ago

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We need to talk about body snatching

I'm not a massive fan of the 1827 minisode - if you're curious why it bothers me, I've explained it in my post about two GO canons - but there's no denying it does an amazing job at exploring the complexity of morality and moral choices. It starts with a very black-and-white two-dimensional image and gradually adds shading and perspective, making it harder and harder to judge as we go along.

I think it's worth digging into (pun not intended but I'll take it).

Layer 1: body snatching bad

We learn someone did something

It's those first few seconds where we see a person robbing a grave, and since we know that robbing graves is a crime and generally not a good thing to do, we can quickly form a tentative conclusion that this is wrong.

Okay, in this exact instance, we immediately get enough context clues to see that this kind of judgment would be oversimplistic and superficial. Only Aziraphale, who for some reason acts as if it was his first day on Earth after a thorough memory wipe, is ready to condemn Elspeth based on just that.

Nevertheless, this is the first layer - the deed itself with no context.

Layer 2: body snatching acceptable

We learn about the person who did the thing

That's the whole journey with the first dug-up body where we get to know Elspeth and become privy to her circumstances - she's desperately poor, she has another person depending on her, she robs graves to survive. Aziraphale's suggestions that she might earn her living by selling books, weaving or farming just serve to prove how inaccessible more honest and dignified professions are to her. In turn, her comment about how she's not hurting anybody who isn't already dead hints that from the realistically available options, Elspeth could have chosen something much worse.

Technically this layer is a significant step up from layer 1 but it still isn't really challenging. Things are spelt out really loud for us, and most importantly everything we learn about Elspeth is just attenuating circumstances. To top it off both she and Wee Morag are immediately endearing. The takeaway is that sometimes things that in theory are bad can be excused which is important but the verdict still comes without any second thoughts.

Layer 3: body snatching complicated

We learn the larger context around the thing

This mostly happens when Aziraphale and Crowley discuss body snatching with Mr Dalrymple. We learn that the stolen corpses are used for a medical study that can advance human knowledge and make it possible to save living people and that surgeons have no legal means to obtain enough of them for their research - hence their need to buy them from body snatchers.

At first glance it's just more of what we got in layer 2 - more agruments in favour of body snatching that aren't all that nuanced and don't really give us any pause - just from a larger perspective, beyond Elspeth's individual experience. But if you glance more than once you'll notice this is when things stop being straightforward and easy to judge.

The moment we enter a proper grey area is when Aziraphale asks why Mr Dalrymple doesn't acquire the bodies himself. This is a very valid question - while we might easily agree that studying the human body to further medical knowledge is a good thing, and with just the slightest hesitation admit that it's acceptable to resort to using stolen bodies if that is the only way the research may continue, it's not as easy to excuse taking advantage of the poor and the desperate to do the actual stealing that we know is very dangerous.

The moment we know without a doubt we are in a proper grey area is when Mr Dalrymple laughs at Aziraphale's concern.

Objectively, the surgeon is right that it's more effective if he doesn't risk his own life in the graveyard and uses his time on actual research, teaching students and saving lives. But it's also clear he doesn't exactly see people like Elspeth as actual human beings and feels he has every right to use them. On the one hand, he is paying, on the other, he happily benefits from the cruel class system and is not even one bit remorseful about it. On the one hand, he takes risks too, on the other he has a chance of rewards Elspeth will not benefit from. It's not the poorest whose lives will get bettered by the progress of medicine, even though they're the ones who pay with their lives for that progress. And if Mr Dalrymple gets lucky and is knighted for his work (we know he wasn't in the end but it was a possibility), the poor still won't be pardoned for stealing for him. Nevertheless, he has no issue with that.

As I said, things get nuanced.

Layer 4: it's different when it's someone you know

The thing actually happens in your life

I think you'll all agree that the turning point of the minisode is when Elspeth decides to sell Wee Morag's still warm body. This is what finally leaves us speechless.

That's because up until now we've been approaching the issue intellectually. It's not that we didn't care about the characters, but we were allowed to keep a safe distance. The whole thing was like a problem to be solved - "Is body snatching right or wrong? Discuss in 500-1000 words" - and everything we've learned so far was data for this assignment. I believe that one of the reasons why this detachment came naturally was that there was a very thick line between people involved in body snatching and the bodies that were being snatched. The former were, well, people, obviously. The latter were inanimate objects.

It isn't until Wee Morag is to be sold that we are forced to see a person in a dead body. This is also when real emotions enter the equation.

This shift forces us to question our judgment for the first time. It was easy to justify Elspeth when she was selling a nameless corpse. But the fact that she decided to sell her closest companion - and most likely lover - shocks us. Something inside us strongly objects to how quickly she makes the decision.

And then there's the transaction, and it is also different when it's someone we know. The fact that we knew Wee Morag fully exposes Mr Dalrymple for the heartless jerk that he is. The way he treats Elspeth is the absolute worst and if you haven't realized he was a hypocrite earlier, you should be disillusioned by now.

But at least Elspeth is not a hypocrite, right? It may seem cold that she sold Wee Morag but it just proves she simply believed it's all right to sell a dead body, doesn't it?

Well, about that...

Layer 5: it's different when it's you

You are forced to face the thing happening to you

This layer is reached when Elspeth plans her suicide and asks Aziraphale and Crowley to bury her "somewhere where no ghouls will ever dig her back up again".

It turns out Elspeth McKinnon really was a filthy liar.

Not long ago she was insisting that body snatching doesn't hurt anyone who isn't already dead, and asking why she should let Wee Morag rot in the ground when she starves. But she wants to make sure it doesn't happen to her own body. The idea that someone might dig her up terrifies her and she calls people who do it ghouls. So why was digging up other people okay again? Why should she rot in the ground while other people suffer? There were other people living in the street where she and Wee Morag hid. Why not ask Aziraphale to give the money to them? Or just anybody in need? Why not ask to sell her body as well and use the earnings the same way?

Also, if you look at it from a certain perspective, Elspeth betrayed Wee Morag in the worst possible way. Wee Morag believed that if someone's body gets cut, that person's soul cannot enter Heaven. Yet Elspeth sold her to Mr Dalrymple, claiming that Wee Morag would have wanted her to have the means to survive. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Wee Morag would have made that sacrifice. But then Elspeth decided to kill herself and use the money she got for Wee Morag's body for her own funeral.

But does it make Elspeth wicked? Certainly not. She's simply torn by grief. I seriously doubt she's been planning to commit suicide when she was taking Wee Morag to Mr Dalrymple. She might have genuinely tried to carry on but the reality of what happened caught up to her. Mr Dalrymple's cruel words certainly didn't help her cope with a personal tragedy. I even suspect one of the reasons she sold her friend was that she had no idea what else to do with a dead body.

Does this excuse her actions? Kind of, but not really.

Elspeth was a tragic character, not an innocent lamb with a heart of gold.

The point is - can any of us really judge her?

Which, coincidentally, is a question that the original Good Omens book toyed with quite a lot.

If you've reached this far, thank you for reading!

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #season 2 episode 3 #the ressurectionists #elspeth #wee morag #body snatching

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ellstronaut · 9 months ago

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Going back to this debate

I know Ellle is a multifaceted individual that much is obvious she’s not one dimensional she has many elements to her personality. Additionally, it’s important to remember that even on the spectrum of masculine and feminine, Ellie isn’t completely one or the other. She exists in some sort of grey area between them, embodying both masculine and feminine traits. She’s not defined by one end of the spectrum, but rather by the interplay of these two extremes.

Yet at times the characterisation of Ellie is laced with internalised misogyny. And highlights the way “masc presenting” lesbians are treated in real life tied down to the “man” in the relationship why is Ellie mostly written as the dominant one especially when coupled with fem reader why do we head canon her as a top when it’s literally canon that she’s a switch? Why is there an infinite amount of “ellie taking care of the reader on her period” scenarios outnumber “Reader taking care of Ellie on her period” Ellie written as tall towering over fem reader and not like she’s literally 5’5

The fact is that there’s a heteronormative slant to the way people write her. Like I said almost never written as a switch, but a top. To some extent been portrayed as tall and dominating, never small or vulnerable. And Santa Barbara Ellie is often sexualized even though she is deeply traumatized and emotionally tormented. The problem is that people are viewing her through male-centric lenses, reducing her to an object of desire rather than a fully fleshed out woman with a complex, nuanced personality which includes many dimensions, some of which may be considered feminine.

There is no specific way to be a “masc lesbian” a woman nor feminine and express your femininity. Nor should that separate her from her womanhood/femininity. in a way it’s her way of showing how feminine she is. maybe not stereotypically through outward appearances, but her general identity. she’s a woman who experiences the same struggles that women do, Obviously she doesn’t waver just on the lines of black and white, she’s all rounded. In between. Grey area. The point I’m trying to make is that she’s all and above, you can be both masc and fem. I would add that Ellie's femininity is often overlooked or even belittled by people who only focus on traits that appeal to them. Not her emotional intelligence, her caring nature, her resilience, her dedication to her loved ones. Fuck she’s also a soft heart and a tender soul. These aspects of her are just as important to her character, she is a whole person ffs, exceptionally fleshed out

So fuck

“the hot wife and her hot boyfriend”

Why not

“The hot wife and her hot wife”

“She’s so boyfriend

“She’s so girlfriend”

Santa Barbara/Seattle is literally at her most vulnerable, disheveled state that girl is literally plagued with trauma, stuck in a limbo of “do I seek vengeance in the name of losing my family and absolutely everything or stay and suffer in silence (at who’s expense?? Hers) Yet we sexualise tf out of her, the most vulnerable pinnacle of existence—glorified and romanticised bc it’s “hot”

this is not a dig at anyone you’re free to write whatever tf you want bro it’s your platform but pls let’s not bs and pretend as of this doesn’t occur

#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #tlouellie #pls feel free to add on this topic

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alphacentaurinebula · 1 year ago

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I need to talk about the Edinburgh minisode, because I have SO. MANY. THOUGHTS.

It's sort of an afterthought minisode in some ways. Before the Beginning gives us so much giddy joy (despite the ominous foreshadowing). 1941 gives us all the giddy romance. Job gives us so much insight into both characters histories and how they came to be who they are and work together...

The Resurrectionists gives us a morality play, basically, but also gives us Crowley high (and HIGH) on laudanum and plenty of bright shiny bits...

...so the morality side maybe doesn't get as much focus.

Which is a shame. Because the Edinburgh episode demonstrates perfectly the flaw in Aziraphale's understanding of the world that leads to him going to heaven.

When we start out in 1827, we are introduced to grave robbing and Aziraphale immediately decides that it is Bad (a sin). He does all he can to prevent the young woman he meets and likes from doing Bad (sinning), assumably to try to pave her way into Heaven. And Crowley tries to help her with her grave robbing, much to Aziraphale's chagrin.

Grave Robbing = Bad; Crowley supports Grave Robbing; Crowley=Bad

When they meet Mr Surgeon, and Crowley starts to ask some pointed questions meant to poke holes in Aziraphale's certainty, he flips entirely the other way, without noticing any of the other moral greyness (like the fact that Mr Surgeon would never take the risks or do the dirty work himself. Which is pretty important, since we learn in Edinburgh in the present that Mr Surgeon was so convinced of his own superiority and importance later on in his life that he started murdering people (probably "unfortunates" like Elspeth) when he couldn't get corpses fast enough).

Grave Robbing = Good; Crowley supports Grave Robbing; Crowley = Good

When he is then confronted with the idea of selling Wee Morag's body, and Crowley points out it is different when it's someone you know, Aziraphale is basically frozen in indecision. He doesn't know what the good thing is anymore.

He spouts the party line about the fact that starting off poor somehow gives Elspeth an advantage when it comes to Heaven, but is unable to explain why or how, not even to himself. And when he's put on the spot as Elspeth tries to kill herself, he doesn't have any arguments to offer.

CROWLEY: Say something! That... convinces her that poverty is ineffably wonderful and that life is worth living. Go on!

But despite all the moral ambiguity present throughout the episode, Aziraphale still sees everything as black and white. First, grave robbing is bad, then it is good. First, Crowley is bad (when he has the opposite position to Aziraphale), then he is good (when he has the same position). Aziraphale never understands Crowley's constant questions are a challenge to the very idea that there IS a 'good' in this situation. He never examines or questions the complex systems of class and sexism and capitalism which force Elspeth to this desperate recourse, or the laws which prevent Mr Surgeon from accessing bodies for research via legal means.

He doesn't see the systemic injustic. He just sees individual moral actors making either good or bad choices.

(and just to deviate slightly from the Edinburgh minisode -- while he says he understands that sometimes things are not just black or white but also grey, in 1941 - I don't actually think his grey and Crowley's grey mean the same thing. The 'greyest' thing that Aziraphale does in 1941 is help a showgirls theatre and hide information from Hell - this is not the same thing as truly seeing that some situations simply don't have a Right Thing to do, or understanding that systems shape and control individuals' decisions, so the idea that humans all have the same ability to choose Right is an illusion.

AZIRAPHALE: You know, they cannot be truly holy unless they also get the opportunity to be wicked.

So it is no wonder at all that when the Metatron offers him the opportunity to run Heaven, he doesn't see a broken institution or systemic oppression/injustice, but rather a series of bad actors preventing Heaven from achieving the Goodness it is meant to represent.

#ok that was long so I hope it made sense #good omens #Obviously the job minisode is my favourite #I mean...#bildad the shuhite #but this one is SO flipping insightful and deep and is sort of the crux of the whole thing #good omens 2 #good omens meta #good omens analysis #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #the resurrectionist #laudanum

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nickel156 · 3 months ago

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IS RHYSAND MORALLY GREY?

OK, let’s get into it, because this idea that Rhysand is sooo morally grey? Yeah, not buying it. Let’s be real—he’s not a morally grey character, he’s just framed in a way that gives him a pass for a lot of his questionable actions. When you actually break it down, Rhysand is pretty black and white, but the narrative does a fantastic job of dressing him up as “complex” to make readers feel like his actions are more nuanced than they really are. Spoiler: they’re not.

His Actions Are Consistently Justified by “Good Intentions”

One of the biggest indicators that Rhysand isn’t actually morally grey is how everything he does, no matter how manipulative or controlling, is framed as being for the greater good. His decisions, whether it’s drugging Feyre or making her wear revealing outfits under the mountain, are always given this neat little justification. “He was protecting her,” “He had no choice,” “He was trying to outwit Amarantha.” A morally grey character wrestles with the consequences of their actions—Rhysand doesn’t. We’re told, over and over again, that what he did was necessary, and that alone is supposed to excuse him from criticism. That’s not moral ambiguity—that’s convenient narrative framing.

He’s Always Positioned as the Hero:

Let’s not pretend like Rhysand is ever in real moral conflict. His choices are presented as tough but necessary, and we’re rarely, if ever, given a moment where he actually grapples with the darker sides of those choices. Even when he makes questionable decisions, we’re spoon-fed reasons to believe he’s ultimately in the right. That’s not grey. That’s just a hero with a darker aesthetic. Compare him to actual morally grey characters who sit in their discomfort, who make selfish choices or hurt people without always having noble intentions behind it. Rhysand? Nah, he’s just the guy who always ends up looking like the hero, even when his actions should be called out.

His Morality Never Comes Into Question:

A true morally grey character is someone whose actions challenge not only the other characters in the story, but the readers too. We should be asking ourselves, “Is this person really doing the right thing? Should I be supporting this?” But with Rhysand? There’s never any real doubt. Even when he manipulates or controls others, we’re reassured that it’s all part of some grand, noble plan. His friends back him, Feyre forgives him, and the narrative never holds him accountable in a meaningful way. There’s no real complexity here, just a character who gets away with being controlling because the plot tells us to forgive him.

Everything Bad He Does Is Framed as a Sacrifice:

Rhysand is never portrayed as doing bad things because he wants to, or because he’s selfish, or because he’s flawed in a way. It’s always framed as him making a sacrifice for the greater good. He does bad things, sure—but the narrative works overtime to show us that he had to do them. When you’re constantly being told that a character’s questionable choices are out of necessity, you’re not being shown a morally grey character—you’re being shown a hero who occasionally has to get his hands dirty. Big difference.

He Doesn’t Struggle With His Decisions:

What makes a morally grey character truly compelling is when they struggle with their own decisions, when they recognize that they’ve hurt people or crossed a line, and they aren’t sure how to feel about it. But Rhysand? He’s remarkably comfortable with all of his decisions. He doesn’t dwell on whether or not what he did under the mountain was wrong; in fact, he hardly ever reflects on it at all. It’s presented as a burden, sure, but it’s a burden that’s neatly tied up with a bow: he did what he had to, end of story. He’s too comfortable in his righteousness to ever really be morally grey.

He’s Too Perfectly Framed as a Savior:

Let’s be real, Rhysand’s character arc is too neat and too perfectly framed as “Feyre’s savior” for him to be truly morally ambiguous. Every time he’s at risk of being seen as a villain, the narrative bends over backwards to remind us that he’s actually the one who saved Feyre, saved Prythian, saved everyone, really. A morally grey character wouldn’t be positioned so neatly as the savior figure. They’d be somewhere in between—someone whose actions could be seen as selfish or harmful, even if they had noble intentions. Rhysand, on the other hand, is always one step away from being a full-on white knight, cloaked in black and purple.

The Lack of Consequences

A true morally grey character faces the consequences of their actions, both externally and internally. But Rhysand? He rarely, if ever, suffers real consequences for the morally dubious things he’s done. Everyone either forgives him, rationalizes his behavior, or never holds him accountable in the first place. Where’s the moral ambiguity if there’s no fallout? If the narrative is bending over backward to redeem or justify every action, then there’s no real grey area—it’s just a hero getting away with questionable behavior.

In conclusion, Rhysand isn’t morally grey—he’s a hero painted with darker shades, but still a hero through and through. The narrative bends over backwards to excuse his actions, frame him as the savior, and justify all the harm he’s done as “necessary sacrifices.” There’s nothing morally grey about that; it’s just a case of good PR for a character whose dark side is polished up so much that it doesn’t even feel like a flaw anymore. If you want morally grey, look elsewhere—Rhysand is just a dressed-up hero, no matter how much the fandom wants to pretend otherwise.

#i'm not delusional. you're delusional #anti rhysand #anti rhys #anti feysand #morally questionable

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thetormentita · 10 days ago

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the woman in winter (se ābra isse sōnar) - chapter 2

one can believe in destiny or not, at the same way one can believe in the power of the old gods or not.

Pairing: Original female! Targaryen x Cregan Stark, Original female! Targaryen/Criston Cole (one-sided)

A/n: oh my, grandpa Viserys... what have you done...

Warnings: mentions of death, hints of Alicent x Criston

Rating: Mature (+16)

Tagging list: @novaursa @maegelletargaryen (send an ask if you wanna be tagged too!)

Black wings bring dark words. That is what he has always heard since he was a little lad.

With steady hands he takes the piece of parchment from the maester’s grip, his eyes upon the unbroken wax seal depicting a three-headed dragon, and carefully breaks it, his eyes, grey like a winter storm, roam along the message, his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched only for a moment.

“How long does it take to sail from King’s Landing to White Harbor?” he asks, his voice betraying no emotion but his mind racing with the implications of the contents.

“If the tides are favourable, I would say a fortnight, my lord.”

Through the window he can spot the courtyard, and Robert and Ursula training with their swords, almost trying to teach his son how to wield his own wooden sword, far too big for his size. A sting of pride mixed with concern washes over him as he watches the scene unfold, his mind far away from there.

“It would have been easier to take the Kingsroad instead” he mutters, biting his cheek.

“Then it would take them a moon or even more.”

He sighs, closing his eyes and flexing his sword hand, tense, almost feeling like being challenged by that man.

“My pup needs a mother” he mutters, more to himself than to the maester standing beside him, “, but I would not stand to face such trials from the gods again, maester.”

“One time does not mean always.”

“It is written, and you said it as well: her mother and her grandmother died in their birthbeds.”

The maester's eyes hold a glint of understanding, but also a firm resolve as he addresses the troubled man. "History need not dictate the future, my boy. Such tragedies are more common than we would wish for, but I also heard that she holds a strength unseen in many. She has a resilience that's rare.”

Both men cross their gazes, silent, the ghost of grief still lounging in the air.

At least they had let him mourn Arra in peace.

“I have a feel. I know it is nonsense, but I feel she will not find her place here, that the people will not accept her and her life will be miserable no matter how hard I try to make her feel important and cherished.”

“Your lord father loved your lady mother. Deeply. His love was in the protection he provided, in the way he made sure she had everything she needed. I may not have much idea about such matters, but I could see how her eyes shined whenever they spotted him. Here she may need a friend more than a husband, somebody to make her feel safe and loved. The rest comes by itself.”

“Can I trust you to see her future household is ready by the time we arrive from White Harbor? I want the best hands to tend her.”

When his eyes return to the courtyard outside, he can see the happy face of his boy, giggling, trying to imitate Ursula’s stance, making him look like a dwarf beside a giant. A soft smile curves his lips, reflecting the warmth swelling in his heart at the sight. The innocence and joy of youth, untainted by the complexities of the world, always had a way to remind him of one of his priorities: never let Rickon feel the somber rage that clinged upon his very soul when he was just a lad and his world twisted and turned into a nightmarish reality.

“Of course. By the time of your return she will have her chambers ready in the Guest Tower, after the wedding her belongings will be moved to the Great Keep.”

“Good” he takes a deep breath before his feet drive him to the door of the chamber, pausing momentarily as if the weight of his thoughts anchors him to the spot. “In a moon’s turn, there will be a new lady of Winterfell.”

…

She tilts her head at the great old oak tree, her eyes observing its gnarled branches that stretch towards the sky like ancient, weathered hands praying for solace. She feels a strange kinship with the tree, as if its roots are intertwined with her very essence.

She doesn’t notice the muffled sound of steps behind her until they are nearly upon her, the crunch of leaves underfoot breaking her reverie.

“I heard the closest sept is the one in White Harbor.”

Elia doesn’t even bother to turn to face the queen, her gaze lost in the vast expanse of the tree's embrace. "Aye," she replies, her voice as soft as the breeze that rustles through the leaves above. "It certainly is the least of my problems, Your Grace.”

Alicent pauses a moment, taking in Elia's form against the backdrop of the ancient weirwood, its leaves whispering secrets lost to most. “And may I ask what troubles you so deeply then?” Her tone carries a genuine concern, mixed with the regal poise she never quite sheds, even in the most private of conversations. “It is a shame that your grandsire has decided to go against any sensible thought and decided to send you with those… Brutes.”

Elia finally turns, her eyes carrying a hint of offense, almost like having received that insult herself.

“Those brutes are to be my people. I would ask the reason behind that comment but I know it will sour even more the little time I have here before my leaving, yet I clearly know that you always wanted me wrapped around your finger, Your Grace.”

Queen and princess hold gazes, the tension in the air almost tangible. The Queen's expression softens, a mixture of regret and resignation painting her regal features. "Elia, my dear, it is not a matter of wanting to control you. It is the harsh reality that as queen, I have responsibilities that sometimes force my hand to act in ways that seem unfair or even cruel. I was also a young woman, just like you, and I know somebody of your status may find more pleasure in a life around her kin, in a comfortable place.”

“Just say the name, please, so I can reject it.” Elia's tone is tinged with a defiant edge, her posture rigid. She meets the Queen's gaze with a steadfastness that belies her youth. She is the picture of royal defiance, yet there is a vulnerability in her eyes that speaks to the weight of her situation.

“My brother, Gwayne.”

A chuckle escapes the princess’ lips, bold and disrespectful. "Ser Gwayne? You think I would find solace in marrying your brother?" Elia's disbelief is palpable, her voice rising slightly, threading tension through the air of the ornate chamber. "With all due respect, Your Grace, Ser Gwayne is... not what I have in mind for a husband."

Elia feels tempted to say more, to throw the good man’s name over the ground before his sister’s eyes, but she prefers to keep it to herself, her attention returning to the godswood’s heart tree for a moment longer before turning to face the Red Keep.

“Lord Stark is a man of honour. A leader. A loyal man. Something neither you nor your kin can even approach. ‘Tis true His Grace’s decision took me by surprise, but I have gladly accepted my fate and I cannot wait to join my betrothed in the North.”

Alicent’s gaze hardens at Elia's words, a mixture of disbelief and begrudging respect flashing briefly in her eyes. The air between them thickens with unspoken tension, as if the very essence of their conflict could manifest physically, a tangible barrier that neither woman seems willing to break. The grounds of the Red Keep, usually so alive with the hustle and bustle of court life, seem to fall silent around them, as if the very stones and trees are holding their breath, awaiting the outcomes of this momentous confrontation.

Only a man is fool enough to put himself between them.

“Princess” he nods, acknowledging the first with a respectful dip of his head, his eyes then shifting to give the other woman an equal measure of recognition, though he carefully avoids using her title, aware of the delicate balance of power and respect that must be maintained in this charged atmosphere. “His Grace wishes to talk with you in his solar.” Ser Criston’s gaze lingers upon Elia, almost protective.

With a quick glance towards the queen, she nods to the Kingsguard, fighting back a smirk.

“Let’s not make His Grace wait.”

Her voice carries a subtle strength, a reminder of her own status within these walls, even when summoned by someone of higher authority. Ser Criston, recognizing the undercurrent of authority in her tone, bows slightly, an acknowledgment of her position and the respect he holds for her. He gestures for her to follow, leading her through the ornate corridors of the keep. The echoes of their footsteps mingle with the distant sounds of court life: the murmur of conversation, the rustle of silk gowns, and the occasional clatter of armor as guards pass by.

“The queen will be quite crossed with you, ser Criston.”

“The news of your betrothal have disturbed the Red Keep, princess. All in our own way will miss your presence here, but I believe everybody has to assume that things change, even the queen,” Ser Criston replies, his voice laced with a solemn respect.

“Apparently her youngest brother is a better match for a princess than the Warden of the North… I knew Hightowers were greedy, but not that much, I must say.”

Sometimes Elia tends to forget the bond between Criston and Alicent, him having become Lord Commander of the Kingsguard thanks to her influence over the king, and she kind of feels bad when he winces, only his face betraying him for a moment as if the mention of the Hightowers and their ambitions was a jagged shard of ice piercing his loyalty.

“The Reach is the birthplace of chivalry, Princess. Tyrells, Hightowers and Redwynes have mastered it to an art form," Criston replies with a solemn tone, masking his discomfort with the grace of a well-practiced courtier. "The North counts with good warriors, skilled and strong, but it is not the same, and I am sure Her Majesty meant no harm.”

“They are about to be my people. And she called them ‘brutes’.”

Silence lingers in the air like a heavy fog, dense and unyielding. Criston's gaze falls, understanding the weight of his queen's words and the hurt they have inadvertently caused . "I understand," he finally says, his voice low. "It was never her intention to belittle or offend, I am sure of it.”

She wants to retort a snarky comment, but she finally keeps it to herself, realizing that anger won't mend their situation. Instead, she takes a deep breath, letting the cool air fill her lungs, calming the storm that had begun to brew within her.

…

“You look good.”

She smiles at him, softly, her hands clasped at her front as she takes a sit next to him.

“You will make a fine bride, my dear. You will melt the ice in them.”

Her smile slowly fades as she tilts her face to the ground, feigning a modesty she knows she has not, but he thinks she wields it like a warrior does with a shield.

“You are most kind. I must say the idea is not that much disliked as I thought it would be” his violet gaze falls upon her, a hint of curiosity sparkling within it. “I will certainly miss the keep, and everybody, and Jace being close to me, but I can do this. Who knows, maybe I will get to love lord Stark.” She allows herself a small, hopeful smile, thinking about the unknown future that awaits her beyond the familiar walls of the Red Keep.

It had certainly been complicated since the last time he had been with Jace and her alone, when he had made public his change of mind and had decided to bind them into different families, to grow up more like strangers than cousins, but she had decided to adapt herself to the North, and she had reached the point of pestering Grand Maester Mellos, asking for information and any writings about her future lands.

“Those are certainly good words” Viserys seems to be pleased with her reaction, “It will not be easy to adapt to a colder place and a different culture, but your willingness to learn and adapt speaks volumes about your character. The North is a land of old traditions and strong values, where the bonds of family and loyalty are held above all else. The people there are as hardy and steadfast as the land itself; they respect strength and honor, and if you show them that you possess these qualities, they will respect and accept you as one of their own, I am sure of it.”

In a certain way, she can see herself reflected in her grandsire, who passed from being a mere prince of the crown to be the heir, the king to follow Jaehaerys the Conciliator, the one to keep with his legacy. Sometimes, more since the anmouncement of her betrothal to Cregan Stark, she has wondered how did it feel to be new to command a land, to be suddenly thrust into a position of such immense responsibility and power.

“Do you think they will try and compare me to the Good Queen?” the king raises an eyebrow, softly tilting his head as if he is inviting her to keep talking “I read queen Alysanne spent six moons on Winterfell.”

Alysanne Targaryen. The huge shadow looming over the house of dragons. The role model to the following generations.

“They would be fools to not do it” he chuckles, his eyes now upon the sky before them, the stars twinkling like countless eyes watching their exchange. “There were rumours. My own father told me about them, how the Good Queen had made it to put some light upon the lord of Winterfell.”

“And you believe them true?”

Viserys shrugs his shoulders, smiling slightly as if the secrets of the past amused him greatly. “What do you think of it?”

Elia frowns, thoughtful, wondering if he is testing her or just trying to show her some support by comparing her to his grandmother. It is certainly an unusual comparison, but not unwelcomed. The air between them was filled with the softness of an unsaid alliance, a bond formed in the quiet moments of shared history and the unspoken understanding of their positions within the grand tapestry of Westerosi politics.

“I am not really sure what to think about it right now, to be honest.”

Laughter.

She has grown up seeing that man exchanging polite smiles or courteous chuckles, only in just a few ocassions she had witnessed Viserys Targaryen properly laughing, far from the reach of decorum or what the court would say, and it caught her off guard every time, casting him in a light so human it almost seemed out of place, like in this precise moment. She smiles at his reaction, finding warmth in the sound that so rarely graces the halls of the Red Keep.

“Seven Hells, I am going to miss this…” he murmurs with a hint of melancholy in his voice, his gaze momentarily drifting away, lost in thoughts that seem to stretch beyond the confines of the gallery where they are. “The queen came to me before, you know how close are Hightowers to the Faith…”

Since the death of Aemma Arryn and the pushing of the council, led by the cunning Otto Hightower, and his own particular circumstances, Viserys had been pushed to get married again, and since then the constant presence of Alicent fluttering around him had become almost a fixture in his life.

“The North prays to the Old Gods” she says, her eyes roamimg over the garden before them, the great oak tree of the small godswood in a corner of the gardens almost watching over them. “I feel like I should do the same. I will ask lord Stark to teach me about their heart trees and their gods, and it will show him that I am not there to conquer, but to show support and shield him.”

His grandchild’s fascination with the customs and beliefs of the North strucks him as both genuine and politically astute. In the intricate dance of alliances and rivalries that defined the politics of the Seven Kingdoms, understanding and respecting the customs of one's allies was crucial. It was a way to bridge gaps between people from different lands, to weave a tapestry of loyalty and mutual respect that could withstand the tests of time and conflict.

“Wise words, my sweet” he mumbles, his gaze upon the heart tree as well. “She suggested that you could always make a sept be built in Winterfell for you to worship the Seven, with a septa to guide your future children and a septon to try and lure any Northerner to worship the gods with you…”

“And what did you tell her?”

His hand, slightly trembling, cups hers, and his thumb brushes her knuckles with tender.

“That if Aegon the Conqueror did not find it necessary to try and make the North turn to the Seven, then neither would any of us. The gods of the North have been worshipped there for thousands of years. They are rooted deep in the land, in the very heart of the people,” he sighs, clearly tired. “A marriage is a pact. Each one has to respect and tolerate things from the other, even if they don't fully understand or believe in them. I was happy by your grandmother’s side because each of us gave a part of our hearts to the other, and I truly hope you can live happy by your husband’s side, Elia.” she looks at him sideways as soon as he mentions his dead wife, the true love of his life, the shadow looming over him, and the soft smile on his face and the tender glint in his eyes break a little part of her heart. “We all deserve our little bliss, Elia.”

#twiw2 #the woman in winter #a song of ice and fire fanfic #a song of ice and fire fic #asoiaf fanfic #asoiaf fic #hotd fanfic #hotd fic #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fic #cregan stark fic #cregan stark x oc

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jag-rat · 1 month ago

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Let's analyse the drow!

Quick history on the drow: The drow have been historically characterised as ‘evil’, especially in earlier editions their alignment was always on the evil spectrum. Even Drizzt Do’urden for example was a story that essentially circles around one ‘good’ drow who managed to rise above the rest of his kin and become ‘one of the good ones’. I think we also need to acknowledge that in the earlier editions drow definitely had racist implications around them intentionally or not. With the drow initially being described as ‘completely opal black aside from their white hair’ and essentially just existed as the ‘evil’ elf counterparts to their perfect blonde cousins. Now in recent years wizards of the coast have started to rectify this. As of right now Drow have been described as being more purplish grey in colour and are steering towards being implied not to be 'completely evil'. There's no doubt about it that the drow have had a rocky history and being overtly over-sexualisalised by the early writers definitely didn't help much either. But I still think there's something very interesting wedged into this unique race of elves.

Lolth's role: Their main goddess is of course Lolth who even in modern renditions is always depicted as a chaotic evil spider demon. You could argue she’s currently the main reason why the surface folk still don’t like these dark elves. Even in Baldur's gate three which came out last year the writers make a point of emphasising that the ‘good drow’ are the ones choosing to rebel against this goddess. Now obviously this ‘good’ and ‘evil’ thing has always been a core part of DND, which makes sense given it was inspired by Tolkien who consistently made a point about there being two sides, good and evil. And it's still a very common theme in modern fantasy but I think when we look at Lolth and her connection to the drow from a more contextual standpoint this insistence of ‘evil’ isn’t nearly as interesting as exploring the greyer implications of how this Goddess came to be. Being viewed as ‘evil’ in the dnd universe is natural as Lolth is written as a chaotic evil being, encouraging violence, the sacrifice of first born sons, and general betrayal among your fellow drow isn’t very appealing. It's enough for anyone to wonder why the drow worship her in the first place if they aren’t evil. However I think it's also important to remember in real life when we create gods they almost always reflect our world, the good and the bad. Let's take Zeus for example, he was a pretty shitty guy, cheating on his wife, kidnapping women and punishing people for petty reasons. But he was still worshipped, he just reflected power and kinghood. And kings aren't perfect or benevolent, they can abuse their power and take what they want. People are complex and imperfect and so are their Gods. So a similar sort of argument could be made for Lolth.

How the environment shapes a culture: The underdark is almost always described as a harsh environment, with creatures like hook horrors casually wandering around, mushrooms that explode when touched and let's be honest probably not a lot of food in a place with little sunlight or stability. Earthquakes happen often here killing many and flattening villages. The underdark is without a doubt an unpredictable chaotic and cruel hellscape where death is a guarantee and often occurs for little to no reason. It's not hard to imagine how competition could become everything here. That means that every creature living in the underdark, even every other drow clan is just another competitor for those sparse food and resources in an already barren and harsh climate. In an environment so unforgiving and competitive you can imagine how a Goddess such as Lolth would be worshipped. Because Lolth, like most Gods, reflects the environment her worshippers live in, she is characterised as being as cruel, violent and chaotic as the underdark is. And the teachings of violence, sacrifice and betrayal that she encourages of her followers might not actually be such a bad thing but rather the key to the drows continued long term survival in such an impossible climate. Traditions and culture almost always stem from a purpose, in this case how you survive. The cutthroat nature of drow culture mirrors the underdark in such a way that it ensures that the strongest survive (although it's important to note when I say ‘strongest’ I don't mean it in a literal sense but rather those who possess the qualities best suited for survival in that environment.) The strict hierarchical structure also ensures this, with female drow being favoured as they are naturally larger, stronger and more robust than their male counterparts. Which in itself is most likely because larger stronger women generally lead to a higher rate of survival in offspring especially in harsher conditions where a single misstep can be certain death. This physical and social difference lends itself to the spider metaphor of their goddess both literally and figuratively where spiders eat their males. But as unfair as this rigid hierarchy based on sex seems, it can be argued like many cultural phenomena to be a curated survival method in itself. After all you need fewer males than females to maintain a stable population which is an important detail when living somewhere with a natural lack of food. Even sacrificing your first newborn son as gruesome of a tradition as it is, in a way makes sense. It selectively ensures that the male population is lower meaning less overall resource demand in an already scarce environment will be lower while still being able to maintain some semblance of genetic diversity.

Solutions to these dilemmas?: Now of course it goes without saying all these things are horrible, sex selection, strict hierarchies and encouraged violence to decrease competition are all bad. However in an extreme dystopian sounding scenario such as this one it does at the very least make sense. And I think what we can gather from this is that despite all the terrible things, at least terrible to us living in the world we are, drow aren’t really evil. Not even their society despite its depiction is ‘evil’. Calling them evil is kind of like if lions from a zoo who get fed everyday started calling wild lions evil for eating zebras. We may not like it of course but it's not fair to call it evil, it’s survival. In the same way Lolth isn’t even an ‘evil’ Goddess, she's just a cruel and unfair one, made to reflect the natural violence of the underdark and the lived experiences of those worshipping her. When debating the drows morality it's just about context. It brings some questions to mind. Like if the ‘good drow’ drow who are against Lolth did manage to rebel and forcefully shift the culture of the drow to be more like the surface elves for example what would really happen? Would the drow stop all their violent habits and competitiveness to live happily ever after in a more equal world? Or when all of this ‘evil’ behaviour was ‘corrected’ would it lead to a ripple effect causing famine and death anyway? Who are the surface dwellers to determine what’s wrong and right when they’ve never had to survive in such an environment? Perhaps instead the culture of the drow would just naturally change over time anyways if the need for those more violent and extreme traditions subsided because there were more ways of accessing resources and building a stabler environment. Either way I don’t know the future of drow society, but what I do know is that it’s far more complex and grey than we give it credit for.

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v10l3t-jpg · 7 months ago

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my tmagp appearance headcanons!!

Sam

Decently tall, like 5'8"-5'9"

Pakistani descent, black hair, dark brown eyes

I know Alex is trying to push this noodle arms spindly Sam agenda but I literally can't picture him like that, in fact I'm headcanoning that when Alice calls him noodle arms/waif/baby shrimp it's because he's lost weight since uni but he's still fat, all very round shapes on the go here

Also he has big dark brown eyes like a calf with ridiculously long lashes

The thought of him activates some kind of grandmaternal instinct in me, I need to pinch his cheeks and give him a Werther's original (I am 22)

I love love LOVE @fox-guardian 's design for him (for everyone, actually, especially Tim), it's exactly what I imagined listening to that first ep, down to the wee moustache and everything

I think he wears square or rectangle glasses, either in black or tortoiseshell

Alice

LANKY

Still a surprising amount of squish to her frame tho because I have to push my women tumby agenda everywhere I go

The Kiki to Sam's Bouba

5'11"-6'0"

White, strawberry blonde, hazel eyes

Still working out whether she wears oval framed glasses or contacts or can see pussy fresh

Medium long fluffy strawberry blonde hair with a fringe and layers, it's kind of a mess but she can pull it off because she's my wife, there might be a curl pattern in there somewhere if it was maintained right

Heart shaped face and faded freckles, has a jellyfish tattoo on her left thigh which she got done when she was 19 and going through a phase when she thought SpongeBob was peak humour (Gwen insists it's because she also has no brain)

Gwen

5'4" ish, not super short but Alice teases her enough to give her a complex about it

White, blonde, blue eyes (or maybe green I haven't decided)

I've decided that, to go along with her general insecurity, she's also really insecure about her appearance

Pear shaped, gains weight easily, and hates that it reminds her of being a chubby kid. Has freckles and a button nose and hates them because she thinks they make her look childish. Wore a headband to work once and immediately binned it because Alice flirted made a joke about school uniform and Gwen got self-conscious.

Used to have long blonde hair, got it chopped into a bob about a year before TMAGP begins

Celia

5'7"

Korean descent, dark brown hair in that like mullet-y wolf cut thing, I've changed my mind, undercut Celia ftw, dark brown eyes

Stocky and strong build

Wears little thin framed black or silver glasses

The only person to ever look good in dungarees

Colin

5'8"

Prematurely balding, we're talking bald on top with that band around the back and sides — you can guarantee Alice abuses the fuck out of that "she's bald! she's bald and she's torturing people who have hair!" TikTok sound whenever he starts threatening computer violence

White, brown eyes, greying brown hair

I think he's a bit of a metalhead and he has some kick ass tattoos but they're almost always covered

Lena

5'6"

Greying dark brown hair, curly but always in a severe bun, and piercing eyes

I picture her with a very defined chin, maybe rectangular face shape

This still isn't quite right, I might change it again at some point

Made with wervty's murmur character maker on picrew!!

#the magnus protocol #samama khalid #alice dyer #gwen bouchard #celia ripley #colin becher #lena kelley #tmagp #sam khalid #gwendolyn bouchard

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tunastime · 8 months ago

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Inbound, Outbound

The first submas fic I ever wrote! LOL I decided I needed one final thing for april fools so you get this fic from. about a month and a half ago! I think a lot has changed since I wrote this and I'd love to come back to the reuniting :3 maybe making it longer or what have you. but for now. here you go!

Sometimes when you wait for things, they come back to you. Sometimes they don't. Emmet continues life as normal as he can until the point in which the thing he's been waiting for the most finally does come back. Today just happens to be that day. (6745 words)

Ingo comes back on a winter day that Emmet would’ve otherwise forgotten.

It’s a pervasive winter in Nimbasa this year, the sky a white-blue, grey where it touches the edges of the buildings high above his morning train into the city center. Today is just as slow as usual, fifteen stretching into thirty, stretching in to forty-five minutes as people crush their way into the train car number eleven, Emmet’s favorite car on the six-in-the-morning inbound to Nimbasa commercial district. This train doesn’t go direct to Gear Station—it’s about four blocks from the city center. Which means that the train car is filled with grey and black suits, small children, and people in coats too thin or too bright for the weather. It’s his favorite car because if he looks over the few heads currently standing in front of him, he can see a poster with Elesa on it, advertising the Nimbasa Gym in bright, yellow and black letters. He doesn’t mind the length of the ride, really, even with the extra twenty minutes of walking. It gives him enough time to think, whether that be better or worse.

Emmet sniffles, pushing the scarf further up his nose, trying to keep in the heat. He can feel his face starting to red with the cold, and the subpar heat of the train car isn’t doing much help. He likes this car—he likes the whole system, because it runs so efficiently even with the stops, but he would like it a bit more if it were properly heated. He once bore Elesa to sleep talking about the rail system near their apartment complex in the city suburbs and art district, and after that he kind of kept it to himself and the engineers on shift.

The train car is still cold, and his scarf slips down his nose again as he adjusts his grip on the handle above him. Scrunching his face, he burrows into the collar of his coat and shrinks his shoulders to make space, shutting his eyes. He moves with the train car, as he does every morning, and sighs into the fabric of his coat. He files the cold away in the back of his mind. The train ride becomes routine, which means it fades into the background of his life, where everything rests mutely.

He might be somewhat of a celebrity, but the 6am is too crowded and too tired to notice him, or Ingo, or Elesa, for that matter. Elesa could live in the city center—running a gym is a lucrative business, and her clothing line, her brand deal, the posters with her face on them, even here in this train, raked in enough money to more than sustain on. Instead, Elesa lives two streets down from him (them) in a large apartment and she holds the crook of his arm on the train to keep steady. She didn’t this morning, though, which means Emmet has a little more stability where he stands, and a little less company. Not being recognized this morning means that he slips effortlessly from the train as the doors slide open, spilling out with other shoppers and business folk. He ducks through the exit as someone holds it open, and the smile on their face lingers a bit too long when they catch his eye. He thinks the words I’m sorry for your loss might come and hit him across the face, but they only nod. Emmet moves through the crowd alone again.

He makes his way carefully up the steps and onto the sidewalks of inner-Nimbasa, stepping with purpose as he stares down at his shoes. There’s a fine layer of ice and slush on the ground, but no snow. Anything that did fall just added to the grey slush on the side of the sidewalk, crunching under his boots as he walked. The cold still bites at his face as he makes his way down the block and across the street. He can still feel his fingers, though, which is a good sign. A few more streets of cold and slushy snow and trying to block the wind with his coat and he would be in the relative warmth of Gear Station, all tan marble and smooth floors.

Winter. Of course the winter lingered. It was still winter when Emmet got off the train alone and it was still winter and cold and breezy and dark, now, as Emmet stood in his (their) office, watching the clock.

5:45pm. He realizes he hasn’t eaten all day as a hard pang stabs through his stomach. Emmet takes a breath. It’s easy to fall into routine when nothing else seems to fit. It’s what he tells himself. He finds a way to make the day go faster, maybe looking for something at the end that wasn’t just the next day. He never had this issue before, waiting for the day to pass only for it to bleed into the next, and the next, and the next, and for the weekend to stutter and pause that blissful continuing trend. Work, go home, sleep, repeat. It gave no time to think about anything else—especially not Ingo.

It took longer the first year. Everything constantly pressed hard on the wound still open. He still remembers when everything shut down around him. It wasn’t winter then. It was spring, where the air still twinged cool, but he wasn’t kicking snow off his shoes before he entered the engineer’s office and ducked down the hall and to his and Ingo’s space. It was an almost instant halt, like throwing the emergency break. Emmet’s whole life screeched and threw up smoke.

He remembers the first time someone questioned him that wasn’t the city police, staring up at him, mouth moving with words he didn’t understand. He stuttered, unable to form an answer to what do you think happened? How was he supposed to know? How was he supposed to put pieces together when he felt like he had been smashed into star fragments?

The subway shut down for three months straight. He could barely pick himself out of bed, and when he did, he couldn’t make it out of the door. He remembers lying in the dark for far too long, turning off his phone so no calls came through. The day bled into night and into the next day, with no routine, no operating procedure. Everything in his life revolved around Ingo—and now there was a distinctly Ingo shaped hole in his chest that he couldn’t fill. He remembers crawling his way out of the comforters and making it to the threshold of his bedroom door, sinking to the ground and staying there. It was only when Elesa made her way in that he moved, coaxed onto the couch to drink a glass of water. There were days where neither of them spoke. Elesa would set a duffel in the corner of Emmet’s room and a toothbrush in his bathroom and wordlessly, the space became hers too. Half asleep one night, she mumbled, very quietly, that it had been days since she’d had the energy to battle. The Nimbasa gym waitlist had grown to fifteen people. He said he was sorry. She laughed like she meant it. Tired. They were tired. Life moved on without them for a while. He held Elesa’s hand.

Every dark coat had been him, every set of stripes, every loud and hearty laugh. The space in their fridge, in their bathroom, on their couch, the spaces Elesa subconsciously left when she visited, all stayed like he might appear and fill them. At some point the spaces became memories, and the memories became a dull ache. The dull ache let him work, and the work became an ache instead. And then he started looking for answers. When he found none, he just kept looking.

He hangs up his white coat, noise from Gear Station trickling into the background. He puts his hat on the hook next to it.

He is Emmet. He feels okay today.

He combs his hair back with his fingers, stepping back to navigate around to his desk, shutting off the computer screen and moving through the familiar motions of packing away his day. Eelektross snuffs, sleeping curled around his chair, still nursing a singe from their last battle. The rest of his team are tucked away in pokeballs, neatly set into the bag still resting on the desk. He runs a hand over the scales on Eelektross’ head, listening to the snort turn into a purr, long and rumbly. At least someone’s enjoying themselves. He leans against his desk.

“Excellent job today, Eelektross,” he says. “Too good.”

Eelektross rumbles out an affirmative sound Emmet’s learned to recognize over the years. Tired and comfortable and thoroughly pleased. He’ll be sleeping under a huge eel weight tonight, most likely, which would be good for them both.

From the corner, Chandelure chirps. He glances up, watching her tilt lazily back and forth, flame flickering under the office’s lamplight. He raises his eyebrows, tilting his head at her.

“Ah—” he says. “I forgot, Chandelure. Is it time for the rounds, then?”

She chirps again, twirling in place. She nearly bumps the wall, moving out of the way as she remembers how much space she actually takes up. Emmet snorts, shaking his head. He rises from his leaning on the desk, shaking the feeling back into his right leg.

Gathering his coat and hat again, he pulls it over his shoulders, and opens the office door for Chandelure.

The two wander out into the filling-full train station. It’s busy now that so many are leaving work, Gear Station echoing with his footsteps and the tired laughter and voices of patrons filing in and out of the turnstiles. As he steps out, the noise is almost instant. Ah—he caught departing crowds at the wrong time, as the battle subway came to a close at the days end and people were busy reassigning themselves and marking their places for tomorrow. The energy in the station is bright and cheery. He lifts his hat, waving one hand, smiling with just his mouth. Chandelure spins, singing to herself. He offers a little bow as he departs, listening to cheers of his name until he manages to slip into the service stairs and away from the light and the noise.

He follows the familiar service corridor where it diverges from the central station, staring up into the rafters and eyes tracking across the windows high above him. Night trickles in, noise obscured by layers of stone and brick and marble. The stretch of granite towers above him, echoing the flicker of pride he feels swirling in his chest. Chandelure twirls ahead of him, leading him down to the closed lines as his eyes drag away from pidove in the rafters, cooing to themselves.

It’s important to walk the lines at night—mostly for the host of patrat and joltik and the occasional drilbur that liked to make the tunnels their home, but also to check that each car remained stationary, that light still flooded the dim tunnels, that someone wasn’t trapped. It wasn’t always his job—not with so many that staffed Gear Station, both above and below him. Maintenance often fell to him when it was needed, where he lingered in the office long after his scheduled shift end, when the last outbound train returned.

The stairs down are quieter and darker than the rush of energy and light and cold air above him in Gear Station.

Emmet starts his way toward the platform. Whatever he couldn’t find in the tunnels today, Eelektross would find later tomorrow morning, well before the first battle train. It was good he didn’t have to worry about the main tracks as often—not for checks and not for maintenance. He would mourn his sleep schedule much more than he already did if that were the case. Walking those initial tunnels would take him hours, knowing how far the service platform stretched.

Emmet doesn’t like this part of his job. It was always Ingo’s job. Everything seemed like it was Ingo’s job, now that it rested on his shoulders. When they’d first pitched the idea of the subway to the head of Gear Station at the time, it had been a risk Ingo automatically assumed. When he ran the night shift, safety checks were his duty, as much as they were Emmet’s in the morning. They’d assist with repair and management of the rest of the station as needed, falling into step alongside fellow engineers. There’s a small group in this tunnel now—voices echoing down the small corridor as he travels its length, a drilbur perched on their feet, warily inspecting a section of track. He supposed he considered himself lucky—any scheduled repairs to the Battle Subway could be completed shortly after the subway retired for the day, meaning he could be present if anything went wrong. This bit of maintenance was purely preventative—making sure nothing would be jostled loose by a rogue Earthquake.

Emmet ducks passed the group, nodding along as they toss bits of information his way, wishing him a good night.

Fetching the flashlight from his pocket, Emmet smacks it against his hand. The beam flickers to life, illuminating the tunnel in front of him far more than the stretch of yellow floodlights above his head. He sweeps the beam around the tunnel, listening for anything or anyone.

Emmet makes his way off the main platform and into the tunnel proper, along the service grate, eyes following the tracks. He stands at the edge of the platform for a moment, gazing into an empty car, light shining through. It reflects off the posters and signage inside, dull yellow where the lights inside don’t shine. He shivers. The air feels cold and charged, like a stray joltik had crawled up his neck and now rested in the collar of his coat. He turns the collar out, sweeping with one hand. No joltik. Rolling his shoulders back, Emmet steps back from the car and continues onward. A few feet ahead of him, Chandelure twirls idly, like she’s waiting for him to catch up. He waves the beam of the flashlight at her and she startles, chirring out, annoyed.

“You can check on your own if you don’t want to wait,” he tells her.

She warbles, waving her arms back and forth. He makes an affirmative noise.

“That’s what I thought.”

The large loop stretches further on to his left, where he can’t see, blocked by the stretch of railcar. He follows Chandelure through the space between the cars, ducking his head as they step onto the opposing platform, and continue their way back up. He pauses for a moment as they do, feeling his body go light as his head spins. He reaches out to the side wall, hand against the cold stone as he takes a long breath. Emmet blinks back spots for a moment, shaking his head gently. His stomach feels like its in knots, rolling over itself as he seems to settle from his moment of vertigo. No lunch will do that to you, he supposes.

Chandelure flickers. They’re almost done, which is good. It means he’ll be able to sit down for a second before he has to run to the train. They won’t need to check the two-team tunnel tonight—not only has Emmet not been able to run it, he checked it two weeks ago. He lingered a very long time in there, didn’t he? It had put a terrible ache in his chest enough to call Elesa to walk him home. Emmet frowns—Chandelure flickers again, dimming, brightening, dimming, brightening again. There’s that rush of dizziness again. He breathes out. He’s too far in his head, today, isn't he?

“Chandelure,” he says, in a way that almost reminds him of Ingo—a little out of breath from walking, but mostly just curious. “Is something wrong?”

She chimes, wobbling in place, eyes narrowing. It feels hesitant. Emmet shudders. After a beat, he reaches up, placing a hand on the near-glass surface of Chandelure’s body. She moves back toward him, chiming again.

“Right,” he says. “It’s different, right? Something’s changed.”

Another chirp.

Something tugs at his mind. Wasn’t there something he read about clairvoyance in pokemon? Future-telling, future-seeing, or whatever. But Chandelure’s behavior isn’t indicative of anything. That would just be odd. He can feel for just a moment the way his heart thumps a little faster against the line of his jaw. It couldn’t be that. It’s just what Elesa always said—he was looking for something that wasn’t there.

“Yyyyep-yep,” he says, mostly under his breath, voice thick. “But it should be fine, Chandelure. Let’s keep going, our track moves forward.”

She tilts back and forth, like a wave of a hand. Emmet snorts as they start forward.

“You know I’m always one for a battle,” he says plainly. She chirrs, moving around to his right side, putting herself between the train car and Emmet. He follows her movement only for a second as they walk up the tracks, eyes still fixed on the steps up to the station.

The city subway still rumbles through the ground and the walls around him, the noise soft and consistent as train cars move past. He pauses, listening in, shutting his eyes for a moment. It was late, now. He could feel a tired ache seeping into the creases of his elbows and right under his knees from standing all day. His head was starting to hurt, spinning as he stood completely still. He sighs roughly, squeezing his eyes tightly for just a moment. He’s lucky the pain didn’t extend to his feet—he would have to do quite the jog to catch the outbound train toward home, unless Elesa happened to be staying late again and could walk him back.

They start together toward the entrance as Emmet does his final scan of the furthest-out platform, satisfied nothing is out of place. The same cold air of the train tunnels permeates even here, despite the warm wash of yellow light across the walls and marble pillars. Emmet breathes in, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders as he stretches over his head, screwing up his face as his back pulls. He nearly complains—he feels much too old for this—but he can feel the sharp poke of Ingo’s voice in his mind—well, I’m two minutes older, so you can imagine how I feel—and it stops him pretty quickly. He’s not even thirty-five. What can he do but complain, right? Emmet fishes his keys from his pocket prematurely, ducking between the cars as he steps onto the loading platform.

Chandelure stops ahead of him. Her trill is quiet as Emmet reaches her side.

There is a man standing on the platform.

Emmet is very good at telling cosplayers from the real thing. You would think that would be some sort of a joke, but they really like to be authentic. Ingo and him never sold any merchandise of their coats or hats for fear of, well, that. This. Whatever this person was doing, standing on the closed platform in a ruined coat that looked like Ingo’s.

Emmet swallows. Looks like and not is, right? Looks like and not. Not. Certainly not. Not when he turns and catches his eye. The breath lodges itself in Emmet’s throat, burning hot. Certainly not. Because he is very good at telling illusions from real life, and there are no dark types in the tunnels that can use copycat, and copycat can’t extend the likeness of himself onto another person who looks. Like. Who looks like his brother. And isn’t. Emmet tries to breathe. The breath is sharp on his teeth. His hands are shaking when his vision blurs, and he smears tears across his face.

Ingo looks frightened for a moment. When he looks into Emmet’s eyes, the grey looks washed out. Emmet breathes out, feeling it catch as he sighs, biting the inside of his cheek to keep grounded. There’s. It’s like nothing moves behind his eyes. Not a faint light of understanding. Not a spark of clarity. Ingo places a foot behind him. The line of Emmet’s spine goes cold all at once.

He stands still as he watches a slow realization pass over his brother’s face like a red flush, some flicker in his expression, before he sees his chest seize and breath stutter. Ingo blinks hard and fast, like it might be helping something, eyes flicking over Ingo’s face. He reaches forward, as if he’s expecting to push through Emmet and into air instead, and not the solid body he stands there with. It’s like his body moves before he realizes what’s actually happening. Emmet watches his movements, still calculated in the same way as they’ve always been. Emmet drags in a breath, sniffling hard.

The lines of Ingo’s face pull. Emmet reaches out to him, copying. It’s what he’s always done—what they’ve always done. He steps forward, lurching to meet him.

The mirror image of himself, his brother, his Ingo, collides with him hard. Emmet feels him crumple into his arms as he drags him forward, arms locking around his ribcage. He squeezes Ingo tight to him. They buckle, Ingo leaning into him for support as his body is wracked with sobs. Emmet struggles to breathe as he sinks to his knees, smearing dirt and dark grime over his white pant-knees and boots.

Ingo’s hands fist in his coat as they fall. He squeezes Emmet in his arms, fighting for breath as he presses his face into his shoulder. Emmet laughs and it morphs into sobs. He turns his face into the tattered collar of Ingo’s coat and squeezes his eyes shut. Ingo. Ingo. Always Ingo. The bony joints of his elbows digging into his ribs as a kid, crushing him with his weight when he lost a pokemon battle, standing in his bedroom door at night when he had a nightmare. Cooking beside him, picking up his coffee, watching him tie Emmet’s tie around his own neck before passing it back to him. His brother Ingo, breathing too shallowly under his hands as he holds him, shaking with the effort of holding himself upright. He can feel the bones of his spine and shoulderblades, sharp and protruding even through several layers of fabric. His face looked so pale and thin. But Ingo holds him tightly, much tighter than he ever remembers, and it’s not just fear or relief or grief holding him to that strength, either. Emmet wheezes out, word unforming in his throat.

It’s not a nightmare. It feels real and warm and solid, like Ingo, like the platform under his knees, like the cold breeze on the back of his neck. Ingo may look different, far too gaunt for Emmet’s liking (and he supposes, now, that it may be like looking in a mirror, and he wonders how many bones Ingo can feel under his coat) but it’s him. No illusion or actor would crumble like this. It couldn’t be some sick joke—right?

He manages out words, and the first thing he chokes out through tears, voice warbling hard, is:

“Ingo—”

“Emmet,” Ingo grits out.

“I am Emmet—” Emmet says weakly. “You are Ingo. You are real.”

“I—” Ingo chokes. “I am. I’m real.”

Ingo certainly feels that way. The breath echoes in his lungs, damp and wobbly. Emmet can feel his heart slam against his ribcage. He feels so small in his arms but he shakes with the effort of keeping himself stable and with the effort of holding on. He can feel his shoulders move and the way his tears have started to soak through Emmet’s coat and shirt. He’s real.

Emmet laughs weakly, equally as wet.

“You are very strong,” he says softly, sniffling in, almost amused. “What happened to my brother?”

Ingo laughs. Emmet feels a new wave of tears bubble up in his chest and in his eyes. He presses his face into his shoulder a little more, like it were possible.

“Too much,” Ingo says, voice pitching. “Much too much.”

Emmet sighs into his shoulder, a sound he doesn’t think Ingo’s ever heard before. Ingo’s seen him cry a few times, especially when they were kids, but Ingo was always the more emotional of the two. This sound is such an odd mix of relief and grief and exhaustion pulled from his chest, like all the energy had trickled out of him.

Emmet holds tight to his brother in front of him, words not surfacing like they should. He only manages the weak sobs pressed into the collar of his coat. He screws his eyes shut again, clinging onto Ingo’s coat. The tile is cold and unyielding under his knees. Burning starts to prickle through his shins. Real feelings. Real sensations. Something to tether himself to. Ingo sniffles, coughing damply. He lets his body deflate a touch. Emmet’s chest twists and squeezes tight enough around his heart he feels it shove its way into his voice-box and beat there, pattering away.

“It’s you,” Emmet finally shudders out, voice breaking, sounding much more fragile than he wants to allow. Ingo burrows closer like it may do something. Emmet squeezes him. “Go-Go, please tell me this is real.”

“I promise,” Ingo manages. “I swear it.”

“You do?”

“You are Emmet,” he says slowly, sniffling. “I am your brother. I am real.”

“Good—” Emmet shudders. “Good.”

Ingo makes a pained noise, sighing out to his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. Emmet shakes his head, stilted from where he rests it.

“Don’t be sorry. Just—” he trails off. Just. Don’t leave again. Yeah.

Ingo nods slowly. After a moment he says:

“You are real,” in a half questioning tone. Emmet nods.

“I am. I am not a dream,” he says, huffing out a wet laugh. “You can pinch me.”

Ingo snorts.

“That’s not how that works,” He argues, own voice damp and amused. Emmet thumps his back between his shoulderblades.

“Go-Go,” he complains. Ingo wheezes. This feels so familiar it hurts.

“Sorry,” Ingo says, but the tone that leaks into his voice sounds like he’s very much not sorry. “I’m sorry.”

Emmet huffs again, soft and brittle.

“Ingo, I missed you,” he manages. “I missed you so much. So very much.”

“I know,” Ingo says softly, relaxing his hands, splaying them out over Emmet’s coat. “And yet you kept the subway running in my absence—” he huffs, amused. “Bravo.”

Emmet laughs once, just a small little sound, before it turns back into sobs, muffled against Ingo’s tattered coat. He leans his weight back as much as he can, trying to pull Ingo further into his arms, as if it were possible. Light cascades around them as Chandelure floats over, chiming softly to herself. Ingo pats Emmet’s back, running a little line over his shoulderblades as they sit together. He feels Ingo shift, as if he’s turned his head toward his Chandelure. Warmth blossoms in his chest.

Ingo mumbles out something Emmet almost hears.

“She took your absence very hard,” Emmet says, trying to add to a conversation he hadn’t heard.

Ingo sighs, short and soft. They’re less holding on and more leaning, now.

“Oh,” he says softly. It’s all he says before he turns his head back into his shoulder. Emmet pats his back. He feels like someone’s taken toothpicks to his nerves. Why does it hurt? Why does Ingo sound so lost?

He leans back from Ingo, but he doesn’t let go. His hands find his shoulders, pulling away enough to see him properly. Emmet’s eyes scan his face. They’re the same grey as he’s always known them, but so much more tired, now, deep lines and dark circles around the bottom. He’s frowning, just a little, eyes still red-rimmed from crying, tears still falling haphazardly. Ingo sniffles. His hair lies the same, despite being unkept, and he’s got a terrible facial hair situation going on, like he’d forgotten how to use a razor. When Emmet studies him, Ingo’s face goes soft. He opens his mouth like he wants to speak, but shuts it when Emmet frowns.

“Ingo,” Emmet says, frown deepening, eyebrows furrowing. He sniffles. He prods at the hollow of his cheek, looking perplexed. “You look horrible, like someone’s shaken twenty pounds off you.”

“Ah,” Ingo says, looking away.

“You may be much stronger than you were, but you look like you may fall over if I let you go.”

Ingo swallows. His expression morphs a few times, until he shuts his eyes, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I might.”

“Ah!” Emmet says, holding to his shoulders a bit tighter. Ingo smiles, just the sides of his mouth lifting. It feels right. “Don’t.”

Ingo snorts.

“I’ll try.”

Emmet nods, mouth a fine line. Ingo’s eyes flick over his face, this time. Emmet feels like pokemon under a magnifying glass being scrutinized. Ingo watches as Emmet blinks tears away, watches them track over his face, and watches as he reaches up to wipe them. Emmet shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice softening at the end unexpectedly. He swallows down a wave of cold guilt. Ingo’s hands clasp around his biceps.

“Emmet—” he starts.

“It’s okay,” Emmet manages out, expression cracking. He sniffles in, pulling in a fast breath as he does. He hears it catch, feels the shudder than comes with it. “You—it’s you.”

“That’s right,” Ingo says meekly, loosening his grip. Emmet’s wobbly smile falters, just for a moment.

“That’s good,” Emmet sighs. He blinks a few times, sniffs again, wipes at his face. Ingo’s hands fall away from his arms and into his own lap.

The frown lingers on Ingo’s face long after he’s dropped his hands. Emmet rises to a slow, shaky stand. Stuffing his gloves in his pocket, he wipes at his face with the back of his hand, giving Ingo a watery smile. When Ingo looks up at him, Emmet feels something click into his chest, warm, full, and settling. He smiles wider, enough to feel his eyes start to squint shut, enough to watch Ingo copy him, and the smile looks so natural on his face. It’s good. This is good. This. Feels. Good. It feels good.

“I don’t think you should sit on the floor anymore, Ingo,” Emmet says. He extends his hand.

“I think I’m a bit too old for it,” Ingo tells him. Ingo takes it. He holds his warm hand, half palm and half wrist. Emotion tumbles in his chest, painfully tight, as he leads Ingo toward the tunnel entrance.

There’s something Ingo isn’t saying. Emmet knows it’s important. It’s not important enough to say now, that is, but he can feel it in the air of Ingo next to him as they duck into the empty station, back to the office, away from eyes that might say something before Emmet is ready to let the world know who showed up at his doorstep. It’s fine if Ingo doesn’t remember his pokemon, or the layout of Gear Station, or how he should feel, or where he’s been. He can’t ask him to. Not when there was a moment where Ingo couldn’t remember him, no matter how brief. He pushes fear deep into his chest and refuses to let it rise up.

He won’t let them diverge. He won’t let Ingo derail.

Whatever happens next, he’s not letting go of him.

The night comes easier than most.

It starts with Emmet sending a text—it’s last minute, which he despises, but he informs the head of the station that he isn’t feeling well and won’t be in at work for the next few days. He receives a spaced, but enthusiastic reply, and a reminder to use his sick time before he loses it. Probably better that he’s taking more days rather than less. Emmet feeds their pokemon, moving around the kitchen as he hears the shower running in the room across from his own. Busying himself with routine means he worries a little less about the question tugging at his mind, or the rush of anxiety and energy as he remembers everything, replaying it over and over again in his head. What if it isn’t Ingo that steps from the room? What if he looks completely different? What if—

Galvantula bumps his hand, nibbling at his sleeve. He’s still holding the bowl of food. He sets it on the floor as instructed, briefly pulled away from his thought.

Now, situated in the living room, a takeout bag rests on the coffee table, where Emmet is sitting next to the table, pulling out foil wrapped sandwiches and bags of chips and a too-shaken can of soda. He’s been watching Ingo’s face for a good part of the evening, seeing as lines come and go, how the sharp shape worsens when he frowns. Now, in a thick, high collared sweater and pajamas, grime scrubbed away with a hot shower, Ingo looks very small, and very alive, and very cold. Emmet pokes him with a socked foot as Ingo takes another ravenous bite of his egg and cheese sandwich. He has egg yolk all over his hands and down his chin.

“I am Emmet,” he says, an awed smile lingering on his face. “And I am certain you are going to choke if you eat that fast.”

Ingo blinks, still chewing. Maybe two sandwiches was the right move after all. Emmet hasn’t touched the one he bought for himself yet. He’s been too busy making sure Ingo drinks a glass of water. Ingo flushes, though, as he realizes he’s made an runny-egg mess of the plate balanced on his knee. He looks sheepishly away, searching for something to wipe his hands with. When he can’t find anything, he sets the sandwich down, and wanders back to the kitchen.

“It’s like you haven’t eaten in weeks,” Emmet remarks. His stomach flips a bit at the implication, wondering when the last time Ingo actually had a warm meal in his body. He realizes he doesn’t even know where he’s been. What could be wrong with him. What he’d seen. He seems dazed, a bit lost, a bit spacey. It had taken him a good thirty seconds to recognize Emmet on that platform—though, if Emmet’s honest with himself, and he often tries to be, he isn’t much better. He’d swallowed down confusion just as fast as he could, and that was only a moment before he’d thrown himself at his brother. Ingo’s shoulders are a tense line.

“I’ve eaten,” Ingo says.

“Good.”

When Ingo wanders back over, sitting in his same spot, Emmet pushes the glass of water toward him. Ingo nods, smiling a little as he picks it up and takes a long drink. After he’s finished and set the glass down, Emmet starts on his sandwich. Between his first bite of hashbrown and egg and the next, he says:

“Ingo,” followed by. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

The two go quiet, even with the sound of foil and sandwiches. Ingo swallows, staring into his patterned plate. Emmet watches his face as much as he did prior. He can tell when a pause is calculated for drama, for intrigue, for embellishment, but this one is full of Ingo’s mind scrambling. Emmet can’t see it in action, but he can certainly imagine a million Ingo’s running around in his brain space, trying to compose an answer for Emmet that would satisfy him. Ingo takes another bite in the meantime.

Emmet stares into bits of potato in the foil on his lap. They’re not very interesting.

“What happened?” he asks softly, not looking up at him. He hears Ingo sigh, and sees him put the plate down in his peripheral.

“I—” Ingo starts, and the stutter of his voice is indicative of something very clear to Emmet.

“Ingo,” he says, looking up suddenly. “Don’t.”

Ingo swallows. His throat bobs. Emmet doesn’t even have to finish his sentence.

“I’ve forgotten everything,” Ingo says, in a way that is so un-Ingo-like. “Almost everything. It’s just—there. Right out of reach. Right out of my reach.”

The television casts color across Ingo’s face, obscuring his expression. Emmet fights to keep his expression cool and neutral, despite the way his heart begs to jump into his throat and throw a party. He has a sandwich to eat, not a heart. Silly heart. Silly Emmet. He supposes now that’s why Ingo’s reaction to Chandelure was so stunted. Or the way he skirted away from the station like it may reach out and pinch him like a dwebble. He takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly.

“I don’t know why,” Ingo continues, picking at the seeds on top of his bagel. “I don’t know how, either. And I don’t think I can stomach the where and what, yet. I feel sick when I think too hard. Dizzy and sick.”

Emmet swallows roughly.

“It’s okay,” he says. Ingo shakes his head, shutting his eyes. Emmet watches his face warp, faltering as he holds back whatever emotion’s just bubbled up in his chest. He screws his eyes shut, new tears dripping down his cheeks and off his chin. “Go, listen—”

Emmet reaches. He brushes Ingo’s hand, and Ingo jerks back on instinct, recoiling. He looks at Emmet, expression blank, nervous, then cracking all at once. Emmet’s own face falters as they meet eyes. Emmet holds his hand over Ingo’s, waiting, still crouching in front of him. He tries for a smile, even as Ingo goes blurry.

“I’m glad you remembered me,” he warbles out. “We can keep going from there. Our tracks move forward.”

“I don’t believe my car in this two car train is very safe, Em,” Ingo sniffles. He takes Emmet’s hand, though, and Emmet curls his fingers over his, both hands around his one hand. He squeezes ever so.

“We’re known for our safety checks, brother,” Emmet says gently. “It’s just our standard operating procedure.”

Ingo laughs softly. The sound is damp, but real. Trying to be something positive. It’s all he can ask of him.

“Understood,” Ingo says. He nods, setting his face, despite the way tears still cloud his eyes, and his mouth still wobbles as he sniffles in. “We shall depart then.”

“We will!” Emmet says, squeezing his hands again. He drops them, then, patting Ingo’s knees like he were beating on the table. Ingo huffs out a laugh, shooing him away.

It doesn’t hurt any less, knowing how much might be absent. But it soothes it a bit to watch Ingo smile.

Later, sitting on the couch together, Ingo rests against Emmet, sandwiches eaten, chips picked through, water drank. His face has regained a touch of color, hands no longer shaking with exertion. He breathes slowly and softly as Emmet flips through television mindlessly, looking for anything. To his left, Eelektross snores, head resting on his knee. He runs a hand absently along the scales at the top of his head, listening to the drone of purr and the chatter of late night television.

“Brother,” Emmet says softly. “Ingo.”

Ingo makes no sound. His breath stays even and slow. Emmet snorts. Right. He supposes it’s payback—he can’t remember the amount of times he’d fallen asleep during movie night with Elesa.

Elesa.

Emmet startles.

Reaching for his phone, he hastily manages a message to Elesa. Something like: Come over ASAP. Good news. Very good. About Ingo.

But his message reads in all lowercase like a run-on sentence, so he hopes in the morning Elesa will decipher it.

Emmet leans back, Ingo’s sleeping weight falling to Emmet’s side as he lies down on the couch cushions. His brother only partially adjusts in his sleep, better tucking into one side, head on his shoulder. Warm with sleep and food, Emmet lets his eyes unfocus. There’s too much static resting right under his skin to let him sleep.

This is good, though. A moment of reprieve for him, and desperately needed for Ingo. Maybe in the morning they’ll talk about getting rid of that ridiculous beard of his.

Emmet hums softly to himself. He listens to the drone of the television for a moment, blissfully tired. There’s a moment of quiet just long enough to feel sleep tug at him.

Someone pounds on his door.

Ah. Well.

Miscalculation on his part, then.

#submas #subway master emmet #subway master ingo #pokemon black and white #pokemon fic #pokemon black and white fic #submas fic #it's very. this is very special to me #i think it could be longer! and a little more detailed! and i think i wanna come back to it at some point and post it on ao3 #it's kind of like this. oh well i've seen other executions i like just as much as what i decided #and it makes me wanna weave more in #i think i could eventually but not today LMAO #maybe once i post my other fic i'll rewrite this as the second chapter. big eyes.#yesyes.. that's what i'll do < shut up tuna

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0hcicero · 7 months ago

Text

Ok, ok, ok, first, I need to preface. I love both Suvi and Amé as characters, and I love how Aabria and Erica are playing them. It’s meaty, it’s complex, it’s complicated, and they are crafting imperfect and really authentic characters, and clearly have so much trust between them as friends and scene partners to play in uncomfortable spaces, and it can’t be understated.

That said, OH MY GOD I JUST WANT THEM TO YELL AT EACH OTHER!!!! Both of them! Not just Suvi, who is most likely to let out her frustrations and her ire, but also Amé who is *least* likely to. They both just push so hard on each other’s wounds in a way that would be so much less painful were they not so deeply tied and if they didn’t care so deeply about each other.

Suvi’s need to externalize judgement, her need for control, and her need to confer blame (mainly on others) clearly are deep-seated symptoms of the trauma she endured as a child, losing her parents, and growing up in an environment and culture that is grounded in control, action, and externalizing judgement on others (e.g., guid mage vs citadel wizards, witches as lesser, spirits as resources, other nations’ magic as bad/wrong and other nation’s choices as justification for war and violent action - not saying in some cases unwarranted but just laying out the logic). The loss of her parents outside the citadel makes the world feel unsafe, and as a way to counteract that fear, she leans so hard into that control, blame, and judgement, and it pushes into Amé’s own wounds of shame, guilt, and people-pleasing, and lack of boundaries/inability to state her boundaries.

Amé grew up internalizing blame, other people’s emotions, and taking accountability and responsibility for others, in many cases, over her own needs and wants. Amé’s family gave her up because she was a witch. She blamed herself and holds still an incredible amount of shame simply for being who she *is*. The village treated her as an outsider, and her abandonment issues are clear triggers for her people-pleasing, her lack of/inability to state her boundaries, and why sometimes after relenting and following others’ course, it seems like she just snaps and has to do her own thing, the thing she’s been hinting at, quietly requesting, or wheedling for.

It was inevitable that in finding each other as young adults, our witch and wizard would be grinding and grating against each other’s rough edges. Suvi’s immediate stress response is fight, and Amé’s stress response is freeze and fawn. Those are hard to reconcile!

Without Amé clearly stating her needs, wants, and boundaries, Suvi has no real ability to map her control within the relationship, which would naturally lead to insecurity in it for her - the woman who needs to understand everything, black and white, no grey to muddy the waters. Without Amé to push back against Suvi’s judgements and blaming, Suvi further loses her openness to the world outside the citadel, instead, retreating into the comfort and safety the mentality of the citadel breeds.

Meanwhile, with Suvi’s judgements and ultimatums, it pushes Amé (who is so used to internalizing shame and reading others to navigate social dynamics in both her role as a witch and as a people pleaser) to shrink and apologize for her needs and wants, and to further take responsibility for the actions and behaviour of others (e.g., Ursulon’s safety after they were separated, after Suvi essentially sicc’ed the guard on them). At some point, the resentment will build so strongly it will become destructive, either to her or to someone else, but, and this is the thing that kills me, likely not Suvi, because she is the one that Amé is seeking approval from right now! She’s so deep in it, I worry that she won’t start asking if Suvi is the person she needs approval from, and why it matters so much for her. I worry that she will be able to intellectualize boundaries and psychological concepts, help others find their way to them, and yet never internalize them for herself.

The thing is, these two *need* each other! Suvi’s boundaries are so strong and reinforced, and she defends her personal sovereignty with tooth and claw - and my GOD does Amé need to learn how to do that, even if it will result in some inevitably tense and uncomfortable conversations for the both of them. Amé is a font of curiosity and non-judgement, of honest wonder, and what a joy that would be for Suvi to adopt - to be able to engage with the world not through a lens of fear or insecurity, because the world she has known has been dangerous, but instead through a lens of curiosity, because the world is surprising and joyful, and sometimes not having the answer means the journey of wonder gets to continue!

Can you imagine how beautiful it’ll be when they learn to balance each other? Amé, a confident witch who is not afraid to state her needs and make choices without guilt! Suvi, a wizard operating from curiosity, not fear, who lives not for the period at the end of a sentence, but the marginalia embroidering it!

Ah god, I’m not even through this episode and I had to take an hour to write my thoughts about it down. Gosh dang it Worlds Beyond Number, ya done got me by the throat on this one, y’all.

#worlds beyond number #the wizard sky #suvi kedberiket #aabria iyengar #quiddie #ame the witch #erica ishii #the wizard the witch and the wild one

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orionsangel86 · 7 months ago

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Are there anythings that you would have changed about The Sandman?

The show or the comic?

Plenty of things I'd change about the comic. As great as the story is, it is a product of its time and there are some underlying messages whether intentional or not that are inappropriate and fucked up and don't really belong such as:

The racism towards black women implied to be cursed to die violently when linked to Morpheus in some way following the Nada situation.

In fact the whole Nada story is pretty gross. When she thinks that by cutting her hymen she'll remove her virginity to put Dream off her, but then its stated that healing her hyman doesnt restore her lost virginity... like first of all. No. Second of all - shoving a rock up your vag does NOT remove your virginity lets not spread the message that it does.

The way Dream comes across a bit rapey in the Nada story overall and its not made clear how much influence Desire has in that.

The inherent misogyny which is typical of 80s/90s comics but in particular the violence towards women and overt sexualisation of women. Whether for shock value or not, its just not necessary.

The implied message that depressed and suicidal people should just kill themselves and everything will be better once they are gone.

The idea that a person who is depressed can be replaced by a better good version of themselves and even their family and friends will just treat that person as the new them. The implication that the depressed person isnt valued and must instead conform to the responsibilities and burdens of the system they are trapped in - rather than changing the system.

The concept that the moon is inherently transphobic and that witchcraft is transphobic just irks me as a pagan person- like yeah there are huuuuge problems in the community and the whole divine feminine and fucking womb magic bullshit is all over it but I really really hate how Sandman perpetuates that myth and indicates its the goddess that encourages that view and not asshole closed minded people. The moon isnt fucking transphobic FFS.

Everything about Gwen and Hobs relationship in Sunday Mourning. Its problematic AF and I hope I don't need to explain why.

Not a fan of the portrayal of Loki and Sigyn. Its too black and white for such a complex myth.

That fucking awful reaping joke in Collectors which I loathe with every fibre of my being.

Even with all these points I want to caveat this by saying that I love these comics. I KNOW that a lot of this is subjective and open to interpretation. These things have many shades of grey to them. I adore the comics in so many ways but that doesn't mean they dont have their issues. I know people are emotionally connected to these comics and this criticism isnt meant as an attack on them.

For the show, well tbh I think its practically perfect, but a couple of niggles:

That fucking awful reaping joke in Collectors - can't BELIEVE they kept that in. I mute my TV at that moment so I don't have to hear it every time.

Hob's slave trade ties - They needed clarity here and should have kept the regret in 1889 more obvious. I understand why they changed it but I think that topic should have been thought through better.

There were complaints I read about how black characters and black men in particular seem to disproportionately suffer violent deaths. I know this was unintentional and a simple matter of open casting for extras and minor characters which is a GOOD thing, but sometimes casting should be less blind, and more considered where minorities are concerned.

Some of the dialogue in Johanna Constantine's episode is clunky - but that only bothers me because I've watched it 284929294787 times and have it memorised.

Despair was handled poorly. It wasnt great rep for fat bodies (like me) and she comes across so weak and submissive to Desire. Which she just isn't at all in the comic. Thankfully it looks like they really did take that criticism to heart and made positive changes in Dead Boy Detectives. She was fabulous in her cameo in that.

Not enough gay sex. The 1 star homophobic reviews really overexaggerated on that and left me disappointed. There should have been at least 1 gay or lesbian sex scene in every episode. Do better season 2. Do better. (For legal reasons this one is a joke - Sandman is a goldmine of queer rep and should be on every queer fans watch list 100 times over)

There you go. No piece of media is perfect. There can always be changes and improvements, but the Sandman is a story that really does fit the description of masterpiece. I think my ideas of things that need to change are generally matters of framing. I dont think the comic story should be drastically changed in the show, I don't think it should be given a different ending. Its a tragedy after all, but tragedy can come in many forms and perhaps the story can be adjusted so the tragedy isnt so harsh. But anyway. This is all just my opinion and as with all things i'm sure there will be plenty of people who disagree with me.

#the sandman #sandman meta #sandman analysis #sandman comic spoilers #racism discussions #upsetting themes #misogyny discussions #transphobia discussions #suicide discussions #asks #dead boy detectives spoilers

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little-prontera · 1 month ago

Text

character ramblings about baby cheese head, her prince, and what she truly wants under the cut cos I've been consumed KYAN☆

💕☘💌📍💐🌼💞🍰

diary ramble ✏

Anyhow, diary time! rp has been really fun! I used to be nervous since I didn't know anybody, but it turned out to be much more relaxed than I thought. Everyone is just very enthusiastic about their characters. I've found writing is a lot more fun when you're doing it with everyone. It's also interesting to watch the progression happen naturally. Nobody knows what will happen at the end of a story, and so I have no clue what the character will turn into.

When I began, I didn't have a clear idea of Raclette at all. I just knew she was a "pure-hearted maiden"; I knew she was a little dreamy and aesthetically fixated; I knew she had a fairytale like backstory and she was troubled by ghosts. She was originally supposed to be more floaty and mysterious but my own habits came through and she ended up as an overwhelming force of delusional princessy wonder ^^". I guess that's the kind of girl I like! But happily, with time, and with everyone, she grew and grew and I came to understand her.

1) How to be good 👑

Here are some established traits of cheesegirl:

1) She loves fairytales and will connect anything and everything in reality to them

2) She assumes automatically that everyone will understand what she's thinking/saying/doing

3) If she likes something, it is good and she won't let it go

4) If she doesn't like something, it's bad and she wants it eliminated

5) If something falls between "good" and "bad", she will be at a loss as to how to sort it and blank out

5) Her ideal is a Prince 💕

So the girl has a painfully black-and-white worldview. To Raclette, what she thinks and feels are real and factual-- not subjective and intangible. They are a reality of the world. So when something offers a little grey to her black-and-white bubble, she can't handle it at all. It doesn't abide by the laws of the world, so it doesn't exist.

But why are things divided so strictly?

Raclette, at some level, believes she is in the "good" catagory. Things that are beautiful, sweet, pretty and nice (it doesn't matter if the subject is actually any of these things, if it os labelled as such then it surely is). Any sort of complexity threatens her, suggesting that some part of her is wrong-- even the smallest bruise means the whole apple gets thrown away in her worldview. But at the same time that worldview MUST be enforced to protect her from everything "bad" aka things she just doesn't like. Things that are ugly or distasteful, but also things she doesn't understand or simply make her feel bad. She wants to be as far away from them as possible.

2) I could just eat you up! ��

Raclette wants to be beautiful inside and out, and how she aims to achieve this is by physically surrounding her with things she wants.

Cute things, pretty things, nice poetry, nice people, yummy sweets, lovely hats. They are all within reach, as long as you make an effort. And once she has her hands on it, she won't let it go. It's a part of her now. It's what makes her "good"!

But there are things she cannot take with her. Talk of the quality of character are rarely successful. Courage, intelligence, and creativity aren't things you can keep in jars. When meeting Voski the writer, so full of energy and knowlege, Raclette withers under her own lack of experience. The gap between the two in terms of character is too wide for her to cross.

Worst case was meeting Cinna, a perfectly nice gentleman who offered her genuine advice. She responded by asking him if she could straight up become his apprentice-- an effort to physically grasp something she admires-- and was (respectfully, understandably) rejected. What happened next wasn't good. She discarded all thought and acted on her instinct, which was to throw a sugar container right at him. Afterward, she didn't address the situation at all. She neither likes not dislikes Cinna, because Cinna does not fit her worldview while also not being incorrect in any way. Her mind knows this but her heart's wound is too deep, so he's a blank spot for her. He's just incompatible.

She hates things she can't hold, because they can never be a part of her. Like a fox scoffing at sour grapes.

3) The prince...💕

The so-called Prince is forever haunting Raclette. She sees him everywhere: In her books, in her dreams, in the people she meets, in her memory. He's less of a romantic prospect and more of a cure-all, a representative of someone who can get rid of everything she dislikes in this life. Bonus points if they're a little stern and go "tch!"

The Prince has never been real, so she overlays reality with fantasy so that the two are inextricable. If someone shows any sort of care for her, she declares it a "prince-like" action. If someone is so much as dressing nice, she becomes determined to mold them into a prince-like shape. She will make the world conform to her wishes. And while her wish is lofty, it is the only things she's ever wanted.

To Raclette, a prince is cool, handsome, round (?!), clever, beautiful, skilled, smart, will do everything she wants forever without protest, will protect her from things she doesn't like, will never be mean, and always smell good (important). By possessing the prince she will live a life of comfort but more importantly she will be "good" for owning him. They will remedy everything, past and future, if only they were to appear.

4) Real desire ✂️

So, where has he been all this time?

In some level, Raclette believes she is "good", because the alternative is realizing that she-- in her worldview-- is unsalvageable.

Raclette has been lonely since she could remember. She feels things stronger than everyone else, she doesn't understand why she does the things she does, she believes she's the only one who thinks this way. There's a mental block that prevents her from examining the cause any further, but at her core, she's deeply unsatisfied with herself and the gap between her and other people, fantasy and reality. The artificial sweetener is easy to find. But somebody who understands her feelings? That's much harder. Those feelings are bad. And she is good. So who is going to save her from that contradiction?

One day, Raclette met a real Prince. And she bit down as hard as she could.

Raclette never really wanted the Prince to save her. She wanys to get revenge in him for leaving her all alone. She wants to make him feel twice as bad as she feels-- it's his duty to bear the sorrows of the both of them. She can remain pure this way, and he can fix everything by being a canvas for her misery.

The girl speaks often of the macabre in a comically cheerful fashion because she truly does find it romantic. Her mind naturally heads in the direction of death. This is not to say that Raclette wishes to die because I don't think that's the case at all, but rather the idea that someone would go through something so extreme gives her catharsis. It makes sense to her, naturally, that something like double suicide would be functionally dreamy (ala romeo and juliet). In reality though, she would shove all the horrors onto somebody else. None of that nasty stuff can enter her bubble.

If she own the Prince, and she causes him pain, then she can experience the pain without being tainted. He really is a cure-all in the end...

the end oh my god 😪

auhhh I rambled on and on and on. It's really fun to think about how a character grows over time. As dreary as I've made it sound, I'm sure she'll be fine in the end. She's disillusioned with the Prince now, so I wonder what will happen next? Anyhow, she's really funny, even if this dreary post is on the serious side. It was just me working things out ^^"

#raclette #character study #yapping #sorry for emo #i love baby cheesehead #we gotta fix this thing!!!#sorry for long post ehehe

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