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ilynpilled · 1 year ago

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GRRM on morality, heroism, villainy, and parallax in ASOIAF:

Time magazine wrote of you, “What really distinguishes Martin and what marks him as a major force for evolution in fantasy is his refusal to embrace a vision of the world as a struggle between good and evil.” Do you agree?

I think the struggle between good and evil is central to fantasy and, indeed, in some ways, central to most fiction. It's certainly a worthy subject for fiction. But I regard the struggle between good and evil as being waged within the individual human heart. […] You know, the greatest monsters of history, as we look back on them, thought they were the heroes of the story. You know, the villain is the hero of the other side, as sometimes said. That doesn't mean that it's all morally relative. That doesn't mean that all things are equally good and evil. I think there is good and there is evil in the world. But you know, it's sometimes a struggle to tell one from the other and to make the right choices. I've always been attracted to great characters, maybe because that's what I see when I look around the real world, whether I read about it in history books or the news or just people I meet. I mean, all of us have it within ourselves to be heroes. All of us have it within ourselves to be villains. We've all done good things in our lives, and most of us have also done selfish things, cowardly things, things that we're ashamed of in later years. And to my mind, that's, I don't know, the glory of the human race. We're such wonderfully contradictory, mixed-up creatures that we're endlessly fascinating to write about and read about.

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In your work, you have essentially captured Mikhail Bakhtin's concept of polyphonic fiction, where the characters are equal, and the reader can root for any of them. This has been impossible to convey on the TV series.

I wouldn't say all the characters are equal, but they have (hopefully) human traits, especially the viewpoint characters. I have seven viewpoint characters in the first book, and each book has a few more. So, by now, we're probably up to 12 or 13 viewpoint characters, and those are the ones where I go actually inside their skin, so you're seeing the world through their eyes. You're hearing their thoughts. You're feeling their emotions. And I try to paint over those viewpoint characters, and some of them are noble and just, and some of them are kind of selfish, and some of them are very intelligent, and some of them are less intelligent and even stupid. But they're all human, and I want to portray their humanity. […] I think the battle between good and evil is fought all over the world, every day, in the individual human heart, as we all struggle with the choices that define us and define our lives. And we have to choose what we are going to do, and sometimes the choice is not easy; it's not this absolute juxtaposition of the good guys and the bad guys. And I wanted to get to that with my characters, and show some of the difficulties that they face.

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Another element I liked about the series was the moral relativism of many of the characters. Too many Fantasies rely on the shorthand of truly evil villains in the absolute moral sense, but your characters, while they might commit terrible acts, generally do so either from short-sighted self-interest or because they truly believe they are acting for the best. Was this a deliberate decision, or is it just more interesting to write this way?

Both. I have always found grey characters more interesting than those who are pure black and white. I have no qualms with the way that Tolkien handled Sauron, but in some ways The Lord of the Rings set an unfortunate example for the writers who were to follow. […] Before you can fight the war between good and evil, you need to determine which is which, and that's not always as easy as some Fantasists would have you believe.

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Do you purposely start a character as bad so you can later kill them?

No. What is bad? Bad is a label. We are human beings with heroism and self-interest and avarice in us and any human is capable of great good or great wrong. In Poland a couple of weeks ago I was reading about the history of Auschwitz - there were startling interviews with the people there. The guards had done unthinkable atrocities, but these were ordinary people. What allowed them to do this kind of evil? Then you read accounts of acts of outrageous heroism, yet the people are criminals or swindlers, one crime or another, but when forced to make a choice they make a heroic choice. This is what fascinated me about the human animal.

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Martin's realm is not one of unambiguous heroes and villains. His characters, from royals to peasants, tend to be ethically mutable. So-called good people, like the noblemen Ned Stark, his son Robb Stark or the indomitable Daenerys Targaryen ("the Mother of Dragons"), make terrible mistakes - out of weakness, pride or an overly rigid sense of right and wrong. And horrible people, like Jaime Lannister, known as "the Kingslayer," do terrible things and then, over the course of several books, reveal themselves to be capable of heroism and sacrifice.

As we're discussing this in the theater, Martin quotes Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar" from memory: “The evil that men do lives after them ;/ The good is oft interred with their bones.” Then he adds his own version: “We shouldn't forget about the evil that good men do. But we shouldn't forget about the good either,” he says. “I do think a society needs heroes. They don't have to be flawless.”

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Your books have a very strong storyline associated with the atonement of sins. For example, the way of Jaime Lannister, do you yourself believe in karma?

I don’t believe in karma per se, although sometimes I have my doubts because sometimes I think I see things that could be explained by karma. But no, I don’t really have any beliefs in the supernatural. I do believe in the possibility of redemption. And I believe that human beings, all human beings, are grey. And I try to remember that when I write my characters. We are all heroes, we are all villains, we all have the capacity for great good and we all have the capacity to do things that are selfish and evil and wrong. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. In your lifetime, you can be both. And it’s making choices that defines us as human beings. There’s this sensation of compartmentalism. This eagerness to judge everybody based on the worst thing they ever did, not the best thing they ever did. And you know, I think Shakespeare in "Julius Caesar" wrote “The evil that men do lives after them ;/ The good is oft interred with their bones.” And sadly that’s true. And I think it should be the reverse. We should remember the good things and the noble things that people did, and forgive them for their failures and moments of selfishness or wrongdoing because we all have them. When we forgive them, we are essentially forgiving ourselves. Redemption should be possible.

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Are there any characters that you've kind of fallen out of love with, that you just don't, you know, get excited about any more?

I still love all the characters. Even some of them who aren't very lovable. At least the viewpoint characters. When I'm writing in the viewpoint of one of these characters, I'm really inside their skin. So, you trying to see the world through their eyes to understand why they do the things they do. And we all have, even characters who are thought of to be bad guys, who are bad guys, in some objective sense, don't think of themselves as bad guys. […] “What evil can I do today?” Real people don't think that way. We all think we're heroes, we all think we're good guys. We have our rationalizations when we do bad things. “Well, I had no choice,” or “It's the best of several bad alternatives,” or “No it was actually good because God told me so,” or “I had to do it for my family.” We all have rationalizations for why we do shitty things or selfish things or cruel things. So when I'm writing from the viewpoint of one of my characters who has done these things, I try to have that in my head. And I do, so there's an empathy there that makes me love even people like Victarion Greyjoy, who is basically a dullard and a brute. But, he feels aggrieved and sees the world a certain way. And Jaime Lannister and Theon Greyjoy, they all have their own viewpoints. I love them all. Some I love more than others, I guess.

Who do you think to be the most important characters?

They're all important. I don't favor them, or I don't think of them in terms of importance. The viewpoint characters in the first book I have are Bran, Tyrion, Catelyn, Ned, Jon Snow, the two girls Arya and Sansa. There is the core of the Stark family plus Tyrion to represent the Lannister family. Then I have Dany on the other side of the sea, Daenerys Targaryen, whose story runs parallel and some ways doesn't connect to the others, but some day I'll eventually bring those two stories together. In each subsequent volume I drop some of my viewpoint characters and add new ones. Although the same core still dominates, the cast changes somewhat, and I like to do that. In the third volume which you haven't gotten to yet (he refers to me) I have a new viewpoint character. He's been a major character, but now you see things for the first time through his eyes. Which I think changes your perception of things somewhat. I like to play that kind of game, because we all have our own way of looking at the world. Something occurs and two people witness it. They might have very different versions of what happened, and very different explanations. I like to play with parallax in my fiction, and get different versions of the same thing.

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A Song of Ice and Fire has much of the complex texture of authentic history, both generally and in its specific echoes of actual historical episodes. What laws and principles (if any) in your view govern human history, and how has your understanding of historical processes shaped the series?

Historical processes have never much interested me, but history is full of stories, full of triumph and tragedy and battles won and lost. It is the people who speak to me, the men and women who once lived and loved and dreamed and grieved, just as we do. Though some may have had crowns on their heads or blood on their hands, in the end they were not so different from you and me, and therein lies their fascination. I suppose I am still a believer in the now unfashionable "heroic" school, which says that history is shaped by individual men and women and the choices that they make, by deeds glorious and terrible. That is certainly the approach I have taken in A Song of Ice and Fire.

A Song of Ice and Fire undergoes a very interesting progression over its first three volumes, from a relatively clear scenario of Good (the Starks) fighting Evil (the Lannisters) to a much more ambiguous one, in which the Lannisters are much better understood, and moral certainties are less easily attainable. Are you deliberately defying the conventions and assumptions of neo-Tolkienian Fantasy here?

Guilty as charged. The battle between good and evil is a legitimate theme for a Fantasy (or for any work of fiction, for that matter), but in real life that battle is fought chiefly in the individual human heart. Too many contemporary Fantasies take the easy way out by externalizing the struggle, so the heroic protagonists need only smite the evil minions of the dark power to win the day. And you can tell the evil minions, because they're inevitably ugly and they all wear black. I wanted to stand much of that on its head. In real life, the hardest aspect of the battle between good and evil is determining which is which.

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When you are writing the different conflicts in Westeros, do you personally pick a side? Or feel that one side fights for a more just cause than the other?

Yes, certainly. I mean, I’ve often said that I believe in grey characters, I don’t believe in black and white characters. But that’s not to say that all characters are equally grey. You know, some are very dark grey, and some are mostly white but they still have occasional flaws. I’ve always been fascinated by human beings and all of their complexity— even human beings that do appalling things, you know, the question is ‘Why?’ And it’s interesting to get inside their head and see why. Some of my viewpoint characters have done some incredibly reprehensible things: Theon, for example, or Victarion Greyjoy. Why? Were they born a monster? Weren’t they born like a cute little kid wanting to be loved and all that? We all start out that way, right? But things happen to us on the way that lead to junctures in our lives where we make decisions, and those decisions and the consequences of them color everything that comes after. You look at [historical figures] and what’s the verdict on these men? Are they heroes, are they villains? Are they great people, or people we should despise? I mean, they are fascinating characters because of their complexity.

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“I don't concern myself over whether my characters are “likeable” or “sympathetic.” (I had my fill of that in television). My interest is in trying to make them real and human. If I can create a fully-fleshed three-dimensional character, some of my readers will like him/her, or some won't, and that's fine with me. That's the way real people react to real people in the real world, after all. Look at the range of opinions we get on politicans and movie stars. If EVERYONE likes a certain character, or hates him, that probably means he's made of cardboard. So I will let my readers decide who they like, admire, hate, pity, sympathize with, etc. The fact that characters like Sansa, Catelyn, Jaime, and Theon provoke such a wide range of reactions suggests to me that I have achieved my goal in making them human.”

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“You want the reader to care about your characters — if they don’t, then there’s no emotional involvement. But at the same time, I want my characters to be nuanced, to be gray, to be human beings. I think human beings are all nuanced. There’s this tendency to want to make people into heroes and villains. And I think there are villains in real life and there are heroes in real life. But even the greatest heroes have flaws and do bad things, and even the greatest villains are capable of love and pain and occasionally have moments where you can feel sympathetic for them. As much as I love science fiction and fantasy and imaginative stuff, you always have to go back to real life as your touchstone and say, ‘What is the truth?’”

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 1 month ago

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🪓 Hewn and Sewn 🪡

I’ve been thinking a lot about Háma’s death again lately and started this fic for Tolkien Horror Week. And then I both failed miserably on the timetable for that and realized that what I needed for myself was to find a way for his horrifying end (it’s there in the books, and it’s not pretty) to not be totally devoid of consolation. And so it maybe wasn’t right for a Horror Week event anyway. Your mileage may vary on whether you find anything remotely consoling in it. I just love my guy, my #1, and want him to be happy. I don’t know if this accomplishes what I want, but I tried.

CW: canonical character death. He met a brutal end, per Tolkien, and that’s here, along with a fair amount of battle/war reality, incl. some blood and guts and general violence/death.

Art by @ rinthecap

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A body is surprisingly hard to kill.

The first thrust of a spear may bring a man to his knees, the second fills his mouth with blood, the third can barely be extracted again from the depths of his chest, but only the fourth brings mercy at last. Until then, the body clings to its life like a sailor adrift in an ocean storm, scrabbling after any tiny scrap of floating debris and clutching with bloodied nails and broken fingers to the last vestiges of a smashed and splintered ship that somehow hasn’t yet totally disappeared beneath the roiling waves. The body finds its greatest strength at the moment of its greatest vulnerability, stubbornly refusing to relinquish its desperate hold on survival and rallying to endure unimaginable suffering for just a little longer — one more boot to the skull, one more arrow through the gut, one more blade in the back, one more, and one more, and one more — to see whether the body’s will to live can outlast the enemy’s will to kill.

Háma knows all of this now.

He knows that the great tales of history have left out much of the truth, that the epic songs of invincible riders who slice through enemies like a scythe through wheat are more fantasy than fact. They have left out the hard work of dealing death, the sweaty, gruesome, arduous labor of cleaving into skin and muscle, hacking through sinew and bone, splitting open hearts and stomachs and lungs. They have left out the vomit and the blood and the entrails, the slippery gore that loosens grips and unsteadies footings, sending blows wide of their marks and into places that deliver pain rather than ending it. They have left out the soul-deadening horror of looking another man in the eye and realizing the only way to end his misery is to first give him more.

These realities are seldom spoken of, threatening as they are to the necessary project of war. New soldiers each discover them on their own, and Háma was no different. He came to the army while still hardly more than a boy, an idealist raised on stories of grand, heroic campaigns and aspiring to the honor of being one of the king’s own guards. None but his mother had tried to warn him of the cruelties he was sure to encounter, for she knew well the gentle heart that beat in her son’s chest. Always the first to smile, to extend a hand of welcome, to offer quiet encouragement, to assume the best even of those who had done him harm, she knew how such a heart would rebel against those inevitable cruelties. But he had so little experience of all that was vicious and foul in the world that he couldn’t truly comprehend the warning, no matter how carefully he listened, and in the end her bleak, abstract prudence was no match for the vivid potency of his dreams. He kissed her farewell and went off in trusting pursuit of all that was noble and righteous, blissfully innocent of the ugly truth behind the fantasy.

It took only one battle for him to realize that the valiant and glorious contests of poetry were neither valiant nor glorious but rather panicked, messy slogs where nothing was simple, nothing was clear and nothing was as he expected it to be. The shock of it nearly got him killed, frozen fast in horror amidst a raging squall of bristling spears and glinting blades and hearing nothing but the echo of his mother’s words, suddenly so palpable and so obvious. Only the panic and the mess and the general disorder saved him from meeting his fate before he was able to rouse himself at last to the grim necessity of action and do what was expected of him. He waded into the carnage, he added to it, he turned aside from suffering that he couldn’t relieve, he tried not to look at suffering that he had caused. And somehow, by the grace of Béma, he survived to see the victory, though the word itself now caught in his throat, devoid of meaning.

He cried after that battle, hiding alone in a darkened corner of a stable and wracked by huge, shaking sobs that both embarrassed and reassured him, proof that the day’s bloody brutality had exposed his naive ignorance but not taken his humanity. He wondered whether that humanity could endure even one more such pitiless trial or if it would break him, changing the very core of who he was. He wondered if he was already broken in ways that he couldn’t yet understand, ways that would be revealed to him only later in the long dark of a sleepless night or the cold grip of a relived memory. He wept for the man he had been and for the man he had wanted to be, someone who might now be a stranger to him forever.

He may have quit that very day had an older soldier not stumbled upon him and his tears, pulling him to his feet and tossing him a scrap of cloth to dry his face. We have all felt what you’re feeling, the soldier said. Anyone who is untroubled by taking lives should never be trusted with a sword. The soldier walked him over to a nearby field where neat rows of villagers were laid out to await burial — old men holding canes, young mothers in bright dresses, a few girls and boys with skinned knees or milk stains on their upper lips — all caught unaware by the enemy before the forces of Rohan had arrived to drive them back. Remember that you have killed so that people like this might live, the soldier said, and he left Háma to keep watch among the corpses, to contemplate death anew.

It seemed a simple reminder, a basic truth so obvious that it need not be spoken, and yet he had needed to hear it all the same. To be a guardian, using his strength and abilities to protect others, had been his earliest aspiration, and now perhaps that dream could protect his own heart as well, offering him the sense of purpose that would help to make the suffering feel worthwhile. He walked slowly from the silent field and back into the center of the village, where water was being drawn, animals fed, children minded, lives lived despite the tragedy to befall them. He rejoined his éored with a brief nod to the older soldier, and when they rode out again, he did so with the rent in his heart not healed but at least knit loosely together again, mended with stitches of duty and honor.

*****

Since that day he has killed many times, never unprovoked or with wanton disregard and never with the overpowering horror of that first battle, but also never with the clean, simple ease that he had once been led to expect. Each time he is forced to inflict pain on another, he feels it in his own limbs, and though he hates no man, he comes closest in his despair over those who fight him the hardest, who persist through blow after weary blow and refuse to yield or retreat. Do not force me to do this to you, his mind pleads silently, and sometimes, though it means the same thing, do not force me to do this to myself. In direst conditions, compelled to keep defending himself from an opponent with the white glimmer of bone shining out from mangled red flesh or with a dark, empty space where an eye had just been, he cannot keep these thoughts contained to his own head. Barely audible amidst the clash of metal and the thunder of hoofbeats and the groaning of the injured and maimed, he speaks the words aloud. I am sorry.

Many of these men linger in his memories, images of them emerging suddenly and unbidden from the depths of his mind while in the middle of doing other, more benign things. The man who stared up at him from a puddle of gore, tears streaming from eyes that were the same pale green as those of Háma’s youngest sister. The grievously wounded man who had spit in Háma’s face when offered mercy before plunging a knife into his own throat. The man who whimpered one word over and over as they grappled for control, a word Háma later learned meant ‘please’ in the tongue of the Easterlings. These memories tear at the stitches in his heart, testing their strength and threatening to sunder him anew.

One man in particular haunts his thoughts, lurking always in the shadows of his waking mind or the hazy, fragmented mirages of his dreams. Part of a company of Dunlendings who crossed the Adorn without leave, this man was a talented warrior, and had he only been taller or slightly larger of frame things might have ended differently. As it was, it took three heavy strokes of Háma’s sword to bring him down, and the battle-notched edge of Háma’s blade caught on something as he sought to pull back the final stroke. Forced to lean in close, to brace his foot by the dying man’s chest as he struggled to free his weapon from whatever barbed hook of metal or bone had trapped it, he found something he did not expect on the haggard, shivering face that was now only inches from his own — a smile, small but clear, and growing only wider as the man pulled in his last rasping breaths and the light slowly dimmed from his eyes.

The memory of that smile never truly leaves Háma. It follows him everywhere, as attached to his mind as his shadow is to his feet. He sees it when he stands long, lonely hours on watch in the cold and when he sits in a crowded tavern that swelters with the heat of a hundred bodies pressed side by side. It creeps up on him in the quiet wandering of his thoughts while his hands perform some common, repetitive task, or it appears with startling suddenness in the middle of pressing matters, insisting on claiming a share of his focus with the urgency of its unknowable mystery.

He dreams up a thousand different reasons why a man would smile through such agony, somehow finding happiness in the moment of ultimate despair. Perhaps the man hated his life and was glad to be rid of it at last, or he felt honor and pride in the idea of dying for his cause, though that cause was repugnant to Háma himself. Perhaps the smile was brought on by a delusion or hallucination, a vision of pleasure or comfort that shimmered with false loveliness for that Dunlending’s eyes alone. Perhaps it wasn’t even a smile but rather a spasm or tic, an arbitrary contortion of muscles masquerading as a familiar emotion and torturing Háma now with a futile search for meaning in the utterly meaningless. The only man to know the answer has taken it to his hastily dug grave.

Háma lives these years balanced on the knife’s edge between revulsion and understanding, doubt and certainty, heart and gut. But with each battle, he learns better how to fight in a way that feels true to himself, anchored to his decency, and he learns better how to strengthen the parts of him that quail at the task, reinforcing those weak spots so that they prove all the harder to wound a second time. He patches himself with reminders of all that he fights for, and, in time, life gives him more and more to add to that armor. A beautiful wife who brings warmth and light into all of his days. A daughter who owns him, body and soul, from her first breath. Hard won respect and admiration, first from his commanders, then from the men entrusted to him, and finally from his king. He will never be a battle-hardened veteran, numb to the business of death, but he finds his way forward, refusing to let the sharp edges of those old memories and doubts carve and pare his spirit until it is shorn of all that is hopeful and joyous. Instead, he embraces the business of life, of being a husband, a father, a son, a brother, a friend, a King’s Guard, a captain, a doorward, all of his selves linked together like the rings of his mail and bringing him just as much strength. He is happy, and he is whole.

*****

And so it is that he finds himself strangely at peace on the ride to what will prove his last battle. He has spent a lifetime preparing himself for this moment, this challenge, and he will meet it with honor. The hand of fate has landed on Helm’s Deep, an unexpected turn but one that he welcomes. He knows this place, its gate, walls and keep, unbreached by any outsider in all the long years of history. A fortress and a refuge at once, it is everything that he holds himself to be: strength and shelter, protection and not aggression. If the Rohirrim are forced to this step, with the point of a sword at their backs, there is nowhere else he’d rather make their stand, defending the inviolable.

They have been warned that this fight will be unlike any other in the lifetimes of this army. This is no skirmish over the placement of a border, no periodic flare-up of ancient, simmering tensions. This is existential, a contest that will decide whether Rohan endures a little longer or falls entirely, and among their old enemies of Dunland there will be new enemies as well, orcs of Isengard that are taller, stronger, unafraid of the sun, more desirous of blood. They drink in the joy of death like a cat laps up cream, he is told. Show them no mercy, for none will be shown to you. He sees the logic of this advice even as he has no plans to follow it. He has worked too hard to keep the cruelty of the world from making him cruel in turn. He will do what must be done, but he will do it as himself, from goodness, and not in imitation of those he deems wicked.

Final commands are given. Théoden sends him to hold the gate, and though he feels ill at ease to leave the king, his one and only charge, he knows it is the greater need and he goes willingly. The ragtag assortment of defenders at the gate are his charge now — cavalry riders preparing to fight from foot, farmers of the Westfold, teenage boys whose beardless faces catch the moonlight — and he assures them that it is alright to be afraid. They will face the fear together. He feels some of that fear himself, more aware than ever of his captain’s uniform that will distinguish him among the masses, drawing attention in the one place where such attention is least welcome. But he would sooner die in this symbol of all he believes in and all he has worked for than to hide in common disguise. His uniform clothes him in courage.

The fighting itself, once it begins, passes quickly, as do most things that overwhelm. There is scarcely a second to take in what is happening before it’s happened, and things grow only more chaotic as the late night stretches into earliest morning. Fear keeps him moving, because to give in to the exhaustion, to stop for even half a second of stolen rest, is to expose yourself to the heavy stroke of an axe or a sword or a pike or any of the other tools Isengard has devised to sever the loose connections that hold a man’s body together. Fear keeps him on his feet, and courage keeps him pressing forward, unwilling to give ground toward that precious gate.

He fights this battle his way. He leaves those enemies who are injured beyond the point of threat to be collected by their countrymen. He dispatches mercy to those whose injuries have already guaranteed death, bringing an early end to their suffering. He takes no action from anger, only necessity. He kills, many times over, but always as a last resort and each time with a heavy heart, for even the orcs are living creatures, once descended from elves if old tales are true.

He is not unscathed in the struggle. Bloody weals, red and shining, cut across his cheek and throat, and his left arm hangs dead now at his side, the muscles needed to raise it severed by the point of a spear. But he is undaunted and rallies, again and again, as men and boys, soldiers and herders, guards and merchants, fathers and sons, fall all around him to the seemingly endless waves of new opponents. His luck holds, until suddenly it doesn’t.

The first sharp blow slides neatly into the narrow band of exposed leather near his shoulder, where a piece of his armor has been forcibly pried from his body. It slices cleanly through the layers of hide and cloth, cleanly between ribs, cleanly into the center of him. It stops him in his tracks, not from the pain, which is strangely delayed, but from the abrupt sensation that all the air has gone from his lungs, which leak uselessly now into the hollow of his chest. He is still standing, struggling to pull in delicate half breaths that each slice like a blade of their own, when the second blow lands, a sword at the knee that sends him to the ground. The third, a heavy, percussive jolt from a bludgeon, shivers the bones that don’t shatter outright and leaves him sunk helplessly in the muddy grass, surrounded by a pool of blood that started out as someone else’s but is soon more his than not.

A burst of flame to his left draws attention away as both sides rush toward the noise and light, and he is left for a moment on his own. Above him hangs the black, blank sky, the stars now blocked by clouds and haze and smoke. Beside him are an elderly man with no helmet and a split skull, eyes fixed open in unseeing horror, and a teenage boy, face gone grey and breathing shallow as the contents of his veins empty steadily from a gaping hole in his side. Háma would comfort him, take his hand and bid him a swift journey to the halls of his forebears, if he could only lift an arm or force a word from his lips. But there is no strength in that arm and no air to carry the sound. He manages only to inch his hand next to the fading warmth of the boy’s fingers, and he hopes the boy will feel it and know that he is there, that they are not alone. It isn’t enough, but it will have to be.

A burning pressure builds in his chest, pushing out against his broken ribs and mangled muscles with a force that could tear apart whatever is left of him that is still intact, and somehow, above the screaming and the thunder and the clang of weaponry, he can hear a wet, bubbling sound each time he tries to inhale, as though he is drawing breath through a sopping cloth. He wonders if he might drown, miles from any river or lake or tide except his own blood that is rising in his lungs, and he uses his last gasp of energy to weakly raise his head, eyes searching desperately for a friendly face that might be able to drag him to help. But the eyes that meet his are instead cold and cutting, and they sparkle with sharp malice when they recognize the fine armor and burnished insignia of the captain of the King’s Guard.

A voice calls in a tongue that Háma cannot understand, but he needs no translator to know its meaning or that of the answering calls. Fingers are pointed in his direction. Grips are tightened around axes and knives and clubs. Lips curl into wicked smirks as many feet advance toward him, the defenseless prey whose brutal end will send a message to no less than the king of Rohan himself. No mercy will be shown to you.

The crushing realization hits him in an instant, though perhaps he should have known it all along. This is the end. There aren’t enough allies left standing to save him, even if his wounds could be healed. The gate, the one object of his focus, is being torn now from its hinges, riven with deep fractures and fissures, and these men and orcs will pour through the gaping rupture just as soon as they are done with him. It will matter to none of them that he is as good as gone already, slowly choking to death on his own bile and blood, because they mean not just to kill but to destroy. They mean not to leave him in one piece, not to keep him recognizable even to those who love him best. They will take his life, but they will also take his identity, his dignity, his grace, his chance to be mourned over by those who would hold him, stroke his hair, kiss his brow, touch his cheek.

He turns his head again to the young man at his side, to see one last Rohirrim face, but it has gone stony and lifeless, an unmoving mask of arrested youth. Háma studies this face, the soft down of a first beard, the skin unmarred by old scars or new wrinkles, and his heart trembles at the thought of all that this boy never got to do or have. A whole lifetime that was yet to be lived, with loves to be found, achievements to be celebrated, misfortunes to be endured, contentment to be earned. His death is a tragedy of lost hopes, of all that might have been had the boy been given even the twenty extra years that Háma himself has had. And that is the thought that brings a sudden and utter calm to Háma’s spirit, quietly reassuring despite the looming specter of gruesome execution treading closer and closer each second.

He cannot see his own imminent death as a tragedy like this boy’s, for Háma has lived — not as long as many men, but fully and well. He has loved and been loved. He has made himself and others proud. He has laughed and cried and grinned and gasped. He has seen great beauty, heard words of great kindness, tasted much that was sweet, felt hands of true tenderness. He has served a land he reveres, one that he knows in his heart will prevail and find a way off its knees to stand tall once again. He has joined himself to people worth dying for, people that he would weep to leave if not for the knowledge that he was more fortunate than most to have ever had such people in his life, no matter how briefly. A wife who was the love that made all the others irrelevant. A daughter who was every bit as perfect as she adoringly believed him to be. Another baby that would arrive in four months’ time and bring consolation and joy to its mother when she’d need it most. They will be pained to lose him, but he trusts their strength, the kind that isn’t sharp and brittle like iron but binds and flexes like thread.

Amid all the suffering of the world, he has been blessed, his fate woven together so tightly with filaments of gladness and fulfillment and favor that those things can never be sundered from him, even now at the very end. When the first axemen crowd around him at last, he doesn’t feel fear or hatred or regret. He feels only gratitude for all that he’s been given. When an enemy first takes his leg at mid-thigh and then his arm at the elbow, he isn’t thinking of the pain. He is thinking only of how one man could be so lucky, how he had somehow managed to claim not only his share of good in the world but many times that much. When a blade takes his ear and iron-toed boots prod where his ribs no longer provide resistance, he hears Brytta’s sweet voice calling his name and feels Hálwinë’s soft cheek rested against his chest. And when the last rattling breath leaves his battered lungs, sighing softly from his bloodied lips, he looks right at the man above him and smiles.

#háma #my beloved #kind of dark and definitely has some blood and guts #which seems appropriate to the mood lately #but i swear i tried to find the uplift #he’s my number 1 favorite guy #and i just think he’s neat #lotr #rohirrim

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vaguely-concerned · 18 days ago

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Origins is of course the DA game most closely in conversation with and playing around with Tolkien (right down to the walking talking poetree haha) -- and even more so than most works in the larger western fantasy tradition derived from Tolkien's work that DA:O also hails from and owes a lot of its Stuff to, what makes the game so great to me is that it's doing so very deliberately, and is subverting and deconstructing those tropes and entrenched ideas in some very interesting ways without at all denigrating what it's commenting on. (it doesn't have the almost disdainful undertones of the vein of fantasy that seeks to make the world more 'realistic' ala the more tedious reactions to G.R.R.Martin's work, for example, despite having the darker fantasy bent to it.) among other elements it adopts, what I find the most fascinating is the choice to use the same literary device/conceit Tolkien did in ostensibly only having in-universe biased sources and works to deliver the world through (which I feel is an underappreciated thing about his approach but is part of what makes his world so enduringly compelling and real-feeling -- the feeling of real scholarship devoted/applied to a made-up world. the grounding effect of a good diegetic footnote about source criticism, truly).

many things to be said there, and I'm glad each following game has taken on different perspectives and lenses and traditions to view the world of Thedas through because if you stick with that one too closely for too long I fear we could teeter precariously close to Pratchett's famous and bitingly accurate accusation of most modern fantasy of that era just being about rearranging the furniture in Tolkien's attic lol. and while you could accuse DA2 (my perfect wife who has never done anything wrong in her life to be clear) of many things, that's not one of them, they are pulling on some completely different strings for that one and both the game and DA overall is better for it, to my mind. as so many things in this series: worth staying with and exploring for an installment even if it might get stale if all of it was like this! people are understandably sad about the elements from previous games that they liked which were lost along the way, but that capacity for reinvention is to my mind a huge strength of dragon age as a whole.

(I think Veilguard is coming in as a close second in Tolkien conversation-ness if only in outlining/revealing the worldbuilding that indeed may have been planned since DA:O around the animosity that SHOULD by all rights exist between dwarves and elves in this universe (as per Tolkienesque tradition standards). but doesn't really because you see: politics and the many pitfalls of conservation of knowledge over the ages. our ancestral enmity got semi-intentionally lost between the floorboards of history and you know what. maybe for the best. the humans are already up to so much shit you gotta keep your eyes on them at all times you can't be brawling with each other in the deep roads while they're still around getting up to their nonsense or they'll just pile up even more of it)

#dragon age #dragon age origins #been thinking about the unreliable narration/in-universe texts only element being the thing da:o took from tolkien that's most defining #for a LONG time and I want to write something smart about it sometime but alas. this is what I've got right now haha #I think *some* da:o nostalgia is about that familiar safe childhood feeling of Fantasy World in a pattern that was so deeply entrenched #for many many MANY years. it's been in the groundwater of the genre for so long it's only fairly recently the patterns were broken #on like a mainstream sort of scale. I know I'm getting older b/c I keep going 'how do I explain to some of these people #that the world (both the real one the fictional one and the gaming one) was a very different place back in 2009' lol #and I agree there's something so tremendously comforting about it even with all the grimdark elements more in the martin vein #that's also in da:o. the same way you get satisfaction out of the structural familiarity of fairy tale logic but for a whole genre #da:o follows the Rules of a fantasy world in post-tolkien tradition -- even when it's subverting them it's doing so in reference #to a set of tropes and ideas both you and the game are deeply familiar and comfortable with #(da:o IS also just a really fucking good game I'm NOT saying people's love for it comes from being blinded by nostalgia haha #just an observation of a thing I've recognized in myself as well. there are elves there are dwarves there are talking trees and dragons #and basically orcs. all is as it should be and everything makes sense <- the part of me that grew up on lotr and derived works lol)#and while the other games also have all these elements they don't USE them in the same way and it doesn't feel the same. it's so interestin #dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age: the veilguard spoilers #dragon age spoilers #only in the vaguest way but still #you know what veilguard occasionally feels more like actually. sci-fi! and it's not an accusation or a bad thing for me I think it's great #da:i veers more to high fantasy and da2 feels weirdly low-fantasy -- it's a story where magic also happens to exist but I almost forget lol #it's a magical world and magic is integral to the plot but thematically it's so much about real-feeling political conflict #da:o is a Quest in da2 you're new in town (and it gets worse)

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emyn-arnens · 2 days ago

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2024 Fic Roundup

Thanks for tagging me @hobbitwrangler! 💛 2024 is over, but I spent the past week in Galadriel fic lockdown, so I'm doing this now.

Total Words Published at end of year: 73,559 (including a handful of fic from other fandoms)

Fandoms: Mostly LOTR and Silm with some brief forays into Narnia, the Sevenwaters series, and Timeless.

Highest Everything (raw kudos, hits, comments): Keeping this to Tolkien fics:

Kudos: Like a Wave That Should Engulf the World (G, Faramir/Éowyn, 0.7k)

Hits: Across So Wide a Sea (G, Galadriel, Finrod, Celeborn, Celebrían, and more, 33.1k)

Comments: Across So Wide a Sea again

New Things I Tried: Quite a bit! I dug deeper into writing horror; wrote a number of characters and relationships I'd never written before; wrote my first all-OC fic; wrote my first epistolary fic; and wrote about the Second Age and early Third Age, which I had previously avoided because they're time periods I wasn't as familiar with. And, best of all, I finished a long fic for the first time! 🎉

Fic I Spent the Most Time On: Across So Wide a Sea, by far. I spent about three quarters of the year on it, between researching and writing. I hadn't initially planned on the fic covering such a sprawling length of time (end of the First Age to end of the Third Age), so I had to give myself some crash courses on parts of the Second Age and early Third Age that I wasn't as familiar with.

Writing it also brought up a lot of questions about things I had previously taken for granted and not thought much about, including things like "did the Elves try to figure out what happened to the Ring after Isildur's death and its subsequent vanishing from history? If they didn't, why, and if they did, how did they do so? And didn't they wonder why the Istari showed up in what was largely a time of peace (about one hundred years before Sauron took over Dol Guldur for the first time)?" And so on and so on. I spent a lot of time working out what Galadriel would have plausibly known and how she would have reacted to some of Tolkien's less-described events.

Fic I Spent the Least Time On: Any of my ficlets for the Three Sentence Ficathon, really, but probably either As Watchful As Any Living Thing (G, anthropomorphic Nargothrond, 0.1k) or As Thunder Echoing in the Deep Hills (G, Oromë, 0.1k).

Favourite Thing I Wrote: Not to keep going on about Across So Wide a Sea, but Across So Wide a Sea. I spent a lot of time digging into Galadriel's mind this year, and I'm proud of what I created. She's a hard character to capture (and I'd avoided writing her for a long time just because of that), but I feel like I truly understand her now. Who knew first person POV could be just the thing for getting into the heads of characters who intimidate you!

Favourite Thing(s) I Read:

the plain sight of our destiny is the cruellest thing of all by @hobbitwrangler (T, OCs, 4.3k): A fascinating, horrifying look at Umbar during Sauron's takeover, with a rich cast of characters and perfectly claustrophobic horror.

The Manner of His Return by @thelordofgifs (G, Faramir & Denethor, 1.6k): An aching depiction of Faramir's complicated relationship with Denethor.

call it peace by simaetha (G, Celebrimbor & Galadriel, Celebrimbor & Sauron, 3.6k): A hard-hitting timeloop fic about Celebrimbor's attempts to undo what he's started.

One day, but not today by @hobbitwrangler (G, Elros/Elros' wife, 3k): Do you want a thousand feelings about Elros and his unnamed wife and the inevitability of death? If so, read this.

with every seed you sow, let is wash away, wash away by @rarepairnation (G, Faramir & Éowyn & Legolas, 4k): The Faramir, Éowyn, and Legolas in Ithilien fic everyone needs, with a delicious chaser of the specter of Denethor and Minas Tirith hanging over Faramir.

Chrysalis by @cuarthol (G, Andreth & Bregor, 1.3k): The sweetest, tenderest depiction of Andreth and Bregor's relationship.

The Spinner by @searchingforserendipity25 (G, Galadriel, 1k): A proud, ambitious Galadriel who is just so determined to stick it to Fëanor. What more could you want.

A Sea Change by @sallysavestheday (G, Curufin & Finrod, 0.7k): A beautiful depiction of Curufin and Finrod's relationship, post-reembodiment, lyrical and full of forgiveness.

Writing Goals for 2025:

Finish some of the WIPs that have been wallowing in my WIPs folder for two or three years or more.

Really, just kick some WIPs out of the WIPs folder. Any WIPs.

Tagging everyone previously mentioned as well as @dreamingthroughthenoise @thescrapwitch @camille-lachenille if you're interested in doing this!

#tag games

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d3sertdream3r · 4 months ago

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I've been loving trop this season!! I am wondering how the whole SauronxGaladriel thing is going to play out though I'm nervous it won't be very satisfying with everything they've built up and all the marketing hype it's gotten. I'm worried they're baiting shippers to get more people to watch. Thoughts?

Oh boy, I have MANY thoughts!

I am absolutely DEVOURING this season, anon! The first episode in particular really blew me away. As a Saurondriel/Haladriel shipper, I thought all the direct parallels shown in Sauron and Galadriel’s journeys were PERFECT!

I was worried they were going to retcon Sauron’s genuine feelings of despair and questioning if he should “repent” or not due to the amount of hate and toxicity from the usual suspects on the internet. Instead they really leaned into it, and I loved seeing The Dark Lord having nightmares. It’s a side of him we’ve never seen explored before! And that Annatar reveal… holy moly! Celebrimbor and I were both like:

Galadriel has been breaking my heart in each episode. Elrond and Gil-Galad need to give my girl a break! Morfydd Clark’s acting is stellar. She is so heartbroken over not recognizing Sauron for who he truly was and even worse… catching feelings for him! She’s really going through it and it hurts, but it’s also brilliant on the writers’ part.

Everyone else’s acting and stories are great too. Arondir was a favorite of mine last season and continues to be this season. Disa is FANTASTIC and I love her and Durin so much there aren’t any words to describe it. Isildur and Estrid are cute and I’m interested to see how their story plays out. I hardcore ship Elendil and Miriel, and his daughter needs to take a seat before she helps Pharazon destroy their home! I know the story, but MAN was it killing me to see how Eärien is contributing to its downfall in this show (in a good way… I think having her be involved with the opposite side of her father makes for great drama).

As to the second part of your ask… I have been involved in many online fandoms for about 13 years now, and I gotta say that 98% of the time fans come up with way more interesting storylines than the creators of any show. A lot of the time they just don't deliver. I’ve been burned over and over again, so my bar is pretty low at this point.

They’ve done a fabulous job with the Saurondriel dynamic so far, and I’ve seen some really interesting fan theories about Galadriel briefly joining Sauron or being taken prisoner by him. As truly fascinating as that would be, I’m not holding my breath. I think it’ll be a rehash of season one’s ending with more violence since they have swords this time around. After that, I’m guessing they’ll focus on Sauron gaslighting, gatekeeping, and girlbossing his way to the throne of hell while Galadriel and company work together to stop him. They’ve hinted at Celeborn a bit, I’m sure we’ll see them reunited at some point.

I’m sorry if this isn’t very reassuring! I wish I could be more optimistic about Saurondriel in season 3, but I honestly don’t think Tolkien’s estate would go for Galadriel falling to the dark side in any capacity. Sauron taking her prisoner could happen, but I highly doubt it simply because as I said before, fans tend to have better ideas than a lot of creators in my opinion.

I could be completely wrong! I have just learned not to trust creators to handle things the BEST way, but that doesn't mean it won't be handled in a GOOD way. Hopefully that makes sense, lol. I think some people will be satisfied and some people won't, just like every other story. The shippy photoshoots and marketing have been delightful! I can't tell if they're baiting until I see the last episode. I think they were just having fun, but some comments from cast and creators would definitely seem a bit baity if the payoff is underwhelming. We'll see!

I really hope the season goes out with a bang and we all have something to love about it; especially Saurondriel shippers!

#I really love this show #I will forever be grateful it exists even if I end up disliking some of it #Having any kind of heartfelt dynamic between SAURON and GALADRIEL of all people was unthinkable in a live action story #I'll always be thankful they gave us that #the rings of power #trop #trop season 2 #the rings of power season 2 #saurondriel #haladriel #sauron #galadriel #rings of power #RoP

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symphonyofsilence · 4 months ago

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Thanks for answering my ask before. If you don't mind me asking (again), can I ask, what are your top 7 favorite media (can be books/ manga/ anime/movies/tv series) and your top 7 favorite ships (can be canon or non canon) from any media ? Why do you love them?

Sorry if you've answered this questions before......

My pleasure! Thank you for your thought-provoking ask, and sorry for taking so long to answer.

Oh... that's very hard to choose!

1. Tolkien legendarium

Well... I think this one's kinda self-explanatory. What can I say that hasn't been told in these 70 years better than I could.

2. MXTX's works especially Mo Dao Zu Shi/The Untamed and Heaven official's blessing but especially the former

God I love everything about how she writes! Especially the characters and the relationships between them! They all feel so real... so humane! And the relationships especially the platonic ones are so top-notch that like right now nobody can convince me that Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli are not my siblings! The characters and their relationships are so layered. And the subplots! THE SUBPLOTS! So beautiful! So haunting! They live in my head rent-free 24/7!

I love how the climaxes of the story, where everything starts to go down, they go down in such a spectacular way that you honestly can't find a way out of it even from a third-person perspective and they're so devastating they truly leave an impact on you to the point that it'ss hard to rawatch or reread them. I love how connected you feel to the characters that you feel the same love or sadness over their loss that the main character does. I love how things are sometimes so complicated that just like in the real world, there's no simple solution for them, and just like the real world, a magic solution doesn't descent from the skies, but the characters, true to who they are, in their own way try to deal with them the best they can (or not). (like how Wei Wuxian's and Jiang Cheng's love for each other would always be what separated them. And how there was never any way out for Jin Guangyao, ...)

Honestly. It's storytelling at its best!

And I think "The Untamed" is the peak of adaptation even if they had to face censorship from China's government, the adaptation is perfect! Some characters are even better in the show. I have such a deep emotional bond with it that I don't with the book itself.

3. Mike Flanagan's TV series especially Haunting of Hill House and Haunting of Bly Manor

Every single one of his TV shows is written and made in a way that every writer would wish to write! In his shows, Loss is not separable from love, heartbreak, and conflict and unintentional lasting harm is not separable from family, mortality from life, and price from success. They have a way of showing the ugly side, the usually ignored and always feared truths of the most beautiful concepts of life to you, and then show the beauty and grace that humans still can have in the face of it by bravely facing it and doing the best they can, and the solace they find in themselves and in each other. It always has such beauty and such solace and gentle sadness to them.

4. Avatar the Last Airbender

Exemplary worldbuilding, amazing character writings, extraordinary character developments, great relationships between characters, a masterful balance between lighthearted and serious and impactful and occasionally heartbreaking moments, perfect ways to address the many important issues it intended to address, marvelous finale, all in all the most flawless storytelling one can wish for.

5. Asoiaf

it's simultaneously the peak of High Fantasy and the peak of realism. With a few exceptions (Like Jeoffrey, Ramsay, Twyin, Maegor, Walder Frey, Roose Bolton, Gilly's father, and some other few I can't remember), people are not good or bad, people are people. they're multi-layered, they're complex, their characteristics feel real, their decisions make sense from their point of view, so does their mistakes, and they immediately, or sometimes in the long run, get the natural result of their actions. Their arcs and developments are amazing, their developments and redemptions feel earned. And the story! God! The story! What can I say about it! It's phenomenal! The pacing, the structures, the ups and downs, everything! And everything happens as the intertwined and natural result of every character's decision that is perfectly in line with the characters. Every character brings their own game to the table. Every character is unique and has a unique perspective. The dialogues are top-notch. The worldbuilding is extraordinary. The world feels so lived in. The concepts the story explores are explored thoroughly and in such great ways without being on the nose. It's really such a great work of fiction. I just wish GRRM WOULD JUST FINISH THIS GODDAMN BOOK!

And the TV series, the set design, the costume design, the music, the acting, the castings, the direction, the makeup, honestly everything except the writing of the last 2 seasons (and maybe more than two last seasons) was amazing.

6. Jujutsu Kaisen

The characters, heroes and villains and grey characters alike, the character dynamics, the character arcs, the plot, the themes, everything about it is absolutely perfect! The Hidden Inventory arc and Geto Suguru's character arc alone deserve all the awards! The power system is so intricate and interesting. Whether it's heartwarming, funny. or heartbreaking, at every turn the story makes you feel exactly what it wants you to feel. Every emotional peak of the story definitely strikes a chord without fail. It's so well-written in every aspect. The animation is out of this world and the music is great. Definitely one of the greatest out there. I could go on and on about it!

7. Bungo Stray Dogs

Each and every character is written masterfully. They're each unique and endearing. Every side character is as well-developed and as explored as the main one. And there's not a single character you can actually dislike till the end. Every antagonist (except Fyodor) that is introduced in one season is an ally in the next. (Or even before that) And explored more. And don't even get me started on the characters' dynamics! It's the heart of the show. And each and every one of them is perfect! The story and its ups and downs are so engaging and delightful, the pacing and the blend of comedy and drama are great. The way the characters outsmart each other is superb. The way every single character, friends, and rivals and previous enemies alike, with their abilities come together at the end and bring their own game to win against their common enemy is so beautiful and gratifying. The fights are always top-notch. The very interesting ways the lives and the books of the real authors are intertwined with the characters are nothing short of masterful. The way it explores its themes is very impactful. The character designs, the art style (in both the anime and the manga), and the animation (especially the fight scenes) are all perfect. I love everything about it!

the honorable mentions:

The Umbrella Academy

The Last of Us

The Sandman

I really enjoyed MCU while it lasted for a long time

Husky and his White Cat Shizun

Attack on Titan

The berserk

Good Omens

Fleabag

And here are the ships:

1. Satosugu (Gojo Satoru/Geto Suguru- Jujutsu Kaisen)

Such devotion, such longing, such yearning, such an everlasting bond despite all the years and everything in between, such a burning loyalty, such love, such grief!

What do you mean "My six eyes tell me that you're Geto Suguru but my soul knows otherwise"?! What do you mean that 11 years after their breakup, Gojo saw Kenjaku for one mili-second and immediately knew that it's not Geto despite all the evidence, and Geto, 11 years after their breakup, and one year after Gojo had literally killed him still upon hearing Gojo's voice rushed into action trying to choke Kenjaku- his own body- to save Gojo? Not because he was alive but because protecting Gojo was instinct to even his dead body! Something that he didn't do when Kenjaku threatened the two girls he raised for 10 years? What do you mean that Kenjaku, accessing Geto's memories, based his whole plan to capture the strongest based on the fact that Geto would be his weakness and Gojo would turn back and would be too shocked to do anything for a few seconds and his plan actually worked. What do you mean that Geto Suguru is actually Gojo's one weakness? What do you mean that Gojo smiled for a second when he thought Geto was back even though the prison realm was right in front of him? What do you mean that the whole Shibuya incident happened because Gojo couldn't burn Geto's dead body? What do you mean that he only lived one year after Geto and died on the same day as him on the most romantic day of the year because it was the day he chose for his fight to take back Geto's body and give it a proper burial? What do you mean Gojo chose to become a teacher because of Geto after he left, after "he couldn't reach him."? What do you mean that Gojo kept using "Boku" years after Geto left because Geto told him so? What do you mean that Geto wore a Gojo-kesa for ten years? What do you mean they're literally like "and everything I ever did was just another way, to scream your name, over and over and over again."? What do you mean "even so, Gojo's gaze, covered under the white bandages, had always, always been staring at the shape of Geto's soul"? What do you mean that when Gojo found Geto dying he chose to tell him that he sent his students because he still trusted him that he wouldn't do anything to really harm them? What do you mean that his last words made the dying, bleeding man blush and giggle despite him saying moments ago that in this world, he couldn't even smile? What do you mean that Gojo still fondly remembered him as "my best friend, my one and only."? What do you mean that Nanako and Mimiko knew how much Gojo meant to Geto that they wouldn't even direct their rage and hatred towards him even after he killed Geto? What do you mean that till his last breath and beyond, Gojo was thinking of Geto? What do you mean "Since all those years ago, I was left behind, I have to catch up now."? WHAT DO YOU MEAN "SATISFIED? MAYBE I WOULD HAVE BEEN SATISFIED IF YOU WERE AMONG THOSE PATTING MY BACK."

2. Soukoku (Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya- Bungo Stray Dogs)

The way Chuuya is the thing keeping Dazai alive and Dazai is the one that makes Chuuya feel the most humane. The way both of them can be just normal teenagers around each other. (Even way into their early twenties). The trust they have for each other! The way Dazai gets himself captured every time and even dies once fully believing that Chuuya will come (and succeed) to save him and Chuuya does, and every time Chuuya uses corruption he trusts Dazai with his life and Dazai never fails him, the way in the Dead Apple Chuuya knew Dazai so well and had such a faith/or maybe just hope in Dazai being alive that even knowing that he'd die using Corruption if Dazai were truly dead and weren't there to nullify his ability, still risked his life and used Corruption and single-handedly fought and destroyed a dragon made of all the abilities and saved Japan because of Dazai. The way Dazai risked the destruction of Yokohama and got a great portion of the Port Mafia killed to fight Verlaine just for Chuuya because Chuuya didn't want to go with Verlaine. The lengths they would go for each other!

The way with all Fyodor's genius, the one flaw in his master plan was that he didn't consider that there wouldn't be a moment when Chuuya wouldn't be on Dazai's side.

They work so well and so naturally together. They don't even need to communicate to know what to do it's like they just know and work in harmony together by instinct.

True soulmates!

They fit each other perfectly and are just what the other needs. They're both adrenaline junkies and in one way or another, adrenaline is what they provide for each other. Chuuya reminds Dazai why life is worth living. (Like 15-year-old Dazai before meeting Chuuya is like "Is there any value to this thing we call living? And 15-year-old Dazai barely a few days after meeting Chuuya says that he thinks living is worth trying), and Dazai firmly believes that Chuuya is human and makes him feel every human emotion possible. He makes him feel the moment so he doesn't keep troubling himself thinking about the past. They challenge each other, they support each other, they work perfectly together, they make each other feel alive.

3. Braime (Brienne of Tarth/Jaime Lannister- ASOIAF/GOT)

I love that they bring out the best in each other. I love the relationships where the ones involved are the best of themselves when they're together! I love it that when they're together, they both can the honorable knights they always dreamed to be. I love that with each other, they are for once, accepted, understood, believed, and believed in.

4. Xuexiao (Xiao Xingchen/Xue Yang- Mo Dao Zu Shi/The Untamed)

Oh, the Yi City arc was a novel of its own. One of the greatest arcs ever! The agent of chaos and a kicked abandoned kitten in the world that has seldom shown him any good, being helped and gently taken care of by someone he swore revenge on, someone who's captured him and insisted for justice to be brought upon him, and then in the middle of enacting his perfect revenge plan he realizes that he's actually enjoying this little life in this little corner of the world that they have together. Realizes that he's experiencing warmth, peace, normality, affection and a home for the first time and he doesn't want it to end. He wants to play house just a little longer. Only for it all to come crashing down in the worst way possible. Only for the man who showed him nothing but kindness, and wanted to do nothing but good, to kill himself when he realized he's made his hands bloodied and even made him kill his own best friend that he gave his eyes for. Only for Xue Yang to realize, after Xiao Xingchen's death, how much he has meant to him and how he can't go on without him. Without the only one who showed him kindness. And he has no one to blame for it but himself. He risked his life, and eventually died clutching to Daozhang's last candy, trying to bring back Xiao Xingchen, who was shattered by this horrible betrayal beyond repair.

And they were so genuinely happy together and enjoyed each other's company!

Xiao Xingchen laughed easily and Xue Yang was funny and enjoyed making him laugh. Xiao Xingchen wasn't good at telling stories but Xue Yang was and told A-qing stories when they gathered around fire at night. XXC gave them candies because XY said he loves candies. XY would voluntarily go grocery shopping, he'd volunteer to go shopping for clothes with A-qing, he'd make her bunny-like slices of apple and give her advice against bullies! They were really like a little happy family in that coffin house.

But the tragedy of it all was so epic and so twistedly beautiful you can't help but love it!

It's a twisted found family, it's enemies to friends but not really, it's enemies to lovers but with a twist (they're still enemies), it's got fluff but makes it dark, it's got angst, it's got betrayal, it's got self-made tragedies!

It's wretchedly beautiful and perfect in every way!

5. 3zun but especially Xiyao (Nie Mingjue/Lan Xichen/Jin Guangyao- Mo Dao Zu Shi/The Untamed)

This absolute trainwreck <3 It's so horrible I can't help but love it! The gothic horror of Nieyao, the being stuck in life and literally in death in one coffin, the way they'd never meet each other at one point in the middle because everything about them is polar opposites (as MXTx said, Nie Mingjue was written to contradict JGY in every sense) yet NMJ is so obsessed with JGY and they are stuck together!

The way NMJ was the first one (in the show) and or the second one (in the books) to respect JGY for his many capabilities and give him the status he deserves and JGY felt indebted to him for it but eventually JGY killed NMJ after NMJ's many attempts at his life and NMJ brought JGY's downfall and didn't leave him be even after his death and they'll be stuck in one coffin fighting each other for hundreds of years and won't ever find peace or get back to the cycle of reincarnation.

The way NMJ only saw the bad in JGY and LXC only saw the good.

The way JGY risked everything by saving LXC for no reason other than his kind heart, the way LXC always saw the best of him and was so understanding and considerate towards him. The way he always saw him and took his situation into account. He was the one who noticed others' behavior towards Meng Yao when he was serving them tea and shamed others by showing him respect and gratitude, he was the one who knew about his home situation in Jinlintai and explained it to NMJ and asked him to act more considerate towards him.

The way he always trusted him so much. in his capabilities, in his goodness, in his words, in whatever he did. Like even if he kept stepping up to protect him, the moment JGY indicated that he's got this handled, he'd step back and let him handle it. He said that it's not like he didn't know that JGY was doing fishy things all these years, but that he believed that he had good reasons for doing them.

The way they not only respected and admired and loved each other so much, but they really enjoyed each other's company and they kept seeking it. They used any chance to spend time together. They gossiped about Wangxian's love life!

But all this wasn't enough in the end. And LXC by mistake killed JGY but was still willing to stay and die with him in the end. And yet JGY even then couldn't Let that happen and used his last ounce of strength to push him away. And LXC was never the same person again.

And god! "Of all the evil in the world, what haven't I done?! But I've never even thought of harming you!"

The way this triad ended up ending each other!

6. Qijiu (Yue Qingyuan/ Shen Jiu- Scum villain's self-saving system)

Ah, the curse of Yue Qingyuan always being too late to save Shen Jiu. how he only ever wanted to save him and was never able to. How he spent his life trying to make up for it but even that wasn't enough and he was bound to lose him every time. How once Shen Jiu said that he'd give YQY all his loyalty and even after many future grievances he never stopped being loyal and always tried to save him. Even in his last days even with everything that LBH had done to him, he used the one chance he had to talk to YQY to break his heart so he wouldn't try to save him and endanger himself, but he didn't succeed and died knowing that YQY had died trying to save him. But in both the worlds he died without knowing why YQY never came back for him. all this tragedy! the way at the end of SVSSS everyone's got their happy ending except YQY and SJ. The way it's one tragedy if YQY never knows that Xiao Jiu is dead and one even worse tragedy if he finds out. There's no happy ending for them in any universe, but the love was and will always be there.

7. The ineffable husbands (Crowley/Aziraphale- Good Omens)

They are every Hozier song!

They've been together and loved each other since before the world was made. They're both too inquisitive and strong-willed to have a place among angels and or demons. They have a side of their own. Their bond prevented armageddon. They're so wholesome! So fit for each other! So... ineffable!

Honorable mentions:

Dani ClaitonXJamie Taylor (The Haunting of the Bly Manor)

GutsXGriffith (Berserk)

YumiHisu (Ymir/Historia Reiss- Attack on Titan)

Fengqing (Feng Xin/Mu Qing- Heaven Official's Blessing)

Beefleaf (He Xuan/Shi Qingxuan- Heaven Official's blessing)

Wanda/vision (Marvel)

Russingon (Maedhros/Fingon- Tolkien legendarium)

Nerdanel/Fëanor (Tolkien legendarium)

Ranwan (Mo Ran/Chu Wanning- Husky and his white cat Shizun)

Light/L (Death Note)

Hannigram (Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham- Hannibal)

Obanai/Mitsuri (Demon slayer)

Rapunzel/Eugene (Tangled)

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fancyfeathers · 7 months ago

Note

I am very invested in your William and author reader fanfic, I must say it is very interesting. Would it be alright if I trouble you a little?

May you write a chapter where reader has gone missing right, and reader does actually outsmart William for the very first time? to the point where HE'S the one crawling back?? and is amazed? and begging her to come back? and she's not having it.

If it is too much, you may ignore this>

Thank you. Love you sm!!!

YES!!! Omg yes, I already started thinking about this with the idea of her being in a writer’s club or friends with other authors like J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis who would help each other with their works and what not.

So like her friends who heard about her disappearance and after writing mysteries and murders alongside her, they are completely ready to find her.

And Then There Were None (Yandere William James Moriarty /w Author Darling Masterlist)

No one would be able to tell anything was wrong at first glance when they saw William James Moriarty, to anyone outside they would see nothing wrong, to anyone besides Louis and Albert he would still behaving as normal…

But his brothers, William is on edge, but in the best way possible, like when Sherlock is at his heels and all because his darling beat him at his own game, truly remarkable. He thought that she would only be off for a week or two but over a month has passed and every time he thought he found something the trail ran cold. Then the cherry on top of it all was every hint he found that ran cold related back to her books, like she was mocking him and what he had done…

And it was thrilling.

Then one evening after William had returned home from teaching at the college, Louis had also returned home from the market and fight as he was going to unpack-

A letter fell from the basket, and it was addressed to a Professor William James Moriarty, the name inked in red pen.

Louis handed the letter off to William when he was speaking to Albert in the drawing room over tea, telling him it was in the basket but he had never knew it was there, so someone must have slipped it in. William opened the letter as he sat up straight in his chair…

“I'm where the drama unfolds with arias grand,

Where masks may conceal a mysterious hand.

Within these walls, stories old and new,

Echo in halls with a theatrical view.

Where am I found? Seek the stage's grand spree,

Where performers enchant with operatic glee.”

Meet us at the answer at 8:00 PM tomorrow night, show them the letter and they will let you in. Bring your brothers, or leave them, I really do not care.

The letter was not signed, but the riddle was written in the same red ink, slightly smeared. The answer was obvious, an opera house, the question was who sent this and why? It was clear it was connected to his darling, so hopefully this was not a trail that goes cold.

So William follows the instructions hoping alone since this was obviously going to be a passive encounter since it was in public, and upon arriving to the theater and seeing all the members of the audience flocking inside, the sender was among the crowd.

While the other patrons showed their tickets to the staff at the door, he showed the letter and a small smile comes across the man’s face as he tells William to go to box five and that they were already waiting for them. Then as William made his way to the box and pushes open the door to see two individuals, a gentlemen reading a newspaper and William could tell was years old, and then sitting next to the man was her, his darling. Then as the door shuts behind the professor, the one reading the paper speaks up without looking at him.

“A counterweight supporting an opera house's chandelier fell through the roof and crashed into the audience, injuring several people and killing one. Imagine if it was the actual chandelier instead, what would have happened? What do you think, Professor Moriarty?”

“It would have resulted in a fire most likely, and due to the unique design of the chandelier more people would have gotten injured and certainly more than one would have died-“

“Hm, I thought so as well, good to know what I wrote in my book then was accurate.”

William glances at his darling who is just sitting there, not looking or speaking to him. The other man laughs at this and sets his paper down to look at the professor, a gleeful smile across his face.

“She almost refused to come, but we need to have closure on this whole affair so we can move on with our lives. A shame though, I quite enjoyed tracking her down with the others, it was like a competition to figure out what happened to her and who did it, and a bonus to beat the culprit at their own game, and it seems like I was the one to win, Professor William.”

William’s eyes drifted to where his darling sat in the box, her eyes still not going to meet the man who was publicly called her husband but who was in reality her worst nightmare.

“And if I may ask, how do you two know each other?”

“At an university funny enough, we were both invited to give lectures on our shared field of expertise, we became friends almost immediately and exchanged letter for a number of years when I lived in France, along with meeting up with a few of our colleagues to review our work-.”

“So you are an author as well, I do not think I have read any of your works.”

“Hm, that is a shame seeing as this meeting point revolved around my masterpiece, but I suppose you would like to cut to the chase.”

“Yes, as fun as this has been, I would rather her return-“

“Return with you? But that would mean you won, but you clearly did not, you lost. I invited you here so we can put this behind us.”

The man cut him off with a smile as if nothing was wrong, and it sent an almost thrilling shiver down William’s spine. He was about to reply to the man but then-

“Could you please leave William and I alone?”

She spoken up for the first time during this entire meeting, her eyes now snapping to glance at William for the briefest moments. The man gunned in response to her, standing up from his chair to leave the box, but as he passed William, he grabbed his shoulder-

“You may know how to murder people but rest assured so do I, after all both her and I write about it for a living. So try anything and I promise one of your friends will not be alive in the morning.”

The man’s cheerful tone had all but faded away and William hummed in acknowledgment to the threat right as he slipped out of the opera box, leaving William and his darling.

“Do not worry, he is bluffing, he does not have the heart to kill and nor do I.”

“Dearest…”

“I… I wanted to say goodbye, I figured it would be to cruel not to even after all the times you have done to me.”

“And how long do you think you can run?”

“Longer and faster than you can, and that became clear in my absence, you could not find me, so I think I will be fine. But I suppose if you find me again it is fair game, so… hm, what was that thing you told Mr. Holmes on the train with Louis and I that one time…”

She hums for a moment as she stands up from her seat, adjusting the gloves she wore as she prepared to leave. She stand before the Lord of Crime, looking him dead in the eye.

“Catch me if you can, Professor Moriarty.”

With that, she walked passed him, leaving the box and him alone as a smile came across his face…

“Oh you smart little thing…”

#william moriarty x reader #moriarty the patriot x reader #yuukoku no moriarty x reader #yuukoku no moriarty #william james moriarty x reader #yandere william james moriarty #yandere moriarty the patriot #yandere yuukoku no moriarty

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mask131 · 7 months ago

Text

So you want to know about Oz! (3)

Last time, we left on our sick and despaired mister Baum, as he realized he could never kill the child of his mind and despite his best efforts, the Oz fan would NEVER LET GO.

So, he decided "What the hell... If they want Oz books, they'll get Oz books!". And so he wrote more, and more, and more Oz books. At least, Baum understood that, in effect, people literaly did not care about any continuity. They were just interested in A) seeing old characters return and B) having more inventions and new lands thrown at them. They were all about that nostalgia and worldbuilding, without any care in the world for any cohesiveness or continuity error. So Baum gleefully invented and added as much as he could and went full whimsical-worldbuilding in what is truly a chaos to piece together when you try to look at Oz as a cohesive fantasy.

However that's the thing with Oz: it is not a cohesive fantasy series. The first two novels were not meant to be serialized or have sequels, as such, when he started doing them, Baum was forced to change things. It is as early as the fourth book, "Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz", which I like to call "BIG RETCON - the book" because it was Baum's first time at doing a huge lore retcon conflicting what was said in earlier books. Many people like to oppose in terms of worldbuilding Tolkien and C. S. Lewis - but I do believe Tolkien's archnemesis would be L. Frank Baum, with C.S. Lewis standing in the middle of the spectrum. Baum was just as prolific in content and enormous in scope as Tolkien when it came to worldbuilding... but when you put all things side by side it literaly makes no sense unless you look at the outside reasons that forced Baum to change his lore every three books or so. You know, it was a different time, fictional lore wasn't even a thing...

From six Oz books we went up to FOURTEEN Oz books in total. The man literaly kept writing them until his death... The last of the Oz books Baum wrote was "Glinda of Oz", published in 1920. L. Frank Baum died in 1919 from a stroke - he had finished the last Oz book, but it was only published posthumously... Yes, we can say the power of Oz was so strong it survived Baum...

It actually DID survive though... In a way you might not expect.

There are many, many ways to "cut" the Oz book series. There is the "original trilogy". There is the "original six books". You can go with "the fourteen books Baum wrote". But for decades the dominating division went by an official title, used by both publishers and fan-circles around the USA... The Famous Forty.

Yes, you heard it right... Famous FORTY.

"But... but why are there FORTY Oz books if Baum only wrote FOURTEEN? It's a mistake in spelling right?"

No. There are FORTY Oz books that are considered "official" (I am not even getting in the non-official ones) by Oz canon. Well, only if you are not a purist who considers that only the books Baum wrote are Oz-canon and the rest are just fan-sequels (I am such a purist). It doesn't help that so far ONLY the books L. Frank Baum wrote are in public domain, the others are still under copyright law.

And why did we go from fourteen to fourty? Why... For money of course! It has always been the reason why Oz went beyond its original "stand-alone novel format". "Money makes the world go round" as the song says...

When Baum died, his publishers of the time, Reilly & Lee, started SWEATING. Because the Oz series was still their best-seller, their cash-cow, their sacred little idol... They couldn't JUST stop it there! They needed to have the series continue... And you know what they say in the editing world! "If you author dies... JUST REPLACE HIM!"

The idea of replacing Baum as the author of the Oz novel actually worked like a charm thanks to something Baum himself introduced... Baum, as the series was serialized, inserted himself as a character of Oz. More precisely he refused to present himself as an author or inventor, and when dealing with fan mail (literal mail, letters) or writing his prefaces, he presented hmself as "The Royal Historian of Oz". It was part of the fun game he had with children: he pretended the Oz novels were all official chronicles of what actually happened in Oz, and that it was his job to write them down. (That's also why he hoped the sixth book great finale of "Oz is cut off from the rest of the world" would work at killing the series, because "Oh well, I'm stuck in the USA, too bad I can't get in Oz anymore to write my... What? What did you say? THEY SEND RADIO BROADCASTS NOW?")

When it came time to replace Baum, the editors just went "Hey, so, a new Royal Historian was hired by the Crown of Oz! Don't worry, the chronicles of what is going on in this new land are still around!". That's how Ruth Plumly Thompson came in the picture.

Now, I am not as knowledgeable on the other "Oz Royal Historians" as Baum. As I said, I am kind of a Baum purist. But here's some of the few things I know...

Ruth Plumly Thompson, the second "official Historian of Oz" by the editors' system was a huge fan of Baum's work, and so she jumped on the occasion to write more Oz books. (There were even rumors at some point that Thompson was Baum's niece and thus that the Oz books was just a family business). The Oz books were her main source of income, and so she worked VERY hard at doing Oz chronicles: she published one book each year.

Ruth Plumly Thompson's way of doing Oz was VERY different from Baum. I can't list all of the differences, but most notably Thompson' stories were closer to the traditional European fairytales, while Baum had always tried to subvert traditional fairytale tropes or avoid fairytale cliches at the time to truly do something new and fresh (him having a GOOD WITCH in the first Oz novel was a HUGE thing in the 1900s America where all witches were by default evil). Thompson also favored male protagonists (Baum always was fonder of female protagonists for Oz), and she introduced a lot of romances and love stories - something Baum was STRONGLY against, because in his aesthetic children did not care about romance and romantic love had nothing to do in youth literature.

Thompson wrote 21 OZ BOOKS, yes, 21, from 1921 to 1976. Well, to be exact, she wrote 19 books in one swift series from 1921 to 1939, then took a long Oz pause, and wrote two additional Oz books in the 70s, but these two books are not considered part of the "Famous Forty". The last of these two was not even an Oz book originally but rewritten to fit an Oz novel - "The Enchanted Island of Oz", published the year of Thompson's death. [This tactic of taking a standalone fantasy novel for children, and reinventing it as an Oz book, had been used by Baum himself prior. His tenth Oz book, "Rinkitink in Oz", was originally its own thing, before he rewrote it as part of the Oz series, explaining why Oz only appears in the final chapters of this novel].

While most of these novels are just as forgotten, if not more obscure, than the many other Oz books Baum wrote, there is one element that tends to regularly pop up in Oz adaptations. Have you never wondered why the Good Witch of the North is sometimes called "Tattypoo"? (A name I personally HATE). The name appears for example in "The Muppets' Wizard of Oz", despite Baum never giving any name to the Witch of the North. Well, this was a Thompson invention! She was the one who named the Witch Tattypoo in her book "The Giant Horse of Oz", where she worked at giving a backstory to this character... a VERY divise backstory among Oz fans for many, many reasons too long to explain here.

Now, I said famous FORTY, and yet with Thompson's books added we only have 33 books.... What's the rest?

Three Oz books, "The Wonder City of Oz", "The Scalawagons of Oz" and "Lucky Bucky in Oz", were published in the early 1940s by John R. Neill, considered the third "Royal Historian of Oz". What is very interestng is that John R. Neill had worked on the Oz series for a very long time... since the very early Oz books in fact.

Everybody remembers the original illustrations for "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz" - these were done by an artist named W. W. Denslow. It was the art where Dorothy is this chubby little brunette girl. Well, you might be surprised to learn Denslow only worked on this Oz novel. When Baum wrote the sequel, "The Marvelous Land of Oz", Denslow did not return. Rather John R. Neill entered the picture. He would become the "official" artist of Oz, illustrating not only all of the Baum books (except the first one), but also all of the Thompson books. And while he originally tried to match Denslow's style to make a smooth transition for the child audience, he quickly grew his own style - he notably was the one who brought to us a tall, thin, blond and fashionable Dorothy that is a far cry from the more "proper farm girl" Dorothy of Denslow. In fact, Neill's work as an artist does show in the way he writes Oz, as he has very cartoony ideas and works heavily with the visuals, so that the text can allow for cool-looking illustrations.

Unfortunately, the Oz curse strikes again: Neill died in 1943, the very year following the publication of his third Oz book. There was a fourth Oz books in the plan, that he had written the manuscript of right before his death: "The Runaway in Oz". However, Reilly & Lee refused to publish the unfinished work... We would have to wait until 1995 for this book to finally see the light of day: kept by Neill's widow, it was finally published by the house Books of Wonders, in a format edited and illustrated by Eric Shanower (another prominent Oz artist which we will have to talk about later).

Outside of these three main Historians, three more were recognized by the editors. Jack Snow, who in the late 40s published two "official" Oz books, "The Magical Mimics in Oz" and "The Shaggy Man of Oz". He also created an "official guide" called "Who's Who in Oz", but which was noted to have some inconsistencies with the books (which is expected given the Oz series is INCONSISTENCY - THE SERIES). There are a lot of rumors around of a third, unpublished Oz book by Snow called "Over the Rainbow to Oz", but nothing allows us to confirm the existence of such a book.

Rachel R. Cosgrove published one "official" Oz book in 1951, "The Hidden Valley of Oz". She had prepared in 1954 a second Oz book, called "The Wicked Witch of Oz", but Reilly & Lee refused to have it publish because, at the time, "Oz books didn't sell" (CRAZY, right? Now, in the mid-50s, Oz books didn't sell anymore?). She still managed to have it published in the 1990s, by The International Wizard of Oz Club (another beast we'll have to talk about).

Finally, the last official "Royal Historian of Oz" was Eloise Jarvis McGraw, but she wrote her only official Oz book in collaboration with Lauren Lynn McGraw, her daughter. Their work was "Merry Go Round in Oz". They created another Oz novel, "The Forbidden Fountain in Oz", but while it was published it was not included in the "canon" Famous Forty, and in 2000 Eloise Jarvis McGraw published a third Oz novel alone, "The Rundelstone of Oz".

And thus you have it! The Famous Forty. The Forty books Reilly & Lee, the official publishers of the Oz books, deemed, edited and sold as the "canon" Oz books.

... But of course, this being Oz, and the Oz books entering public domain in the 50s, 60s and onward, the Famous Forty as far from the only Oz books to exist. Oh no...

On one side, you have The International Wizard of Oz Club, which I talked about previously. From the 50s onward they worked as the second main publishers of Oz books, since Reilly & Lee had stopped doing Oz novels on the accounts that "it doesn't sell anymore". It was the Club that published the last two Oz novels of Thompson, and the fourth unpublished novel of Neill, and the rejected novel of Cosgrove, and the second book of the McGraw duo, and many others! They published 8 Oz works in total from 1958 (Jack Snow's short story "A Murder in Oz") to 2006 (Gina Wickwar's Toto in Oz).

To that you can add three Oz novels that were recognized as "official" by the Baum Family Trust. Two were written by William Stout, "The Emerald Wand of Oz" (2005) and "Trouble Under Oz" (2006) ; the last was by Kim McFarland, "Sky Pirates over Oz" (2014)

And I am not even talking about the many books written by several descendants of L. Frank Baum! Two of Baum's sons attempted doing Oz books: Frank Joslyn Baum, the eldest ("The Laughing Dragon of Oz", 1934) and Kenneth Cage Baum, the youngest ("The Dinamonster of Oz", written in 1941 but only published in 1991). However the most prolific Baum-related author is without a doubt Roger S. Baum. Great-grandson of the original author, he wrote FOURTEEN Oz books, yes as much as his great-grandpa, starting with "Dorothy of Oz" in 1989, and ending with "The Oz Enigma" in 2013.

And ALL OF THAT is not even accounting for all the non-official Oz authors and their many, MANY books... Go check the Wikipedia pages for the list of Oz books, or the many pages of the Oz Wiki, you will be impressed.

I wasn't lying when I was saying there were Oz bookS in plural...

#oz #land of oz #l. frank baum #the famous forty #oz books #the wizard of oz #so you want to know about oz #ruth plumly thompson #john r. neill #royal historians of oz #jack snow #and there's many more but i am not going to tag them all #oz authors

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pursuitseternal · 7 months ago

Text

“The Best Gift of Them All:” Chapter 5–The Gift of Peace (Bind yourself to me, Haladriel Week, Bind yourself to me)

Saurondriel (Annatar x Galadriel) | E | 2.7 K

Summary: Lord Annatar can wait no longer for Galadriel to ask him for the first of her three gifts. Impatient, he comes to her to give her what she truly seeks— peace, for what else is peace but the result of submission…

CW: BDSM (magical), degradation, humiliation, infidelity, no feelings just fucking, edging/ orgasm control

Ao3 link | Tolkien works Masterlist

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The gift of peace/submission

Restless, Galadriel tossed and turned, the sheets of her bed tangled around her legs even as she floated in and out of sleep. Night was quiet, alone, without even the company of Celeborn, his body heat, the subtle heavy breathing of his peaceful slumber. A week since his return, and he had not even suggested coming to her at night. It would have bothered her, if it hadn’t grown to be the constant custom between them. She had not cared, the dark may have grown lonely, but it was also private. It was also hers and hers alone.

Tonight, however, she slept, hot and disturbed. Her sleep, uneasy, her body, wet and hot as memories of Annatar filled her dreams. She could hear his silken voice, smell that smoky scent, she could even feel the way his body pressed against hers, searingly hotter than anyone else.

It was as if her darkness was no longer lonely…

“Not when you have me, Lavanen…”

Eyes flashed open, the sensation of a mouth at her throat, of lips caressing the secret, sweet spot beneath her ear. The sharp edge of enamel ran over her pulsing veins, the drag of his teeth on her skin rousing her body, more than just to waking.

“It would be so easy, Galadriel, to pierce through this thin veil of your skin, to bruise you or bite you, mark you as mine.” Annatar’s voice dripped with the same feral arrogance in her mind. “Can’t you imagine, having to explain to your poor husband how some creature crawled into your bed and ravaged your body?” His hand gripped around her chin, turning her head slowly, making her wide, flaming eyes meet that conceited stare. “Because, I am more than pleased to imagine it,” he said aloud, the fullness of his lips mesmerizing as she watched him speak in the starlight

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed, every nerve in her body on fire as she felt nothing but his skin pressing against her own beneath her sheets. “What happened to your willingness to let me choose the gifts I desire from you?”

“You take too long, pet, it’s really your fault I am here. I have been more than generous with you,” he sneered, bearing his teeth, his body shifting over hers. Until she felt that thick, hard length of his cock prodding into the supple flesh of her belly. “Time to name your gift,” he breathed, the bright strands of his hair falling to tickle across her shoulders.

She placed a hand on the crest of his shoulder, pushing him to keep some distance, even as she shifted her hips to have that smooth, hard manhood urge over her mound. Keeping her voice near-inaudible, “I thought you were to ensure my peace, ensuring Celeborn was sent far away…”

“All in good time,” he crooned, “but what fun would it be without a little thrill, a little risk to heighten the mood?”

“I should have known you would crawl back under my nose again,” she hissed with a raise of her brow. “You crave the power you have over me…”

“And you crave those stolen moments when I exert it, lavanen. Lavishing you with all my attention, even if it is not wholly wanted. Certainly preferable to being ignored by that male who would not know what to do with these…” A flash of a smirk was her only warning before he angled his head, latching his lips on the pink peak of her breast, sucking so hard she nearly screamed, his hands pressing and massaging them as they filled the palms of his hands. “Nor would he know his way around this…” Instantly two fingers delved into her folds, that commanding press and stroke of his thumb over her clit, sending a gush of arousal to coat his hand. A soft, staccato chuckle sounded from his throat. “See, lavanen? No one could possibly draw such ecstacy from you as I.”

“No one,” she breathed, a slight raise of her hips to let him stroke harder, deeper to ease her immediate ache. Choking, she felt that wave of heat possessing her body, every muscle of her legs, her belly, beginning to clench as she drew near her climax. And ever his eyes watched from above, his tongue licking his impatient lips with each glance she made to meet that hungry stare.

But even as he drove her to the very edge of her climax, he pulled away. His teeth flashed a wicked smile as her eyes opened wide, furious rage burning back at him. He sighed in pleasure at her wrath, easing himself to his knees and peering down from between her thighs. The hot touch of his hands ran back and forth over them, savoring how they trembled even as her near-orgasm faded. “As pretty as your admission is, it isn’t sufficient to earn anything from me yet,” his voice dripped with his own desire. His cock pulsed, twitching as she tried to clench her thighs for any sort of relief. But his hands only stayed her by the knees, prying them open with little effort until they dropped to the bed. “Not until you tell me your request of me… what is your first gift, pet?”

“Peace,” she panted, trying now to reach her hands to chase her pleasure. “Peace, Annatar, just give me what I seek,” her voice was barely more than a snarl, his hands trapping hers so quickly, her breath caught. Hands he so effortlessly pinned to her own chest, trapped beneath his single palm, fingers stayed in the valley between her breasts.

“Peace, you want?” He smirked, running his free hand through the errant strands of her hair that sullied her pale, perfect neck. “I’m afraid I cannot grant that to you, but…” he closed his fist in the space between them. A sting of magic filled the air, brief and subtle, but enough to run like pin pricks over her skin. “I can give you the gift of… submission. A lesson you so grievously deserve by now,” he rasped, his voice losing that silken edge to drop into barely more than a growl. Fingers unfurled, a thin, golden chain pooled in the palm of his hand.

“What is that?” she breathed, squirming a bit even as his hand pushed her harder into the bed beneath him.

“There is no true peace in this world, other than to learn to submit yourself to the will of another…” His eyes flashed in the starlight. “…to my will.” He let the chain slip from his hold, soft little chinks filling the soft silence of night. “That is how you will truly know peace, Galadriel.”

She stilled as he purred her name. The slightest smile curled his lips as he said it. As if he truly enjoyed, savored her very name alone.

“Now, there’s a pleasing sight,” that grin widened as her muscles relaxed under his touch. His hand released hers, drawing himself away from her body. Head nodding to the bedside, his pale hair flicked with the motion. “Kneel for me, Galadriel,” he commanded, rasping and honeyed all at once.

She hesitated, resistance filling her heart in equal measure to the wave of desire that bloomed as he ordered her from her own bed. One of his hands clasped around her ankle, the gentle stroke of his thumb on the tender flesh of its inside sending tingles down her spine. Then, he flung it around him, twisting her with force to almost fly off her mattress.

“I said… kneel,” he growled, his body stalking closer, so close she could feel its heat radiating into her.

“And if I should refuse?” she snipped in reply, tossing her hair back to scathe him with her glare.

But his brow merely raised in a cool smirk, daring her to do so. “Then you shall receive nothing. If that is what you truly desire….” His eyes flashed as he gave her that roguish grin. “Nothing and you’ll like it…”

“No,” she breathed, her body betraying any hesitant fragment that remained, slipping from her sheets so quickly, the wooden floorboards almost skinned her knees.

One large hand pushed against the top of her shoulder, sinking her ass cheeks to rest on her heels, kneeling beside her own bed. In her own room. Kneeling to him. He grinned down at her, moving her arms behind her back. The soft slinking of metal pierced the nighttime quiet, the light, elegant chains worming its way around her body, only by magic. By power.

“There now,” he breathed, running a hand in her hair, softly at first, until he gripped hard into it, turning her roughly to look up at him. “True peace comes when you submit yourself to a power greater than you, and when you submit yourself so beautifully… so… willingly.” The hold on her head eased, turning into soft caresses that tickled down one cheek to rest beneath her chin. Keeping her gaze fixed on him above her. “Are you at last willing to receive my gift, lavanen?”

She swallowed loudly, unable to force a breath from her lungs even as the chain began to tighten, gradually, unhurriedly. So soft of a metal, such fine links, they almost crept like fabric over her skin. But they stung with the numbing tingle of magic and power. Not unlike the rings he had crafted and served to the dwarf lords. Now, the creation of his power curled around her figure, capturing her and restraining her. And she, Eru forgive her, she felt excited by it. Heart racing like in the battles she once fought, thrill and fear and anticipation, the heady mix that flowed in her veins as he made her face him.

“Now, open wide, sweet little She-elf, and I promise you’ll find more than peace once I’m through with you.”

She shuddered, cold on her skin, but so, so hot everywhere below her navel. But she smirked up at him, pressing her lips firmly together. “Only if you say please…” she hushed between locked teeth and barely-parted lips.

His brow quirked, eyes growing dark as he flashed her a wicked smirk. A deep, loud breath, followed by a low-throated sigh, a groan more like. “Please,” he replied through his own grit teeth.

Instantly, her mouth went slack, opening slowly in his palm, pink tongue licking her full, upper lip with deliberate care.

Salty, velvety, hard. She missed him. Missed his cock. How it filled her whole mouth, how it tickled the back of her mouth. He thrust into her open and supple mouth, his fingers clawing hard into her hair, keeping her from pulling too far from him. She swallowed around him, sputtering, eyes watering… he was relentless. But she would never let him see the edge of pain he caused in her.

He slowed himself, easing his taking of her until she could breathe, until she could swallow and relax around him.

“Mmm, my lady,” he crooned, his hot, silken voice a rumble from his belly before her face, “the more you submit, the more peace you’ll find, you know.”

Suddenly, the chains moved, easing in places, slinking tighter in others, compelling her to rise to her feet. Forcing her to lay belly first across the foot of her bed. The gold seared ever so slightly, a tickle on her skin as they pulled her legs apart, bending her knees to stick the swell of her ass higher into the air.

Holding her breath, she could have anticipated what was next. If only she could, give him as good as he concocted for her. To make him bend before her in supplication. She pulled on her strength, resisting the magic of the chains, fueled by her desire to bring him to heel. They bend, they tug hard into her skin as she pushes up from the bed.

But Annatar crept behind her in seconds, his hand landing on the right curve of her cheek with a shaking slap.

Gasping, Galadriel let out a piercing shriek into the bedding. Almost forgetting her husband slept soundly down the hall. The chains instantly tightened back into the place. But not before his hand gave an equal smack on the other side of her rear.

“Hush, now,” he purred, “let me tend to your every aching need. You need only to relax, to savour the peace I will give you…”

He slipped two fingers into her folds, already so slick for him. “That’s a good little She-elf…” he praised her, voice dripping with honey, sounding almost slick as the noises his fingers made as he delved constantly into her. “Not so hard, is it, to follow your desires, to give in to them, to give in to me…”

She moaned into the bed, fearing if she turned her head at all, she would lose all control, all her noises pulled from her throat echoing to wake her husband. “No, not hard…” she cried into her bedding. “But with how long you’re taking, I wonder, are you still hard?”

Something prodded against her ass, thick and blunt and hard and wet. He swallowed a groan, leaning over her body to put his cry of pleasure right in her ear, his cock burying deep inside her with one, swift thrust. “Hard enough to make you submit, levanen,” he rasped right into the pointed tip of her ear.

She squirmed at the delicious intrusion, bucking under the overwhelming pressure. Her eyes watered with relief, that beautiful stretching of her insides she dreamed about in the darkness finally realized one more time. Peace did wash over her, the more she submitted with each thrust he made, the more peace seemed to worm its way into her soul, binding there to her very being.

Galadriel sighed, from pleasure, from pain, and from the knowledge that in this moment, she did not need to think or question or command.

“That’s it,” he purred above her, the warmth of his touch wandering over where the chains bit into her skin the hardest. His fingers, so skilled at hammer and fire stoked the pleasure from the pink, angry lines her bindings made in her flesh. “Find that peaceful submission and bind it in your very being,” his voice sounded gruff from his own exertion.

Heat raged through her, hotter than the fires of those infernal forges he slaved over. Perhaps it was his own passion, his magic laced in her blood as their bodies joined. “That’s it…” his voice a rasping growl now. “Show me how badly you long for peace, not for Arda, but for you.”

A cry burst from her lips, her frame quaked beneath him as that fire of pleasure turned to molten earth. Glowing and searing, her orgasm tore through her, racing down every nerve and soaking her thighs as she came. He laughed behind her, breathless and dark as his voice rumbled in that wiry elven frame. A voice that did not match the form. “Find your peace, lavanen, find it only with me, in what I can offer you.”

Thrusts hitched as he felt her relax, her body relaxed, unburdened by cares or the trials of her kind. A slight smile turned at her perfect pink lips. And Annatar shuddered in his own pleasure. A few hard snaps of his hips against her rear, and it was finished. He sniffed, running his hand through the unruly stands of his long, yellow hair. “There, your gift, my lady. Find your peace, and know that your submission is cherished in exchange.”

He withdrew, leaving her bent and spent on her own bed. That tingle of his power disappeared, it seemed, yet her chains remained.

“No…” Galadriel hissed, panic replacing that soothing warmth of post-coital bliss he had given her. She fought her chains, yet they would not budge. “Peace, Annatar,” she panted, calling quietly after him. “You leave me thus, and there will be no peace for me or you.”

His laugh tickled her ears, “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Instantly the chains loosened and slunk powerless to the floor. “There is too much work to be done to be troubled.” His presence swirled around her naked form one more time before she felt him truly depart. “Until your penultimate gift, my lady.”

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