#which explains her fascination with RotS in particular

[the-far-bright-center]

‘Revenge of the Sith may be the greatest work of art in our lifetimes...’

(an excerpt from a long-deleted blog post, archived here)

“Revenge of the Sith is still (and probably always will be) the greatest thing that will ever come out of the Star Wars franchise. I always go further, in fact, and say that it’s the greatest thing that will ever come out of big-budget, action/fantasy cinema at all. George Lucas’s final contribution to his Star Wars legacy—2005’s final prequel offering—was not only an artistic, cinematic and operatic masterpiece, but it was the ultimate, consummate manifestation of everything Star Wars was capable of being and, for that matter, everything that big-scale cinema is capable of being.

It literally does not—and probably can’t—get better than this ever again.

Lucas, who himself pretty much set the standard and invented the genre in 1977, had now taken us to the absolute zenith of what that genre of film-making could produce.

Epic, ambitious, stunning, moving, nuanced, and everything else, it was the glorious completion of Lucas’s original Star Wars saga that I had been waiting for—and something for which I will always be immensely grateful George Lucas came back to film-making to give us. I have already made the case at length for why Revenge of the Sith was an absolute masterpiece of staggering proportions, so I’ll refrain from re-stating here all the ... reasons I eternally bow at the altar of that film and its unfairly maligned architect.

People who didn’t get it or still don’t get it probably never will get it.

I’ve given up arguing with those on the tedious backlash bandwagon, those who join in with the Lucas-bashing for the sake of YouTube channel views, or those who, like [spoilt children] throwing a tantrum, bitterly disavow George Lucas and whine about how the prequels ‘ruined Star Wars’.

Someone who did get it, however, was the noted author and social critic Camille Paglia: she of course famously declared a few years ago that George Lucas was the greatest artist of his time and specifically that Revenge of the Sith was the greatest work of art in the last thirty years.

The respected, if often controversial, academic Paglia didn’t argue that Episode III  was merely the best movie of the last thirty years… but the best work of art in any genre and in any medium.

[...] Predictably a lot of people either assumed Paglia was being sarcastic or they simply pooh-poohed her conclusions. Paglia, however, was not trying to be ironic, and she has reaffirmed and defended her position over and over again and with a passion—Lucas’s final Star Wars film, she maintained, is the greatest work of art in the last three decades.

[...] I cannot think of any film in any genre that has been as absorbing or as immaculate (or as ambitious). Even just conceptually, what Lucas tried to do with the prequel trilogy was staggering and is without any parallel. And while we could argue that the execution was off-the-mark in certain places, the sheer visceral power and broad artistic value of what he did manage to create—even with its various failings—puts Lucas’s saga (and ROTS in particular) into a different stratosphere entirely.

In her own view of it, Paglia especially focuses on the final act of the third prequel—the climactic finale centering on the extended Anakin/Kenobi lightsaber duel against the dramatic lava backdrop and the extraordinarily powerful way that the birth of the Skywalker twins is juxtaposed with the ‘death’ of Anakin and ‘birth’ of Vader. That latter sequence, by the way, in which the death of the mother coincides (and even feeds into) the birth of the ‘dark father’, all of it underscored by John Williams haunting, gothic choral/hymn composition, is just one example (among many) of Lucas’s extraordinarily acute and nuanced levels of vision.

‘The long finale of Revenge of the Sith has more inherent artistic value, emotional power, and global impact than anything by the artists you name,’ she said in this interview with Vice. ‘It’s because the art world has flat-lined and become an echo chamber of received opinion and toxic over-praise. It’s like the emperor’s new clothes—people are too intimidated to admit what they secretly think or what they might think with their blinders off.’

Speaking to FanGirlBlog, Paglia continued her celebration of Lucas’s final masterwork, saying, ‘I have been saying to interviewers and onstage, "The finale of Revenge of the Sith is the most ambitious, significant, and emotionally compelling work of art produced in the last 30 years in any genre—including literature".

Paglia’s assertions flowed from her 2012 book Glittering Images: A Journey Through Art from Egypt to Star Wars, which in part addressed the problem of modern cultural ignorance and the author’s worries that 21st century Americans are overexposed to visual stimulation by the “all-pervasive mass media” and must fight to keep their capacity for contemplation.

In the book, Paglia discusses twenty-nine examples of visual artwork, beginning with the ancient Egyptian funerary images of Queen Nefertari, and then progressing through various artistic works, including creations from Ancient Greece to Byzantine art and Donatello’s ‘Mary Magdalene’.

She explained, ‘Lucas was not part of my original plan for Glittering Images, which has 29 chapters crossing 3000 years. My goal was to write a very clear and concise handbook to the history of artistic styles from antiquity to the present. When I looked around for strong examples of contemporary art to end the book with, however, I got very frustrated. There is a lot of good art being made, but I found it overall pretty underwhelming. When I would happen on the finale of Revenge of the Sith, I just sat there stunned. It grew and grew on me, and I became obsessed with it. I was amazed at how much is in there—themes of love and hate, politics, industry, technology, and apocalyptic nature, combined with the dance theater of that duel on the lava river and then the parallel, agonizing death/births. It’s absolutely tremendous.’

Paglia also entirely recognised the sheer scale of Lucas’s creation and the value of even its various constituent parts as important or worthy works of art. ‘The fantastically complex model of the Mustafar landscape made for the production of Revenge of the Sith should be honored as an important work of contemporary installation art,’ she argued. ‘And also that Lucas’ spectacular air battles, like the one over Coruscant that opens Sith, are sophisticated works of kinetic art in the tradition of important artists like Marcel Duchamp and Alexander Calder. No one has ever written about George Lucas in this way—integrating him with the entire fine arts tradition.’

The problem is that Lucas and the prequel trilogy have become so widely misrepresented as ‘bad’ that most people don’t know how to deal with someone like Paglia sincerely proclaiming “Nothing in the last 30 years has been produced—in any of the arts—that is as significant or as emotionally compelling as Revenge of the Sith…”

[...] In fact, contrary to widespread misconceptions about how the Star Wars films are viewed, a Rotten Tomatoes poll ... found that Revenge of the Sith (and not Empire Strikes Back) scored as the best-regarded of the [Lucas] movies according to aggregation of archived reviews. So the idea that everyone dismisses the prequels seems like a misconception; but it is fair to say that a substantial body of people —including a lot of people who, rather incongruously, regard themselves as Star Wars fans—do completely dismiss this film along with its two predecessors.

As I said at the start, people who didn’t get it or still don’t get it probably never will get it.

But what has always struck me as pitiful about the whiny ‘Lucas Ruined Star Wars’ attitude is that it seems to flow from the premise that Lucas—a man whose stubborn commitment to his own singular vision gave an entire generation from the late 70s and early 80s unparalleled joy—somehow ‘owes it’ to those same people to do things precisely how *they* deem acceptable. That’s essentially what it comes down to—that he, as the artist, should make the art that the fans or the public want and not follow his own creative vision.

What people don’t realise, however, is that if he had done that from the beginning, there never would’ve BEEN an original Star Wars trilogy at all—and arguably all of these huge blockbuster SF/fantasy films that people spend their money seeing today wouldn’t exist either. What a lot of people also don’t realise is that Lucas was never setting himself up to be a populist or even mainstream filmmaker. On the contrary, he was the avant-garde film geek, the rogue, the outsider. The fact that Star Wars spiraled into a billion-dollar behemoth was an accident; and when the first Star Wars movie was released in 1977, it was an oddity that no one in the film industry understood or believed in.

But Lucas had stuck to his own creative vision—a vision that was largely incomprehensible to everyone else at the time the film was being made—and his singular vision hit the mark big-time and accomplished something unprecedented.

By the time of the endlessly-maligned The Phantom Menace in 1999 and everything that followed, Lucas was still doing exactly the same thing—following his own vision, trying to create something extraordinary and largely ignoring contemporary trends or opinion. The only difference was that the vast fan-base he had acquired from the original films were older now, far more jaded and over-saturated with blockbuster movies (most of which were influenced by Lucas’s pioneering work in the 70s) and they essentially didn’t *want* something new, creative or challenging—they just wanted the same thing they’d had when they were kids.

In effect, they weren’t interested in Lucas the artist or Lucas the pioneer—they only wanted Lucas the Popcorn Movie dispenser. But Lucas the Popcorn Movie Dispenser had never existed—he was simply an illusion created by the extraordinary commercial success of the Star Wars Trilogy.

What Lucas had in fact envisioned—and created—with the prequel trilogy, especially Revenge of the Sith, was something that transcended the whole summer blockbuster ennui, transcended genre, transcended the very medium of film itself, and could be discussed in the same breath as Shakespeare, Virgil and the Aeneid, Julius Caesar, and a number of equally fascinating and endlessly debatable works of serious and complex gravity.

But there was an audience of millions who were instead looking for something that could be discussed alongside Jurassic Park or Terminator 2. Which is fine—Star Wars of course can also be discussed just as validly in that latter context too; but it also exists in a stratosphere beyond it. And because Lucas’s process and vision was in that higher stratosphere a lot of the time, there was a frequent disconnect that occurred, whereby a lot of people were unable to meet him halfway or relate to the films on those kinds of levels.

But Lucas pushed on with his long-envisioned trilogy; and by the time the final installment of his Star Wars saga arrived in 2005, a sizeable proportion of the old fan-base had either departed or were by now just coming to the party for the thrill of seeing Darth Vader one last time. Some dismissed the film the same way as they’d dismissed its two predecessors, some were full of scathing mockery, while others were ambivalent. Some were suitably entertained, but didn’t take it much further than that.

Another group, a smaller minority—myself included—had just seen something of epic, overwhelming proportions and had the greatest cinematic experience of their lives.

But great art is like that.

Great works of art divides people, provoking endless debate [...] An argument could be made that the greatest artist will go all-out to create something special and substantive, even if it won’t appeal to everyone. Said artist would follow his own creative vision and not compromise it to the committee of consensus or demand.

Lucas, it should be borne in mind, never made ANY of the Star Wars films with film-critics in mind—even the Original Trilogy movies were not critically approved, despite becoming cultural landmarks. And interestingly, the hang-ups of many of those who were scathing about the prequel movies—ROTS included—were virtually identical to the hang-ups of the critics in the early 80s who either just didn’t get those original Star Wars films or were unwilling to praise a rogue filmmaker who was rebelling against Hollywood at the time and who was making something entirely out-of-step with contemporary trends and sensibilities.

Fittingly enough, the Lucas who was out-of-step with the sensibilities of the time during the late 70s and early 80s is the same Lucas who was equally out-of-step with sensibilities and trends at the time of the prequels too. In both eras, Lucas rebelled against the sensibilities of contemporary cinema and carved out his own piece of utter magic according to his own stubborn vision—the difference is that so many of the same people who adored what he had done in the first instance couldn’t understand what he was doing in the second instance.

Even though what he was doing was essentially the same thing.

For that matter, I always suspected that one of the main reasons so many people failed to appreciate (or in a lot of cases, to even understand) this film is precisely because it isn’t contemporary. That’s a key thing to understand about the Star Wars prequels—they were not made in a contemporary style.

Lucas doesn’t make contemporary cinema. Both of Lucas’s Star Wars trilogies are written and designed specifically to NOT be contemporary, but to have a more timeless quality, steeped in traditions from the past.

Lucas, you have to remember, has never been a contemporary or generic filmmaker, but a more avant-garde artist and experimenter who foremost specialises in tone and impressionism. The fact that he invented modern blockbuster cinema is purely an accident. As he himself once said, “None of the films I’ve done was designed for a mass audience, except for ‘Indiana Jones.’ Nobody in their right mind thought ‘American Graffiti’ or ‘Star Wars’ would work”.

 [...] They were not contemporary or generic at all—consequently, a lot of people didn’t understand or relate to what they were watching: because they couldn’t find a point of comparison in popular culture.

To really understand these films, you have to go back to some of the historical epics of the fifties and sixties, particularly films like Ben-Hur, Cleopatra or Spartacus. If you watch any of those films (and all three are timeless, truly marvelous cinematic works) and then watch the three Star Wars prequels, it will suddenly make much more sense. The acting style, the dialogue style, the themes, the epic scope and settings, the vast mythologizing, the way the films are scored, even the intricate costume design—all of it.

There’s nothing surprising about that. After all, it’s easy to overlook the fact now from our current vantage-point, but the original Star Wars trilogy movies weren’t contemporary in style either—they were stylistically based on things like Kurosawa, Flash Gordon and the Saturday matinee serials of the 1930s and 40s. The original trilogy films made no stylistic sense in terms of contemporary cinema or sensibilities in the late 70s or early 80s—they were, in style, a homage to a long-gone era.

So too were the prequels—just a different homage to a different era.

[...]

When you look at everything that makes up Revenge of the Sith, the scope of vision along with the degree of artistic nuance and juxtaposition is breathtaking.

There’s lots of action, yes, as you’d expect; but the action, like so much of what Lucas was doing by this stage, is almost transcendent. Sure, the acting or delivery is off in a few places; mostly due to some of the actors having to perform in non-existent CG environments—remember Lucasfilm and ILM were breaking new ground technologically in these movies, which we take for granted now with all our CG and digital filmmaking, but which at the time were bound to cause some teething problems. But Ewan McGregor is superb in this film, while the maligned Hayden Christensen....in fact does a solid job in any number of key scenes.

And there’s everything else. The special effects aren’t just good, they’re actually often beautiful in a way that most special effects don’t aspire to be. The level of detail and artistry in the visuals mean you could turn the sound off and still be captivated. Some of the backdrops could make extraordinary paintings that could hang convincingly in art galleries. And Lucas is the absolute master of the establishing shot and the scene transition, turning it into an art every bit as nuanced as in a piece of music.

For that matter, the music is extraordinary—and actually if you look at how underwhelming or non-existent the music is in the post-Lucas ‘The Force Awakens’, it becomes clear that Lucas and Williams had a collaborative process that really influenced how these films were scored (and which is now no longer the case). Lucas himself said that the music was 50 percent of what mattered in these films and that is certainly evident.

Much of it, particularly the climatic Kenobi/Skywalker duel and that final act with the birth of the twins, death of Padme and creation of Vader, almost isn’t cinema at all—but opera. This could’ve been something Wagner was composing if he had ever existed in the cinema age.

In fact, the final few scenes of the film don’t even have any dialogue, but are purely musical and visual. Even some of the most stirring parts earlier on in the film are without dialogue; take, for example, the breathtakingly beautiful sequence of Anakin and Padme trying to silently sense for each other across the exquisite, sunset cityscape—it’s all visual, tone and subtle music, pure emotion with no dialogue. A scene like that could almost be part of a silent movie; and it’s also like an impressionist painting in motion.

Even that Kenobi/Skywalker duel itself is more than just an action sequence. With Williams’ epic, stirring, choral score, it too is opera. But it’s opera married to performance art: the level of intricacy, fluency and speed of Ewan McGregor and Hayden Christensen’s dueling is insane, having required an immense amount of prep and practise. The choreography takes it onto the level of dance; of true performance art as opposed to disposable cartoon violence or cheap blockbuster action.

Everything here—to the last detail—is choreographed like a ballet and it is spellbinding.

Yet while other filmmakers would try to sell an entire movie on such an exquisite centerpiece, for Lucas all of this—all of this poetry, opera, dance, music, visual art and everything else—is ultimately mere constituent part to a greater whole: a Shakespearan epic of a tortured fall from grace and a Greek tragedy... wrapped within an even larger epic about the fall of a Republic, the fallibility of religion and the genius of the Devil and failure of the angels.

[...] What Lucas created in fact was the ultimate expression/culmination of the art of the epic itself—fittingly enough, in order to conclude the defining epic of our modern times (what Brian Blessed once described as the Shakespeare of our age). The Shakespeare comparisons aren’t trivial. The evident Star Wars/Shakespeare resonance has even prompted things like Ian Doescher’s book William Shakespeare’s Tragedy of the Sith’s Revenge: Star Wars Part the Third—a retelling of Revenge of the Sith as if it had been written by William Shakespeare for real.

[...] Various observers, including academics, have noted the obvious fact that Lucas’s story is also a retelling of the fall of the Roman Republic and birth of the Roman Empire. Lucas himself admitted this, pointing to how Revenge of the Sith in particular is partly a story about democracies become dictatorships and citing the historical stories of Caesar and Augustus. You can quite easily watch the prequel trilogy alongside I, Claudius or something like HBO’s brilliant Rome series.

But none of those references or allusions are the important part. Even the fact that the prequel trilogy—and again, ROTS in particular—is quite clearly in part a story about false-flag wars, banking conspiracies, the corporate and military-industrial complex, the Bush administration and the Iraq War, etc—isn’t particularly relevant to the issue of why it’s such an epic work of significance.

Lucas is the author and architect of our preeminent modern mythology—as interviewer Bill Moyers asserted during his fascinating and revealing 1999 interview with Lucas (for the release of The Phantom Menace). Partly inspired by his friend Joseph Campbell’s thoughts on mythology, but moreover informed by his own careful distillation of elements from various cultures and civilisations (what he has referred to as our collective human ‘archaeological psychology’), Lucas is every bit as influential as Virgil, Homer or Shakespeare were in their respective times, and has crafted out the ultimate mythological saga.

Revenge of the Sith is the final, completing piece of that saga—the piece that gives the saga its full scope and true soul, and the piece that makes every one of the other films count for so much more.

And it does it so well—with such vivid and breathtaking quality—that, even having written an article as long as this one now is (and another before this), I still don’t feel like I’m adequately able to explain its full brilliance.

Neither could Lucas himself, I suspect. I’m not sure Lucas even realised how masterful it was; but, as Paglia and others note, the guy is so mild-mannered and self-deprecating that it simply wasn’t in his nature to boast about his own work. Instead he just took in all the abuse and mockery with mild bemusement, shrugged his shoulders and walked off into the twin sunset, knowing that with Revenge of the Sith he had finished what he’d come back to do.

In fact, what Lucas did was so extraordinary, so complex and so nuanced that it may take another decade or two for people to even appreciate it properly—assuming they ever do. As film experts like Mike Klimo have noted, some of what Lucas did in ROTS and the prequels may have been so sophisticated that he deliberately didn’t talk about it, but just left it there, not knowing that anyone would ever even notice.

This, as I said earlier, goes beyond cinema, and possibly even beyond Star Wars itself. Lucas genuinely outdid himself, and it is unlikely anyone will reach that height again—firstly because no one is going to be in the position Lucas was in again in terms of total ownership of a property, and secondly because no one is going to have that kind of ambition again, especially having seen how much of a backlash Lucas received from the legions of popcorn munchers, YouTube profiteers and ungrateful fans who were really looking for something much more in keeping with a generic, formulaic, standardized blockbuster formula.”

[night-unfurls-its-splendour]

Top 10 Favorite Performances of "Music of the Night"

Honorable Mentions: Laird Mackintosh

I have an affinity for Laird that I can't quite explain. I love an understudy/alt/swing who's been with the production and just lingers for years and years (this is borne out in the rest of the list, as you'll see), I love that he started out in ballet, and I love how energetic he is. Though he falls short on the high notes, he plays the reaction to Christine fainting very well

Honorable Mentions: Dave Willetts

He's so smooth and creeping, and he's one of the especially good Phantoms who catches Christine before she falls (I'm a sucker for that, as will also be borne out in the rest of the list). He's been accused of "Copying" Michael Crawford, and I do see where that criticism is valid, but I think it's understandable given that he took up the mantle very early in the West End run.

Honorable Mentions: Cris Groenendaal

Cris is a really underrated Phantom. Another Alt/Understudy (who, like Laird, spent a lot of time in the role of M. Andre), I think he's got a wonderful power in his voice. His MotN is melodic and seductive. His pitfall is that he does tend to get a little bit nasal for my tastes.

Honorable Mentions: Ramin Karimloo

Honestly I think Ramin lands in most people's top tens. Certainly the 25th Anniversary at the Royal Albert Hall has made him on of the most ubiquitous Phantoms out there. Now, frankly, Ramin has taken a while to grow on me, and while my viewing of the 25th was the thing that pushed me to include him on this list, that performance is not the one that I chose to include here. Instead I went back, to his West End run. While I think Ramin's performance is a bit broad whenever he's actually in character, I do see what people mean about his emphasis on Erik's vulnerability. He does (with slightly less refinement) what I will later in this list praise Earl Carpenter for (and that's high praise from me, as you'll see). Still while I like Ramin's Erik a lot more now than I did, say, four months ago when all this brain-rot started, he's just not one that feels personal to me, which is why I hesitated to put him in the top ten proper.

10. Paul Stanley

I mean of course I'm fascinated by Paul Stanley's whole Phantom saga, so of course he's in here. He's far from the most technically proficient, he struggles with the high notes, but he really does a good job otherwise, and I have to admire his moxy.

09. Brent Barrett

Emphatic and sexy with compelling body language. So underrated.

08. Howard McGillin

Spectral, Resonant and controlled; a legend.

07. Hugh Panaro

Hugh is one of those that I feel like is a pre-requisite in a top ten list. My favorite thing is how he plays heavily on the phantom's fascination with Christine, and not solely on making her fascinated by him

06. Michael Crawford

Another prerequisite. He's ghostly, coaxing; the OG OG. The man who said, "No I want them to be able to see how lustfully he's touching her in the back row. I need to show more skin: make my sleeves shorter." This man understood the assignment and he set the tone and God bless him for it.

05. Anthony Warlow

The original Sydney Phantom, another beautifully strong, clear vocal quality. He has a very old-fashioned style of singing, I think which has a particular charm. If I had to name a fault it would be that he is quite theatrical, which I don't mind, though I tend to prefer an understated phantom. He never undersells a single line. I think his phantom is one of the most "hopeless romantic" interpretations. A particular standout for me is how he conveys that Christine's reluctance tries his patience, but he holds it together and his "touch me, trust me" is beautifully reassuring, while many phantoms choose to portray lust or longing in this moment, his is an appeal for understanding which is very attractive in its own way.

04. Ben Lewis

The power! The gravitas! Ben Lewis is truly one of the greatest blessings in PotO history and his high note? Off the charts. Also, since this is the whole first lair, I just want to say that this is one of my favorite versions of "Stranger than You Dreamt It" I've ever heard.

03. Ted Keegan

Refreshingly sharp and clean. I just love how powerful he is without being overpowering. He's strong, sensual and smooth. *sigh* ~,~ If only he caught her...

02. Earl Carpenter

So pleading, so gentle--holy hell I love Earl so much. Watch him show Erik's inner struggle with his desire for contact and his fear of his deformity throughout this entire scene! Watch him think to himself "Yes, let her touch you! Why shouldn't you?" And then lose his nerve at the last moment! I could go on for hours. Find me a sweeter Phantom. Go ahead.

01. John Owen-Jones

Without a doubt in my mind THE strongest vocal performer in this role. I just love to hear him booming out in his great, Welsh way. He strikes an exquisite balance between his acting and his singing. His vibe in general is amazing, like he really leans into the idea that he's been Christine's teacher as much as her muse. He has guided her through music and he wishes to be her guide into romance as well, and that manifests in every aspect of his performance. Such as the fact that he doesn't walk away from Christine for the second verse, so he's leaning close when he sings "Let your spirit start to soar" and almost always gestures with his hand over her diaphragm. If I'm completely honest, he's the only Phantom (except perhaps Michael Crawford or Gerard Butler) that I can actually imagine giving Christine singing lessons. So few actually inhabit this music obsessed weirdo like JOJ does.

He, perhaps the ultimate gentleman phantom, also catches and carries Christine before she falls. (Special shout out to my girl Gina Beck for also REALLY leaning in to the romanticism of the moment; she looks just so utterly in ecstasy through this whole sequence and that's exactly how I would want to play Christine).

I need to tack a caveat onto the end here:

Gerard Butler's Music of the Night is my actual, number one favorite rendition.

But I wanted this list to be stage versions only.

I think I can put my feelings on this most succinctly like this:

I love JOJ's confidence, his command and his sensuality

I love Earl's gentleness and vulnerability

I love Anthony's patience

I love Ted's crispness

I love Paul's humanity

I love Ben's power

Gerard Butler somehow manages to crystallize ALL of those elements and ramp them every one of them up to 11 with an added element of wholly smitten wonder at Christine that makes me so weak.

[cogsandsprings]

Sorry to hijack your (maybe?) vent post, but I have an answer to this! I’m a political science student studying queer politics and I have long asked myself the question “how can marginalized people support conservatives who obviously hate them?” Fortunately, political scientist Zein Murib has written a book explaining the phenomenon, “Terms of Exclusion: Rightful Citizenship Claims and the Construction of LGBT Political Identity” and it’s FASCINATING. From Murib’s own website:

So, yeah. Unfortunately within-group marginalization (white gays being racist, misogynistic, and generally bigoted) is a feature not a bug of the assimilationist movement. Murib cites a lot of scholarship on identity construction and agenda formation that is so interesting to read and think about!

The entitlement these people have to the benefits of whiteness preclude them from organizing for any purpose other than to secure benefits they feel have been wrongfully denied to them. But of course they haven’t examined any of this, and they may even fully believe they are literally talking about “rights” rather than “whiteness,” and so when the rest of us talk about liberation and freedom for all marginalized people, they naturally go “wait but what about me?!?! 🥺” It threatens them to think about liberation, because they never wanted to be free of the system; they wanted to be the one holding the whip and taking in the money and receiving the protections. So white cis gay men of course are gonna talk about how disgusting vaginas are, and how they just have a PREFERENCE IT’S NOT RACIST, and how they’d LOVE to support Palestinians if only they weren’t so homophobic, ad nauseum, because their true audience for these “jokes” is the ruling class: white cis straight men and they will try to use any avenue to connect with that audience.

As a white person myself I’ve learned that once people of color leave the room white people (LGBTs included) that I never would have clocked as racist will turn to me and say the WILDEST racist shit simply because I am also white and therefore must also be seeking the benefits of whiteness. It’s our responsibility to cut that shit off at the start so that the queer community can actually BE a community and not a VIP club for the most privileged to get protection while the rest rot.

In terms of other marginalized identities I can’t really speak to so thoroughly. But I do know about colorism, which I think we all ought to have a grasp on by now. And visible vs invisible disabilities and “high vs low functioning” (i.e. convenient vs inconvenient) autism. So i can definitely see how rights claims can reinforce the existing hierarchy of society within any particular group, not just the queer community.

Book recommendations for LGBTQ+ Politics (we need to read, y’all, I’m SERIOUS):

“Terms of Exclusion: Rightful Citizenship Claims and the Construction of LGBT Political Identity” by Zein Murib (the book discussed above)

“LGBT Politics: A Critical Reader” edited by Marla Brettschneider, Susan Burgess, and Christine Keating (contains 30 articles from 6 different areas of LGBT politics)

“The LGBTQ+ History Book: Big Ideas Simply Explained” published by DK (if huge blocks of text intimidate you this book is great! Has excellent cross-referencing system that leads to Wikipedia level rabbit holes and lots of images)

“LGBT Inclusion in American Life: Pop Culture, Political Imagination, and Civil Rights” by Susan Burgess (I have not gotten to read this yet, but Susan Burgess helped edit the reader above so I trust her, and my thesis hinges on public opinion so I WILL get around to it!)

Anyway thank you OP for giving me an excuse to rant! I’ll see myself out now.

like for real so many people who are in marginalized communities (thinking of white cis gays here but i've seen literally every other demographic do this) are getting WAY too comfortable making straight up bigoted comments and micro-aggressions about groups they're not a part and then claiming you're too sensitive and that it's just a joke. and this is coming from someone who actually loves offensive humor (when it is done right and is, yknow, actually humor). like i haven't seen this type of shit since i first started using the internet in the early 2010s. i'm genuinely not sure if people have always been like this and i'm just seeing it more because more people are online or if there has been a genuine societal shift. also, again, why is it marginalized people doing this to other marginalized people? like, you realize the systems of oppression that you're catering to and licking the boots of hate you too, right?

[transmutationisms]

hello camille! sending this to you because ik you’ll be able to articulate it much better than me but i’ve been thinking a lot about roman’s potential restrictive behaviour when it comes to food and how his eating behaviours are rooted more-so in self-harm than self-preservation (which is how i think caroline views her restrictive eating habits, even if that’s not really the case). I view Roman as a character that is affected by rot, although not as concerned with moral rot like kendall, but rather physical rot. Initially I thought that Roman’s unhealthy obsession with his appearance means that he’s scared of rotting, but actually I think he wants to rot away, hence the restrictive eating habits (which of course isn’t canon and not everyone has that in their belief system, which is fair enough- it’s just a potential aspect of roman’s character that i find interesting) and his restriction linking to the urge to self-destruct. I think a lot of a lyric from 4st7lb by Manic Street Preachers in regard to roman: I want to be so skinny that I rot from view. Not necessarily the skinny part, I don’t think that’s at the crux of roman’s ed, but rather the wanting the rot away until you can no longer be perceived. He is a character that constantly wants to control people’s perceptions of him (giving himself a reputation of a sex pest and a deviant when he can’t actually fuck, ordering ‘steak and mashed potatoes’ then ‘picking at it and checking his waistline’ etc) and he figures that he’d rather rot away, so to speak, so he’s unable to be perceived in ways he doesn’t want to be perceived. Perhaps if he can make himself rotten, people won’t try to get too close, and expect something from him that he can’t live up to. Idk if i even explained myself very well but hopefully you get the picture

no this is RIGHT on the money imo. i read roman as being very tormented by the fact of existing and having other people look at him. i think all of the roys do weird shit with food, but the particular way in which roman relates to his body (primarily as an object for other people to look at) ties into his not-eating. he'd get rid of his body entirely if he could.

it's like, if i have to have a body, then i will be thin and wear too-tight clothes and put on airs like a suave businessguy. but i'll also get up from the table and pour myself a drink when shiv talks about the lobster-at-gstaad incident, and i'll snack on fruit but pick at my meals, and no one notices these things because i'm not the #1 brother sitting at the big boy table when dad's having his business dinners anyway.

tbh Since You Brought It Up. i do actually see this as being deeply related to roman's deification of logan (which is in turn related to roman having been raised catholic, or at least under the auspices of the catholic church). i read roman's not-eating as having a lot in common with the fasting behaviour of saints and devotees in the medieval and early modern periods. what these people wanted was purification, transcendence, and ultimately death as the ultimate act of de-creation and self-negation.

a lot of cases of fasting girls will also specifically note that they ate fruit (they had all kinds of reasons why fruit didn't count as a real food, it's fascinating) and i know this sounds insane but like. i do see roman's constant snacking on fruit as being part of this lmao. i don't think he sees fruit as sustenance, i think all of his eating and not-eating and the way he talks about eating (you eat me, i eat you) ties into his overall project to purify himself and to ultimately transcend his body. and in his mind he's positioned logan as god, as being the only one with the grace to forgive roman his bodily defilement (ironic since logan Does Eat, although still in a fucked-up way imo).

this also plays into the ways that roman is often feminised. although there were plenty of cases of male fasting saints, by the early modern period there was a robust genre of literature on "fasting girls" as a specific phenomenon. physicians usually read these cases as being about the girls' willful rejection of Adult Womanhood. so, to be a fasting girl meant being a Girl, specifically: immature, forever bound to a pre-sexual (and yet often sexualised) body.

and then, speaking of gender and womanhood, this circles back nicely to caroline. because, like you said, i do think she sees her own not-eating as being in service of her health and self-preservation. imo there's a pretty direct line from caroline's not-eating to roman's not-eating in the sense that both of them imbue food and eating with mystical transcendent properties, and try to gain immortality and grace through these acts. but they articulate these goals in very different ways.

caroline's not trying to "feed on light," or to gain forgiveness and grace from logan, whereas roman is (and again, roman's catholicism plays in here). and caroline's also acting out a very different gender narrative as an older aristocratic woman, versus roman who's fashioning himself as this little fasting girl. for roman, not-eating is a reclamation of purity and innocence: things he can only attain via the destruction of his body. whereas for caroline, not-eating is about clinging onto her body as the thing tethering her to existence. (and i do think she probably has some body trauma/history/etc.)

anyway yeah this is what makes me so ill about roman and food and his body and his reflection in the mirror. truly i don't think he's focussed on his body Per Se in the way that a lot of people think he is. i think it's alllll about the self-destruction, and the use of not-eating as a ticket to gain entry into heaven (waystar). logan wants immortality through his heir, and roman wants immortality through receiving logan's love and grace. and in roman's mind, his body is just the thing he has to sacrifice in order to earn this love and grace.

[psychewritesbs]

Chapters 191-194: Sakurajima Colony: Buck-buck! Some arcs are really just not that eggciting and that’s ok

Sort of happy JJK-Sunday? 

I must admit that while I loved Kin-chan vs. Kashi-chan because their dynamic was just absolutely fantastic, this little Naoya the Cursed Yarn Ball vs. Girl Boss Maki why is she wearing a little cape tho?! mini-arc has felt like a total drag.

I so have not been eggcited about this mini-arc one bit.

Pu-kyu, my new assistant, agrees 300%. 

But there’s a few things that have been on my mind that I wanted to write down because, let’s face it, I love to word vomit about irrelevant plot tangents.

Without further ado, here are 10 observations I’ve made over the last few chapters! There's absolutely no sign of intelligence beneath the cut...

1. FFS, why is Maki wearing a little cape?

I hate Maki’s little cape there I said it on main. It makes the Fashion Diva in me want to style her or something like that.

Gege, please. Can we please get rid of the little cape? Cardcaptor Sakura’s Tomoyo or Tokyo Babylon’s Hokuto need to make a cameo and style her up.

Hokuto would gladly put Maki into some Dolce since JJK has that collab with Dolce & Gabbana and all.

This Girl Boss androgynous look is hot and I love Maki playing into it. Even if it’s just a facade for a girl who had to act confident to thrive in a man’s world.

The little cape? NOT HOT.

Not me gatekeeping Maki bahaha

2. “Even cursed spirits feel pain”

In all seriousness tho. This has probably been the one thing that has really got my interest. I’ve already written about how I became a Cursed Spirit apologist thanks to the cockroach that Gege graced us with.

But I have to say that I’ve loved how Gege brought back the idea of a Cursed Spirits’ consciousness in these last few chapters.

I immediately noticed and loved that the Yarn Ball was totally Naoya-like in its interactions and speech.

Which I thought it was fascinating because if the body = the soul = the mind (ego personality)... then, not only is his form very fitting (a worm and... a Yarn Ball?), but there’s something about how a vessel (the body) can change to better reflect the mind/soul--Mahito’s specialty. 

I don’t know how to explain better just yet. I just love that an ego personality can have a different vessel and have continuity of existence even when the vessel looks different or the original vessel “died”.

It tells me a will (ego/mind/personality) has to be really, really strong to create a new vessel for itself in order to carry out its desires. In Naoya’s case, his will created a new vessel for the sake of avenging his pride after he was defeated by Maki the first time.

This all feels very Soul Eater in a sense...

But it’s not just this idea of a will creating a new vessel for itself, it’s the idea of a Cursed Spirit having a consciousness of it being alive to begin with.

Once you start messing with the idea of sentience, you are on another level.

Again, I brain rotted about this idea in the liveblog for chapter 175.

I just love this theme and idea because it set the stage for a rebellion against humans, the very creators and source of energy for Cursed Spirits.

In showing that even a Cursed Spirit feels pain, I also get this feeling that Gege is inviting his audience to sympathize with Cursed Spirits.

I also loved that around the time this particular chapter came out, Chainsaw Man 2 dropped its first chapter featuring a very similar motif.

I can’t quite put my finger on it just yet but I love that Fujimoto is playing with the same concept that Gege has introduced into JJK--as a living being with a consciousness of its own (created by collective human thought no less), a Cursed Spirit or Devil has every right to exist and thrive.

It’s a hell of a morally gray dilemma because Cursed Spirits and Devils alike cause havoc for humanity. But in the end, at least in JJK, the problem comes back to the fact that we created them through our own unconsciousness.

Unless you are a Jujutsu Sorcerer, then you channel your cursed energy into a Cursed Technique instead of unconsciously creating curses.

Which kind of reminded me that the crazy master plan in this whole thing is to bring back the Golden Age of Cursed Techniques...

3. Heian, the Golden Age of Cursed Techniques

So, let’s remember that the Culling Game is one massive shit show to bring about the evolution of human kind honestly I don't even know at this point, I thought it was more about Hakari’s abs at one point.

I’m stumped because as bored as I am with this battle, I feel like Gege is still dropping important details.

Cursed Spirits are basically a non-factor in a world where humans gain a deeper understanding of their Cursed Energy and use it more productively.

After all, the whole purpose of these concurrent battles taking place is to help sorcerers and non-sorcerers deepen their understanding of cursed energy.

We already suspect that Kenny is going to do something about the colonies that have reached a point where only the strongest sorcerers remain. The question is what?

This is an interesting can of worms because Cursed Technique seems to be intimately tied to the user’s personality (mind) in a symbolic or literal way.

Also, let’s not forget everybody’s favorite Daddy Sukuna, chaos himself, is a prodigy when it comes to Cursed Energy manipulation through Cursed Technique. 

So what is going to happen?!

Idk I’m rambling at this point.

Honestly, this is why this mini-arc is driving me nuts’o. 

There’s so many amazing, unanswered questions about the plot and instead we get a Maki vs. Naoya the Yarn Ball battle do over.

A cat vs. Naoya the Yarn Ball would have been far more entertaining.

4. Not all arcs are created equal

Bahaha, I feel really bitchy saying that and yet I want to honor how I feel about JJK right now. 

Right now, as much as I love JJK, this particular mini-arc/battle is not easy to get through.

But I’ve been watching anime for a very loooooong time and I’ve been reading a lot of manga recently and something has become very clear to me because of it...

Yeah this mini-arc isn’t my favorite in JJK but it’s just an arc. Every manga I have read lately has arcs that are a drag to get through. It’s just how it is.

Some arcs are eggciting af, others aren’t.

No manga is perfect.

5. Mangaka and the pressure to create in order to feed a capitalist system

Manga is truly a treasure to mankind--they are beautifully told stories about the reality of being human.

Mangaka take on that privilege of sharing those stories with an audience. 

Telling these stories requires courage. In telling these stories, mangaka are putting themselves out there, they are baring the inner-universe within their heart and soul for all to see.

The characters they create are reflections of inner-selves exploring the world of their imagination.

I am a huge believer in having a consistent habit of creation. If you are a writer, you write; if you are a painter, you paint.

But sometimes, creativity doesn’t quite work like that. Sometimes creativity needs to marinate an idea to bring it to fruition. After all, despite capitalism’s focus on hustle culture, creativity is not linear. 

All that to say that I have all the more respect for mangaka because they work under strict and constricting schedules that are not necessarily conducive to shipping the best creative work.

I’ve read many a manga that probably could have used more time to develop and expand on its themes. Shingeki no Kiojin is the latest example as I did not like the ending very much and felt like Isayama could have done a much better job given how much of a detailed writer he proved to be.

But that’s just my personal opinion and I know it is not shared by everyone.

In other words... 

I am looking forward to JJK getting exciting again and hope that Gege is able to ship his best creative work despite his schedule.

Beware of Shingeki no Kyojin (Attack on Titan), x/1999, Akatsuki no Yona and Tokyo Babylon panel spoilers below.

6. Recycling panels or panel parallels?

One of my favorite things in the world is catching panel parallels in manga by different authors... like Shingeki no Kyojin and x/1999 below:

Akatsuki no Yona and Tokyo Babylon:

Sometimes there are manga parallels used by the same authors but in different manga titles of theirs like in CLAMP’s xxxHolic and Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle.

Or, in this case, even within a single manga by a single author:

These 2 panels of Megumi and Maki aren’t exactly the same, but I couldn’t help but notice them and I wondered whether Gege was just recycling panels or whether he is making a bigger statement paralleling Megumi and Maki’s growth as they learn to value themselves.

In particular Megumi learned there was a vast difference between risking his life to win and throwing away his life to win.

For Maki, I love that she’s so certain that in the next five minutes she will be as good as new. That’s the nature of her newfound powers. 

But above all, I found it interesting that Kamo tells Maki they “can’t afford to lose her at this stage”.

Right now Kamo has a majorly huge death flag.

7. When Gege makes you care about characters you didn’t know you cared about, does that mean he’s about to kill them? 

I swear JJK characters have super heroic deaths and that’s why they hurt like hell.

The whole sequence with Maki and Kamo actually reminds me of Nanami’s death because of the setup leading to it and the Megumi/Maki panel parallels I shared above. In other words, Nanami realized how valuable Megumi was to the battle and stepped in to protect him the way Kamo is doing the same.

Perhaps that’s what the panel parallels are trying to say here.

Another heroic death example I cannot not mention is...

Kokichi ;-; ...

Gege is so good at creating this feeling of--”man this character is so cool and I admire their mindset and can relate to them on an emotional level and I love that aaaaaaaand... now they’re dead.” 

Gege is just not afraid to kill or hide any of his characters.

And now... we have Kamo trying to get self-sacrificial and heroic. 

It’s sad to me that he spent so much time and effort in being the perfect heir and doing things as the perfect heir should do them so that he could live up to the title and make a place for his mother in the clan.

But now his mother has moved on with her life (as is implied in the latest chapter) and he’s no longer the head of the clan.

The things he had identified his sense of self with have vanished.

And so now, he sees no value in himself other than in sacrificing himself for his comrades.

But... I have to be honest that Kamo’s line regarding his decision to sacrifice himself felt predictable to me.

So perhaps this could be a red herring? We did get two new players thrown into the mix who are going to complicate things further.

Whatever the case, Gege has made me care about Kamo because he’s made him incredibly relatable in a couple of pages max.

Gege truly does have a talent for characterization.

8. Chapters 135 and 136

Um, hello? I need a re-read of the last few chapters of the Shibuya Incident. So much is paying off in the current arc but in a way that feels like Gege has been world-building. 

In particular, chapter 64 marked the end of Gege world-building the first stage of JJK. He then proceeded to undo everything he had done by tearing it down throughout the Shibuya Incident.

He then gave us a ton of exposition during the last chapters in the Shibuya Incident, and it feels to me like he’s using the Culling Game to show and expand upon some of the plot points that he introduced during those chapters.

9. Incest in JJK

Did Gege just imply that Mai and Naoya...???

Right, so we start the chapter with a nice little philosophical spill by the Yarn Ball.

Something about learning an ability and it becoming second nature. Yadda-yadda-yadda.

But then...

To which Naoya responds...

Uh.

...

Ways to interpret this interaction:

Naoya just wants to say something hurtful to Maki (this was my initial interpretation)

Naoya just wants to say something really REALLY hurtful to Maki and so he chose to reveal the thing that would hurt the most--Naoya did “adult things” with Mai (this was my interpretation after wondering what being an adult had to do with Mai... and then it hit me lol)

Is this innuendo surprising considering Megumi was Mai’s first crush?

Not to mention everybody’s favorite JJK siblings with questionable morals, Mei Mei and Ui Ui.

Anyways. Not sure whether Gege meant to use innuendo in that interaction, but he sure loves his incest trope lol.

10. BONUS

Ok there really is no #10. I just wanted to end on an even number.

Again, if you’ve made it this far in this ramble, thank you. I always notice the same people liking what I write and I am very grateful that you read my rambles.

Please do stop and say hi if you are up for it. I love talking to others in fandom!

Until next time!

Happy JJK-Sunday!

[theredsuzuran]

Douma x reader - Innocence

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Took me a long time to upload a new content am so sorry for the delay I was really busy with school assignments therefore I cannot manage the time to write. I apologize in advance for any grammatical errors on my behalf, I hope you enjoy.

Warning : Dark themes like gore, blood and violence, degradation and swearing, mature content.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moon shone brightly above the sky as it's light leak through the branches illuminating the famous building of the eternal paradise cult. A new set of followers rushed into the dwelling in hopes of fulfilling their selfish desires, diminishing their agonies and enriching their possessions. However a particular human with her tattered kimono seem not to be interested to convey anything although the people around her would die to witness even a glimpse of the charismatic leader as for now she was busy running along the wide long corridors

The sound of thumping footsteps echoed throughout the building as a herd of followers attempted on catching the miscreant who disrupted the peaceful atmosphere prevailing over the supreme cult. The already annoyed and frustrated people were all worked up to catch the energetic human who on the other hand have thoughts of escaping this place they called paradise. If only she was careful enough to notice her mother's strange behavior soon as they entered the place but how can you possibly blame an innocent little girl like her, or so she thought. Afraid she might lose sight of her treacherous mother who abandoned her just moments ago she desparety stumbled her way out although that didn't concerned her simple thinking process but that's exactly how complicated the situation was.

Turning one last time to look behind if those weird people were still following her or not when suddenly she bumped into a Tall muscular figure standing infront of her soft delicate frame she must have missed him approaching while focusing on looking behind. "Please just leave me alone!" The girl fumed coherently still overwhelmed by the amount of people rushing towards her like waves something that she was not accustomed with as for eighteen years she lived indoors interacting rarely with anyone and playing with dolls most of the time.

"Watch your tongue brat" one of the men standing beside the tall man spoke with disgust hinted in his voice. "Crouch down you insolent woman, where's your gratitude it's because of lord Douma's benevolence that you are still here or you'd be rotting in the street thanks to your mother", the people around her started whispering and murmuring behind her back but she was not bother since her senses were filled with newfound wrath how dare they insult your angel like mother? No longer able to contain your anger you shouted with tears "Then take me to my mother, I don't want to stay here alone".

"Your mother abandoned you here so shut up and deal with it, now move your way for master" the man grunted irritatedly motioning the other followers to grab her and take her away.

"No don't touch me" she wiggled under their grip rushing towards douma blocking him from entering the room by grabbing his arm tightly "I am not going anywhere until I know where my mother is" she cried loudly making the demon flinch with surprise, how pitiful the creature looked in his polychromatic eyes. He have seen many humans crying before him for obvious reasons which honestly have become his monotonous routine but somehow this girl acted quite weird being her age, interesting him enough to investigate. As he was about to speak the man beside him pushed the girl hashly making her lose her balance and fall on the wooden floor.

"How dare you touch master with your filthy hands bitch" he lift his hand to slap her tight in the face but someone grabbed his wrist just in time to save the girl from further humiliation.

"Silence" all the questioning glances, judging looks and whispering stopped at once as douma spoke nonchalantly making the latter shiver in regret.

"I am sorry douma sama" the man uttered in pure horror having no intentions to displease his beloved lord. "I was-"

"I don't want to see that happen again, understood?" He replied coldly still maintaining his wide smile as the previous chaos shifted into complete hush. The man lowered his head down with shame nodding silently. Douma averted his attention and glanced at the figure underneath making the girl jolt a bit but his once frightening demeanor changed into a cheerful and optimistic one in matter of second upon seeing her.

"Please take her to my chamber and treat her wounds" the man clapped with a wide grin plastered on his face. A group of female servants came rushing to help picking her up. The girl being too bewildered did not protested and simply follow his tone as if she was hypnotized by his neatly decorated persona.

The girl was immediately taken away without delay and as per douma he needed to attend his cult duties. First of all she was washed and changed into a beautiful kimono as soon as she stepped inside, then she was escorted into a room filled with antiques and lavish items which she have never seen. Her face lit up with fascination as she began venturing those decorative pieces.

"Looks like you have ease down a bit, good good" A familiar tone struck in her ears startling her a bit only to turn back and view the handsome cult leader although it was a bit strange because she did not heard anyone approaching.

"Aww did I scared you?" He laughed covering his face with golden fans.

"No I was just- you came in without a warning, I was taken aback" she explained blushing trying her best not to act immature to which douma laughed uncontrollably as he found this human's expression adorable say entertaining in his words.

"D-dont laugh at me" she pouted crossing her arms in the attempt.

"I am sorry (y/n), you really amuse me" he replied still grinning. However there was a moment of awkward silence between them as he uttered her name abruptly.

"I didn't tell you my name.." after a long pause she replied to him with a confuse look in her face.

"I know everyone's name who are living under my supervision including yours besides what kind of cult leader I am if I don't have basic information about my fellow followers. Oh look I have been talking to you without giving the chance to let you talk my bad" he laughed again waving his fans creating another awkward situation. Causing you to sweatdrop on his remark.

"Say (y/n) how old are you?" to which she replied enthusiastically "I am 8 years old and will turn 9 soon"

"Ah you don't look like one" douma grinned closing his eyes in the process.

"Yeah I get that a lot" she remarked shyly.

"Your mother is one of my followers" he continued

"Really?" her eyes sparked with hope as she approached douma with anticipation grabbing his arms for the second time starling him, she really like holding hands eh? he have experiences like that but somehow this girl made him feel different so he allowed her but then she stopped halfway through her words "I really miss her it's been a week since she left me here" her voice dropped with sadness.

Douma felt no sympathy for humans or anything as such, he have learned to fake his emotions from a very tender age eversince he was born to the extent that even seeing his mother killing her husband mercilessly failed to evoke feelings within. He clearly did not understand what she was feeling he just stared at her with a blank expression only to replace it quickly with a grim look even faking few tears. "(Y/n) chan you know its okay you will still have me" he patted the girl in an attempt to comfort her.

"Friends?" (Y/n) replied between her tears.

"If that's how you want us to be" douma smiled at her gently shocking himself for a second because he didn't think of smiling?

Things escalated soon after that incident, (y/n) was a kind and compassionate person from inside and out and in not time the cult followers started loving her presence. As often douma would let her accompany him and most of the time she stayed by his side following him everywhere and he didn't mind that at all moreover he appreciated her company. (Y/n) was like a fresh bud to him who depicted innocence and purity he loved spoiling her with expensive gifts yet she never showed signs of greediness and genuinely appreciated his thoughtfulness slowly forgetting the past life she was in and cherishing her friendship with douma. At first she was reluctant and didn't like getting so much attention but in the course of time she bonded better with everyone and was quite content with the life she was leading. As for douma he began to depend on (y/n) to the point that not seeing her face for even one day would make him go insane and he didn't understand why not like he want to because all he cared about was how she made him feel so many varieties of pleasant emotions he wish he could feel. Eating her was out of context.

However all good things must come to an end for he is someone to not rest in peace after the sin he have committed for centuries. Seeing douma paying her more attention, spoiling her with a ravish lifestyle and even letting her stay by his side all the time made some of his cult members terribly envious they wanted to punish her for taking their chances of stealing the spotlight. There was this one room that he forbade his followers to enter for obvious reasons and specifically for (y/n) because he didn't want to repeat the same mistake. This was exactly what they wanted (y/n) to do break the rules and Douma's trust. Like that there would be no more favouritism on her with others.

"Ah (y/n), there you are" one of the female member approached her one fine morning.

"Yes how may I help you?" She asked cheerfully

"Lord douma have asked for your presence in the forbidden room tonight and he said its urgent"

"Aren't we all prohibited to go inside"

"Oh (y/n) it's true master have arrived today and he wants your presence"

Upon hearing that news her heart elated with happiness, it has been two weeks since he last saw douma around and she missed him but something felt off about the whole situation douma always sees (y/n) first before tending his followers then why did he not come meet her did he not miss her like she did?

She was lost in her thoughts until she found two hands waving and snapping infort of her face.

"Don't be late, okay?" With that said the female hurried back into other room leaving (y/n) behind even though the situation seem kinda odd maybe douma was busy afterall.

At night (y/n) went into the restricted area. She stood infront of the shoji door in absolute dilemma debating whether or not to enter the room or go back. There was her desire of meeting douma on one hand and not breaking his trust by entering the room on the other. In the end she decided not to but as she was turning back she heard someone grunting in pain behind the closed doors being a compassionate person, she decided to open the door and enter into the darkness adjusting her eyes in the process, a pungent smell hit her nostrils making her cover her mouth and to her absolute terror the scene infront of her made her puke in disgust.

A pile of Mutilated bodies, mostly women laid around lifelessly on the blood stained tatami mattress. Many having no limbs, some headless and organs missing from their body as if someone had ate all of that. The whole room was a mess full of unfortunate people. She felt sick and began crawling down her way back from the corpses. However she felt a tight grip on her left foot upon looking down she witness the sight of a woman her intestines oozing out of her stomach begging for help. (Y/n) stood there perplexed unable to say anything chocking through tears.

"I told you not to come here, why?" (Y/n) turned her head violently to see douma standing in a distance his countenance cold and sinister evident that he was highly displeased upon seeing his innocent flower disobeying his instructions.

"It's not... like... what you see" (y/n) cried fearfully but douma didn't seem to buy it well in a blink of an eye she found herself in Douma's arms as he aggressively dragged her out of the room.

"What's going on douma" no word came out from the usual lively douma.

"It's hurting me your grip" no reply again to which she forcefully tried to stand still with all her strength. This time douma stopped his features hidden under his bangs making her unable to figure the expression he was carrying.

"Is this why douma forbade us to enter the room" no reply

"Are you responsible for murdering those innocent people?" No reply

"DOUMA" she shouted

"Why you want to join them?" Douma finally looked at her his eyes glowing dangerously proving his existence to be something unnatural. (Y/n's) eyes widen at his remarks as tears rolled down her visage.

"I hate you.." she murmured

"What?" He tilted his head letting his guard down a bit at her hurtful comments.

"I HATE YOU" she pushed douma roughly and flew from the place running deep into the forest for she knew who he was and what he is capable of doing. Tearing down she constantly reminisce the moments she shared but she cannot allow herself to sympathize his heinous crimes. Why is it that the people I love are always taken away from me? She thought. Exhausted from running she halted in order to catch her breath while glancing back to see if he was following, there was no one indeed so a sudden feeling of relief gushed in her body. However turning her head back she saw him standing inches apart from her face which made her shiver and fall onto the knees.

"Why are you running away from me (y/n)" he said apatheticly his head lowered at her level. She did not reply and stayed quite.

"Is it true that you don't love me after all the things I did for you?" Covering his face with one hand his eyes glowing under the moonlight a look of dejection written on his face. There was complete silence in the forest except the sound of rustling trees.

"Answer me" holding her face now firmly he growled making her flinch under his breath. In one last desperate attempt (y/n) tried to stab douma with a tree branch she found laying on the ground but unfortunately douma was faster and easily dodged the attack and in a swift motion he hit her with immense strength causing her fragile little body to tremble in pain as she coughed mucus mixed with blood.

"How foolish of you" he crouched down her height staring intensely at the quivering figure of the miserable girl. As for (y/n) her body ached but more was the tightness in the chest that she was experiencing in the moment.

He pulled her by the hair roughly making her scream in pain although at this point all she could manage with her cracking voice were inaudible screams.

"Why did you disobey me? (Y/n)..." who knew beneath that friendly kind face was hiding a undeniably deadly and calculative demon and at this point it was clear for her that he was anything but human.

"Who are you?" these few words manage to escape from her shaky lips in between low grunts.

"I am the leader of the eternal paradise cult"

"Wrong" to which he tightened his grip making her shriek again.

"You humans are so dumb believing in the existence of primordial deities where in reality its just a myth, a fairytale, created for pleasuring the sufferings of mere human. Being superior than you mortals I wanted to make these pitiful existence happy and that's why I was born and what you saw there" his lips curved into a cheeky smile revealing his deadly fangs creeping the shit out of the already scared girl. "I eat them so that they can always be with me and attain salvation" a sinister laughter escape from his mouth as he covered it with his golden fans. (Y/n) unable to process the new sets of information knots formed in her stomach making her sick in the guts.

"I ate your mother too, oh she was ungrateful after all the things I did to her just like you" protruding her eyes with pure shock she felt her veins popping out and blood boiling in pure rage.

"You are a monster, you think your stupid morals would persuade people to think like you do, I despise you douma I thought we were friends and you took away the one I cherished the most?"

"You think your mother loved you?" Douma snapped. The duality of this was man was insane, all the things he does or says are plastic.

"She never cared for your life, you want to know why? I will tell you since you insist" douma dragged her out of forest holding a fistful of her hair tightly inflicting great discomfort to the girl while he continued with his harsh statements and deliberate insults.

"You were just a burden, behaving like a fucking child with the alluring body of yours"

"No my mother promised me..she would protect me.. you are lying"

"While you were crying everyday inside my shrine that lowly woman enjoyed her life indulging in adultery with various cult members leaving her sick husband and mentally retarded daughter in the dark" every word he uttered spread vemon into her ears.

"Still she wanted more and more and more, what a greedy whore" douma continued.

"Do you know how much difficult it was for me to control myself around you? While you sway your hips and act innocently making those hungry men lust over you, how much dumb can you be?"

"What do you mean I don't understand.. douma"

"I did everything I can for you yet you remain ungrateful, disrespectful? Well guess its runs in your blood and I thought you are innocent but it turns out that you are just like the rest of them, naive"

Her eyes widened with every hurtful remarks he made about her and she did not understand why she felt that way shouldn't she be resentful towards him for killing her beloved mother but here she is weeping constantly because douma was treating her like he never did before.

"But that's fine (y/n) I can not bring myself to hurt you I love you and we shall always be together whether you like it or not" nothing reached in her ears anymore as her body grew numb. Her eyes shut as she carried the unbearable pain in her heart slowly loosing consciousness and remaining sanity.

It would have been easier if she died but alas a mere human like her is doomed at his mercy.

[god-of-dust]

after much deliberation, i decided to post what i wrote of chapter 2 and 3 of Trick Me here. this will probably never end up on ao3 because of Reasons, but someone might enjoy reading it and i definitely enjoy the validation. (also, leaving this to rot in my folder seems like a waste.)

this is rated T, no particular warnings apply besides tom’s occasional murderous thoughts.

-----

There’s no sign of Potter. Figures. Tom glares at the suit of armour as if it’s the one meant to carry the blame for this situation.

Disillusionment Charm firmly in place, he leans on the rough stone wall and resigns himself to wait.

“You’re early. Why am I not surprised?”

In a split second, Tom turns in the direction of the voice and points his wand towards... the empty corridor?

Then Potter’s head—only his head—emerges from thin air.

“Jumpy, too. Again, not surprised,” Potter says, smirking. Then he moves, revealing the rest of his body and the rippling fabric of a cloak.

An Invisibility Cloak. No wonder Potter can get wherever he wants without getting caught. “Where did you get that?” Tom asks, envy colouring every word. That kind of Cloak is worth thousands of Galleons, which is more money than Tom has ever possessed in his entire life.

The things Tom could do with one... he’d have no need for permission to slide beyond the wards of the forbidden section of the library. While certainly tame compared to what a collection from a Dark pureblood family would hold, there are also many old books there that Tom has been dying to get his hands on since he’s seen their titles and felt the power they contained.

“Family heirloom,” Potter says with a shrug.

Of course Potter has a family that provides for him, and of course he has the gall to shrug, like it’s absolutely normal to carry around an object this valuable and use it to go to the Quidditch pitch at night. It’s maddening, to witness this utter lack of ambition in someone who has so much at his disposal and wastes it so pitifully.

He reaches out to touch the fabric. It’s soft and perfect, spells woven so beautifully that it appears not to be enchanted at all. He refuses to believe that this Potter is the one who cast them. “What kind of spells does your family use to prevent the magic from fading? How frequently do you have to refresh them?”

Potter only smiles and shakes his head. “You and Hermione would be amazing together if you just stopped being an arse to her.”

Tom glares at him. His thoughts on that particular topic must be crystal clear, because Potter laughs that full-bellied laugh of his. “You haven’t answered my question,” Tom insists.

“Do you want to stand in the corridor all night discussing my cloak? I thought we had Quidditch to play.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Tom says: “Fine.”

“Get under here, then,” Potter beckons, holding a side of the cloak open for Tom to slip under and cover himself.

Sliding in the offered space, Tom instantly becomes very aware of how close they have to stay for them both to be concealed. Wonderful, he thinks, just wonderful. Just what I needed: more contact with him.

He lets Potter lead the way outside; after a bit of fumbling, they find a rhythm that allows them to walk in sync without constantly bumping into each other’s shoulder.

“Thank Merlin you’re shorter than Ron. His feet try to peek out all the time, it’s an absolute nightmare.”

Are his friends all he can talk about? Tom vaguely wonders, before noticing the route they’re taking. “The Quidditch pitch is the other way.”

“We’re not going to the pitch,” Potter replies.

Tom stops in his tracks, making the cloak tangle around Potter’s form; unsurprisingly, it only takes a moment for the miraculous Golden Boy to recover his balance. Tom, voice strained with the effort to keep it under control, hisses: “If you’re trying to trick me, Potter, I swear—”

“I’m not,” Potter interrupts. “The pitch is too open and couples go there to shag all the time, so the chances of someone seeing us are too high. I’m taking you to a place only I and my closest friends know about.”

Again with his friends. “Are you really so arrogant as to believe you’re the only one that knows anything about Hogwarts?”

This time, Potter is the one who stills abruptly. He turns to face Tom, noses almost touching under the cloak, eyes ablaze with an emotion that Tom has never seen on him: genuine, unfiltered anger. “Listen, Riddle. I offered my help, but what I didn’t offer was being target practice for your fucking abrasiveness. You want to learn Quidditch? I can teach you. You want to act like a bastard? Go do that somewhere else, because I’m not afraid to punch you in the face if you insist on constantly accusing me of imaginary crimes.”

“As if I’m not able to defend myself from your punches,” Tom snarls.

Potter’s eyes narrow. “Were you even listening to me?”

There’s nothing stopping Tom from hexing Potter into the next century; nothing, except for the fact that he’d be expelled and then the whole Potter clan would ensure that he’d rot in Azkaban for an indeterminate amount of years. Right now, it seems like a minor price to pay.

He keeps his twitching fingers away from his wand. He needs to hold himself in check if he wants to avoid Potter’s suspicion. After a steadying breath, he says evenly: “I was. My words were... out of line. I apologise.”

Silence stretches while Potter stares at him. Then he turns on his heels, facing away, and they resume their walking.

It takes them a few minutes to reach the boundary of looming trees that students are supposed to never cross. “Is this secret place of yours really inside the Forest?”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m reasonably sure that no one else has discovered it. A wrong turn would take them either into an Acromantula nest or in centaur territory,” Potter explains, navigating with sure steps amidst trunks and twigs and weeds and bushes as if he owns the place.

Both options are incredibly dangerous, for many different reasons. Not even the Headmaster has jurisdiction over the creatures in the Forest, and any reckless student who wanders too far is responsible for their own fate. Over the years, Tom has done a little exploring of his own to gather herbs, shed fur and other potion ingredients, but he never went as deep inside as wherever Potter is taking them now. “How did you discover it, then?” Tom asks while memorising the convoluted trail so that he’ll be able to return later. The potions he could brew with even a small vial of Acromantula venom, or some eggs... he has to find out more about those supposedly wrong turns.

“I followed my nose,” Potter says with a mischievous smirk, previous anger washed away like a leaf in a river. “And perhaps I had a bit of help.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well, sorry, but I’m not going to divulge my secrets to anyone who asks... besides, you’re smart enough; perhaps with time you’ll figure it out on your own.”

Focus still firmly placed on their surroundings, Tom ignores the compliment. He has no use for Potter’s pretense.

A large clearing suddenly materialises before them, encircled by towering trees whose foliage forms a protective half-dome high over their heads. Ancient magic caresses Tom’s skin, making him shiver with anticipation. There’s a circular area in the center, large enough to hold a dozen people, empty of any grass or stone; Tom is certain that someone has built it that way on purpose. He steps closer, prudent and fascinated in equal measure. “What is this place?” he wonders, eyes wide and searching as he studies the stone while taking in the feeling of rightness and inspiration the space emanates.

“Somewhere where we can have all the privacy we want,” Potter says lightly as he slides off the cloak from their shoulders. To him, this secret spot humming with magic that vibrates in Tom’s blood and bones must be just another day, just another priceless thing dropped on his lap that he wields without a care.

After enchanting a few Lumos spheres to hover around them, Potter extracts a small object from his pocket, lays it on the even ground and enlarges it with a wave of his wand, revealing it to be a trunk. Then he points to a twisted root that peeks out from the soil and transfigures it into three Quidditch hoops, about three meters high.

“I assume you know about Quidditch roles and rules even if you’ve never played, correct?”

“Yes.” Tom’s skimmed through a Quidditch book, if only not to be completely unprepared when it came to playing his part in this charade. He will carry his plan forward and rip the rug from under Potter’s feet, even if it involves studying a few tedious rules of a tedious sport.

“So, you can probably imagine that every role requires different skills, which is why we’ll explore every one of them and gradually build up your stamina and reflexes while you discover what you’re naturally good at.” He scratches at his head contemplatively. “When was the last time you rode a broom?”

“First year flying classes. I was average at the basics and never tried anything more elaborate.” Tom isn’t eager to recall most of those memories because, in truth, it had been humiliating to realise how far behind his peers he was. Unlike them, he’d never had a broom of his own to practice and his confidence had faltered when he needed it the most. The broom’s magic had caught on his hesitation and thus his performance had been lukewarm at best.

“Yeah, I can imagine it wasn’t pleasing for you. Hermione was the same. You really can’t stand it when you don’t excel at something, huh?”

“I doubt anyone enjoys the feeling of being incompetent.”

“Good point,” Potter admits, “but that’s not the attitude you need right now. You always have to start from somewhere and build from there, even if that starting point isn’t as glorious as you’d like.” He squats to open the trunk; it contains a clearly well-loved yet also well-kept set of Quidditch balls.

Tom eyes suspiciously the Bludgers struggling against the chains holding them in place.

“Since we’re starting from the basics, tonight we’re both going to play Chasers, which means that we’ll pass the Quaffle between us and do our best to score through the goals. Of course, there’s more to being a Chaser than this, but it will be enough for now. Before that, though, I want to see you on a broom.”

“I don’t have one. I presumed we’d use one of the school brooms,” Tom says, crossing his arms, mild irritation colouring his tone.

Unbothered, Potter reaches again into his pocket to produce two shrunken brooms. “I brought my Nimbus. It’s very good, especially for a beginner, with quick responses and great stability.”

He holds out his hand and Tom takes the now appropriately sized broom. “...Thank you.”

“Wow, you’re really making an effort into being polite. I appreciate that,” Potter says, apparently pleased. “But now, Riddle, show me how you ride.”

There’s nothing in Potter’s smile and in that particular phrasing that Tom could possibly care for. He straddles the broom and pushes himself to hover in mid-air, one meter from the ground and then one more; feeling how precarious and uncertain his posture is, he does his best to correct it.

“Good. You don’t seem to be struggling much. Are you afraid of heights?”

Tom shoots him a venomous look. “No.”

“That’s one less thing we have to worry about, then.” Potter jumps on his broom and rises too, graceful as a phoenix. Bastard. “Let’s try some loops.”

Tom nods and watches as Potter demonstrates a few simple figures: circle, spiral, figure-eight. They seem easy enough, but when Tom tries to follow Potter’s directions his broom moves in shaky zig-zags instead of the smooth curves he expects it to perform.

“This broom isn’t working,” Tom snarls. He looks at Potter, who’s certainly dying to make fun of him... only to find no trace of sadistic glee on his expression.

Potter circles around him, examining him from head to toe with furrowed brows, almost hawk-like in his focus. “You’re clenching your thighs and hands too hard. The broom reads that as a sign for ‘straight line’ and ‘speed’, and right now that’s not your objective. For curves like these, you have to flow with the movement and lean into the direction you want without overbalancing.” His posture is relaxed, bordering on lazy, as he flies in a large, slow circle for Tom’s sake. “Like this.”

Tom imitates him as best as he can, loosening his grip. “What if I want to achieve a fast curve?”

“Fast curves are more advanced. We’ll try those later.”

Tom tries again with a figure-eight, and he’s surprised when he finds that the broom’s following the path he intended with increasing ease.

“See? Way better,” Potter beams. He looks like he’s genuinely enjoying this.

After a few minutes of loops, Tom’s acquired a mild amount of confidence in his form; at least the feeling that he’ll tip over every time he steers the broom has lessened until it’s nearly gone. Seemingly satisfied, Potter instructs him on how to repeat the same figures with a single-handed grip, then handless, as he explains: “You’ll need your hands free for the Quaffle.”

Even while going through boring drills at this insignificant height, there’s an undeniable thrill to flying, to acquiring control over something as elusive as air. “One day,” he declares, “I’m going to invent broomless flying.” Perhaps a variation of Wingardium Leviosa, combined with a Feather-Light Charm... yes, he’ll do it, and succeed.

“That would be amazing. And honestly, if anyone could do that it would be you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Tom scoffs, close to amused. Does Potter really think that compliments will have any effect on him? Tom’s too acquainted with the subtle art of manipulation to take any of Potter’s amateurish attempts seriously.

Potter rolls his eyes. “It’s not flattery, it’s me making an observation. Every single person in Hogwarts knows that your knowledge and control over magic are impressive.” Smoothly diving forwards, Potter reaches for the trunk and grabs the Quaffle inside it.

“Catch!” he says, and throws the ball at Tom.

Instincts rearing up before he can think, Tom steers sideways to dodge, but he’s too quick, too sudden, the broom refuses to cooperate—fuck, he’s lost his balance, he’s going to slip off and fall on his face like a bloody—

An arm slides around his torso, holding him up. A steady hand over the handle of his broom stops its lurching. Tom is barely breathing, his mind catching up to the fact that he’s not going to become one with the forest soil.

“Shit, Tom, I’m sorry, I thought you were ready, I should have warned you—”

Heart still finding the way back to its regular beat, Tom interrupts Potter’s rambling: “It’s fine. Nothing happened.”

“Well it was a stupid thing to do, and I won’t do it again,” Potter insists, wide eyes painfully green even in the dark.

“Just drop it, will you?” It’s embarrassing enough that he ran away from a Quaffle like it was the Killing Curse; Potter’s self-flagellation is just rubbing more salt on the wound. As if he hasn’t done it on purpose anyway, the fucking prick.

With a sigh, the arm around Tom tightens briefly before Potter releases him. “Do you want to stop? We’ve done a lot already. You’ve been great.”

More useless flattering.

“Let’s try again,” Tom orders. He wants to challenge Potter, confuse him, shock him, give him a lesson that he’ll never forget. The plan to ruin his reputation isn’t enough; the matter has become personal.

Uncertain, Potter nods. This time, when the Quaffle comes towards him Tom catches it, albeit unsteadily. A victorious glint in his eyes, he does his best to throw Potter off-balance by flinging the ball back at him.

The back-and-forth of the Quaffle between them slowly acquires a flow. Potter accepts Tom’s viciousness and in turn pushes Tom’s limits, building his reflexes with progressively more elaborate throws, flying around him in circles like an annoying snidget. Tom fumbles, stumbles, grumbles, but he manages to avoid another fall, and he even scores a few points through the unprotected goals.

By the end of the lesson they’re both sweating—disgusting—and Potter is positively radiating joy.

Tom can’t say the same about himself. His performance’s been nowhere near satisfactory, his dexterity and form nowhere near Potter’s. While he still holds no interest for Quidditch, he also can’t stand the thought that Potter can have this golden opportunity to gloat over him. There’s no way that Tom will accept being considered inferior to anyone.

“So, uh... how was it?” Potter asks once they’ve dismounted, self-consciously running a hand through his hair. It looks like a habit of his.

“You’ve been patient,” Tom concedes. It’s true, at least on the surface: Potter’s been nothing but helpful and tolerant of every mistake, adapting his teaching to Tom’s pace with flawless precision. “I could have done better.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Potter says, “will you stop with the self-deprecation? You’re learning. It’s all part of the process. Believe me, I’ve seen worse.”

Tom hands the Nimbus back to Potter, who’s extinguishing the enchanted lights and reverting the goal posts back to their original shape. “You’ve also seen best, I reckon.”

Potter huffs in annoyance as he takes the broom and stores it away along with the rest of the equipment. “Yes, and it doesn’t matter. This isn’t a competition. The whole point of us being in the middle of the forest instead of the pitch is that you can be away from judgemental eyes, so could you please stop being your own worst critic?”

“We should go.” If Potter considers having standards the same as self-deprecation, then Tom has nothing else to say. “I can find my way back.” He turns to follow the hidden trail that led them here.

“Wait,” Potter says, interrupting Tom as he was about to cast a wordless Disillusionment Charm on himself. “Do you want to do this again? More lessons?”

Does Tom want to? Is the headache of spending time with Potter worth it?

Like a sharp edge, a thorn stuck in his side, Potter’s words echo in his head. This isn’t a competition. But it is, in a way—it’s Tom’s endurance against his desire to chalk up the whole plan as a failure and sweep it under the rug.

And Potter is still an issue—he still needs to go down in flames, and Tom is the one who has to ignite that fire.

He straightens his back. I won’t quit now. “Same time, next Saturday?”

“I’ll be here,” Potter says. It sounds like a promise.

##

[missing scene with Tom and snake-Harry]

##

At half past eleven on Saturday, Harry prepares to slip away from the Gryffindor dormitory under his Cloak.

“Ron, hey,” he whispers in the darkness of the dormitory, shaking his friend’s shoulder.

Still more than half-asleep, refusing to open his eyes, Ron mutters, “What?”

“I’m going out, will probably be late again. Don’t wait for me, okay?” He’s a little ashamed of taking advantage of Ron while he’s in this state, knowing that he won’t ask questions.

“Yeah, yeah—g’night, mate,” Ron says, words slurred as the dream world ensnares him again.

Then Harry leaves, sliding through the many corridors of the castle as if he were in his Animagus form, until he crosses the entrance; outside he can run, free, breathing in the cold wind that chills his face and lungs. He feels so light, like the world is full of exciting possibilities, like he’s on the hunt for something marvellous.

Yes, he hates hiding these nighttime escapades from his friends. However, he also loves the secret thrill of this undefined thing he and Tom have, this strange agreement that’s neither friendship nor rivalry, while not being neutral either. He knows, he can see that Tom—and how weird it is, that he already thinks of him as such—still despises him... yet he’s also invested in Harry in a way that goes beyond simple hatred or spite.

He could have used many excuses to get his hands on Harry’s Firebolt and sabotage it. He could have cursed Harry himself, especially with how close they’ve been, and Harry has no doubt that Tom possesses a sizable arsenal of slow-building, undetectable curses that would have sent Harry to his grave with no one the wiser.

But then, how absurd it is that Harry’s still not afraid to know that a part of Tom, a loud and powerful one, would rejoice in his pain and in having caused it?

He’s certain that Tom Riddle’s bite is deadly venomous, and he’s been thirsting for Harry’s blood for a long time. The bane of his existence, indeed.

Yet Harry saw something else during their time together: the fierce competitiveness, the stubbornness, the drive towards excellence, the desire to be greater than anyone... and also the insecurity, the self-loathing, the fear hidden behind harsh perfectionism, the sense of not being enough, of having to push himself harder, of not belonging anywhere, of being unloved and unlovable.

Tom Riddle is human and flawed. And he has bite, yes, but along with the venom comes a blazing fire that he keeps carefully concealed under his detached, polished façade. Harry wants to witness more of that fire, wants to bask in it, wants to revel in the privilege of being the one who can bring it out.

He knows what Tom could do, the potential of his cruelty. However, night after night, he discovers an inescapable curiosity for what Tom will do.

A laughter, full and thrilling, shakes Harry’s body as he skips through the forest, jumping over traitorous roots and avoiding thorn bushes intent on drawing blood.

Tom, of course, has already arrived.

Harry admires the transfigured goal posts, smoother and more symmetrical than how his own half-arsed magic would ever mold them, and thinks, This is going to be fun.

“Eager?” Harry can’t help but tease.

Tom gives him one of his looks. “I don’t like wasting time.”

“Of course. Let’s get to it, then.”

Like last time, Harry offers Tom his Nimbus; they warm up by playing with the Quaffle, letting Tom reacquaint himself with the feeling of flying by revisiting a few of the trickier turns. Tom’s control over the borrowed broomstick is still shaky and hesitant, which he clearly hates with a passion, but he’s also improved considerably in a small amount of time.

This may be the one thing in which Tom Riddle isn’t a natural. However, for some reason he’s actually putting in an effort to learn, which leaves Harry wondering why. Merlin knows Tom’s mind works in mysterious ways, and even after spending a few nights with him as a snake and witnessing his unfiltered rants Harry’s not closer to understanding his convoluted reasoning.

“Tonight I think you could try your hand at playing Keeper.”

Tom, always straight to the point, immediately flies towards the transfigured hoops and circles around them. “On a practical level, how is it different from playing Chaser, anyway? The ball is the same, it’s just a matter of catching it as we’ve already been doing.”

Harry feels an appraising smile rise on his lips. “Interesting question,” he replies, turning the Quaffle in his hands. “I believe the main difference is in the freedom of movement. As a Chaser, you can follow the trajectory and position of the Quaffle and other players in the way that’s most convenient for you, while as a Keeper you have to stay in a confined area, since leaving the goals unguarded equals failure. You need sharper eyes and quicker reflexes, which is why I considered it more advanced.”

“But the smaller area should make it easier, not harder,” Tom says with a small frown.

“Theory is theory, practice is practice. You’ll see by yourself.”

“Let’s begin, then.” He looks impatient, and Harry privately thinks that it’s kind of adorable. Perhaps my love for Quidditch is rubbing off on him. Or perhaps he’s just that competitive.

So Harry begins throwing and Tom begins to understand Harry’s point as the Quaffle slides under his guard and passes easily through the hoops time after time. With sweaty hair plastered to his forehead, eyes aflame and gritted teeth, Tom struggles to prevent Harry’s craftiness from allowing him to score yet another point. He’s only managed to catch five out of twenty-four throws.

“You have to keep in mind that I’m not an actual Chaser myself,” Harry says, immensely enjoying the murderous look on Tom’s face. “This could be way worse.”

Tom stills, holding the ball as if he wants to strangle it. “You do so love to make fun of me,” he snarls. “Idiot Tom Riddle, who’s never learned to play Quidditch, who can’t even catch a bloody Quaffle. Must be so nice to sit on your throne and laugh at my pathetic attempts.”

The aggressiveness in Tom’s tone makes Harry feel all kinds of ruffled, and perhaps he should be keeping his mouth shut, but when has he ever listened to reason? So he says, “I thought you had more spine than this, for someone who sits on his throne and laughs at others all the time.”

“What?” Tom says, eyes narrow and voice sharp as a potioneer’s blade.

“You heard me. Is it fun, being an arsehole to Hermione and who knows how many others? How does it feel when you are the one whose efforts feel inadequate, Tom?”

“It’s Riddle, to you.”

“Well then, Riddle: how does it feel? And mind you, I was teasing you as I would with a friend, but I could also be cruel and cutting like you. I could get on the same level of ‘polite bastard’ you seem to revel in.”

The look Tom gives him is utterly blank, which could be seen as an improvement over being murderous, or could also mean that he’s so much more murderous than usual that he’s already on the phase where he’s choosing how to dispose of Harry’s body.

Harry sighs. This is all pointless. Tom hates him, will always hate him, and they’re just dancing around each other waiting for the perfect opportunity to... what? Tom is most likely waiting for Harry to lower his guard enough for him to strike undetected, but what does Harry want? What’s his excuse for being here?

Perhaps this time his curiosity is better left alone.

“Forget what I just said. I’ve been an arsehole,” Harry says. “We don’t have to do this if you’re so frustrated it makes you miserable.”

“Is this what you think of me? That I go around lording my knowledge over people?” Tom doesn’t sound angry—he just stares at Harry like he’s speaking in a different language.

“From what I’ve seen of you... well, yes,” Harry says, uncertain. He feels like this whole conversation is balancing on a very delicate thread. “It’s not overt, but you do act superior and rub your grades on other people’s faces, with those condescending smirks and such... and I don’t believe that you don’t do that on purpose.”

“I—do that,” Tom admits quietly, almost disturbed by the revelation. Even more interesting, he appears to be honestly considering it. “Perhaps... it’s a bit excessive.”

“We all know you’re the most skilled student in this school anyway. It’s not just about grades—you clearly have a touch, a passion for magic that can’t be found in books and that most of us can’t hope to replicate.”

Tom’s eyes catch Harry’s then, a blazing intensity passing between them that makes Harry feel… funny. “You’re telling the truth. You do think that.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“Not coming from you.”

Harry frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You—” Tom pauses, raking a hand through his already mussed-up hair. He looks more unbuttoned than Harry’s ever seen him. “I’m not sure.”

“That you wanted to murder me in my sleep, probably,” Harry says unthinkingly. He knows that Tom has never been confused on his opinion of Harry; he’s heard enough dramatics when Tom’s spoken to him as Ezra, long tales on how insufferable Harry is, and how much of an attention-seeker, how brainless and privileged, and so on.

Surprisingly, Tom laughs. It’s brief, blink-and-you’ll miss it, but it’s happened.

Tom Riddle has laughed.

“I might have considered it, yes,” Tom confesses, not even remotely apologetic.

Harry is shocked and more charmed than he’d like to admit. “I don’t know what to do with this sudden honesty.”

Tom shakes his head, and he’s still smiling—not smirking, but smiling—and he looks as unbalanced as Harry feels. “Neither do I.” He locks eyes with Harry, and for a few brief seconds there’s that intensity again; then he breaks the spell to Accio the Quaffle from where he’d dropped it. “Let me try again.”

“Sure,” Harry says, quietly thrilled.

##

[missing scene with Tom and snake-Harry]

##

The trunk containing Potter’s Quidditch equipment sits on the forest floor, lid open. Tom studies the set of chained Bludgers and lifts an eyebrow. “Last time you said that in this lesson I was supposed to ‘learn my way around a Beater’s bat’.” The unspoken question of why Potter hasn’t handed him any bat yet hangs in the air.

“Yeah, I said that, but then I realised that Bludgers might not be the best idea right now,” Potter admits, shrugging. “You’re probably already familiar with how they work from a spectator’s point of view, but this is another instance of theory being very different from practice.”

“In short, you believe I’m not able to undertake this particular task,” Tom says. Of course Potter wouldn’t consider him worthy enough for the scary, angry balls, not when Tom still struggles with inconsistent balance and shaky steering at the best of times. Furthermore, Potter’s famed superior abilities allow him to keenly judge the depth of Tom’s incompetency and find him wanting.

Unimpressed by Tom’s logic, Potter rolls his eyes. “Is it necessary for you to be so dramatic?”

“Don’t bother with lying. We both know it’s the truth,” Tom insists. He has no patience for this display of futile denial.

“It’s a distorted version of the truth, so you can beat yourself up for not being perfect enough, or some crap along those lines. Yes, it’s probably not safe for you to engage with Bludgers yet. No, it doesn’t mean that you’re useless of whatever you’re telling yourself.”

“You seem awfully confident in your ability to interpret my thoughts.” Out of ingrained habit, Tom reinforces his Occlumency shields. While it’s unlikely that Potter has the wits and finesse to master the delicate art of Legilimency, he’s also revealed himself to be unpredictable in many occasions. Better safe than sorry.

“Maybe you’re just obvious,” Potter says dismissively, before tapping his wand on the small set of chains that holds the Golden Snitch in place at the center of the trunk. The ball springs free, only for Potter to catch it immediately with practiced ease and a gleam in his eyes that promises nothing good for Tom. “Tonight we’re Seeking.”

“Will the Snitch’s movements be restricted to this clearing, or will we have to follow its path amongst the trees?”

“Only the clearing,” Potter confirms with a small smile.

Tom lets his gaze roam to evaluate the length and breadth of the space. The shiny surface of the ball would be easily discernible against the dark background. “Seems feasible.”

The smile on Potter’s face grows wider. “Let’s begin, then.”

What followed were blurred hours of Tom fumbling his way through sharp turns, desperately trying to keep himself from losing his grip, then losing it anyway at every attempt to catch the blasted ball, then trying to regain his balance, then remembering to loosen his posture, then failing at commanding his limbs to go on a single direction, thus dipping downwards at uncontrollable speed until he would have surely eaten grass if not for Potter’s steadying hand.

Once they finally touch the ground, Tom flings away Potter’s broom, rage painting his world in red. He doesn’t give a single fuck about the bloody stick of wood and the bloody Snitch, he’s bruised all over the place and he’s sick of this, he won’t stand a single second of humiliating himself any further, he’s utterly and completely done. “How do you fucking do this?” Tom roars. “Why would you willingly subject yourself to this torture?”

“Uh, T—Riddle—”

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Tom goes on, ignoring him. “Why I even considered to accept this whole ordeal as if it deserves any of my time.”

“Riddle, I told you, this isn’t an obligation,” Potter says. “We can stop, it’s okay.” He’s dismounted too, and he stands there, slowly and cautiously inching towards Tom.

‘It’s okay��—as if Tom needs to be soothed or, worse, coddled. The infantilising undertones make Tom want to tear Potter to shreds. There’s a Cruciatus on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be unleashed, waiting for him to reap Potter’s pain for witnessing Tom making a fool of himself and daring to treat him like a volatile child. I doubt he’ll be so entertained when he’s contorting on the ground, screaming his lungs out, he thinks savagely, extracting his wand from its holster.

As the first syllable of the curse leaves Tom’s mouth, red light charging on the tip of his wand, Potter is fast—he crouches and rolls away from its trajectory, touching down over the stone in the middle of the clearing and drawing up a Shield Charm strong enough that Tom can hear it crackling like lightning. “What the fuck, Riddle?” he snaps, but there’s no surprise or fear on his face, only the sharp focus of a seasoned duellist.

Unfortunately for Potter, a mere Shield Charm isn’t enough to deter Tom; many Dark curses are designed to eat through them like a parchment set aflame. He smiles, all teeth, and Potter seems to sense his intentions, eyes narrowing.

Then the unthinkable happens.

Potter casts non-verbally at the same time Tom’s spell almost strikes home; the jets of their magic meet in midair and twine together in a single stream of pure gold light. Birdsong erupts, filling the space with an otherworldly melody, while luminous threads of magic are birthed from the stream like a spiderweb, surrounding Tom and Harry in a dome until the forest disappears beyond the shimmering brilliance.

What in Salazar’s name is this?

The entirety of Tom’s world is reduced to this moment in time, to Potter’s green eyes reflecting the light. Mesmerised, Tom watches as beads of light appear in the stream of their magic. His wand vibrates and he clutches it harder; the beads gets closer and closer to its tip, and Tom feels the light whispering at him to accept sanctuary in its song, to let it wash away his anger, to cease fighting, to surrender, and his whole body becomes weightless, being gently lifted from the ground by this invisible, absurd, liminal force—

And suddenly it ends.

The light disappears, leaving them to adjust to the night again: the link has been broken. Tom aches for it, deep in his bones. He can already tell how the echoes of that melody will haunt him for many nights to come.

He and Potter stare at each other, feet back on the ground, eyes wide, breathless and at a loss for words.

“What was that?” Tom breathes. “What did you do?”

Potter shakes his head, bewildered. “I have no clue. I just—stopped it.”

“You stopped it?”

“I think so.” Potter crawls towards a point to his side, scanning the grass back and forth until he recovers his wand from where he must have lost it when he interrupted the contact.

“Why?” Tom asks, unable to keep the word inside his still pounding chest. Why would you commit such a blasphemous act?

“Because—whatever it was, I’m not sure either of us was prepared for it.” He’s holding Tom’s gaze, straight on, in a way that reaches deep under his skin.

Unnerved, Tom skims the surface of Potter’s mind and finds a confusing jumble of... something. Too many somethings, all swirling in dizzying patterns. Wonder, doubt, curiosity, wariness, joy—all underlined by the same pure bliss that has enveloped Tom under the dome.

This magic is messing with my senses. “Don’t speak to me ever again. We’re done,” Tom says, with as much vicious strength as he can muster, rising on wobbly legs.

Potter sits in the grass and says nothing, making no move to stop him.

Tom can feel the weight of his gaze all the way to the castle. Once he reaches the dungeons, the Slytherin common room and finally his own bed, he realises how not a single part of his plan has worked out as expected.

His wand, who’s been a faithful companion since he was eleven, has acted in a way that was absolutely mystifying. Still shivering with the residue of that golden magic that doesn’t let go of his limbs, Tom performs a series of spells only to have the proof of what he already expected: the wand responds as usual and nothing is out of the ordinary—not now, not anymore. But if that unreal... thing wasn’t a malfunction, or caused by a curse, then what was it? He’s never heard of anything like it.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Tom’s out of his depth.

He thought he’d ruin Potter’s reputation, only to end up tired, bruised, with his magic acting up unpredictably and his thoughts scrambled beyond recognition. He thought he would teach Potter a lesson, and yet he lost himself in birdsong and light, giving away his power like an utter fool, until Potter was the one to separate them. And isn’t it funny that the reckless Gryffindor poster boy was the one who acted appropriately, while Tom has been too weak, too compromised? Weak, his mind provides.

How could it all have gone so wrong? How could Tom have lost the guidance of his own compass so completely?

For the briefest of moments, he wishes for Ezra’s presence; the snake has no interest in what he calls ‘complicated human affairs’, and his snark would help to keep Tom grounded. And isn’t this another sign of Tom’s weakness, to need another—an animal—to recover his balance?

He rubs his eyes, feeling both keyed-up and drained to the bone. A restless night awaits him.

However, he refuses to surrender to the hold of these thoughts. It’s completely useless to wallow in defeat and waste any more time contemplating this utter failure. Whatever happens next, whatever stunt Potter pulls that could interfere with Tom’s position in Slytherin, he’ll deal with it. Tom is cunning and capable enough to adapt to what fate has in store for him, as he’s always done.

He digs into his potion stash for a vial of Dreamless Sleep.

Potter can rot.

##

Harry crosses for the millionth time the opening sentence of his Potions essay. His parchment has turned into a blot of ink and he sighs, his wand to vanish the black stain. Then, he stares at the blank scroll, mind empty of coherent thoughts, unable to string together the meaning of a single line in the open book before him.

“I need help,” he finally says to Hermione, almost begging. They’re sitting, along with Ron, in their usual corner of the library. “I know, I know, I should write my own essay, but this isn’t—Hermione?” Harry hesitates, as he sees her casting a sturdy Muffliato around their table, the usual sign that a serious conversation was about to happen. Harry shoots a questioning look at Ron, but for once his friend appears to be on the same page as Hermione, leaving Harry out of the loop.

“Harry,” Hermione begins, with a concerned tone and furrowed eyebrows, “what’s going on? You’ve been distracted and spacing out for days, like you can’t focus on anything. It’s the third time you’ve asked for my help this week—even with difficult assignments, it’s not usually that bad.” She’s studying Harry’s face like she would a particularly complex Arithmancy equation, looking for the familiar tells that will betray his secrets.

Even though he knows perfectly well that she’s right, and that he did in fact intend to have one of those conversations, Harry protests on principle: “It’s Potions, you know how much I struggle with it! These essays are an absolute nightmare!”

“Yeah, mate, but maybe it would help if you read from the Potions book, instead of the Defense one,” Ron suggests, tapping his index finger on Harry’s book.

Harry stares at him, mild horror creeping up on his face, before letting his eyes fall on the book. He closes it and, sure enough, the battered cover doesn’t lie. “Fuck,” he says, defeated. He pushes up his glasses to rub at his face. “No wonder it didn’t make sense.”

Unlike Hermione, Ron doesn’t seem bothered by Harry’s behaviour; he shakes his head in playful disbelief, but he seems more curious than worried, which is relieving.

“So, what is it?” Hermione says.

Here it is, the moment Harry’s been dreading since this whole ordeal with Tom has started: telling the truth to his friends.

Like many other times, he doesn’t have a proper explanation for acting the way he does; in true Marauder fashion, he’d just acted on impulse, following the trail of fun. Unlike those other times, however, an explanation will be needed at some point.

This doesn’t mean that he isn’t also feeling quite defensive about this particular issue. After all, it’s not just about him; this is Tom’s business as much as it’s Harry’s, and Hermione won’t be happy to discover that her rival is involved. Harry still isn’t prepared for the fuss she will undoubtedly kick up.

And of course, predictable as the sunrise, Ron asks: “Is this because of whatever you’ve been doing when you sneak out at night?”

“Why are you being so secretive, Harry?” Hermione questions, leaning forwards and lowering her voice even though the Muffling Charm protects them from eavesdroppers. “Are you doing something that could get you expelled?”

“Hermione, I do things that could get me thrown in Azkaban on the regular.” Like being an unregistered Animagus, for instance.

And isn’t that another guilt-flavoured train of thought? The list of people that will need an explanation does include Tom himself. He’s warming up to Ezra in a way that he would have never allowed if he were aware of who hid behind the snake’s form. Yeah, Harry can’t say he’s looking forward to confessing that particular secret to Tom. After all, how can Harry admit to him that’s listened to his unfiltered rants and musings without Tom murdering him in cold blood? The Slytherin is already mistrustful enough, and lying by omission is one of the most dangerous things Harry could do, especially considering that Tom is a Legilimens.

Hermione waves an impatient hand to dismiss Harry’s point, snapping his attention back to the conversation. “You know what I mean, and you’re deflecting.”

Harry begins to open his mouth, but before he’s figured out what he’s going to say Hermione interrupts him again, voice gone soft: “Did you break up with your partner?”

“My what?” Again, Harry looks at Ron and finds none of the confusion he expects on his face.

“You have been disappearing a lot,” Ron offers with an half-shrug. “It was the most obvious conclusion.”

Harry gapes, stunned by the turn the conversation has taken. “Did you two really think that I have a secret lover? Why in the name of Merlin would I hide that?” If only they knew who my supposed ‘lover’ is. And isn’t that a thought, Tom being anyone’s lover, and Harry’s lover to boot? It’s too absurd, too unthinkable to even consider.

Yes, Harry can admit that Tom is handsome, and that he certainly doesn’t lack admirers; even with his poor eyesight, he’s not that ignorant of the Slytherin’s charms. However, Tom’s usual regal demeanour creates a distance between him and the rest of the world. Like a marble statue, Tom Riddle is meant to be admired while staying unreachable, and Harry can’t imagine him letting his shields down for anyone.

Except he did with me. Harry has been a witness to Tom’s temper, his cruelty, his smile. As obstinate as Tom has been with his will to drag Harry into the mud and his constant misinterpretation of Harry’s motives, he’s also let Harry see unflattering, vulnerable sides of him that many others would kill for.

How did that happen? What does this say about us?

“You’re spacing out again,” Hermione sighs. “But if it’s not a secret lover, then what is this all about?”

“I’ve been seeing someone. Not in that way,” he adds, before they can say anything. “But we kind of, uh, had a disagreement, and our magic reacted strangely and I was wondering if you knew something about it that I don’t.”

At the mention of an intellectual debate Hermione perks up, her posture instantly straightening. Harry tells them an abridged version of what happened in the clearing, glossing over the more incriminating details that could reveal Tom’s identity or the reason behind their fight.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve read about something like this before,” Hermione says, tapping her index finger to her lips. She bends to the side to rummage inside her magically expanded bag where she keeps a ridiculous amount of books—though Harry has to admit that, on occasions like this, having a portable library does come in handy. “I believe it was on a wandlore book I got last year. It’s hard to find any useful information on the subject because wandmaking is passed on through apprenticeship and very few masters have bothered writing down their knowledge, but I lucked on this tome that was gathering dust on a corner at Flourish and Blott’s, I’m fairly sure they didn’t even remember having it—ah, here it is!” she exclaims, showing them an ancient leatherbound volume whose title has faded completely. After a few minutes of leafing through the yellowed pages, she says: “I was right! Priori Incantatem, an extremely rare phenomenon that manifests when two practitioners bearing twin wands—that is, wands with the twin cores—attempt a duel.”

“So my... acquaintance’s wand has a phoenix feather core like mine?”

Hermione studies the book again. “Not just any phoenix feather, apparently. It has to be a feather from the same phoenix as yours, which I guess is why most wands don’t have a twin at all, or never meet their twin.” She lifts her gaze from the page to meet Harry’s eyes with her bright ones. “Harry, who is this person? This could be an amazing opportunity to study something that—”

“I can’t tell you, and they made it very clear that they don’t want me to speak to them ever again,” Harry says. Classes with the Slytherins have been... something. While outwardly nothing had changed between them, as they’d never interacted in the first place, Harry could feel the spiky coldness radiating from Tom as if it were alive and ready for him to try and cross it.

“But mate,” Ron interjects, gesturing vaguely at Harry, “wouldn’t they like to know about this? If my wand started shooting weird golden light during a duel, I’d be freaking out and thinking that my magic isn’t working or something like that.”

“I think they’re perfectly capable of researching this on their own.” Maybe that’s the reason behind their odd connection. Their wands... attract them to each other, or something.

Would Tom even want to know? The truth is... Ron is right. Someone like Tom, who prides himself on knowing everything and always being in control, must have been utterly shaken by his magic going haywire all of a sudden.

Harry’s choice is made.

##

A week after the last encounter with Potter, Ezra reappears in the dungeons just as Tom’s Prefect rounds come to an end.

Tom wonders at the snake’s ability to be so precise about his routine. Ready to cage his wayward almost-but-not-quite familiar again, this time with no intention of letting go, Tom lifts his wand in lieu of a greeting.

“Put that away, human,” Ezra hisses, and his tone is enough to still Tom’s tongue. He sounds stiff, his muscles tight and struggling against his obvious distress.

Eyes narrowing, Tom asks: “What happened to you?” If someone had dared to hurt his snake...

“Too many questions.”

“That was one question.”

“Pointless details. Follow me,” Ezra commands, before slithering down the dimly lit corridor, wasting no time to check if Tom is going after him.

Tom curses under his breath. Disrespectful, disobedient creature. He casts a silent Disillusionment Charm over himself and trails behind the sinuous shadow; the snake avoids the treacherous staircases, leading Tom behind faded tapestries and secret passages that he’s never encountered before. Spelling away the cobwebs to prevent them from sticking to his skin and hair, Tom finds himself thinking that not even Potter would have discovered these places—then banishes the reminder of Potter’s existence from his head entirely. The bastard doesn’t deserve a single crumb of his attention.

At this point he’s also wondering if Ezra is trying to get him in trouble on purpose. While the snake has never been particularly talkative and often acts oddly even by reptile standards, this mysterious demeanour is unusual and bordering on suspicious.

Ezra halts in front of a familiar, half-open bathroom door, flicking his tongue at the air; then, apparently satisfied, he slides inside.

More and more confused by this bizarre pseudo-adventure, Tom follows.

Once they’re under the greenish, dim light of the Chamber of Secrets, surrounded by snake-decorated pillars that hold up the vast ceiling, Ezra melts into the shadows and disappears from sight. The last shreds of Tom’s patience evaporate. “Ezra, what is going on?” he barely refrains from shouting.

He hears rustling from behind him, and when he turns in the direction of the sound his eyes fall on the pavement. There’s a book in front of him that hadn’t been there before. The cover is clearly old, black and unassuming, but it means very little for Tom. Wary, he extracts his wand. The Chamber is not a place in which one can trust random books appearing out of thin air.

It’s enough to distract him.

“Incarcerous,” a voice says—a treacherous, insufferable voice—and Tom is bound and constricted by ropes of warm magic that bring him to his knees. As if the humiliation wasn’t enough, he watches, powerless, as Potter waltzes in his field of vision and oh-so-casually disarms him.

“You utter bastard,” Tom snarls, like a flesh-eating curse, “release me.” The spell holds strong against his attempts to free himself wandlessly.

With a grin that shows too many teeth, Potter replies airily, “I don’t think I will. We have a lot of things to discuss, you see, and I don’t fancy being hexed.” His gaze turns sharp and he crouches in front of Tom, mockingly. “Besides, you deserve a little taste of your own medicine. Going around caging random snakes? Very rude, Tom.”

“What have you done to my snake?” No ropes will protect Potter from Tom’s ire. His magic is beginning to flare up, warming his skin, ready to set ablaze everything on its path.

Potter feels it, but all he does is sit cross-legged before Tom, unbothered. “Your snake?” he laughs.

“I caught him. He’s mine.”

“Putting me in a glass case and having a few one-sided conversations about how much you hate me is hardly enough to call me yours.”

Tom’s thoughts screech to a halt. The implication behind Potter’s words dawns on him, like curtains closing at the end of a play. It can’t be true, can it? Tom couldn’t have been so foolish—but wasn’t he the one who’s compared Ezra to Potter more than once? Oh, the irony. The cruelty of his misplaced belief that he could be himself with anyone, even an animal.

And then, Potter’s face opens, and his expression morphs into a genuine smile. Something travels down Tom’s spine at the sight. “You’re surprisingly warm, though. And you smell good under that posh cologne,” he says.

“You knew,” Tom says. “You knew all along that I wanted to sabotage you. That I despise you.”

“Yes.”

“You had no right.”

“You put me in a difficult position, Tom. On one hand, I was very aware of the fact that I was taking advantage of you; on the other hand, however... what was I supposed to do? Let you harm me out of the goodness of my heart? I’m not that self-sacrificing.”

[sepia-mahogany]

what's your all time favorite mdzs fic?

Aha anon theres a lot of them because well there's no one particular fic only that is my favourite, i like a lot of fics in their own way, here are 5 of my current favs.

"Fell by you" by Vrishchika

Word Count: 37,702 Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Characters: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén Other MDZS Characters

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Dragon Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Explicit Smut in Last Chapter, Pining, POV Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, dragonji, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Immortals, Deities, Canon-Typical Violence, Beta Read, DO NOT COPY Summary: Lan Wangji was tossed into the Mortal Realm, injured and helpless. Help came from a bright young Head Disciple. Curious, fascinating, and beautiful, it didn't take long for Lan Wangji to become enamored.

And the rest was fate.

and generally i love all her works, but this one is special one, Love in all forms, something tender by Vrishchika

Word Count: 4,425 Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply, Relationships: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Lán Yuàn | Lán Sīzhuī & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Lán Qǐrén & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Characters: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén, Lán Yuàn | Lán Sīzhuī, Lán Qǐrén, Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Additional Tags: Post-Canon, married wangxian, Established Relationship, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Family Feels, Sickfic, Sick Character, DO NOT COPY

Summary: When the bite of the Gusu winter gets to him, Wei Wuxian can do nothing but let others take care of him. And through them, he experiences various forms of love.

Then there's the resident

"Teen Project to Change the World" by animeloverhomura

Words: 450,294 Archive Warning:Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn Jiāng Yànlí/Jīn Zǐxuān Characters: Basically entire cast Additional Tags: Watching, Watching the Show, With a bit of the Manhua and Book thrown in, Basically Whatever I Want, characters watching their show, Characters Watching Their Series, characters watching the future, BAMF Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Fix-It, jin guangshan is his own warning, Attractive Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Homophobia, disturbing imagery

Summary: Lan Sizhui, Lan Jingyi, Jin Ling, and Ouyang Zizhen listened attentively as Wei Wuxian explained his newest invention: a way to send memories to the past. Satisfied that he dealt with all possible paradoxes and running on -2 hours of sleep, he didn't make note of his sons' frankly concerning expressions.

"We could change everything!" they shouted simultaneously.

For better or worse, only time will tell.

And! A Night on the Town by Netrixie

Word Count :3,725 Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén/Niè Míngjué, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Characters: Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén, Niè Míngjué, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Bedsharing, Getting Together, finding out your brothers relationship is much further along than you anticipated, Drunken Shenanigans, Supportive Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén, Attempt at Humor, Puppy Piles, Don't copy to another site

Summary: “Why are you so tall?”

Mingjue stared down at Wuxian impassively, unperturbed by the question. “Why are you so short?” he shot back, and Wuxian rocked on his heels.

“I am not short!” Wuxian objected hotly, and Mingjue raised a brow, then lifted a hand and measured the distance between the top of their heads.

“Short,” he said confidently.

It was supposed to be a quiet night in. Nothing ever goes according to plan when Wei Wuxian is involved.

This person writes a lot of good Nie Mingjue/Lan Xichen, with occasional Wei Wuxian/Lan Wangji which are also the best! I specially like how they write them! This fic is a fav And the last one, a dark fic Buried in the Sky, Hallowed by thy Depths by themunchking

Word Count :8,987 Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationship: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Additional Tags: Supernatural Elements, Sirens, MerMay, No time for slowburn, I call it fastburn, Canon-Typical Violence, No Beta we ride at dawn, canon AU, Dark Wei Wuxian, dark Lan Wangji

Summary: If you listen, the mountains of Gusu sing in the evening, as the sun is going down.

That’s what they say in Caiyi Town, where the clear and cold mountain streams flow into the lake. The streams are deep, the locals know. They say they carry the melody down from up high. From Cloud Recesses.

There are reasons it is forbidden to enter the Cloud Recesses after dark.

Hope you like them <3

[frogs-spawn]

it’s true lads, i have actually written something

(this was a prologue of a long canon fic that i’m writing/on hiatus on (oops) but i was thinking of changing the pov of it, so this doesn’t fit in it anymore) i may end up finishing the canon one, but it is long, so it probably won’t see the light of day, but we’ll see

anyway, here’s the ao3 link if you would like to read it on there: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31116254

a tragic twist of fate:

summary: the lupin family are enjoying a quiet evening, when an unwelcome visitor shows up, changing all of their lives forever.

word count: 1.6k

The sun was setting, casting a burning haze across the sea, and subsequently over the unsuspecting cul-de-sac in the Gower. The pebble-dashed bungalows that hugged the road were quaint and uniform, with a meagre patch of grass out the front that barely constituted as a garden. All things considered; it was a very normal street. There were the Jones', with their tiny Yorkshire terrier, which was small in size but easily compensated with its tremendous bark. The Thomas', who were always out the front regardless of the weather, observing the street's comings and goings. The Liu's, whose windows were constantly filled with an assortment of different lights, illuminating the street, making it feel like Christmas every day. Opposite them, were the Lupin's. There was Lyall, who has a mysterious job that no one is quite able to figure out exactly what it entails; his wife, Hope, who made sure that the whole street was well and truly fed; finally, their 5-year-old son, Remus, who's usually found playing out on the empty street.

Remus, as expected, was having a game of tag with Julia from across the road when his mother called out from the front door. She had thick blonde hair, slightly greying at the crown of her head, which was tied up into a loose bun, the fly-always whipping the side of her face, which was covered slightly with gravy.

"Remus, it's time to come in now. Your father has just gotten home, and dinner's almost ready."

"But Mammy! I'm not even tired," Remus pleaded, shouting back, a little breathless. "Can we have a few more minutes? Please?"

"It's okay, Mrs Lupin." Julia panted, brushing her dark fringe from out of her eyes, it was a miracle she could even see. She was a few years older than Remus but was still somehow shorter than the boy (who was only slightly tall for his age). "I think my parents want me back soon anyway." She turned to Remus and smiled, "We're going to go out and play again tomorrow, aren’t we Re?”

"Yeah, okay then. I'll see you tomorrow! Bye!" Remus chirped back, with some newfound energy. He then proceeded to hurtle up the driveway and stumble through the front door.

“Not even going to give your old mammy a cwtch?” Hope laughed, following her son through the door, shoving her hands into her pockets.

He clambered onto his chair at the kitchen table and watched eagerly as his mother took a roast lamb out of the oven and began to dish it out on to mismatched plates. There were roast potatoes, which were crispy on the outside, but still fluffy and buttery on the inside, peas, carrots, and parsnips - that were roasted to perfection, and it was all smothered with thick gravy that was laden with salt and had the potential to clog up your arteries – but if it’s bad for you then that meant it would probably delicious. Remus’ mouth was practically watering.

"Now, as you've been running around all afternoon, I'll give you the extra roastie, how about that?" Hope smiled down at Remus, scooping a roast potato onto the plate.

Lyall stooped into the kitchen at that moment, placing his tattered briefcase down onto the splintered wooden counter and bent over to kiss his wife on the head. He was tall and lanky with brown curly hair that was just starting to thin. He wore deep navy robes over the top of a well-fitted suit, looking as if he had just walked out of a very important meeting. He could have been a very intimidating man if it weren't for the way his eyes lit up and his mouth formed a crooked grin when he looked adoringly across his small family, with an immense sense of pride.

"This looks wonderful, darling. What did I ever do to deserve you?" he laughed as went over to his son and ruffled his hair. "According to Mrs Thomas, you've been charging up and down the road all day! No wonder you look knackered." He fell into the chair next to him, as Hope brought the dinner over.

The family ate with easy conversation. Hope explained how she had heard from Mrs Thomas that Mrs Jones was apparently putting empty wine bottles into her recycling bin and Lyall explained his new case at work, but it seemed boring, so Remus didn't pay it much attention. He wolfed his food down so quickly, barely stopping for a breath, his poor mother thought he might end up with indigestion.

"Stay in your own lane, Lyall, that's what they said," Lyall explained in between mouthfuls, gesturing at no one in particular with his fork. "They won't believe me though, and that Greyback has been released again, the man makes my skin crawl." He used air quotes when describing him and huffed, as he took another bite out of his roast. "It's madness, I told them that. Did they listen? No. Cases of lycanthropy are going up and it's because of creatures like them. String 'em all up for all I care. Bloody werewolves.”

"Not at the table Lyall," Hope piped in, sensing that her husband was about to go on another one of his world-renowned rants. "I understand it's a pain, especially if no one listens to you at work, but let's keep dinner time a happy affair, don't you think?"

"Yeah, no, sorry love" he gave her a sweet smile, which she returned. "Anyway. Did you have you had fun today, Re?"

The boy looked up and nodded quickly. "Yeah, me and Julia played lots of games. We had a race to see who was faster. And I won!" he exclaimed, talking at the speed of a hundred miles per hour, he spread his arms for dramatic effect and sat up higher in his chair. "She said I was cheating, but I wasn't, I promise!"

"No, of course, you weren't." Lyall laughed and looked down at his son like he was the most precious thing in the world.

After dinner, the family were positioned around the small-rickety fire pit that was positioned in the corner of the patio, made up of broken slabs of concrete with weeds emerging like great vines through the gaps. The fire crackled and spat, specks of charred wood and the burning flame releasing swirling smoke into the atmosphere. They sat on wobbly wooden chairs, that they had gotten from the charity shop, which were starting to rot and covered in splinters. However, Hope had made some colourful and slightly garish cushions, so it was incredibly comfortable, despite the small risk of the chairs collapsing from underneath them. Hope was sat with a pair of knitting needles in hand, focusing on the burgundy jumper that Remus would undoubtedly get for Christmas in a couple of months time. Remus sat opposite and was looking eagerly at his father, who was making the little old wooden figurines of soldiers that Hope collected do an Irish jig across the uneven stone.

Then, there was a rustling in the undergrowth at the far end of the garden. The birds that had nested and settled in for the evening took flight, flying off into the rising moon, bright and beautiful.

"What on earth could that be?" Hope wondered out loud, staring out into the distance, squinting her eyes.

'I'll go check it out.” Lyall chuckled as he pushed himself out of the chair. "Probably just a fox, I shall go shoo it away."

He wandered to the end of the garden, managing to avoid the snail hotel Remus had built a year ago. He lit up his wand so that he could see at least three steps ahead of himself.

It was a surprise that it remained standing, despite the howling gales and torrential rain it had to endure, it stayed. For as long as he could remember, Remus looked after the snails in the hotel, gave them any leftover lettuce. They were his favourite magical creatures. It fascinated him, the way they could stick to the walls and go upside down, the only way that was possible, Remus decided, was magic. Lyall didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.

"Ah, Lyall Lupin. Just the man I wanted to see." An unfamiliar voice snarled. The voice was deep and ragged as if it had been strained from screaming too loud "Fancy seeing you here."

“Fenrir.” Lyall cut back, voice curt but contained a small tremble. "Leave me and my family alone and take your unpleasant business somewhere else." He straightened his jacket and stood rigidly, making himself taller. But the figure, Fenrir, stood a head above him, despite his hunched posture.

"I don't think that would be necessary." He countered, his voice becoming more and more menacing. "How is your family? I'd love to meet them." He shoved Lyall out of the way, causing him to lose balance and he stumbled into the hedge.

“Hope! Remus! Get into the house and lock the door!” Lyall shouted, desperately, unable to keep up with Greyback, who was striding across the garden.

Hope quickly grabbed her things and ran, pushing open the back door with a creak.

“Remus, come on lamb, into the house.” Hope coaxed from the door, trying to sound as calm as possible.

But Remus stayed rooted to the spot, unmoving, fixed and waiting, staring into the monster before him.

Fenrir Greyback was a giant of a man, towering easily over 6 feet tall. He was unkempt and greasy, covered in black matted hair. His deceitful yellowing eyes emitting nothing venom. Remus scrambled off of the chair and edged slowly towards his mother. It was too late.

Their eyes locked. A deal had been struck.

Under the silver moon, Greyback's manic grin turned pointed and wider. Bones cracked, twisted, and popped. Hair became thicker, wired, and coarse. Tortured hands and feet transformed into gnarly claws. His previously crooked nose became a leathery, wet, snout.

Barring his teeth, Fenrir Greyback took a couple of paces forward, crushing the hotel under a monstrous paw, towards a terrified Remus Lupin.

And pounced.

[prince-toffee]

I don’t care if the character is good. I care if the character is interesting. I don’t know where the morality police came from, I don’t know why people try to justify actions of villains, I don’t know why all characters need to be good. I don’t care if they’re justified, or right. ‘Do I care when they’re on screen?’ is the right question. The character can be a pure saint, but what does it matter if they’re pure good if they’re boring to watch? I love villains, love, love, love villains, but if a villain is just... boring, then what the hell is the point of even showing them on screen?!

For me spop is a prime example of this. I’m sorry, I really am, but I don’t care about... anything in that show, except for Hordak, Entrapta, and maybe Shadow Weaver. The Princesses do nothing for me. This one’s the sassy one, this one’s the hippie one, this one’s the blue one, again. I don’t care. I’m sorry. We learn nothing about them! We have no flashbacks, no lore, nothing! Show me Mermista’s father. The Whispering Woods are apparently sentient, can Perfuma talk to it? Show me how Frosta’s parents died, and give her a consistent personality. In her bio it says Netossa doesn’t have a kingdom, why? Show us Spinerella’s kingdom. Show me Entrapta’s backstory, her parents, her childhood, explore her kingdom! I’m interested, show me more! Show me The First Ones, they’re evil or something right? That was the plot twist, right? I think? Why weren’t we shown a satisfying and fulfilling climax where Adora kicks their asses? Show me George’s past battling against the Horde. Angella is immortal according to her bio, maybe. Show me that!

This show is bone dry! No meat! This show somehow manages to be empty and slow and drag while also going at break neck speeds. The only character I can’t complain about, who is my favourite Princess is Glimmer. Glimmer is great, I love Glimmer. Not s1-3 Glimmer, s4 Glimmer. Compromised Glimmer. For three seasons Glimmer was just another Princess, Adora’s best friend. But after Angella dies, then it gets fascinating. Glimmer has the responsibilities of Queen thrust apon her, and all those lines spoken in season 3 are paid off, Glimmer slowly becomes her mother even though she doesn’t want to be, she doesn’t want to be a coward, she wants to be at the frontlines helping her friends. And that pressure forces her to consult Shadow Weaver and go down a darker path. Her rise to power paralleling Catra that season, and then her descent catalysed by desire for power paralleling Shadow Weaver who forges the same relationship with her as with Micah, it’s all great. Glimmer wants to, is responsible for, protecting her kingdom, the whole world and as the Horde grows in power she feels the need to use increasingly more drastic measures to protect everyone.

Glimmer isn’t at her best in this season, but she is the most interesting at this point. And then in s5 she likes Bow I guess. The Mara Razz stuff is also pretty interesting, but that was in s4 and by that point I was just turning off my brain. I kinda feel like s4 was a filler season.

And then, when I’m given so little, we get to Hordak. And he, I cannot stress this enough how much this means to me even though it is the bare minimum, he has a flashback, an artistic, stylised flashback! With a thematic colour palette. With a tease that will be paid off, of our endgame bad guy. A flashback that tells us about the character’s backstory, about the lore of the universe, about themes that are relevant to the whole meaning behind the character and to the conversation he and Entrapta are having in that moment. We see the world from his perspective, we don’t agree with him, but we understand him. And guess what? That scene wasn’t even originally meant to be apart of the episode! Because of course it wasn’t! Because spop is the definition of white bread!

Fuck! Shadow Weaver does it even better! She has an entire episode dedicated to her, and it’s all a flashback, it’s amazing, we see her younger, we see what makes her go down a darker path, we see a meaningful relationship between her and Micah, we see LORE, LORE, LORE, I LOVE LORE, it’s lore that makes no sense timeline-wise, and complicates everything even more without expanding or explaining anything, and not paying it off later, but at least it’s something. I love Shadow Weaver, from her design, which is perfection to her voice which is gorgeous to her actions and writing which is marvellous. I love this irredeemable pure evil disney stepmother because she’s interesting, she’s fascinating! She steals every scene she’s in! Shadow Weaver is the best character in this entire show. I can’t stress how amazing Weaver is, and we all slept on her. I swear she’s like the only competent character in this entire show. She’s refreshing.

And to show you that I’m not just an edgy loser that hates heroes because they’re dumb and villains rock, I’ll say this. Not even Horde Prime is as interesting as those two. He’s this universe conquering monster that is pure evil and that is right up my alley, I should love him.... but I don’t. He sucks. He’s nothing. I feel nothing. I’m not intrigued, not interested, not captured. You know why? Because he’s a reskinned Princess. He’s not important, he doesn’t matter, he’s a cardboard cut out. He alludes to somethings that may or may not have happened in the past, we never see any of it. He’s like a weird Catradora shipper for some reason? He’s this super powerful monster that destroyed planets, he conquered half the universe, he brainwashes half our main cast, and the planet, and yet... I feel nothing... because deep down you know... that this is the last season and the hero will win and there will be no lasting ramifications, and if there will be we won’t see it. Oh no he couldn’t trace them because the ship blah blah blah. Fuck you. Sucks. The heroes are untouchable, he’s not scary, he’s incompetent, oh so you can just mind control people? and you didn’t do that right away, why? He’s stupid. And yeah Hordak is stupid too, but Hordak has a backstory and a love interest and thematic meaning, unexplored, but it’s there. Prime has nothing. I don’t know who or what he is. He’s an after thought. And what contributes to me not giving a fuck is the fact that s5 as a whole is terrible and it rots my brain, and I turned off my brain as I skimmed that season, I blacked out.

Anyway back to Hordak and Weaver. It’s strange when we get to them, because Hordak, in particular, is so unimportant and is so separated from the rest of the show, it feels like he’s in a completely different show from the rest of the cast. Even Weaver is important, she’s directly connected to Adora and more importantly Catra. Hordak? Sure his actions matter to the plot, his backstory and his lore matter to the plot, but he himself doesn’t matter. Sure the portal is the catalyst for the s3 finale and it calls Prime, the clone trauma is important to Catra’s arc in s5, but Hordak the person, is unimportant, Hordak the individual doesn’t matter. He’s less then a side character. He’s so disconnected from the entire show. He feels like he’s in a completely different show. Which strangely enough was welcoming for me. It felt like I could just like Hordak and Entrapta in that small corner of the fanon over there, away from all the drama. Hordak, from his design to his personality to his existing backstory, was so different and stood out from amongst the crowd.

At first it was wow this guy looks cool I’ll proceed to theorise what he’s about, and then when we actually got a story behind him at first I was disappointed, but I quickly began digging into the potential of it and you couldn’t stop me. An exiled and shunned clone with a genetic disease who wishes to prove himself to an uncaring god, his mental state is so fascinating to pick apart, don’t tell this isn’t the most interesting thing in this show... I don’t know what the conclusion of this cluster fuck is.

i hate wrong hordak

[bunnylouisegrimes]

Unusual Thanksgiving (NOS4A2 Longish-Drabble Fic)

(A/N: As of writing this, it’s the weekend. I’ve noticed at least every weekend for a few weeks now I post some short little Drabble to help let out my emotions. Here’s another one that’s a little bit longer. With Thanksgiving coming up and my ass having little time to think of something and cook it up (pun intended), I thought I’d take the approach of having whatever come to my mind and writing it out. It’s a unique one, as you don’t usually associate horror and angst alongside the family fluffiness of Thanksgiving, but... here we are! I remember a while back I wrote how Rose’s parents would react to her having a relationship with Charlie, and that was one of my inspirations, alongside how rough things are this year. I’d like to wish you all Happy Thanksgiving ahead of time. Stay safe and enjoy a good ass feast. It’s been tough, and it’s had some highlights, but now’s the time we can all put aside our differences and whatever else bullshit and be thankful about what we do have this year; whether it be supplies or each other, we’ll get through this. 🧡🍂🍁🦃)

(Apologize for no Read More, posting this from mobile, and I found the image randomly, so if you want credit, let me know).

November is a beautiful and calming time of the year, but under certain circumstances, it can be oddly scary. This is most likely due to how dead the world is. There’s usually no snow, and what leaves remain are brown, have decayed from the trees, and collapsed to the ground to crumble and rot. I noticed this when I was younger, and part of me thought November was spookier than Halloween in some cases.

Of course, to me, any time of the year could be scary. Horror doesn’t stop and end at one point; it is an infinite occurrence that follows humanity wherever we go.

From the time I was a little kid, I would find horror in the most obscure of places. Scary movies never bothered me, and in fact, I was always excited when I watched them. What should’ve terrified me brought me nothing but adrenaline and fascination. Instead, odd things scared me, things most people would poke fun at if they saw my reaction to them, things most would shrug off. Call me Freudian, but perhaps my fears, just as yours are, are based in our differing subconscious minds, so there is no true definition of “stupid” horror.

The one thing that I know for certain that’s frightened me since I was younger are bees, wasps, yellow jackets, and hornets. Why these little yellow and black bugs terrify me, I will never truly know the answer as to why. Is it because they’re so small, yet they can hurt you so badly? Is it because of their appearance? I don’t want bees to die out, as I know of their importance, and bumbles don’t bother me because they usually leave you alone (and they’re oddly cute), but any other bee or wasp can stay away from me. I’ve never even been stung by one, yet one buzz or sight of one near me makes my body react instantaneously. I get away as much as I can and even scream sometimes. Not wise to scream or move a lot when you’re in their presence, I know. But when your body reacts the way it does, what are you to do?

When I was a little bit older, I would say roughly 8 or 9 years old, a new type of fear spawned its way into my mind: the fear of shadow people.

I don’t know what it is about those things either that scare me so much. When I first discovered I had this fear, I believe I was watching an episode of Ghost Adventures, and I saw them capture a really clear shadow figure on camera. It chilled me to the bone, and from then on, just the thought of one creeped me out. One particular episode where the crew went to an old, abandoned and haunted Tuberculosis sanitarium got to me because shadow figures were prominent there, and they actually captured two on camera going down a long hallway.

Shadow people, from what I’ve seen online, are very mysterious. They could come from another dimension, they could be demonic; some are harmless, others are harmful, and it’s all dependent on what experience you have with them. Zak Bagans and his crew have come across quite a few demonic ones, and their guests have usually described them as tall, thin, 6-7 foot tall entities that are dark both in physicality and energy. They look like an individual spray painted with pitch black aerosol, and darker than a room if it were void of all light. Sometimes they have red or white eyes, and sometimes they can have differing appearances that are just as terrifying as the blank appearances they often have. They can stand there and look over you while you’re sleeping at night, they can stand in a corner and stare at you, maybe rocking a bit, they could dart down a hallway, hiding from you, they can crawl on the floor, they can crawl on the ceiling... whatever it is they do, it’s all bone chilling to me, and I hate it all with a burning passion. I don’t care even if they were harmless: If I were to ever see one in real life, I would have a heart attack.

That is why I am thankful I’ve only seen them either when I’m paranoid for whatever reason before I go to sleep (but they’re not really there, my mind’s just playing tricks on me), or if I have a nightmare and they’re present. This story will focus on the latter.

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

Halloween, Charlie’s birthday on November 1st, the Election... it all came and left sooner than expected, and we needed to plan what we were doing about Thanksgiving. I know, a vampire who’s all about Christmas celebrating other holidays. It seems unreal, but I assure you, he has respect for other holidays as well. Christmas just happens to be his favorite and one that brings him and the kids lots of comfort and joy. They say Christmas is a state of mind and is never truly over, so... I suppose Charlie is just a living embodiment of that saying.

With COVID still in full swing, and cases breaking records everyday, people were stocking up on supplies yet again alongside their Turkey Day feasts. We knew we had to hurry up and order stuff the week before Thanksgiving at most.

Living in Gunbarrel, Colorado, away from everyone except for each other and the kids when we spent quite a few days in Christmasland each week, it was relieving to know we weren’t around tons of people. The virus wouldn’t affect Charlie or the kids, but me being the only human, and one with asthma, it would, so it was calming to not have to worry as much as many other folks about exposure. Not to mention, the town was small, and everybody knew everybody. Whenever we did enter town, which took 10 minutes to get to, we would see everyone keeping their distance and respecting each other. It was nice to see our small and (just about) off-the-grid community helping each other during these times.

The only two local stores were an Acme that everyone went to, and the Gunbarrel General Store, owned by a kindly old man who looked like Santa Clause named Sam. Before everyone rushed to Acme, we decided on doing a curbside pickup order, and picking up anything else that was not available at Sam’s, as he was sure to provide lots of Thanksgiving food.

It was going to certainly be an interesting Thanksgiving without my usual family, and not being back home, but I was going to call them on that fateful Thursday and talk to them for a few hours. Charlie and I would have a small dinner together, and we would spend most of the day in Christmasland with our children, dining on delicious food and laughing together. The thought warmed my heart and made me feel better about this Thanksgiving. We would be okay, and everything would be fine, despite my horrible dreams...

For whatever reason, over these past few weeks, my dreams were plagued with shadow people haunting me. No explanation was given, and no explanation would need to be given for it to still occur and damn near break me. Maybe it was some sort of unresolved issue going through the back of my mind, maybe it was fueled by my stresses of being busy lately, but regardless of whatever the issue was, I was haunted by them. The day after Charlie’s birthday, we watched the original Nosferatu together, and I fell asleep near the end, experiencing the first of these dreams.

I was walking down a dark and cold hallway. I was 8 years old again. I don’t know how I knew this, but it was one of those instances where you know a random piece of information in a dream. I was holding two small plastic My Little Pony figurines I got from Happy Meals at that time, a small Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash. I hadn’t seen those toys in years, yet there they were in my hands. When I looked up, a shadow person was standing near the end of the pathway. It stood tall and authoritative, looming over me as if it wanted to grab me and drag me down the corridor straight into Hell, or wherever it came from.

I took off running, and it crawled on all fours after me. I screamed and kept running until I came across a goofy, tall, and lanky figure: Count Orlock, or the actual Nosferatu himself, was standing there. I hid behind him and begged him to protect me. He smiled his stupid smile and looked down at the shadowy behemoth. It seemed to back down a bit once he snarled at it. It backed up behind a corner, peaking at us once before vanishing.

My relief was short lived for only a few moments because Orlock wandered off into the darkness.

“Where are you going? Come back here!” I tried to call after him, but I was cut off by the shadow figure crawling on the ceiling and grabbing me. I gave a scream and found myself awake on the couch, springing to life and hearing the opening music to Downton Abbey greeting me. Charlie had tuned in after the movie. He looked at me with a confused and concerned look. I explained everything to him and he comforted me, laughing at the thought of the original Nosferatu visiting me.

The dreams afterward were more terrifying than the first. One dream featured a shadow person staring over me as I slept, another featured one standing in the corner of the room twisting and contorting its head violently. The third had a shadow figure hunched over near a window within an abandoned building. I was walking through the woods in another nightmare when a whole group of them were peaking at me through the trees. I ran down another hallway and one was behind me. I was in an unknown house and down the hall near the steps, one was charging towards me. Each time, I would wake up and feel unsettled. Charlie would comfort me, but it was always hard to fall back asleep, for I feared I’d be terrorized by the evil onyx creatures wanting nothing more than to consume me in their shadowy force and make my soul rot.

Despite all of my terror and the tiredness that accompanied my days, the focus for today would have to be Thanksgiving dinner.

“My mom mailed me the recipe to her sweet potatoes last week, and let me tell you, they are actually sweet and delicious,” I told Charlie. “So you can put down all the ingredients for that. We already got turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes written down... Oh! Green bean casserole, put that down... and we need apple and pumpkin pie. We already have whip cream and gravy in the fridge, and cider is in the cabinet. I think that’s everything.”

Charlie nodded and wrote these things down. Once he was done, he looked over the list and showed me.

“Yup, that’s everything! Alright, let’s look up to see what Acme has.”

As I pulled up the site on my phone, he spoke up.

“Rosie, are you bothered by not seeing your family? If so, we can visit them on Thanksgiving Day or I could go the extra mile and bring them here if you’d like.”

I sighed and rubbed my temple. “I’m alright, baby. I know they’ll be alright too. Things seem to be... okay between us, even if we did get into arguments since last we spoke in person.”

He looked down and felt guilty.

“Hey, don’t you feel guilty,” I reassured him. “It’s their fault, not yours. They see you in whatever light they want to, but I know who you really are, and I love you. I don’t care what they say or think about you, hence why I’m sticking by you and left with you to come here.”

He nodded and pulled me close to him, resting his chin on my head. “I admit, my darling, I am constantly bothered by this thought that I have destroyed the relationship you have with your family.”

“Like I said, they’re the ones that can’t accept that you and I truly love each other. I’ve been patient and offered them every chance to accept you. I’ve explained and talked to them, but they don’t want to listen to my reasoning. I don’t know what else to do.”

He kissed me on the cheek and said, “I’m glad that you at least still talk to each other.”

“Me too. At least we have that... but let’s not worry about that. We got food to focus on.”

We ordered everything that we could (the only things not available until the week of Thanksgiving were the two pies, but we knew Sam would have them). When the time came, we loaded into the Wraith and the trunk was packed with our dinner. We stopped by the General Store and Sam happily gave “Father Christmas” (as Charlie was known as) the pies. Since it was still light out, we decided to go for a drive to enjoy the autumn weather. As I mentioned before, November is usually dead and brown, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t peaceful and calm. We observed the soothing and cold weather as Fleetwood Mac and The Doors sang along on the old radio.

While gazing at the brown leaves and bare trees rocking their branches above us, I drifted off to sleep without even thinking about it. Stevie Nicks and Jim Morrison’s voices melted into oblivion as I found myself walking through a tranquil forest of dead trees. Cold, I wrapped my arms around myself until I felt a bit warmer, and I saw a grove of orange trees. It was as if I teleported back in time to October, and the trees were still alive with vibrant color.

I ran over to them, taken aback by their beauty. The leaves that were on the ground were still orange, and I tossed them up into the air with childish carelessness. At last! For once, I was having a good dream!

However, that enjoyment would be cut short when I looked into the distance in between the trees. The world and my joy winded down like a dying record player.

From somewhere beyond the misty horizon, a pair of white eyes were watching me.

Dread hit me and I ran away. The trees began to rot again, and the orange faded into brown. The sunlight morphed into fog, and the warmth dissipated from my body. I fell to the ground, tripping over my own clumsy feet.

Now I was somewhere entirely different. I was in a dark, unfamiliar bedroom. I couldn’t move except for my eyes, like I was suffering from sleep paralysis. I looked up to see the shadow figure that was hiding behind the trees. Its white eyes were dimmer than before, and its solid black body cast lighter shadows behind it. I tried to scream, but I could only choke out vocalizations as it covered my mouth.

It lifted its ice cold hand from my mouth and pointed to the left. My eyes glanced in that direction and a scream broke from my throat.

A pointy eared demon with beady eyes, a close together face, and a sickening smile was on top of my chest. Its body was too dark to make out any notable features, but it was lighter than the shadow next to me. The pressure on top of me crushed the life from my lungs. It continued to smile, as if nothing in the world bothered it at all.

Before my scream ran out of air, it wrapped its cold hands around my neck and tightened to the point it was strangling me. The rest of my scream died out, my eye sight was fading until it was only a pinhole...

Air rushed into my lungs as I jolted into a conscience state once again. My eyes darted rapidly and my body clung to the leather seat of the Wraith. We were no longer driving, and instead parked in the garage. A wave of nausea flooded my head and stomach, and I pressed my hand to my eyes. My mind finally registered Charlie’s soft voice.

“Rose! My sweet Rose! Whatever is the matter?”

“I... Jesus Christ... I... had another nightmare... this was... Good God, how else could I describe it?!”

While we gathered the groceries into the house, I detailed my horrifying dream to him. He was immensely disturbed and decided enough was enough.

“I know you believe in ghosts and demons and the sort,” said he, “and I know such things exist, since I’ve seen spirits and souls before. Because of this, you and I can pray before you go to sleep tonight. Unlike other vampires, holy things do not bother me, unless I were to drink or touch holy salt or holy water, in which case I would feel some discomfort thanks to the darker side of my being. I have an old angel doll that my daughters used to play with and hold whenever they felt uncomfortable or scared. That could help you too. I will hypnotize you and make you have sweet dreams. If any dark entity is going to mess with you, I will protect you. I don’t think you have an attachment, but these dreams are certainly unusual.”

I agreed to all of this. That night, we said a prayer together, I snuggled with the angel doll, and he hypnotized me to sleep. I had a dream I couldn’t remember, but it was certainly the most peaceful I had in a while, and it was even better then the beginning of that nightmare I had that evening.

A sense of purity filled my heart, and I knew nothing dark would ever hurt me or anyone I loved, as whatever God that may be out there as my witness.

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

Thanksgiving arrived at an unbelievably fast rate. No other bad dreams tormented me, and I couldn’t have felt more happy. Charlie and I worked together to prep dinner. When I finished making sure the turkey was good and putting it in the oven, Charlie presented me with a package.

“It’s from your home,” he observed.

I opened it up at the dining room table and I couldn’t believe my eyes.

It was the Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash figurines from my childhood. Underneath them, was a heartfelt letter from my family, detailing how they had recently found these toys and thought of me. They missed me, and they even apologized for all of their harsh words against me and Charlie. They gave it some thought, and they came to the conclusion that as long as I was happy and in love, and as long as Charlie truly loved me and treated me well, then all was perfectly fine. They wished us a very happy Thanksgiving from 2 hours ahead and many miles away.

Tears fell from my cheeks. I was crying of joy for more than the obvious reason being that my family and I were rekindling together.

I realized now why I had such horrible dreams. It was either my worries and fears of my family not being together haunting me, or maybe even some dark force, but Twily and Dashie here weren’t random parts of that first dream at all; they served as symbolism. They represented hope and familial innocence long lost, now brought back to light. Maybe they sent a message out in the universe to my family that Charlie was a good man. That could also be why Orlock was protecting me in that same dream, but him leaving symbolized my family keeping Charlie away from me, therefore causing bad things to happen to me. And perhaps when Charlie helped me and cleansed all darkness (regardless of it being real or not), those ponies knew ahead of time he was going to do that, and reassured my family he was always going to protect me. It sounded bizarre, but it was the best reasoning I could come up with to explain these odd coincidences.

I immediately called my family afterwards and told them everything. They were chilled themselves because my mother had a dream the night before about Charlie bringing forth bouts of light to protect me from a wave of darkness, and she thought it was her brain processing her acceptance of him, but now that my story was told, it made things even clearer.

We concluded talking by coming up with a date to have dinner together and to see each other again back home. We exchanged I love yous and Happy Thanksgivings, and I hung up feeling thankful. As Charlie and I ate a bit of dinner, as we went to Christmasland, and as we ate lots of food with our children, warmth and light abundant, I was grateful that I had the family I did, the boyfriend and children that I did, and the light that still shined in the universe, even on the most darkest of days. This year has been hard, but gratitude for all the good, hope, and love, even when we’re distant figuratively, literally, or both, makes this holiday season a brighter one.

[lady-divine-writes]

Aziraphale’s Garden

(AO3)

Truth be told, Aziraphale had no interest in gardening.

None at all.

He loved gardens for a bevy of sentimental reasons, but the plants within held the same charm for him that children did. He respected that they had a purpose. He realized their importance to the people of Earth. He believed that everyone had an obligation, no matter how big or small, to help nurture them. He agreed that flowers were very lovely, one of God’s greatest creations – though possibly a tad overrated when compared to the bounty of Her other work.

But that was as far as his interest extended.

He respected all life, valued every slithering, crawling, swimming, flying, walking thing, but that was vastly different than possessing a desire to grow something from the ground up and invest in its well-being.

Which was one of the reasons why he found his demon’s interest in horticulture so fascinating … and endearing.

Initially, Aziraphale kept only one plant in his shop, and for obvious reasons.

A Sansevieria trifasciata, otherwise known as a ‘snake plant’.

It thrived in low light and was best left alone. It needed no fussing, little to no watering.

Nearly no care at all.

It reminded him of a certain someone.

Or so Aziraphale thought.

That was before he stumbled across an abused Chinese Evergreen, shredded crudely and discarded atop a rubbish heap outside Crowley’s flat. A touch to its one surviving leaf – flawless except for a single brown spot - told the angel that his demon had had a hand in its demise, along with the demolition of a variety of other unlucky flora, tossed aside and left in the elements to decay. Many people probably passed it by and saw only compost – the remains of plants that refused to thrive. But Aziraphale recognized it for what it was.

Anger.

Fear.

Helplessness.

Hopelessness.

Pain.

Crowley’s pain.

It broke the angel’s heart.

With gentle hands and softly spoken words of comfort, Aziraphale collected the Evergreen, along with a few other contenders, ones with enough identifiable parts that he could recognize them as plants, and took them back to his bookshop. He knew the basics of plant care - that they needed food, water, sunlight, classical music, and stimulating company. But propagating a plant from tatters? Without the use of a miracle, it seemed impossible.

Luckily, he knew where he could find a few reliable books on the subject.

***

Crowley regarded Aziraphale’s plants covetously. His angel’s collection rivaled his own. He’d turned one lowly snake plant into an entire rooftop garden, and in record time. And they grew so exceptionally – lush, vibrant, green and spotless …

… Crowley wasn’t going to lie (this time) – it made him burn with jealousy.

Crowley had asked Aziraphale how he’d managed it. Since he didn’t see a plethora of angry Post-Its hanging about from the angel’s higher ups demanding that he stop wasting miracles to make his plants grow, he had to have some earthly secret – something more compelling than Crowley’s own “the beatings will continue until morale improves”. His angel smiled and replied, “A bit of love, a dash of patience, and a heaping spoonful of praise,” like it was a damned recipe for his favorite tiramisu. Crowley had scoffed, asked him again, but Aziraphale persisted, and because of that, Crowley avoided Aziraphale’s garden like a spring wedding reception. No matter how many times Aziraphale offered to set them up a picnic lunch amongst his rubber plants and dracana, his succulents and peace lilies, Crowley always found a way to secure them a seat at an exclusive restaurant, and Aziraphale, eager to try something deliciously new, would forget about his garden for the time being and go.

Crowley wasn’t just jealous of his angel’s success as a gardener. His garden bothered him. Those plants of his – they haunted Crowley, and he didn’t understand why. One Chinese Evergreen in particular, tucked in a far corner, slightly different than the others, was ever on his mind. It was luscious and green, overflowing with beauty and life … but it also had an air of melancholy about it.

How in the world a plant could seem melancholy, Crowley couldn’t explain. It just did. It trembled when he passed it, but in contrast to itself, it stood defiantly before him when he locked his serpent eyes on it. No matter how hard he glared, he couldn’t get the thing to back down.

Crowley discovered he hated it from the start.

One quiet night, while Aziraphale slept, Crowley slithered into the garden to confront the Evergreen and find out once and for all why it plagued him. He transformed in front of it, loomed over it, purposefully intimidating.

It responded to him the way it always did. It trembled. It shrank a hair. But then it straightened, stood calm and tall.

And this time, to Crowley’s surprise, it extended a leaf, and waited patiently.

Crowley stared at it, bewildered. He wondered if the thing was attempting to shoo him away, declare a boundary between he and it. Or if he should take the leaf and shake it like a human hand. But after a while, he got the distinct feeling that this plant wasn’t so much offering him its leaf, but showing it to him. Crowley bent over, examined it closely, but he didn’t know what he was meant to see. It was a leaf – a broad, green leaf, strong and healthy, shining from whatever blasted treatment Aziraphale wiped on it to make it shimmer like the sun.

Then he saw the scar, faint but present, and he knew.

This Chinese Evergreen had once been his.

He stood up quickly, stepped back, eager to be away from it, but a single brush of his finger against the tip of that leaf brought back the memories of what he’d done to it – how he’d yelled at it, shook it, decimated it, tossed it, and left it to rot. When it disappeared off his rubbish heap, Crowley had thought some bottom feeding herbivore had carried it away and eaten it. Or used it as nesting material.

How had it gotten here? How did Aziraphale …?

The stem holding that leaf extended itself farther, inviting another touch. Crowley stared, but eventually he touched it out of morbid curiosity.

He saw what the plant wanted him to see.

Aziraphale.

Aziraphale had saved it.

He’d plucked it from the garbage and carried it home.

He’d talked to it – told it it was beautiful, that it was worthy, that it had a place and a purpose in this world.

That it was going to be okay.

He promised it a new home, safety, and a new life.

He’d trimmed it, planted it, watered it. Gave it a root hormone to help it find its feet again. He’d sung to it, read to it, took it for walks outside.

And before too long, it had roots again.

It was no longer pale and sickly.

It was verdant and robust.

It was still scarred, but mostly whole.

Because Aziraphale had helped it grow.

Not by putting fear into it.

But by showing it compassion.

As an angel, Aziraphale was love, and as the good book said (as far as he could remember - it’d been over a thousand lifetimes since he’d actually read the stupid thing): “Love is patient, love is kind. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

But most importantly – Love never ends.

Crowley cared for his plants: misted them, fertilized them, talked to them, but he’d never been kind to them. He demanded obedience. Perfection. He had threatened his plants with the task to “Grow better!” And they had. They’d even overcome.

But they’d had help.

Plants trembled around him, holding out their leaves for him to touch. And touch them he did, one by one brushing their leaves, each one imparting a similar story of how Aziraphale rescued them from his trash and gave them a new life. It wasn’t just the one Chinese Evergreen as it turned out.

It was every plant in Aziraphale’s garden.

Not just Aziraphale’s garden, Crowley realized with a heavy and poignant thud in his chest.

Their garden.

These plants didn’t have to be perfect for Aziraphale to help them. They didn’t have to be perfect for Aziraphale to be kind to them.

They didn’t have to be perfect for Aziraphale to love them.

That explained, in a small measure, how an angel like Aziraphale could love a demon like him.

Even though Crowley wasn’t one inclined to hope, especially where it concerned lost causes, Aziraphale’s garden gave Crowley hope … for their future.

Now Crowley would love these plants, too, the way he should have from the beginning.

[the-dreamer-traveller]

8-9-4-4-5-14 13-9-19-19-9-15-14

The dream is separated by two different acts; the Samurai and the Aliens.

ACT: SAMURAI

The samurai act is a bloody and deadly act, all centering on one lone young man, who is a samurai. He travels into a city, to look for something along the way. He passes by the marketplace, which is fairly occupied due to it already setting to dusk, and the shopkeepers are slowly moving away to go home. When he arrives to a certain pagoda, he is surrounded by several men in black suits.

To his dismay, they are armed with sharp katanas, and they arrive to execute him for an act that even he isn’t going to do so. Before he could protest, he was viciously struck down, and his chest is split open from the katana, dying in the process.

However, fate was with his side in an uncertain way. The scene is looped again, but this time, the place sets in a lake in a standing little cottage. Instead of the assaulting swordsmen striking him dead, they decided to cut off his arms, to be sure that he isn’t going to strike them back. Taking a sudden turn of the opportunity, the young samurai quickly dives into the water, ignoring that his arms are gone. Because he brought in the favor of an unknown god, it grants him spiritual arms that allows him to swim safely as well as to stop the bleeding.

There is something disturbing in this particular scene. As I (as the unknown god) guided him to wide amongst the wooden rubbles in this river floor, I noticed that it is far more deeper than I could ever imagine, as if it is far deeper than what would a river would be. Also, there appears to be an underwater Japanese-style ruined building under it as well as some ruins…and mountains of corpses, plenty of them are bloodied and decayed for long, long enough that the blood turns black and their skin are sickly greenish grey from decay. The young samurai almost gags in the sight of these dead bodies, but he has no choice but to dive and hide among the withered corpses, as the rest of his enemies dive down to search for him so that they will execute him.

Through careful digging among the bodies and limbs (using his head no less), he sneakily hides in a small hill large enough to cover his body. He takes short peeking though the small spaces in the limbs, watching as the enemies walk/swim on the water while holding out their katanas. After several seconds of fruitless searching, they decided that enough is enough and slowly swims up, back to reporting to their masters.

Having seen that they are gone and his arms are grown back again, he slowly swims out of the corpses while the environment slowly changes into a street that features a house in front of him.

However, all is not what it seems to him later.

ACT: ALIENS

In this part, let’s talk about the creature HATE.

In the official source material, HATE is a mysterious entity that feasts (well, implied to be) on the hatred of others and torments their victims through the use of sadistic wish fulfillment. They are also implied to be old, ancient enough that they might have been around for several years before and just recently surface to the present day, with the latest victim being a girl named Lara.

This version in the dream, however, is not what it seems to be.

As the young samurai collects his thoughts, the surroundings slowly change into a small street, with a large building in front of him. This building appears to be some sort of a museum, which greatly confuses him as he just notices that the setting has been changed. This confuses him even more greatly as he notices that there is a young man next to him. The young man only stares at the building in front of him blankly, while he absentmindedly move to the building’s front doors. Curious of the young man’s strange routine, the young samurai slowly follows him.

It is only a matter of time before a sudden image flashes into his view and it is someone with a slightly bald and deformed head and a rotting orange hand stitched on his face and head.

As the young samurai is surprised and threatened by the sudden appearance of the orange hand man, who is standing in front of the young man. The orange hand man extends his own hand over the young man’s head and soon enough, the head of the young man begin to emit smoke and it painfully shrinks down until there is nothing left but a smoking stump on his neck. With the young man already dead on the spot, the orange hand man look at the young samurai with its deeply sunken eyes.

However, the next scene quickly cuts in and reveals some new revelations concerning of these HATE-like creatures.

This scene sets place in some sort of a living room, with white walls, black fur rug, a glass coffee table and cubic couches. There are four of the HATE creatures in the room, with their hands in different colors. The assumed leader of the group, the red handed one, is looking at the orange handed one, as if he is very disappointed with him killing the young man. Because of his failure of heeding with the mission objectives, the red handed one decides to punish him with death, using the same method as the one he used to kill the young man.

But once again, the dream looped.

Having witnessed the events before him, the young samurai is back at the same spot of where everything started; at the front of the building with the young man. Realizing that the death of the young man would also mean the death of the orange handed subordinate, the young samurai quickly stepped in forward and raise his right hand, signaling that he comes in and knows what is going to happen.

Having been surprised at this, the orange handed one took in the young samurai and the young man and bring them inside the building.

It is revealed that the very building is owned by the mysterious hand-stitched creatures, who were revealed to have been a group of extraterrestrials coming to Earth for a mission unknown to most of people, but has been hypothesized that they come here to collect “knowledge”. The four hand creatures are present in this scene, now sitting in the couches or leaning in the walls. The red handed one, the leader, is seen standing next to another one, which is yellow. The other one is a purple handed creature, who is leaning in the wall near to a set of stairs while looking ominously at us, as if watching our movements for suspicious actions. There is also another one, however, that is not part of the hand creatures but is something else; a girl with platinum blonde and in gothic-style doll dress, sitting next to the red handed one with soft blue eyes looking at the young samurai.

As the young man and the young samurai went respectfully in front of the red handed one, it smiled(?) as the little girl stood up, following on the red hand’s movements. The red handed one begin to speak as well, but with a voice of British businessman who is surprised or fascinated to see this exquisite creature in front of them. The red handed one begin to calmly explain to the young samurai and the young man the situation that they are currently facing right now.

“As you see, we are a group of travelers from the outer space. We came here on this little planet to collect rare knowledge for our own people, from ordinary objects to rare and mystical masterpieces.” He calmly explains to them, while he presents to them the young girl. “As an example, here is a young girl who can bend and control the psychic forcefield surrounding her, effectively making her as some sort of a minor reality bender due to the unconscious but powerful magical effects of her abilities.”

As he politely dismisses the child and let her sit back on her place, the red handed one quickly turn his attention back to the two confused men. “Now, the reason why I brought you two here is because you have attracted our special attention. It appears that both of you appeared to have been blessed by a powerful deity of sort, and we would come here to study that. I’m sure that, you gentlemen, would understand on our purpose.”

(NOTE: This is not a clue for the upcoming and continuing series i am sophie, and simply just a dream concerning for one of their bigger characters. The author is not liable for anyone who thinks of them as legit possible ‘clues’ for the on-going ARG. As such, this is not a form of game-jacking.)

[for-peace-war]

art by @idrawbuffgirls​

This is the first part of the Temple of Longing series, which introduces the stage for what the characters will be playing into.  I tried to do some world building in my time period, so I hope it worked out well enough.  Sorry if it’s a little confusing! This one took about an hour and twenty minutes!  Kelzack did a great job, as ever, capturing the idea I offered him!

THE TEMPLE OF LONGING.

Follows: Prologue.

Part I

 FLAVIUS THE FULMINOUS felt his fleeting fascination for the philistine formation fast fading.  Since leaving Akhlat with the Legio XIII Termina, he had shadowed the Satrap Mostafa’s movements with particular care not to be lured free the shadows of the city reconquered.  Legio XI Suprema, that which he pacified the western desert upon receiving his command, and Legio XII Exodia, recently arrived from Nemedia with fresh-faced soldiers, could be entrusted to maintain civil order within the city. But when it came to speed and predictable excellence, he had placed the XIII at the forefront of his command.

The legatus held no lack of trust in the ability of any that fought beneath him, for a soldier of Aquilonian training was worth thrice the swarthy, sand-bred Turanian jackals that pranced about before him.  The satrap’s hounds were many, but Legio XIII was as industrious as it was invincible: small, exacting, and well-blooded.  In a single engagement he had no doubt that they would be able to pierce the enemy’s line and take from their satrap his jeweled crown and the garrulous, blackened head that rested beneath it.

But battle was not just one battle—and war was not merely one war.  Since Emperor Maxentius’ defeat in the valley of Asgard and Vanaheim, had a tradition been born of that very lesson: there was never a single action; there was never a single consequence.

All must be accounted for before the glory of the Empire.

His fascination was not with the quality of the men that were before him, or even the quantity of those that marched about in their hurried steps. Ants, in truth, held the ability to make some formation—and an ant, likely, knew more loyalty to its singular leader than any of the men that served beneath the satrap.  Mostafa was, as far as he understood, as much a governor as he was a warlord—the peace treaty between the reemergent Aquilonian Empire and the Turanian Caliphate had already been tested as a result of his actions. Tested, and quite honestly, found more than wanting.

He had seen his adversary, this Mostafa, the Satrap of Samara, but once on the occasion that he had wrested from his control the singular city of Akhlat, which had proven little more than an outpost and yet positioned him to retake the region from its heart.  Though the Zuagir Desert was thitherto neutral territory, the regions held nominally could be physically secured with enough dedication and determination. There were few in the Empire, Flavius knew, that held either in greater order than he—and in truth, his adversary would not have numbered among that list, either.

Mostafa stood taller than most men but lacked the stocky build and determined nature of a Hyperborean.  Instead, he was slender, and seemed almost emaciated for his height—a Stygian, or at least Keshani heritage might have accounted for his exotic, nigh hermaphroditic build. But the man’s face was a mystery to him, for though he had heard rumor that it was scarred black and rotted from the pox, when they had caught glimpse of each other across fathoms of sand he would he would gladly stained a muddied red, the savage wore a black-iron mask, beneath a crown of gold fitted over samite scarves that draped past his shoulders. It was surely a look meant to inspire fear.

To Flavius, it was merely a sign that the satrap was all show—no action.

He, of course, was something different.  An Aquilonian did not gain the name “The Fulminous” for the simple alliterative effect of it, though he had in truth been ‘the Furious’ before a clever Nemedian courtesan saw fit to so bless him with that sobriquet he then saw visited timely upon that callipygian physique.  

By look, he would hardly have been deserving the title.  In youth he had been gifted with golden curls and a fair disposition, with the slender and spare build of a scholar of Nemedia—or a courtesan of Brythunia, by the claim of his long vanquished rivals—though time had seen his golden curls become silvered and fall with less vibrance upon his lined and worn face.  Savagery had never been his calling, but swordsmanship was a honed talent that he had come to appreciate with each enemy vanquished.

Beneath the command of Imperator Lysander and his Imperial Vanguard he had served loyally and gained great acclaim, basking in the blood of slaughtered foes in the shadows of Asgard.  That had been good fighting—pressed from all sides, and never wanting for a chance to see blood let.  The salient known as Emperor’s Fall should well have been consumed by Pict, Cimmerian, or Nordheimer, and yet those vile beasts had turned upon each other and permitted the garrison to eventually be resupplied and fortified.  It held then—held as a symbol of the Empire that was to be restored.

But those were different times, when the Empire was yet recovering from the Tumult, and generals more than claimants to the throne left vacant by Maxentius’ glorious demise were the power within the realm.  Though he would gladly die for the Empire, as he had shown time and again, Flavius could not claim to be a great supporter of the current emperor—or the system that had seen him to the throne.

It was Imperator Lysander that had told him, “The Imperial Dame names the boy, Rutilus, to the throne.”

There was no part of it that sat well with him.  The Imperial Dame—a half-mad old woman, more a slattern than a sovereign, that had fucked her way through the generalship until she had, by chance more than fate, acquired enough support to bring some semblance of peace to the realm?  And this woman—this whore—was then of enough worth and merit to name a boy—a weak, scrawny, redhaired child who seemed more Cimmerian than Aquilonian—to a throne that, by all accounts, he had struggled to deny and wept furiously over in an attempt to avoid?

That whore? That boy?  That throne? That was the way the Empire was to be run?  By the whims of old women and boys that did not wish to lead?  He had shared little of his views with Lysander, for he was aware that the aged general was as true to the Empire as the purple robes that Marcus Rutilus Maximus wore while sitting in a throne too large for him, under the purple-rimmed gaze of a woman far too old to know sense.

But he liked it little—nay, he hated it, and kept his place despite it.  For if Lysander could do so, then he would as well. It had been Lysander, after all, that was blessed with Maxentius’ gladius and told to ride south—ride south with the bloodied sword and prevent the Empire from falling.  Had any other told him to walk the line, he would have seen them unmanned, but the wizened old general had earned his place—and his loyalty.  The belief that the one that wept over command was also the one most deserving of it was a bitter brew to swallow, but he had managed it and some good did come of it.  The generals stopped fighting one another and resumed reconquering lands that were lost.  He had been moved from the North to the East, promoted to one of the Five Generals that Reclaimed the Throne, and faced against the exotic, sand-hued cretins that then danced with swaying formations before him.

Once more, he was at battle.

Yet by Mitra, how he missed the simplicity of slaughtering those fair-haired barbarians.  They knew to rush forth and die with inane cries to their false gods—however these vulgarians of the East?  But for their fanciful marching orders, the perfumed whores they fucked may as well have been the same soldiers that lined their shamshirite columns.  They were hardly a true challenge—hardly worthy the good, Imperial steel that pierced their faint hearts.

The flap of his tent opened, and a large man entered.  He wore the Flavian insignis, marking him as one of his personal cohort, though his gait and stance would have served well enough.  Of those that he had taken with him, those such as Brutalus were invaluable—he had personally trained them from the time they were cubs, to the moment they stood as tall and noble as the lupine beasts that Emperor Maxentius had crawled from the dying womb of, if legend was to be believed.

“Legatus,” Brutalus said.  “The Hyrkanian auxiliary is returned.”

Flavius grimaced.  “I should hope not the entirety of their number this time.”

“No, my lord.  Just the outriders.”  Brutalus’ tone implied a levity that Flavius did not feel.  His features had reddened slightly from the memory of what vexation he knew when the call for a report had seen the zuun of auxiliaries he had requisitioned arrive.   The Hyrkanians do not understand nuance, he had been told. They respond to orders directly—and efficiently.

He had heard tell of how an order disobeyed by one Hyrkanian meant the entire arban from which they were come was slaughtered. In the face of that, decimation seemed a godsend—but perhaps that explained their dedication to the point.

“What did they report?”

“That it is as you suspected.  Satrap Mostafa is moving his men to obfuscate something more.”

“Obfuscate,” Flavius mused.  “Was that your word or theirs?”

Brutalus paused. “My word, my lord—”

“Do not place civilized words in the mouths of savages,” Flavius said. “If a Hyrkanian uses the word ‘obfuscate,’ then see him, or her—or it, whatever damned thing they choose to be called—flogged and left to the buzzards.”

The discovery of the supposed ‘other’ genders by which Hyrkanians designated themselves had been of little amusement to him.  Their wild, alien culture was as unsatisfying to him as the gaudy costumes that they wore when not astride their horses—but when it came to horsemanship, he knew well that no equites of the Empire could compare.  Pissing standing or sitting, a Hyrkanian with a bow was a force to be reckoned with.

So for the time being he chose to permit them their perversions—and they, in turn, provided him with what he needed.  But he did know how limited their language was and how their grasp on proper dialects proved to be at best comical and at worst unintelligible.  Any that spoke a word such as ‘obfuscate’ was surely a creature to be taken as fed the word by some slithering, simpering Samaran spymaster.  He was of half a mind to question how Brutalus, of all people, had learned the word, but then the young man had always been industrious.

He had probably taken to fucking some kohl-eyed Iranistani whore.  Mirza Hashem, the big-bellied, Iranistani nobleman that had thrown his lot in with the Empire, had provided more than a few of them—and though he found little interest in the meat they shook before his men, he appreciated the discipline they encouraged.  Rapine and assault were disorderly things. It was sorrowfully better to see it paid for than plundered.

“Did this eloquent scout ascertain as to what the satrap was attempting to conceal?”

“They assessed—my word, sir—the situation and came to the conclusion that as several of the cataphractarii were displaced, that perhaps a smaller detachment was sent to escort the satrap’s pleasure palace to a safer location.”

There was nothing one of the dusky and dimwitted barbarians cared for more than the holes he placed his cock into, after all.  Flavius’ frown caused a furrowing of his brows as he looked back to his map.  He used a hand to trace along it a route between Samara and their current position within the Zuagir desert.  “If that is the case, then he is screening for Zuagir—not our men.”

“Exactly so, my lord,” Brutalus said.  He drew closer and looked to where his commander was indicating. His jaw clenched somewhat as he fought to determine what was being expected of him then, realizing it was beyond his grasp, he shook his head.

Flavius favored silence over speech.  He did not understand how any man, raised in Maxentian tradition, could not see the value in that and yet, as his commander—as his teacher, he knew it was for him to guide him, as he had so many times before. “Listen closely, my boy,” he said. “In days to come you will understand the guile of savages—and how they can be bested by their own perfidious machinations.”  He considered the man before him and took a moment to admire all he had crafted.  Brutalus had been a wide-eyed boy when he came to him, and through careful tutelage and intense training he had seen the mountain of brawn and bravery crafted. Though the Flavian cohort could not be considered on parity with the Emperor’s solarii, they nevertheless did inspire courage.  Even the Deathless of the Turanian Caliphate were no easy victors over them.

Perhaps Brutalus was not the sharpest of his men—but a mace did not need sharpened edges, did it?  It merely needed to be wielded well and often by an arm tested and true.

“The satrap’s hubris will be his undoing,” Flavius said. “Truthfully, I can no longer tolerate this heat or the damned prancing about of our would-be adversary.”

“His pleasure palace is the answer to that, sir?”

“Of course it, my boy.  Look.” He motioned for him to draw closer and waited as the behemoth of a man, whose muscles teamed beneath his bronzing skin, tipped about the table.  As he was closer, he caught the faint hint of saffron upon him.  Indeed, he had found some kohl-laced whore to sate himself upon. That was good—women for pleasure kept men from delving into bonds that might have seen more lasting relations jeopardized.

“I admit I see but a map, my lord.”

“Consider what the satrap has assumed of our position.”  He ran his finger along the map once more, triangulating all that was before him.  “They say that when Emperor Maxentius defeated the Picts at Sutagus, it was with a single legion acting with surprise as their command. Savages are semi-human yes, but they understand patterns—as most animals do, and the lull we have entered is one that has shown them a pattern.  Mostafa grows emboldened because by this time he believes we are duped by his fanciful displays.”

“And we are not, my lord.”

“Indeed, Brutalus—we are not.  His display has been, to this point, intended to obfuscate—as you have said so adequately—the weakening of his wing. Naturally, he is expecting to protect these men from an attack by Zuagirs, so they will not be overly numerous.”

For if there was any creature that could claim descent from buzzard, it was the Zuagirs that circled like birds about weakened prey and waited for it to fall. Seven men of any legion could have seen thirty of them to flight—surely, at least twenty Turanians could do the same as well.

“Then your plan, my lord?”

“We gather a small, expert force—a Hyrkanian outrider, that Bossonian lad you spake of yestereve, and three more of the legion.  Dispatch them to head off the pleasure escort, scatter it, and then take the contents hostage.  They should be able to outpace the cataphractarii, and send word back to the legion. Distressed, the satrap will be forced to move and will place to his rear the pretense of a guard while hastening to protect his assets.  Without his wealth, he is nothing more than a brigand.”

Brutalus at last brightened. “I see, my lord.  Brilliantly done.”  The glow of his eyes was no different than when he had taken the young man’s arms into his own and carefully shown him the manner in which Bossonians fired their bows. It was a marvel that so many years later and so much more distance between them, there were some habits that did not fade.

Flavius could hardly suppress his chuckle. “As you say, my boy—brilliantly done. We shatter the rear guard and bring the Turanians to action.  Suprema and Exodia can quickly cover the distance once we have secured our battle. By day’s end, before the satrap can regroup, my cohort will have him—you, will have him, my boy.  It is a great day for the Empire.”

“I would never stake acclaim over yourself, my lord.”  Brutalus said, with practiced humility.  His smile manifested as a vague twitch of his lips.  “But to capture a satrap and his treasures, is that not reason enough for a triumph?”

“If such is something the Empire yet displays, I should think so.”  Flavius recalled the last he had seen—before the boy emperor that then sat the August Throne did so, when Imperator Lysander had captured the Cimmerian warlord Agba and three of his sons in single combat. Could he know that glory?  They were within reach of returning the Empire to Maxentius’ original claim upon the world.  Was that not reason enough to perhaps restore the tradition of triumph to the people? “Ready your men, Brutalus.  If I am to have a triumph, do not think your name will be long from mine own.”

Brutalus’ smile became stronger at that—more charming than ever before. “My lord, I assure you—after today, if your name is to be known across the Empire, then I shall do all I can to see mine placed nearby.”

[ladyherenya]

Books read in July

After I read How to Find Love in a Bookshop, I searched the library’s catalogue for other titles containing “bookshop” or “bookstore”. I was curled up in bed with a bad cold at the time, which meant I ended up choosing a bunch of books whose covers or synopses would have, on a different day, put me off. And that worked out rather well!

But afterwards I felt like I didn’t get the right balance between contemporary fiction and fantasy this month.

Favourite cover: Minor Mage by T. Kingfisher.

Still reading: The Hazel Wood by Melissa Albert.

Next up: Mort by Terry Pratchett. Maybe The Queens of Innis Lear by Tessa Gratton.

(Longer reviews and ratings are on LibraryThing. And also Dreamwidth.)

– (they’ve taken away page breaks) –

Things a Map Won’t Show You: stories from Australia & Beyond, edited by Susan La Marca and Pam Macintyre: I borrowed this because I recognised some of the names involved. I liked bits and pieces of it but nothing really stood out. Maybe Peta Freestone’s “Milford Sound”, for the setting. According to the introduction, the stories and poems were chosen “with the curriculum in mind and for their appeal to Year Seven and Eight readers”. That’s a valid reason but I suspect that approach is unlikely to result in a collection that would really appeal to me, not me now and not even when I was a young teenager.

A Thousand Sisters: The Heroic Airwomen of the Soviet Union in World War II by Elizabeth Wein: This is AMAZING. It is aimed at young people, and I wondered if I’d find the writing style too simplistic, but it was just remarkably accessible. I knew bits about Russia’s history but this gave me a much more comprehensive understanding of the culture and politics these women grew up with, and how Russia came to have three regiments of airwomen at a point in time when other countries wouldn’t let women fly into war. The rest of the book is just as fascinating and surprising. Wein knows how to tell a story.

How to Find Love in a Bookshop by Veronica Henry: This is about Emilia, who inherits her father’s bookshop in a picturesque Cotswold village, and the bookshop’s customers. It doesn’t shy away from Emilia’s grief but otherwise is very much a cosy, optimistic story in which friends are made, relationships are mended, mistakes are overcome and everything turns out all right. Which definitely has its appeal. I wanted just a few more sharp edges -- or else slightly more uncertainty -- so that everyone’s happy endings felt more realistic. (I keep brainstorming ways that could have been managed.) Although I didn’t love this book, there was a lot I liked about it. 

The Masquaraders by Georgette Heyer (narrated by Ruth Sillers): This is ridiculous but still quite entertaining. Either I missed something or Heyer doesn’t really do a great job of explaining why Prudence and her brother Robin need to be in disguise, nor why they’ve decided the best way to do this is by crossdressing. The key to enjoying this book was to just roll with it. Also Prue’s romantic interest is a type Heyer writes so well: perceptive, unflappable, competent, with a sense of humour and an appreciation for level-headedness in others. Sensible people pushed into madcap adventures is something Heyer has a flair for.

The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle: It’s much more dreamlike than I was expecting, in a similar vein to Patricia A. McKillip’s fantasy. I was emotionally invested only in flickers and bursts, but I appreciated the way it plays with, and comments on, fairytales. Quests may not simply be abandoned; prophecies may not be left to rot like unpicked fruit; unicorns may go unrescued for a very long time, but not forever. The happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story.

The Bookstore by Deborah Meyler: Esme, a British scholarship student studying art history at Columbia, discovers she’s pregnant and gets a job at a quirky secondhand bookshop. I would have found some of her choices -- and the book itself -- terribly frustrating, except I really liked the bookshop and Esme’s narration. I liked her quotes and references and her enthusiasm and her observations, especially those about living in New York and about the shop -- this is a story with a vivid sense of place. Esme’s naivety and optimism is both understandable and believable, and I wanted to see her finally, properly, free of her awful boyfriend. 

The “Happy Ever After Bookshop” books by Annie Darling:

The Little Bookshop of Lonely Hearts: If I hadn’t already read the second book about the Happy Ever After bookshop and liked it a lot, I probably wouldn’t have bothered reading this. The romantic interest annoyed me -- he’s not a bad match for Posy, but I’d find him infuriating in person and I didn’t want to read about him. Fortunately the book is just from Posy’s POV. I enjoyed the Britishness, and the bits about running a bookshop. I particularly liked Posy’s relationship with her younger teenaged brother, whom she has responsibility for. And I was pleased the romance bookshop stocks appropriate YA and mystery titles.

True Love at the Lonely Hearts Bookshop: I was expecting it to turn into the sort of romance which annoys me. To my delight, it did not! Verity loves her noisy family, her nosy friends, her job in a bookshop and reading romances but she believes she isn’t suited to being in a romantic relationship. She reluctantly agrees to a fake-dating situation to avoid friends trying to set her up. I loved the way this story shows Verity being an introvert, and her obvious love for Pride and Prejudice. And this has all the things I like about fake-dating without too much cringe-worthy deception.

Crazy in Love at the Lonely Hearts Bookshop: I have less in common with Nina than I do with her colleagues: she’s into make-up, tattoos and Wuthering Heights. But it was interesting seeing why she’s embraced both Wuthering Heights and her own particular style so fiercely -- she’s finding her own path, one that differs from what her conservative working class family expected. Some of the resolutions came about a bit too easily. However, I liked getting a different perspective on the bookshop, I enjoyed bits of her romance with Noah, and I share some of Nina’s fascination with the Bronte sisters.

A Winter Kiss on Rochester Mews:  Mattie runs the tearooms attached to the Happy Ever After bookshop. She is delighted about living above the bookshop, but not so impressed about her new flatmate. I’m not a fan of the crazy commercialism of Christmas, but really enjoyed reading about it here -- probably because the story recognises that not everybody loves it. And, given the weather, I was in the mood for something wintry. Other things I liked: the vivid portrayal of the challenges of working “in a customer-facing environment over Christmas”; the details about Mattie’s baking; and the intelligent commentary about romance novels and romantic relationships.

Allegra in Three Parts by Suzanne Daniel: Eleven year old Allegra lives with one grandmother, next door to the other, while her father lives in above the garage. Allegra knows her grandmothers love her, but they are very different. “Sometimes I wish they could just love me less and take what's left over and put it into liking each other a little bit more.” The initial mystery and conflict were slightly stronger than the answers and aftermath. But it’s an interesting portrayal of growing up in Sydney in the 70s, the women’s liberation movement, and of a family dealing with grief. I read it in practically one sitting.

We Rule the Night by Claire Eliza Bartlett (narrated by Chloe  Cannon): Revna’s father is a traitor. Linné’s father is a general. Revna is discovered protecting herself with illegal magic during an air-raid. Linné is discovered after three years fighting at the front disguised as a boy. They’re both sent to a new women’s Night Raiders regiment, where, if they are to survive this war, they have to learn to fly together. This is tense and captivating -- and nuanced. Magic is wondrous but also confronting, the Union is unjust but contains things worth defending, loyalties are not always predictable, difficult people can become valued friends, and not everything is neatly resolved.

The Way Past Winter by Kiran Millwood Hargrave: In the fifth year of winter, Mila and her sisters wake to find their brother has left. Sanna believes Oskar left them willingly, like their father once did, but Mila is convinced that Oskar was taken by last night’s unsettling visitors -- and is determined to rescue him. I didn’t find this as emotional and compelling as Hargrave’s previous books. I don’t know if that’s because this is a simpler narrative or because I didn’t listen to the audio book -- a good narrator adds liveliness and emotion. But Hargrave’s prose is lovely and I liked the fairytale quality this story has.

Grace After Henry by Eithne Shortall: I really enjoyed Love in Row 27, so I borrowed Shortall’s other novel. After her boyfriend dies, Grace keeps seeing him everywhere. Then she meets a man who looks unnervingly like Henry -- a long-lost relative of Henry’s she did not know about. This story is funny and touching. I didn’t expect it to be so compelling, nor make me so invested in Grace’s relationship with Henry. There’s a strong sense of history and of place -- it was interesting to read about contemporary Dublin. There are unexpected and hopeful developments in Grace’s life. But mostly, it’s just very sad.

Famous in a Small Town by Emma Mills: Sophie loves her friends, her high school’s marching band and her small town. She has an idea for how the band could raise money -- enlisting the help of a famous country singer. I liked Sophie’s deep sense of belonging and how much she cares about things. She’s very kind in a way that is realistic and realistically complicated. Her friends are very supportive, but believably so. They all have flaws and make mistakes and have their secrets. I really enjoyed this story about friendship and summer (and it was a good choice after reading something sad).

Can’t Escape Love by Alyssa Cole: I’ve tried a couple of Cole’s novels and they didn’t appeal to me -- I wouldn’t have considered this novella if I hadn't seen a positive review. It’s fun and fandom-y and diverse. Reggie contacts an old internet acquaintance after she discovers his puzzle livestreams are no longer online. I liked how it’s very clear that Reggie’s disability has a significant impact on her daily life, but has nothing to do with her current problems. And, for Gus, being autistic isn’t ever an obstacle to a relationship with Reggie. I would have liked to read more but this still satisfying.

The Orphans of Raspay, a novella in the World of the Five Gods by Lois McMaster Bujold: Penric’s ship is captured by pirates and he is thrown in a hold with a couple of young girls from Raspay. As always, I enjoyed Pen’s interactions with Desdemona. I would have enjoyed the story even more had there been more significant character interactions -- the girls aren’t quite old enough to play a very active role in escape plans but are old enough that, in terms of emotional support, they’re not very demanding. I’d like to see Pen challenged more. But this is still a solid adventure. I’m very glad that Bujold hasn’t finished telling stories about Pen and Des.

Minor Mage by T. Kingfisher (Ursula Vernon): Oliver, a twelve year old minor mage with an armadillo familiar, is sent by his village on a perilous journey to the mountains to bring back rain. There’s some dispute over whether this is a children’s book -- Vernon thought it was, her editor was adamant it wasn’t. It feelslike a children’s book to me, even when Oliver has to deal with ghuls, bandits and murderers. (There have always been children’s books which have been too dark and scary for some kids.) The tone is dryly humorous, the armadillo is a delight and I never doubted that Oliver would succeed.

[charismastaticarchive]

hubert hc

“fearing great heights, bow down at the waist. servitude suits you. defy your fate only by bloodying the path so carefully paved and tread before you. if the goddess will not love you, if your father will not love you, if your mother cannot be reached or touched or felt, then love the anti-christ, and put her on a pedestal no man, especially you, cannot reach.”

people forget.

the holy kingdom of faerghus was once a part of the andrestian empire, and the andrestian empire was once the place considered ‘holy.’ it was blessed by seiros herself---seiros’s blood, her very crest, ran through each royal’s veins starting from wilhem himself, its first emperor. seiros loved the empire as she loved her husband and her children. the andrestian empire was loved by sothis herself, and they were her faithful children. 

that was a thousand years ago. wars have rocked fodlan since. the empire has lost ground and power, and propserity. even the religion which once lavished itself upon them has divided itself away---the andrestians, who once wrote the rules to which every devout person lived, is now relegated to being called ‘the western church.’ their traditions and rules deemed old or wrong or un-righteous or warped by time by the kingdom, always vetoed by the archbishop at the center of a new world.

but a vestra does not forget anything---least of all their storied traditions.

house vestra, at first glance, would not seem to be an important house. and in many ways it is not. it does not conrol the military, the economy, religious affairs, or any sort of public ruling. house vestra is viewed by many to be little more than a glorified house of servants---little more than butlers or secretaries in charge of servants, public and private meetings. their official duty is titled ‘household affairs.’

but only the master of the house can control what goes on in it. and the vestras run a tight, meticulous ship.

the vestras know every contact every emperor has ever come in contact with. the vestras know every known poison, every known common courtesy and tradition and proper forms of ettiquette in dagda, brigid, duscur, the kingdom AND the alliance (pity it is, that the kingdom and the alliance would be different, but their children learn anyway, before they learn to tie their boots or read). hubert is fluent in sixteen dialects of a total of eleven langauges and speaks them with perfect pronunciation. hubert memorized every known assassination in the history of fodlan (and how to prevent it from happening in the future) before he turned six.

but the power of house vestra does not come from their many talents. it comes from their Superior breeding and Superior Child Rearing and impressive arsenal of information dating back a thousand years (that they, again, never forget) meaning they are the perfect family, the only family, that can control every aspect of the royal family’s life. 

and they do so. with vigor.

how the emperor stands and sits and how he chews his food and wears his crown and how he waves, who he talks to (if he talks to anyone at all, some emperors are far too stupid, not that a von vestra would ever say such out loud), how he talks to them. the vestras control strategy, the vestras control the emperor’s goals, and they control these goals before the emperor even makes their own, so in tune are they with their lords, who they worship as holy beings---pharoahs more than emperors, rulers with divine holy right living in their veins, a power that must be tended to with tradition, with order, with meticulous guidance and knowledge no one but a von vestra could ever hope to possess all at once.

hubert, an only child, had impossible expectations on his shoulders.

hubert’s father was a devout man. his mother was a quiet woman, who never talked. his father liked it that way. when hubert would try to get affection from his mother, her hands would go limp, and his father would glare. hubert was raised on the bottle by nurses---an oddity for the time period, but one the vestra’s saw necessary. they needed their child to be tough---to be solitary. they did not want to spoil him. he was too important a servant to the cause.

hubert was born four years after the empire’s firstborn son. this already put him at a disadvantage. he would have to catch up. hubert’s father had meticulously planned to have a child every time the emperor and patricia did---but unfortunately all hubert’s siblings had died in childbirth or worse. a disappointment to be sure, but one that could be rectified with the proper discipline instilled in hubert. they would try to have more children over the years---to match the emperor and patricia. but hubert’s mother would die from birthing complications when he was only four.

thankfully, a vestra never forgets. so hubert can still remember his mother’s limp hands, her pale face, muscles not even strong enough to pull her mouth into a frown. she was not beautiful, nor ugly. but she looked like hubert, weak-limbed with hard, dangerous eyes, even though she never spoke in the little time he had with her in between study sessions and time spent with him.

‘him’ is tybalt. edelgard’s oldest brother, the boy everyone assumed would one day become emperor, if luck permitted and he produced his crest.

tybalt was an older boy, (four years older, remember?) with auburn hair, and a smile that could melt gold into embers, a particular talent with horses. hubert was told to worship him. but instead he loved him like apollo loved the sun. when hubert’s father beat him, he pictured a glorious future, dragging the sun behind him on a chariot, racing through the clouds. when his tutors spoke of sin and hell and the wife hubert would one day have to take in order to continue his household---hubert pictured heaven instead, side by side, serving his first, most secret love.

but tybalt did not produce a crest, not at eight, and not at nine, not at ten, or eleven, or twelve.

but edelgard did. just a minor crest of course---but that was enough to make her a viable heir, where tybalt was not. 

she was five. and where hubert could have resented being pulled away from his crush---he was falling deeper and deeper into depression as his future, and his father’s religious fixations---became more real and terrifying to him. edelgard was five years old, three years younger than hubert. and while hubert loved tybalt---and always would, because a vestra does not forget---spending time with edelgard did something that time with tybalt did not. it made him ignore his whole terrible life.

tybalt was a kind boy, a prince among princes, but edelgard was boisterous and rambunctious, an adorable bouncy little girl who was both bratty and a self-assured know-it-all in the adorable way only girls can be. with tybalt, hubert had begun picturing his father’s hell every time he saw him. no more clouds. only dirt&disease, bone-rotting flesh and eternal damnation.

but edelgard never forced him to see the clouds in the first place. she was high maintenance. to a fault. she was silly, and ridiculous, and sharp as a tack. she did not make him picture heaven or the sun---though she had grand beliefs about the future of the empire, goals far beyond what tybalt ever held.

instead she brought him down to her world, as only a child can. for the first time, with edelgard, hubert knew family, and he knew requited, platonic love, as edelgard made no secret of her affections with hugs and cheek kisses that hubert did not care that he would be punished for later. edelgard made him feel like a person, instead of an object or a servant.

and all that would change, for the worse, by hubert’s own hand. but hubert would never forget how special that little girl was.

edelgard and tybalt both left one night no more than three years later. his father had something to do with it, hubert knew.

and as hubert attacked every branch member of his house---his own father, who attempted to kill him in turn for disobeying him, as he stood his ground running outside the house to try to find edelgard (somehow tybalt started to fall by the wayside. surely the angel could protect himself. surely only the child needed him.). only to be attacked for three days straight. he did not eat, or sleep, he let himself soil himself if it meant another yard off the grounds of the von vestra estate to find her. but eventually he was taken down. and tortured. he did not beg for the goddess’s forgiveness as he was told to. he knew she would not listen. (she never had before. a vestra remembers.)

in his father’s dungeons, in which he realized some lessons he had learned from his house were not really just in case of emergencies... he stopped fearing the goddess. he stopped fearing hell. he began to crave it---a sadomasochism working its way into his heart.

he would attend lessons, repeat the motions, learn, and learn, and learn, paying special attention now, with spite bit into his tongue. but he would not be whole again until he saw edelgard and she explained everything, until the hate in his heart had a name and his vengeance worthy opponents.

he would follow the path he was given, the path he had always wanted, to be by the emperor’s side. he would make her dreams come true---and make everyone, even the goddess herself pay with blood. sothis forgot her children---turned her backs on the empire. but hubert remembers everything, and he’s here to burn it all to the ground.

despite his vitriol and his passion. hubert is ruled by fear, like a snaked coiled in a corner. he does not feel he can stand on his own two feet. he relies on edelgard for purpose, for clarity. he is most comfortable when treated as a servant of her will, as a mere extension of edelgard and nothing more. he no longer wants to be human. despite his fascination/aesthetic of the dark and occult, hubert still remembers those clouds, that chariot, flying through the air, being in love and holding that love tight to his chest. he wishes sometimes, to be a pegasus rider. but such roles are reserved for women. he’s better suited for groveling at their feet---not in prayer for the goddess, but digging himself deeper into the dirt & blood, to protect his emperor from things a child should not see.