#yon is an incredibly good warrior and one of the best they have but I don't know if the SI considers him worth keeping just because of that | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thepilgrimofwar · 5 years ago

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Bladeborn

As the House Guards of Emberheart carried bodies from the manor, the boy ruler made his way towards the guest rooms. With a trembling hand, he made his way past the fireplace, where Zarannis stared into the hearthfire. Stenden thought best not to disturb her. He then made his way to one of the other guest rooms, where Vaelrin was plying himself with what alcohol he had gathered- and been given by Zarannis. The boy bowed his head and moved past that room, until he came upon another occupied room. Inhabited by one who would possibly be in a better mind to speak to- Especially when it came with the gravity of the request he was about to make.

Stenden knocked and the knock on the door caught the youth inside by surprise.

Vissehn grabbed for his tunic, tugging it on over the bindings at his chest, grumbling to himself. He had planned on a bath, to wash the blood off, but it had taken the better part of an hour to find a place that fit his very specific and paranoid needs. He doubted that the servants to the Emberhearts would race to tell the tel’dorei that the towheaded fighter didn’t seem as male under the cloth as he looked, but he also couldn’t cross off the possibility.

And with the Oracle damned and dead, it was more obvious than ever that he had to keep his shit under wraps-- literally, and figuratively, as it were.

Ruffling his birdsnest of pale hair, he went to the door, buckling his belt even as he looked over… the boy lord of the manor.

“Aw, fuck.” He sighed. “Am I gettin’ kicked out? You don’t gotta be all polite about it, I figured I might.” He looked Stenden up and down, a twinge of sympathy threading through him. He really did look like his uncle. More so than his father, really; there was a serious determination to his brow that was all Sederis, and not Solli-the-stick-in-the-mud. “Just let me get my shit together, kid-- er, m’lord? Fuck, yer a kid, right?”

Stenden tucked his trembling hand behind his back and spoke with a bemused smile. “You’re not getting kicked out. In fact, you’re an honored guest of the family- So-” he gestured at his unkempt appearance- A hastily draped tunic and a half buckled belt. “Don’t- worry about- all that-”

The Lord of the Emberglades suppressed the urge to laugh, doing his best to keep up the airs of nobility in the face of someone so close to his age. It was the first moment of levity he had had all day.

“But I am here to make a request, so, may I come in?”

The smile on the other lad looked about as thin as the years between them, and so it was easy to reply. “Hey, yeah, come on in. It’s yer house, really, I’m just soilin’ your sheets yanno?” He snorted awkwardly and moved out of the way to let the young lord enter.

The room was, despite Vissehn’s claim, incredibly neat, as though no one had been in the space at all. Only the sheets looked mussed, and a chair brought near the window. The window was, however, open-- and there were definite signs that the youth had been gallivanting out on the rooftops and beyond, in the form of a curtain shoved into the lock, and mud on the edge of the sil.

Drawing the chair back to the table quick as a flash, Viss sat in it backward and patted the table. “Go on, take a seat.” His eyes flicked over Stenden’s features. He felt the question on his lips-- but it seemed too unkind to ask, too fresh. He would likely be asked by so many others, if this was his first taste of war, if these were the first deaths he bore witness to.

Vissehn knew the weight of those questions. He wouldn’t add to it.

“So, whatcha comin’ in for, if not to toss me out on my ass? Not that any’d blame you, really. We’re all just lucky I got a fleabath before they let me in here.” He jibed, leaning his chin on his crossed forearms on the back of the chair.

Stenden stepped inside, noted the window and the associated shenanigans, and tried his best to ignore it. He took a seat, also ignoring the mud he had been tracking into the room. The servants were not going to be happy about this. The smile turned to a stifled snort.

“Lirelle said I had the finest warriors in the Kingdom, all gathered here. I will admit Mr.Bladeborn, that you don’t look the part.” By the sounds of those words coming out of his mouth, it didn’t sound the part either. “Can I just call you Vissehn?”

“Gods, anything but Mister Bladeborn, I think Sederis called me that once and I almost popped a vessel from either laughin’ or hurling.” He snorted and ruffled his hair further, just to have something to do with his hands. “An’ Lirelle’s kind, for a dead scary woman. I’m more used to bein’ a courier.” He waggled his brows at Stenden. “Gets me in a lot of doors, and no one tends to think much about the post-person.”

Still he leaaaaaned sideways, looking over Stenden. “You don’t look much like a lord, neither, but I ain’t casting aspersions.” He drew out the last word, obviously having read it without hearing it much. “Got your mothers’ complexion and your uncle’s brow, but I got a feeling you get a fair portion of your father’s smarts. So!” He sat up and clapped. “Call me Vissehn, I’ll call you Stenden, and we’ll forget that neither of us looks the parts we’re bout to play, huh?”

“Deal,” Stenden extended his hand to shake on it.

Vissehn spat in his palm and shook with the young Lord. "Ceremonial, rightly so." The sparkle in his eyes showed it really wasn't but honestly that was far from the worst fluid they'd gotten on them that day.

The boy took his hand and shook, firm, joining him in the ritual of mutual nastiness. They were now partners- Not quite like blood-brothers- More like… Spit-brothers. Luckily for Stenden, this hadn’t been his first encounter to the ritual. Unlike Sederis who did not have a childhood shared with the low-borns of the realm, Stenden had spent many a time playing with the children at Dawnveil.

“I’ll be brief Vissehn. The Emberglades are going to war. I don’t know who my friends are. I don’t know if I’ll win this. But if I can borrow your strength, I can promise you that you’ll have a place here in the Heartlands.” Stenden spoke, with a mix of gravity and levity that was absent earlier. “If this war isn’t for you, I could still have you do be a courier.”

The firm handshake brought a smile to Vissehn’s features, something a shade softer. The kid was alright. He resisted the urge to ruffle Stenden’s hair, some deep-seated place of affection stirred by Stenden’s untimely burdens.

“I’m good for it.” He released Stenden’s hand and resumed leaning with his chest to the chair’s front. “I’ve gotten a fair hand at killin’ things now, which says summat I’m sure, but I’d rather it be for a cause than not for one.” He reached blindly to the table and-- after a pat or three-- found what he sought; a bottle of the local brew, which had been forgotten in his haste to attend the funeral and then the subsequent difficulty of bath-locating.

He took a long pull, pulled a face and put the bottle down. “Now. Before you sign off on your pretty friend Fish being a soldierboy, I got a counteroffer.” He had swept the room for enchantments minutes before the lordling entered, and he felt like the news he was about to share was less sensitive even than his gender.

“I did courier work, yeah, for the Sunguard and the Hawks and all. I also did good behind, let’s say, enemy lines. Got papers where they needed to go… and stopped a few too.” He waggled a brow. “I got a few friends I can reach out to, sees what I can pull, maybe get some of those friends where they’ll do some good in Ilithia, it was called, right?”

He paused. “Now. I’m not doing this cause I’m a sufferin’ saint, like half of yer uncles friends… nor am I a wardog like the other half, though I could be in a few years. I’m a survivor.” He leaned forward in the chair so he met Stenden’s eyes. “I got red in my ledger I plan to make black. Your uncle did right by me and mine… more than I can say.” A flush crept up the youths face, and he needed to look away, at the dark glass of the bottle. “So this is payment back. Whatever you wanna offer, you offer, but know I’d let ye piss on my name and call me curr and I’d still do this cause of Sederis.”

Stenden took in this information with great interest. If the Emberglades did not have the strength to win this war by force, an agent- Another agent- would do well to turn the tides of battle. Besides, while his father had an agent in the form of former Logistics Offier Beathyn Val’cinder, the Lord of the Emberglades figured that it would be prudent to have an agent of his own.

“You know, our coffers are likely to be empty of coin for awhiles yet but...” he began leaning forward to meet the boy’s gaze opposite him. “When this war is over, there are a few Lords that are likely to be removed and their lands will need to be… Shall-we-say, redistributed.” The Lord of the Emberglades broke into an unexpected grin. Playing to his new friend’s… Shall-we-say, hobo-ness, Stenden spoke up with a lilt.

“What would you say to a house?” He let the suggestion sink in for a moment before playfully rubbing his chin. “Wait- Maybe a field- Some land perhaps? But the maintenance of those will put you deeper into the red… So some farmhands?” Stenden clapped his hands together. “What say you, to a minor title? Yes! Be an agent on my behalf and you’ll have yourself a farmstead and peasants of your own to boot.”

The young man listened, watching the way levity made Stenden seem his age at last. The immediate rancor he typically felt when discussing the landed was therefore muted by the warmth he had for the other youth, and so when he spoke it was kindly.

“Oy, that’s a hell of an offer there, but not the first I’ve garnered.” He waggled his brows. “I’m not exactly the type yon good-and-true elves of the land are gonna tip hats to.” He flicked hair away from his short and honestly stubby ears. Tracing the edge with one finger, Vissehn’s voice went a shade softer. “I’m a mutt, through and through. I don’t need land or titles, but if’n you can sort some of those means and ends towards improving the livelihood of your less fortunates… specially those who don’t put down roots, well, I’ll have done my square part on looking after my fellows.”

He smiled then, a subdued thing that brought the softness of certain parts of his face into stark relief with the wild and fae mien he typically wore. “There’s a whole passel of mutts like me who need someplace to wander. If your borders’ll be open to ‘em, I’d consider it a way to bring all that black and red into some kind of balance.”

If Stenden was looking his age, Vissehn was not keeping his cover very well around the other no-longer-a-child.

“If you want a reason for me to be stickin’ around after alls said and done, just lemme know. I’m a roustabout by nature but I could see cooling my heels here, near the Dawnbrooks an’ the Emberhearts. I’m a fair courier, fair in a fight, and got some unfinished business here abouts that would be easier to accomplish if I had a place, but say… not necessarily landed or well known.” He shrugged and leaned back so his elbows rested on the chairback, one leg bouncing.

“Ah,” Steden verbalized when he caught sight of Vissehn’s ears. It’d have been fine with him, perhaps, but the average peasant? The crown? He didn’t believe that giving out such a gift would go down well with either. “I can do borders. The Broken Bulwark will need resettling and I feel like a more… Accepting sorts are likely to resettle those broken lands.”

But he smiled again. “So that settles it then, and I’ve got myself my very own agent.” In lighter times without the same gravity upon them, he supposed his first task that he’d give his new friend would be to harmlessly prank his father in some way. But war was upon them, and the reality of the situation began to weigh on him once more.

“Glad to have you aboard Vissehn. Now about the help you said you could get me…”

Quickly spinning the chair back towards the table, Vissehn dropped onto one knee. “Naw, Stenden, we’re gonna do this official like.” He looked over the table and grabbed a quill, and shoved it into the young lord’s hands.

He clasped his own around Stenden’s a moment, serious eyes despite his grin. “Induct me into yer service, Lord Emberheart, an’ I’ll serve ye loyal in any capacity I might for as long as you do good by the Tel’dorei. I might be a bastard and a halfbreed and a dirty spy, but I’m good as my oaths and you’ll want to make this… deal.” The word makes his smile turn bitter but it remains intact, as his hands remain on Stenden’s.

Stenden wiped his hand on his shirt and cleared his throat, getting back into character. Rising to his feet, he tried his best to dull the smile on his face to something more regal, but a hint of it remained. He grasp a nearby parchment and started to pen the terms described in curls of cursive, and ensured that mentions of open borders to the boy’s people were included- Emphasized even.

Because the boy, despite his adherence to the traditions of his station and his land, did not just want to maintain what came before. But to build a better realm. Something that his uncle wanted, but could never achieve.

“I, Lord Emberheart, hereby induct you into the service of my family.” He states as he signs off on the document. He hands it over to him, and as a symbolic gesture, offers his hand to Vissehn. No titles. No absurd formalities past what was required.

Art by CD Projekt Red

@retributionpriest @stormandozone

#Epilogue #Funerals #Aftermath

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frillyfacefics · 6 years ago

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A New Purpose (Ronan/Yon-Rogg) - Chapter 1

The Supreme Intelligence looked like his older brother.

It always hurt to see Gar-Rogg’s face. It hurt even more to see it so full of disappointment.

“Six years,” said the Supreme Intelligence in Gar-Rogg’s voice. “You had six years, and yet you couldn’t build the kind of loyalty between you and Vers that would have prevented this outcome.” A whole squadron of elite warriors dead - all except for Korrath, whose condition was still critical. All the work that had gone into turning Vers into one of their strongest warriors, all in vain. A new threat to the empire of the Kree, a new, basically unstoppable ally for their enemies… Yon-Rogg didn’t know where everything had gone this wrong, and the fact that he didn’t know made his failure even more bitter. He was a commander, he had fought hard to achieve that rank, and yet he had been dealt such a horrible defeat by the hand of one of his own warriors…

Gar-Rogg’s expression changed; not just disappointment now, but pity. “You know that you must be punished. You have been of great service to the Kree, but now you are no longer useful as a warrior or a leader. You know that I would have allowed you to redeem yourself, if your mistakes hadn’t cost us so much - so many life, and so much power. But as it stands, your failure has been too absolute. Your rank as a commander has been revoked, and so has your status as a warrior.”

Yon-Rogg couldn’t do much more but stare at his brother’s face while he was talking. But at this, his surprise made his tongue move before he could stop it. “You mean, I will not be executed?”

His brother’s face frowned at him. “No, you will not be executed. Every Kree’s life is dear to me, and unless it is given in a noble death for the glory of all Kree, every time Kree blood is shed it is a tragedy. You might have become worthless as a warrior, but your life may still have some purpose. For this reason, you are given the status of servant, Yon-Rogg. Your training has been arranged, and a position for you has already been found. You will be cleaned, and your wounds will be tended. And after that, you will honor my decision and humbly accept your new status.”

At first, Yon-Rogg didn’t understand what the Supreme Intelligence was saying. He understood that he was not going to die, that his punishment was something else. But that something else - he needed a few moments before the sounds the Intelligence had made turned into meaning in his mind.

“But… You can’t mean…” His tongue suddenly felt too big, his lips too stiff to speak. He had known that his days as commander were counted, and he had mourned his rank in his shuttle while he was waiting for a Kree ship to pick up his distress signal. But… But the Intelligence couldn’t take away his status as a warrior. He was the son of warriors, he was the brother of a warrior whose death had been so heroic that he had been given the greatest posthumous honours the Kree empire had to offer. The blood in his veins was warrior’s blood. Every hour of every day since he had been old enough to start his training, he had been a warrior. His status was his role in the history of the Kree empire, the purpose of his life, his reason for existing. He couldn’t just change it - just as he couldn’t change the color of his skin, or the number of his fingers, or the make-up of his DNA. He had known that he wouldn’t stay a commander, yes; but he had thought that his punishment would be to become an ordinary foot soldier again.

This was absurd. But the Supreme Intelligence wasn’t speaking. It was just standing there, watching Yon-Rogg with his brother’s eyes, waiting for him to understand what was happening to him.

Anger welled up in his chest like boiling water. He had learned to control his emotions a long time ago, but now he felt as if his body was burning. He fought the heat of his anger down, and slowly cooled it with two, three, four long, controlled breaths. No, this could not be true. This was some sort of test.

“I am a warrior, and I have fought my whole life for the glory of all Kree,” he said, slowly, controlling his cadence so his anger and confusion wouldn’t show in his voice. “If you put me on a ship and send me to the front, I will fight and die for the good of the empire. You said my life can still have a purpose, but what use would it have for somebody of my age, somebody who could never possibly be trained to perfectly fulfil a new role, to suddenly become a servant? I would only be a burden to those who I serve.”

“You are quite old to begin training for a new purpose, that is true. But artisans have become warriors, servants have become spies; there have always been exceptions to the rule. It will be interesting to see if you can be one of those exceptions.” It was his brother’s voice talking, saying these words that would never have come out of his brother’s mouth. Gar-Rogg would never have humiliated him like this.

But Yon-Rogg was slowly understanding that this was not a test. That this was what the Supreme Intelligence had decided. And he knew that what the Intelligence decided was for the best for all Kree; and he knew that it wouldn’t change its mind.

He lowered his eyes onto the shimmering floor. He couldn’t look at Gar-Rogg’s face anymore, not after he had brought such dishonour to his family.

“As you wish, Intelligence,” he said. Because that was what it meant to be a Kree - to follow the wishes of the one entity in the universe which always knew the right answer. To be a part of the Supreme Intelligence’s plan, even if that part was as humiliating and as horrifying as the fate he had been allotted.

He resurfaced, and was immediately brought to a medical unit so his wounds could be taken care of. He was washed and given new clothes, soft light-blue scrubs that would likely act as a stand-in until he would be given the livery of whoever high-born blue-skin he was going to serve. He tried to forget where he was, who he was, what was happening to him. He just did what the caretakers asked him to do. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his mind, he knew that he was disassociating. He couldn’t deal with what was happening, so he was trying not to deal with anything. As long as he didn’t think, he didn’t have to think about his future.

They kept him in the medical unit for three days. He was incredibly fortunate, they said, that there were no internal injuries or serious bone fractures. His shoulder was busted badly, and it would be hurting for a whole while, and they told him to avoid running, lifting heavy things, any kind of strenuous physical activity. Of course he knew that this wouldn’t be up to him. Whoever was going to train him would give him his orders, and he would do what he was told. He had been a common soldier long enough; no matter how much of a failure he had turned out to be, he hoped he would still be able to follow orders, at least.

He had thought that they would transfer him to a training facility after this. There were training centres for all kinds of profession on Halla, and if they wanted him to become a servant, he saw no reason why this wouldn’t be his next destination. But instead, he was brought onto a ship, locked into the cargo-hold. He didn’t know if the ship jumped, or how many times. He did not know how far from Halla he was, or whether he was still in Kree space. He only knew that they came for him after more than a day, judging by the three meals he had been given, and marched him onto a shuttle.

He could only catch a tiny glance at the vast darkness of space before they made him sit down on one of the benches in the back. They left the docking bay, and a few minutes later they docked again. He was led out of the shuttle and into the bowels of what seemed to be a… military ship. Kree in Starforce uniforms patrolled down the hallways he was being led through, and then he was in an elevator, and then he was led into a large, high room with a vaulted ceiling.

Then, he was left alone.

He was still caught in the nothingness that had engulfed his mind to protect him from his new reality. He didn’t know how long he waited in this strange, dark, unpractically large room. He didn’t care, either. Time held no meaning.

After hours or minutes, the door opened.

Ronan the Accuser entered the room.

And Yon-Rogg’s mind snapped back into the present with such a force that time seemed to run ten times faster.

The Accuser stopped right in front of him.

“Welcome to your new home, Yon-Rogg.”

#ronan the accuser #yon-rogg #yon rogg #captain marvel #MCU #this is not even proof-read #gonna do that before I put the fic on ao3 #but that's only happening if I finish it so eh #a new purpose

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withallthingslove · 6 years ago

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Captain Marvel Spoiler Filled Review

A completely chaotic “review” that is just my random thoughts

spoilers under the cut

- i saw this movie with three of my close friends (one who is a dude and lifelong comic fan, and then two girls who are hella feminist) so I will include some of their reactions as well just to give an idea of what it was like for different people

- right out of the gate the Marvel intro montage is all Stan Lee. It was very heartfelt and the entire theater clapped. That pretty much set the mood for the entire movie

- I know a lot of critics found the beginning to be slow, and while I agree I didn’t mind it. One of my friends said she thought the beginning was a little too jumbled and she described it as “it’s like the directors learned how to direct as the movie went on”.

- The movie opens with Carol (at this point called Vers) having a confusing nightmare and trying to decipher it afterwards with little help from those around her. Because Carol has amnesia, the audience is left to feel what she feels which is confusion. I get what the directors were going for, but it was a little jumbled.

- I did find the dream sequence effective and did feel Carol’s confusion and fear when she woke up.

- She goes to her mentor yon-rogg and asks if he wants to practice fighting. They banter, and it becomes immediately clear to the audience that although Carol is confused they have a rapport with each other and she trusts him. Although he teases her, he *appears* to care for her. During the fighting scene there is more banter, but yon-rogg also tells Carol to control her emotions better. I know there were a lot of complaints from fuckboys about brie larson being stoned faced, but it makes sense for the character. She has emotions, and then is told to suppress them.

- it was satisfying to see her zap him with her powers anyway, and the whole “don’t show emotion” garbage he was telling her reminded me of like every female experience ever and first clued me in on yon-rogg’s shadiness

- On the train ride back from fighting, carol and yon-rogg have very flirty banter and eye contact and i was like ohhhhhhhh and interpreted it that they were a thing. I’m not sure if this was on purpose, but jude law and brie larson had great chemistry (brie had chemistry with everyone though tbh) and it was very hard to ignore. Plus they’re both hot. I leaned over to my friends and asked “they’re a thing right?” and they said “yes I thought so too” and “i think it’s implied”

- When Carol gets sent to the artificial intelligence place to be approved for her first mission I did find that scene pretty confusing and jumbled

- The mission itself was very dimly lit which made it a little confusing to understand/see what exactly was happening

- But it was cool to see Korath from GOTG. One thing this movie did really well was tying into other MCU movies and connecting everything. This movie definitely feels fresh compared to other origin stories but also fits in the the universe and makes it feel more complete

- When Carol was captured and her memories explored, ben mendolsohn’s voice came on as a voice over for talos and I leaned over to my guy friend and went “i fucking love ben mendolsohn” because ITS TRUE. His voice is so recognizable and then even underneath the skrull make up his acting was so distinct

- The memory exploration scene was jumbled like the nightmare, and it made me wish that we got more of carol’s human life backstory. I got the vibe that those scenes would have been better if they were fleshed out more instead of just little tidbits for the audience. that was one of my biggest complaints for the movie is the order the flashbacks appear and how little there were

- Carol screaming at one of the skrulls as she escapes was super funny and showed a lot of her personality. I think it separates her from a lot of heroes because most are nervous as they are trying to escape but she seemed confident in her powers and her ability and therefore could joke around a bit more

- The story definitely picked up once she crash landed on earth, and the 90s nostalgia was very funny and all of those jokes landed with the audience

-Samuel l jackson did a great job as a young fury. This fury is different. He’s much more idealistic and optimistic about the world, and functions more as a good cop than the fury we see in other mcu movies. It was also cool to see coulson again

- I really really enjoyed the scene when carol is able to make contact with the rest of the kree warriors the first time from the phone booth. Even though I got a bad vibe from yon-rogg I did get the feeling that he genuinely cared for carol’s safety. By the end of the movie my opinion about that was conflicted but I think that scene did a good job of showing that she was with them for 6 years which is a long time and why it took her so long to process everything that happened later because it countered everything she knew. It also did a really good job of showing that when she first landed on earth, she still was more kree than human. Her report back was very matter of fact compared to her later contact with them.

- Brie larson and samuel l jackson had GREATTT buddy cop comedy chemistry

- The train chase was very fun to watch, and like the trailer it was very satisfying to see Carol punch the “old lady”

- the scene where fury and talos (disguised as a SHIELD agent) look to see if the dead skrull has a penis got A LOT of laughs

- There’s a scene where Carol is standing outside trying to figure out her next move and this motorcycle dude pulls up and revs the motorcycle and tells her to smile. She just glared at him and then stole his motorcycle and it was ICONIC

- Again I really really really love the dynamic between Carol and Fury

- the second phone call when Carol makes contact with the Krees shows her more human side coming out. Brie Larson is great at showing emotion and as she was starting to put the pieces together everything was making more sense and less sense at the same time and you could feel her confusion and panic that something was off.

- Ben Mendolsohn is a gem and needs to be protected pass it on

- I LOVEDDDDD the moment when Coulson let Carol and Fury go without ratting them out just proving once again that he is one of the best and while i love loki i also hate him for killing him because coulson is too good for this world

- Things got really good when Fury and Carol went to Maria because I STAN FEMALE FRIENDSHIP SO HARD. From the first look they had so much depth and Maria played a huge part of helping Carol understand who she was.

- Also go Maria for being a badass pilot and single mom and amazing best friend

- MONICA IS THE BEST OMG. Her line to her mom about setting an example for her was A++++++

- Goose the cat was also great the only thing I’ll say about this is that Goose is a scene stealer. I don’t want to give the spoilers for Goose away because while predictable they are things I wouldn’t want to spoil for anyone

- I loved the subtle nods at gender inequality

- While the “twist” of Talos and the skrulls being good was predictable it was still very enjoyable. The predictability of it did not take anything away from it. There were references to how other planets treat refugees and Ben Mendolsohn did a great job with the pathos required for the role

- He also did an A+ job with the humor which I won’t give away because those lines are worth hearing fresh

- I think yon-rogg ‘s shadiness at the beginning is what tipped me off to the twist that he is the true villain of the story.

- Again, the movie’s flashback scenes felt like they should be my favorite part and filled with drama and be the emotional backbone, but they just didn’t get there. It took so much effort to decipher them that you didn’t really get to sit back and process the emotional weight of them. So when Carol ran out crying once her memories returned while I thought the acting between her and Maria was great, the meaning of the conversation and hug did not have the full weight because the audience (or me) was still processing what we just learned

- Annette Bening is my mom. Also if there was ever a biopic on elizabeth warren she should play her. Also I don’t like that we didn’t get as much Mar-Vell and the reveal that she was helping the skrulls was very rushed and I feel should have had more of an emotional impact. Plus more about her relationship with carol

- Talos reuniting with his family was incredibly sweet

- It’s cool to see where exactly the tesseract ended up between CA: TFA and Avengers

- Okay.why.do.yon-rogg.and.carol.have.so.much.sexual.tension. I was worried it was just me and I looked at my friends and was just like wtf is this are they about to fuck? and we basically agreed that their sexual tension kept building throughout the final act of the movie and that they wanted to hate fuck. After one moment during the fighting it kept building my friend went “yep THIS IS CANON” because you guys I am not kidding like I don’t ship them because yon-rogg SUCKS but they had the best accidental chemistry of any co stars ever

- The scene where Carol breaks out of the restraints and realizes her full power was BADASS. I loved the flashback montage of her always getting back up again and embracing who she it. POETIC CINEMA

- Though I personally did not like the scene where she is fighting off the Kree on the ship.. . I just wasn’t a fan of the song choice and some of the lines were just cliche. It was nice to watch Carol smile with each hit as her power increased because she was enjoying it which is something we dont see a lot i feel like but the scene did not reach its full potential for me

- It was cool to see ronan and have the space marvel movie characters be tied in. And interesting that we saw ronan before he went “rogue” Again this movie did a great job connecting the dots to other marvel movies

- CAROL IS SO POWERFUL OH MY GOD THANOS IS GOING TO GET HIS ASS KICKED AND IT WAS SO SATISFYING TO SEE HER JOURNEY

- speaking of satisfying watching her tell yon-rogg she doesn’t need to prove him anything and then blasting him into a rock cured my depression

- again i dont really understand their relationship because there’s the sexual tension, the seemingly genuine caring on his side that is conflicted with his utter manipulation and lying (a very good example of how abusive/manipulative people often don’t come across that way)... the fact that she doesnt kill him? like girl kill him and be done. It was funny when she grabbed his hand and then just dragged him to his ship, but then when he told her he couldnt go back empty handed the way jude law delivered the line made it seem like he was confiding in her and there was this intimacy. And then she was just like “boy bye im ending this war and idgaf what happens to you” because shes a queen and is done with his lies

- The ending with Carol and Talos was cute

- The ending with Coulson and Fury made me want to cry and scream because the avengers theme song began to play and we see the beginning stages of the avengers initiative which just made me think about how we have one month till all the characters we love die and this franchise has meant so much to me over the years

- the mid credit scene continued that excitement and dread.

If I was ranking the movie as a critic, I would probably give it 65%. It was good, I was never bored, the performances were great. But it definitely should have been better. There were just some parts of it that were underwhelming or didn’t deliver the way they should. My guy friend said it was just okay and that it felt more like a tie in to endgame and less about captain marvel herself. My other friends agreed on the 65% from an objective opinion, but we all want to see it again.

As a hardcore marvel fan, I give the movie 75%. I loved the characters, the easter eggs, the acting, the way the movie felt like a new beginning for marvel while still tying into past movies. It was everything I love about this franchise

#captain marvel spoilers #captain marvel #carol danvers #maria rambeau #brie larson #yon-rogg #jude law #nick fury #samuel l jackson #marvel #mcu #annette bening #mine #avengers endgame

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theaggresivepacifist · 6 years ago

Text

and you, my oldest friend

For the lovely @thegoldensoundtwice, based on this amazing post.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Since I moved home from college in May, I’ve kind of lost contact with a lot of good friends and colleagues, and your amazing blog has been a little bit like having a friend to chat with – especially about the wonderful world of Redwall. Even though we don’t really know each other, your kindness, sense of humor, and incredible eloquence (I will NEVER be over the fic you wrote for me!!!) has been such a gift, and so instead of studying for the GRE I wanted to write you this tale as an early Christmas present and a heartfelt thank-you. Surprise!!!

It is un-beta’d, massive af (I think almost 7K words, so let me know if you’d like a .pdf!), and a tad bit angstier than I was going for at first, but hopefully still an entertaining yarn.

Cheers!!!

It was a glorious midsummer’s evening when she saw Redwall Abbey for the first time.

Her grandfather, a silver-furred old badger named Buckthorn, had told her stories about it, of course, promising to take her there the next time they held one of their fabled feastdays. He was a good storyteller, perhaps the best in Mossflower. But even he couldn’t do it justice.

The Abbey stood tall and proud and majestic at the border of the woodlands, battlements and belltower of ruddy sandstone soaring to the sky. The setting sun gilded the myriad ivy leaves that crept across the stone, turned the climbing roses to an incandescent shade of ruby red. The broad main gates stood open to all comers, and inside she could see colored lanterns glowing in the branches of the trees, reflecting in swirls of red and yellow on the surface of a tranquil pond.

Constance had never before seen anything quite so beautiful.

A motely group of squirrels, mice, hedgehogs, otters and moles welcomed them to table at once, as if they were old friends, and loaded their plates with the most delicious-looking foods a creature could imagine: breads and cheeses, salads and pasties, puddings and berries and flans. All of them were talking at the same time.

“Welcome, both of you! You look famished! Here, this plum cake goes perfect with clotted cream.”

“How about some of this hotroot soup?”

“Don’t be shy, take a few more of these nunnymolers.”

They were given places of honor at a table of Abbey Brothers and Sisters, pleasant mice in cowled brown robes. Being rather solitary by nature, Constance spoke with them only when spoken to, preferring to let her grandfather hold the conversation. She devoted the rest of her attention to eating serving after serving of the scrumptious food and watching the other jolly creatures with interest.

As supper was winding down, with everyone sipping their favorite drinks and nibbling at their favorite sweets, some of the woodland guests, the two badgers included, took it upon themselves to provide entertainment for their kindly hosts. A troupe of voles played reels and jigs on a battered bodhran and sweet-toned reed flutes; a family of harvest mice performed several comedic skits. But Constance and Buckthorn’s act was the most anticipated of the evening. Many Redwallers had never even seen a badger in the fur before, as old Mara, Redwall’s last badger mother, had gone to her rest many seasons ago. The pair of them performed feats of marksmanship with yew longbows, and Constance obligingly wrestled stout waterhogs and burly otter champions, shaking them off like raindrops as the Redwallers shouted words of advice and encouragement.

“That’s the stuff, missie!”

“Hohoho, ole Skip’ll be sore for a full season!”

“Hurr, moind the choild don’t toss ’im into yon pudden!”

She enjoyed the competition, the adrenaline, the feeling of her own strength. The attention was slightly overwhelming. Having humored her hosts, she left her grandfather deep in conversation with old Abbot Cedric and slunk off to the orchards with a pawful of mushroom and leek turnovers, throwing herself down on the cool grass to eat. The night air was velvety-soft, sweet with the perfume of rose and blackberry and late blossoms, and she snuffed appreciatively at it between bites of savory pastry.

“Peaceful, isn’t it?” said a quiet voice, surprisingly close at paw.

Constance bristled slightly, but then relaxed when she spotted the creature, resting against the trunk of a neighboring plum tree. He was just a young mouse, dusky brown, wearing the sandals and sage-green habit of a novice. His eyes were wise and kind.

“I always like to come here in the evenings,” he continued. “It’s nice to sit and watch the sun set over the Abbey. And it’s especially nice to be surrounded by all these good creatures, and hear them laughing and enjoying the feast.”

“I live with my grandfather in Mossflower. I’ve never seen so many creatures all at once,” Constance said. It was unlike her to admit something like that to a strangebeast, but the mouse’s gentle manner somehow put her at ease.

“Do you have many friends in Mossflower?”

“Not really.”

“Well, now you’ve got lots of them here.”

Constance had to smile at that. She extended a broad black paw and gave his a gingerly shake.

“I’m Constance. Pleased to make your acquaintance, friend.”

The mouse made a grave gesture in return, bowing his head over his own folded paws.

“My name is Mortimer,” he said.

By the end of the feast Mortimer and Constance were inseparable; the one’s serious nature perfectly complemented the other’s slight shyness. When she and her grandfather returned for the autumn harvest he showed her around the interior of the Abbey: the dizzying height of the belltower, the best places to sit in Great Hall, the labyrinthine aisles of the cellars where their resident Cellarhog kept special firkins of mulled wine and flowery mead.

Of course, they were both still young creatures, so these sights were soon followed by a tour of the spookiest corners of the attic, the hallways with the best curtains to shelter behind during games of hide-and-seek, and the kitchen larders that held the best snacks. They played in the crisp autumn leaves and dared each other to step paw in the icy pond. He also introduced her to Martin the Warrior, explaining the legend to her as she gazed, transfixed, at the richly embroidered tapestry.

“A mouse fighting a wildcat,” she marveled aloud. “I can’t wait to tell my granddad about this.”

“I thought you’d like to know about Martin,” said Mortimer. “He was brave and strong like you.”

“And then a mouse of peace, like you,” she replied thoughtfully.

Buckthorn was growing too old to make the journey to Redwall as often as Constance would have liked, and so in the springtide she argued and pleaded with him until, finally, he gave her permission to make the trip on her own. She woke well before dawn, packed a generous haversack of supplies, and set out through the woodlands at a steady pace, already full of excitement for the day she had planned. The miles passed swiftly. She arrived at the Abbey by midmorning, just as the Redwallers were finishing their breakfast, and stealthily motioned for Mortimer to leave Great Hall and join her in the orchard. He was thrilled by the surprise, but also full of questions.

“Why are you being so secretive? Where’s your grandfather? How in the name of seasons did you get here so early?”

“I’m here to take you on an adventure,” she told him in a stage whisper. “Think you can sneak out to Mossflower for the day?”

“I’m not sure I’m allowed,” said Mortimer. “I have to help with the washing for the dormitories and –”

“Come on! I’ve been to Redwall lots of times, now you should see where I live. Just tell them you can’t do it! Make something up!”

“I’ll try. Wait here.”

He disappeared for several minutes, leaving Constance to sample some of the early gooseberries. Finally he returned with a subdued expression and a heavy green travelling cloak draped over his Redwall habit.

“I told Brother Oswin I was gathering herbs for the infirmary,” he said, already self-reproachful.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be a fib. We can find some on the way back.”

He cheered up as soon as they set paw in the emerald forest, where new leaves were budding and a kaleidoscope of varicolored wildflowers were blooming. He had never been so far into Mossflower Wood before. Constance named the many birds for him by their plumage and their dulcet voices, and Mortimer paused often to admire fuzzy bumblebees and jewel-toned dragonflies, or flitting butterflies with wings like stained glass.

After a few hours’ march they sat down on the riverbank to rest, shaded by the boughs of an ancient willow. Mortimer said a simple grace over their midday meal. Constance watched the way his eyes closed, his shoulders relaxed, his paws steepled.

“What is it like, being in the Order?” she asked him, around a mouthful of strawberry preserves.

“Well, there’s a lot of book learning.” He brushed oatcake crumbs from his lap and cut a wedge of yellow cheese studded with hazelnuts, whiskers twitching thoughtfully. “Lots of history. We learn about the founders of Redwall and where they came from, and about the rules and vows that all Abbeymice live by. But our most important duty is to provide help and healing and charity to any creature in need of our assistance. Just a few days ago there was a poor weasel with a racking cough –”

“You mean you let vermin into the Abbey?” Constance interrupted.

“He was an honest creature. Sister Teazle and I made him a draught of strong herbs. He was as good as new by the next morning, and gave us some beautiful mussel shells in token of his thanks.”

“He probably came by those while he was off pirating at sea,” she replied dryly. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you can’t trust just anyone. There are a lot of dishonest creatures who would try to take advantage, even here in Mossflower. We’ve had quite a few brushes with robber foxes and ferrets.”

“Trust them or not, my duty is to help them if they require it,�� Mortimer said patiently. “But I suppose it’s safer living at Redwall than out here in the forest.”

“I don’t know. It’s not so bad.”

“Oh dear, I didn’t mean it that way at all, truly. Mossflower is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. I think I could stay here by the riverside forever.”

“Well, I think Redwall’s got to be the best place I’ve ever seen,” said Constance, pleased by her friend’s compliment.

“Who knows! Maybe you could come and live there someday.”

After luncheon they crossed the stream, picking a careful path over the slippery stones, and made their way at last to at the badgers’ cottage. It was a snug little house of smooth clay, built back against a rock shelf so that the soft-mossed surface served as the fourth and largest wall. Trailing nasturtiums wove over the doorway and windowsills, their flowers like bright medallions of orange and sun gold. Inside were tables and chairs of Buckthorn’s making, carved out of honey-colored wood, and little trinkets from his many travels: pressed mountain flowers, many-colored stones, bits of seaglass worn smooth as silk.

“It reminds me of our Cavern Hole at Redwall,” said Mortimer, his eyes aglow.

“A neighbor helped me to build this place, a clever old beaver, when I first came to this part of the woods.” Buckthorn straightened from stoking up the hearthfire. “That were when young Constance here was but a tiny badgermaid. Her gran was still with us then.”

“She must have planted that wonderful herb garden of yours.”

“Aye, that’s right. She was a healer like you are, y’know. There’s some rare plants growing there that might interest you.”

The old badger and the young mouse were kindred spirits. Over the course of the afternoon Buckthorn swapped stories with Mortimer and shared with him some of the badger lore that Constance had known since she was a cub, the workings of the tide and the secret phases of the moon, the way to sense the first changings of the season – even old fireside tales, like that of the great snow badger who brought deep winter to Mossflower Wood. Constance was just about to remind them that they needed to get back to the Abbey before nightfall when a sudden spring rain began to lash through the trees, obscuring the woodlands with a heavy sheet of silver.

“Not travelin’ weather, I’m afraid, young ’un,” said Buckthorn, shaking his grizzled head. “You’ll have to stay here for the night.”

“Oh, no,” Mortimer groaned. “I’m going to be in a lot of trouble when I get home.”

“Don’t worry. We can leave as soon as the sun rises,” said Constance, secretly ecstatic that the elements had intervened. “Let’s have a cup of tea, and then I’ll show you how to make a seafaring dish my granddad taught me. Skilly and duff!”

In the morning, as promised, they set out at a run with the first rays of dawn, slipping and squelching on the muddy road. Though they made it to the Abbey in record time, Mortimer’s prediction was soon proved correct. Brother Oswin was waiting for them at the gate with a face like yesterday’s thunder. Without hesitation he took hold of Mortimer’s habit sleeve and began lecturing the young mouse severely.

“We were up all night worrying about you. Abbot Cedric was about to send out a search party! And where in the fur is the sanicle and valerian you were supposed to be gathering?”

Constance blushed at the Brother’s righteous fury, beginning to feel sorry for the part she had played in the whole affair. But Mortimer, recalling the sleepless night they had spent telling tales and playing games while the rain drummed on the cottage roof, could only smile.

For many happy seasons they visited back and forth in this way, growing up and growing ever closer, Constance trekking to the Abbey for feastdays and bringing Mortimer back to the cottage to enjoy languid spring and summer evenings by the riverside. She eventually taught him how to find his way through the woodlands unaccompanied by reading the signs of moss and leaves, and after much effort prevailed upon him to carry a stout ash staff with him on the road (“Someday I won’t be there, and you might have to defend yourself!”), though only because he decided he could use it as a walking stick.

Mortimer made his way to the den often in the winter days when Buckthorn’s health began to fail him, brewing soothing teas and medicines, keeping him company while Constance slept. When the old badger went to his final rest it was Mortimer who said the funeral service, tenderly placing a bundle of early quince on the grave Constance had hacked from frozen ground.

Several days had passed since then, and the two of them sat at table together, sharing a jug of blackcurrant wine to drive off the icy chill. Constance was red-eyed but composed.

“I was thinking of taking some time to myself. Travelling someplace new, like my granddad liked to do.”

“Outside of Mossflower?”

“Perhaps.” She drained the last dregs of her cup, set it carefully back down on the tabletop. “He told me a lot of stories about Salamandastron, the mountain of the fire lizard, where his father and brothers ruled. Maybe it’s time for me to pay a visit there.”

“But surely not until the springtide, friend.”

“No. No, I’ll wait until the snow melts.” Seeking to reassure him, she gave Mortimer a tired smile. He had taken his final vows and now wore the wide-sleeved brown robe of an Abbey Brother, which made him look, if possible, more solemn than ever. “But the sooner the better. I don’t think I’m meant to spend the rest of my life as a farmer. You’ve already found your path, you old fogey, and I’m glad for you. I don’t have that yet.”

For a moment silence fell. It was an end and a beginning. They always had known it might come to this, but hoped it never would.

“You’ll come back to us, won’t you?” Mortimer asked her.

“Of course I will.”

***

It had been a long struggle across shifting sands, chilled and buffeted by the wind. Her mouth was full of grit and her paws stinging from the many tiny cuts left by jagged rocks and sharp blades of spiky sea grass. She was hungry and thirsty and weary to the bone.

But at last, after weeks of travel, the great mountain was in her sights.

A military hare in a buff-colored coat was waiting her at its base; curiously, he seemed to have been expecting her for some time. He swept off his jaunty feathered hat and made a low bow, to which she responded in kind.

“Is this Salamandastron, the mountain of the fire lizard?”

“The very place! And surely you must be the charming Lady Constance, daughter of Iris and Birchstripe, grand-niece to Lord Oakpaw the Valiant, eh wot! By the left! My pater’s pater served under your great uncle!”

“Just Constance, thank you,” she replied firmly, shaking his paw with a grip that made him wince.

“Just Constance, what an odd moniker! Right-o, I’ll give you the full tour. Please to jolly well follow me, madam!”

He led her upwards through a warren of stone corridors, grey and bleak, but fresh with bracing sea air and the tangy smell of salt and seaweed. He was chattering all the way.

“This, dear gel, is the ancestral home of badgers such as your good self, although it’s a few seasons since our valiant Lord went off questing after some wicked corsairs to the south—vile creatures, nasty tatty rats, all of ’em, need a lesson in cold steel. And so but a few of us gallant and handsome hares, such as myself, the humble Corporal Merriwether, remain here, guardin’ his domicile while he’s away, keep the home fires lit, so to speak. I’ll show you the common areas, dormitories and kitchens of course, the forge room, the terrace gardens, perchance even the entrance to the sacred jolly hall of badgers itself…but here’s the ticket, just the place to start. The mess hall!”

As they approached Constance could hear a commotion – at first what she thought was the sound of several creatures shouting, but then recognized as one creature doing three or four different voices, as the mood suited him. Corporal Merriwether sighed.

“That’ll be one of our new recruits. My apologies for the disturbance, marm.”

They rounded the corner and found themselves abruptly in the Salamandastron dining hall: brightly lit by westward-facing windows, with a crackling fire along one wall and long wooden tables and benches arranged in the center of the room. A slightly bucktoothed grey hare in regimental red was leaping and bounding from table to table, his long ears flopping comically about as he berated his lunching comrades, each of whom ignored him steadfastly. Constance had never in her life seen a creature behaving in such an outrageous manner.

“Cowards! Bounders! Fiends! Yah boo, ya rotters, I can outscoff any three of you with my paws behind me back, so there!”

“Steady in the ranks there! What’s all this about, you young terror?” barked the Corporal. The mad hare came smartly to attention and threw him a swift salute.

“Sah! Was simply interested in a little pie-scoffin’ competition, sah! First beast to finish their pie jolly well wins, sah!”

“You ’orrible animal, what on earth for?”

“Simply a spirit-raisin’ game, sah, fun for the troops, good for the morale, eh wot!”

“I could eat,” said Constance mildly, to general surprise. Several of the Long Patrol hares instinctively stood upon seeing the badger in their midst, and the red-coated hare made an elegant leg.

“By Jove! Honored to have such a worthy opponent, I’m sure! May we commence with the challenge, sah?”

The Corporal looked doubtful, but turned on his heel to shout in the direction of the kitchens.

“Oh, dash it all, if the badger Lady wants to humor the lower orders…Cook! A mushroom ’n’ tater pie for the young badgermiss, wot!”

Constance took a seat on a comfortable bench across from her challenger, who sat poised with wooden fork and knife hovering over a massive golden-crusted pie. In a twinkling a stout hare came hurrying over to place before her a pie of similar size, tugging respectfully at one of his ears.

“With the compliments of me goodself, Cook an’ Colonel Puffscut, marm. Rules for a Long Patrol scoffin’ competition are simple: on the count of three, start eatin’. First beast to finish their plate’s the winnah. One…two…three!”

Without further ado the hare across the table began shoveling down forkfuls of pie, gravy dripping from the corners of his mouth. All eyes were on Constance, who in turn was watching her challenger with great amusement. She waited until he had almost finished his portion before locking eyes with him, opening her massive jaws, and wedging the entire pie into her mouth. After three leisurely chews and a draught of nettle beer she swallowed and shrugged at him, wiping her paws fastidiously on a napkin.

“What was that you were saying about outscoffing three creatures at once?”

There was a smattering of applause from the Long Patrol hares, most of whom were glad to see their eccentric comrade taken down a peg.

“Good show, marm!” the strange creature cried sportingly, still covered in mushroom gravy, as he extended a paw for her to shake. “The name’s Basil Stag Hare, doncha know. I think we two fellow faminechops would make awfully good pals!”

“I certainly ’ope not,” the Corporal remarked despairingly to the Colonel. Constance had to hide a sudden grin.

She soon fit in at the mountain fortress: she was a badger in her prime. The hares kitted her up with a runner’s pack and sling, and she took to galloping alongside the patrols in daylight, telling jokes and gulping nutbrown ale by firesides at night. She spent hours in the forge room, smashing metal into arrowheads and sword blades, although she still preferred a simple javelin or the strength of her own limbs above all else. Basil, the renowned, if ridiculous, fur ’n’ foot fighter, taught her to box, a pursuit in which she excelled. A single right cross from one of her massive paws was enough to lay low a ferret or stoat (or once, by accident, an unprepared Lieutenant Swiftscut) for half a season.

A few of her most impressive feats became the stuff of legends in later days, such as the time when Basil convinced her to skip kitchen duty for an unauthorized day of leisure on the shore. It was a baking-hot summer’s morn, and they had unbelted their weapons so that they could swim in the cool green sea. They then sat wolfing down purloined fruit salad and honeyed damson tartlets, using a massive chunk of driftwood – perhaps the wreckage of a lost corsair ship – as a table. It was the badger who heard the approaching pawsteps first, and turned to see two weasels and a fox trying to sneak towards them, toying with their bladehilts.

“I say, chaps,” Basil said, feigning indignance. “This is a private party, d’you mind?”

“Shaddup, rabbit!” snarled the fox. “Don’t try to go fer yer weapons, they’re too far. Wot kind of vittles have ye got there?”

“Oh, a smidgen of this, a smidgen of that. ’Fraid there’s not enough left to share.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Hand ’em over, or I’ll gut ye!”

With eye-blurring speed the fox drew his rusted cutlass and slashed at the air a hairsbreadth in front of Basil. The hare sidestepped and moved swiftly to stop him, but Constance was faster. With a mighty heave and a sky-shattering roar she levered their picnic table out of the sand, sending food flying and swinging the heavy spar in one fluid motion in the direction of their assailants.

“Blood ’n’ vinegarrrrr!”

CRACK!

All three vermin were knocked poleaxed to the ground, stricken completely senseless. Constance tossed the spar aside with a snort of satisfaction, only to see Basil dancing about on the sand about like a madbeast.

“What’s the matter? Are you wounded?” she demanded, but the hare was merely overcome with awe.

“Absoballylutely spiffin’, wot! Strewth, I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Well, I thought I heard him ask you to pass the damson tartlet,” she said modestly.

Then there was another incident that aroused much mess-hall gossip later, not all of it friendly. Corporal Merriwether, driven half mad after several seasons’ of Basil and the badger’s endless capacity for trouble, had allowed the pair of them out on a weeklong patrol, accompanied by two companions. They were a few days’ journey from Salamandastron, in the last hours of their assigned mission, when a runner named Gurdee spotted a shabby lean-to built precariously against the cliffs. A mangy grey and white rat was crouched outside at a feeble fire. He did not appear to be armed, but Gurdee’s fellow runner, a hare named Bayberry, was taking no chances.

“Paws where we can see ’em, laddie buck! Just what d’ye think you’re doing on these shores?”

“Tryin’ to keep warm,” the rat said dully.

“Wouldn’t happen to be one of Zivka Bluesnout’s scummy corsairs, would you?”

“A deserter, probably,” Basil suggested, in a voice that seemed to propose moderation, but the rat made no reply, and Bayberry ground his teeth together at the slight. With a nod to Gurdee the pair of them drew their rapiers, perhaps seeking to intimidate him into an answer. Bayberry cut the ropes holding together the rat’s dilapidated tent, and Gurdee stirred up the seacoal with the point of his sword, extinguishing the last frail sparks of the fire.

“Stay mum if you wish, but we can’t have questionable characters campin’ out on our Badgerlord’s territory. You’ll need to clear out by nightfall.”

The rat had not made one move to stop this destruction, but instead sat watching listlessly from the sand, one grubby paw splayed protectively over a deep wound in his foreleg. When she saw it Constance barked out a sharp order, her voice echoing off of the cliff walls like a thunderclap.

“Hares, leave that creature alone!”

Obediently they froze, but there was surprise and perhaps even slight resentment in their eyes. Constance ignored them and turned her attention back to the rat.

“How did you injure your leg?”

“Slipped,” he said hollowly. “On the sea rocks, foragin’ the tide pools.”

“When?”

“Few days ago.”

Constance tugged her haversack from her shoulders and began rummaging through it, coming up with a clean strip of bandage and pawful of pungent leaves and mosses.

“Clean the wound in sea water, and then bind it with these herbs. It may sting, but it’ll heal. In the meantime, you’ll want to stay off it as much as you can. Do you have enough food here to last you a day or two?”

The rat shook his head. Constance dug through the haversack again and then set the last of her field rations, a strong wheat loaf and some good mountain cheese, atop the empty cask that served him as a table.

“Take these and move once when you’ve had time to rest. We’re sorry to have bothered you.”

Then without waiting for a word of thanks she turned on her heel and marched away from the scene, accompanied swiftly by Basil. Gurdee and Bayberry sheathed their blades with a last warning look at the rat before jogging to the badger’s side. They disapproved and did not try to disguise it.

“Not entirely sure I understand you, marm, givin’ away healing medsuns like that to a rat, of all creatures.”

“Rather, wot! An’ beggin’ your pardon, but it sticks in my gizzard to see proper gentlebeasts’ tucker wasted on a villain like that!”

Basil, seeing the strange look in her eyes, was the only one who remained silent. Constance continued to stride ahead at a purposeful double-march.

On the journey back to Salamandastron she seemed somehow a changed creature, moody and withdrawn. She no longer hungered after battle and danger the way the young hares did. Even the ballads and marching songs, rousing tales of glory and peril and heroism, had lost their charm. She trusted only Basil for counsel, sitting up to talk with him late into the night.

She missed the new green of oak leaves in the woodlands, the ruddy rose of sandstone in the setting sun, the stillness and sweet fragrance of the Abbey orchards. She missed a gentle, kindly mouse in the habit of his Order, cooling his footpaws with her on the banks of the River Moss.

One morning she left the mountain behind and went home to Mossflower Country.

***

She could hear the ringing of the Joseph Bell even from a distance, clear and strong and exultant, and almost in spite of herself began to run, paws churning up the pathsoil. Through the lacework of budding beech and elm leaves she soon saw flashes of pink stone, and then she found herself before the gate. She had to pause for a moment to catch her breath and calm her emotions. She had dreamed of this moment every evening of her journey back; perhaps she would wake up to find that this too had been nothing but her imagination.

Then she stepped forward and rapped at the door.

After a few moments a chubby little dormouse heaved the doors open, peeking cautiously around the corner. At the sight of her his mouth fell open, and he nearly dropped his bunch of gatekeys in surprise.

“May a weary traveler enter?”

“Heavens above!” the dormouse said breathlessly. “You must be that badger our Abbot talks about so much! Come inside, come inside and rest yourself. My name is Brother Abel. I think I remember you from a midsummer’s feast.”

No sooner had the gatekeeper let her into the Abbey grounds than another mouse materialized as if from thin air. Before she could say a word he flung his paws around her, laughing and weeping all at once.

“Constance! Constance!”

“Mortimer!”

“Constance, my dear, dear friend!”

Mortimer was a young mouse still, but his fur was already taking on a tinge of silvery grey. His face was alight with joy. He stepped back to get a better look at her, awed by her obvious strength and size.

“You’re as tall as an oak! Where have you been all these long seasons?”

“You’re the same height as you always were. I’ve been traveling, like I said I would.”

“You must tell me all about it! Let’s go for a walk in the cloister gardens. Thank you, Brother Abel, you can close the gate.”

Brother Abel made a respectful bow, a gesture which surprised Constance. But she soon forgot about it as she related to Mortimer the story of her travels. For what felt like hours she told him of the mountain and the great gray-green sea, the hares she had befriended and the dangers she had faced. With every step they took through the familiar gardens, every time Mortimer laughed at a funny story or gasped at a tale of a narrow victory over vicious foebeasts, her heart felt a little lighter.

“Well, that’s about it,” she finished at last, wanting to hear about what he’d been doing all this time. “I’ve had plenty of adventure, like I wanted to. And now I don’t know what to do.”

“So does this mean you’re here to stay?” he asked hopefully. Constance let out a sigh.

“Oh, I don’t know. Does Abbot Cedric have a use for a large, grouchy badger like me?”

“Good old Abbot Cedric. I’m sure he would have, but he went to his rest two seasons ago, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry, Mortimer. I know you were close to him.”

“He was a wise and compassionate soul. I hope I am serving well in his stead.”

“What do you mean?” asked Constance. Then, suddenly, she understood Brother Abel’s bow. Mortimer seemed to draw himself up a little, a creature fulfilled and fully at peace.

“Just before Abbot Cedric passed on, he told me that he’d decided to leave Redwall Abbey and all its creatures in my care. I am Abbot Mortimer now.”

Constance was still grappling with this news when she felt somebeast step on her footpaw. A mousebabe and a small squirrel, both clad in the linen smocks of Abbey young ones, had attached themselves to the hem of her tunic, tugging and pushing. They were addressing her in what they imagined was their best imitation of a badgers’ voice, trying to make themselves sound gruff and fearsome.

“I’mma bigga strong badger, make you falla down!”

“We’re not scareded of anybeast!”

Constance was not used to little ones, but she felt her heart soften. With a wink to Mortimer she scooped the pair of them up single-pawed, tumbling dramatically into a patch of clover and coming to rest with a bump.

“Phew, what fierce warriors! You’ve slain me, you little rogues!”

“Yee hee! Again! Again again again!”

“These little scallawags are Holly and Jessamine, two of our most ferocious Dibbuns,” Mortimer said, smiling. Constance looked aghast.

“Dibbuns? What in the world is that?”

“It’s what we call the young ones here at Redwall.”

“Nonsense. I’ve never heard something so ridiculous.”

“Again again again!” interrupted the squirrelbabe Jessamine, trying to clamber up onto Constance’s head. Constance struggled to her feet in mock exhaustion and bent to take each of them by the paw.

“How about you two ruffians show me and Mor – the Father Abbot to the kitchens first? I’m famished!”

“What does badgers likes to eat?” Holly demanded.

“Naughty little mice and squirrels!” Constance said, raising her eyebrows and showing off her shining canine teeth.

“No!” shrieked Holly in terrified delight, while Jessamine giggled. “They likes chesknutters an’ strawbee cordial!”

“Oh, that’s right! I forgot. I bet you like chestnuts and strawberry cordial too. Here, let’s wash our paws off in the pond first.”

“I think we may have a use for a large, grouchy badger after all,” said Mortimer, with proper Father Abbot-like sobriety.

She did not go back to the cottage where she had grown up. Mortimer had tended it for her while she was away, but she felt that with a new chapter of her life should come new lodgings, and had him find a family of poor fieldmice to live there instead. Nights she slept out on the soft grass of the Abbey lawn, waking up drenched in dew. In the early mornings, recalling her Salamandastron routine, she let herself out through the side gate and took long rambles through Mossflower Wood, running, swimming, testing her strength against heavy boulders, practicing with spears, javelins and her grandfather’s longbow, which she kept stored in a mossy log, away from Mortimer’s slightly rueful glances and the peaceful Redwallers’ fearful ones.

But she was always back at the Abbey before luncheon, helping with chores and, mostly, keeping a weather eye on the mischievous young ones, who soon began to call her “Muvver Constance,” just as the grown-ups respectfully referred to her as “the Badgermum.” She had an unexpected gift for caring for the Abbeybabes, and eventually she knew she wouldn’t dream of doing anything else. She traded her woodland homespun for an apron and stout gown, with deep pockets to hold clean handkerchiefs and found toys and coltsfoot pastilles. At mealtimes she could often be found sitting at the young ones’ table, spoon-feeding the smallest of the babes, convincing middle-aged ones to eat their turnips and rutabagas, cuddling and rocking fractious infants to sleep while their older siblings perched on her shoulders. At bedtime she tucked the little ones in, one by one, and hummed old badgerwives’ lullabies or related Martin-the-Warrior legends until the dormitories echoed with the sound of gentle snoring.

Mortimer’s heart gladdened the first time she spoke of Redwall as home.

***

Constance was several seasons his elder, but it was Mortimer who grew old and fragile first. His eyesight grew blurry, necessitating a pair of crystal spectacles. In the winters, when the orchard trees were brown and brittle, and the Abbey grounds sparkled white with snow, his joints sometimes grew stiff and painful. But untiringly he watched over his beloved Redwall, through many peaceful years, as any good Father should: patient, wise, just, kind, with the badger as his strong right paw.

Then came the seasons of Cluny the Scourge.

In the seconds before she picked up the Cavern Hall table and threatened to smash it over the warlord’s head, she chanced a glance at her friend and saw on his face an expression she’d never seen there before: rage.

In the days afterwards, as Martin was lost to the enemy, as creatures were wounded and killed, this was soon followed by another first, one that startled her even more: uncertainty.

Constance was bleeding freely from some half a dozen gashes along her flanks and on her paws, wounds earned during a vicious skirmish with several of Cluny’s scouts. Abbot Mortimer worked by candlelight to clean the deep cuts and treat them with herbs. He was unusually silent, not speaking until his work was finished.

“Please try to take better care of yourself, Constance,” he said at last, rather shortly. “You put yourself in danger far too often.”

“I only do what I must, Father Abbot.”

“But if something were to happen to you –”

“You have Matthias and Basil, Jess and Winifred. Redwall would survive.”

“I am asking you as a friend,” said Abbot Mortimer. “My dearest and wisest friend. If we win this war tomorrow it will already have been at too great a price. Do not ask me to suffer your loss on top of everything that has already come to pass.”

Constance was stunned by the emotion in his voice. After a moment she laid a heavy paw on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry to have upset you, Abbot. I’ll try my best.”

It would never have occurred to her to ask him the same. He was as ever the careful, noncombatant Mortimer, a healer and a stretcher-bearer, a creature of peace, and the battle would never breach the Abbey walls to reach him. She would see to it.

The Father Abbot was awakened by a sword-point at his throat.

The poison barb on Cluny’s tail had done its deadly work. The Father Abbot was dying.

***

There was much work to be done, after the war ended, but for a while she thought again of flight. Of sandy windswept shores and austere halls of mountain stone. Of the borderlands, of the northlands. Even of the sea. Anywhere but here, where the crimson laterose was still in fragrant bloom, and the big carved chair at the head of Great Hall sat empty, and the verdant gardens were full of mice in wide-sleeved brown robes gathering berries and talking with the Sparra, but none of them was Mortimer.

Yet every time she decided that the wound was just too deep, that she’d go mad with grief if she didn’t get away from here, something – or someone – changed her mind.

Matthias, still victory-stunned: “Constance, what should we do about the Joseph Bell?”

Mordalfus, solemn and deferential: “Constance, where do you think we should house the Guosim warriors who’d like to stay here till the springtide?”

The Redwallers at large, surprising her in Cavern Hole one day with a badger-sized marchpane cake: “Hurrah for Constance! We’d have been lost without you.”

And the young ones, clinging to her apron: “Muvver Constance, don’t be sad.”

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

Slowly summer gave way to autumn, autumn to winter, and winter to a spring whose beauty was beyond compare. John Churchmouse had suggested a season-name upon which they had all agreed.

It was the Springtide of the Warriors’ Wedding!

Constance had spent the preceding week tugging a hay cart far and wide through Mossflower Wood, ferrying creatures to the Abbey for the ceremony that would take place today. Now the Sisters of the order and all her woodland friends had spirited Cornflower away to the dormitories to dress her in cream-colored gown and veil, and Matthias was waiting anxiously in the gatehouse that would become their home, with Log-a-Log and Basil fussing over his tunic, to which he had tied a certain flowered headband that a certain maiden had bestowed upon him, what felt like years ago.

Therefore, Constance was enjoying a rare moment of rest out on the sunwarmed steps overlooking the orchards, as the blossoms danced and the pond rippled gently in a playful breeze. It reminded her of something Mortimer had said.

I have seen it all before, many times, and yet I never cease to wonder. Life is good, my friends. I leave it to you...

In the kitchens Friar Hugo was making a trifle as tall as two mice, heaping with raspberries, meadowcream, and honey-soaked sponge. Foremole and his crew were filling Great Hall and Cavern Hole with bunches of purple irises, butter-colored daffodils and, of course, cerulean-blue cornflower, while Winifred and her otters lined the cloisters and outside corridors with sweet alyssum and pale pink and white water lilies. Ambrose Spike was shepherding a herd of little ones as they rolled barrels of strawberry fizz, October ale and dandelion-burdock cup to the tables out under the shade. Jess Squirrel and Silent Sam were leaping bough to bough amongst the fruit trees, affixing colored lanterns to the branches.

The friends I know and love are all about me.

Constance remembered another feastday many seasons ago, and a wise young mouse marveling with her at the splendor of the Abbey and the goodness of its creatures, and she felt, for the first time in long memory, entirely at peace.

“Today is a good day, my old friend,” the badger said.

#Redwall #Constance #Abbot Mortimer #Redwall fic #Redwall fanfiction #the ending is kinda maximum cheese #BUT I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT AAA #it was so hard trying to keep this a secret while writing it!#fluff #angst #whatever you would call this #with a title shamelessly stolen from Mr. Jacques himself

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themyskira · 6 years ago

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The Life of Captain Marvel - issue #4, part 1

Last time, as Sadie the Kleaning Lady closed in on the town, Carol and Marie pulled out all stops to avoid progressing the plot, throwing tantrums, chucking mysterious alien devices out the window without a second thought and melodramatically swooning into a lake.

But despite their best efforts, the plot has arrived in the form of a naked blue cyborg, forcing Marie to reveal her true identity as a Kree soldier.

This issue, we get hit with Carol’s new origin story, the sheer stupidity of which is so immense that I’m going to split this recap in two to cover it.

The issue opens with a flashback to Marie/Mari-Ell’s childhood, narrated by Marie. The POV shift is jarring and out-of-place (until this point, the entire story has been told from Carol’s perspective), but this is what happens when you spend three issues of a five-issue mini doing nothing to drive the story forward: the next twenty-odd pages are going to be all infodump.

We see a young Marie — I’m just going to keep calling her Marie, to cut down on confusion — in combat training, systematically taking down a good dozen bigger and stronger Kree teens. Marie tells us that this was her childhood, raised to be a soldier in the Kree Empire’s endless wars, taught to survive but not to live.

As she grows older, she seeks harder and harder training, pushing her body and her abilities to the limit and, fuck me, you just went ahead and stole Carol’s origin story, didn’t you?

Marie: Come on, General F’Zon! Gimme another shot at that Pain-Trainer! General: No, Mari-Ell. Marie: But I’m supposed to be seeking painful learnings, remember? General: Learn that a Level 11 Pain-Trainer will rip your suit to ribbons. Marie: Ugh! It’s my turn, I’m going! General: Mari-Ell! Wait!

Ambitious? Impatient? Forever pushing herself to go higher, further, faster, to punch holes in the sky? Look past the hacky dialogue, and this is Carol to a tee. Or it was Carol, before you went and made her an alien who didn’t need to push herself to her physical and mental limits to succeed, because she was already superior and destined for greatness.

Wait, no, I take it back, turns out Marie is just ~*special*~ too, because on the next page she tells us that she never lost a single battle and enjoyed an unbroken path of success and promotion until she was appointed the youngest captain in history of Intelligence Empress Pam’a’s Elite Guard.

Yes, Carol’s mother is Captain Mari-Ell. Captain Mari-Ell. Kill me now.

Pam’a sends Marie on a covert mission to Earth, and then we cut back to the present day, where Carol has been once again reduced to a blithering incompetent.

Carol: M-ma? Who�� who are you? Marie: I’ll explain, I promise. But right now, we need to move. That thing’s a Kree Kleaner. And it’s here for me. Carol: But if you’re… you’re… Marie: A Kree soldier. Carol: …then… then I’m… Marie: You are Car-Ell, daughter of Mari-Ell, Captain First of the Supreme Protectorate, Champion of the Kree Empire, Daughter of Hala by bloodright and by starlight… Carol: Ma, stop it. This is crazy. You’re you. You… you just made me pancakes…

Oh, bullshit.

This is insulting, and I don’t just mean “Car-Ell” (CAR-ELL, FOR SHIT’S SAKE).

Carol is a soldier. She knows how to compartmentalise and she doesn’t crack easily under pressure. Her mother has just revealed herself to be an alien, and that is some personally earth-shattering stuff, but right now there’s a deadly Kree cyborg threatening innocent lives — including those of her family — so the identity crisis is gonna have to wait. She is going to get in the game, stop the bad guy, and then she’s going to have her meltdown.

Ah, but it gets better.

Marie: It’s coming. Get out of the way, Carol. Let me handle this. Carol: Ma, you can’t!

While Carol and Marie argue over who gets to punch the bad guy, Pine-o-Klean is able to get in a barrage of laser-fire. Both women dive out of the way; Carol full-on faceplants, while Marie lands in a neat crouch, saying, “Trust me, Pumpkin. I can.”

Carol is a tactician. She has commanded troops and she’s led superhero teams. She has led alien armies into war. There’s no way Carol wastes time arguing over this. Because while her heart may be crying out at her to protect her mother, the soldier in her would recognise like — would recognise a fellow officer and somebody with superior knowledge of their foe.

And, you know what, let’s assume Carol’s not at her best. She’s shaken by this revelation, and the instincts to protect her mother and to distrust this stranger with her mother’s face are both shouting at her to keep Marie out of the fight. Here’s what happens: After the initial moment of shock and ‘who are you?’, Carol forces herself to focus her mind on their attacker. She turns to Marie: ‘You said it was here for you. What is it and how do I stop it?’ Marie starts to answer, and before she reaches the ‘but’, Carol has impulsively thrown herself into the fight. She’s not prepared for it; she gets in some hits, but the villain gets the upper hand before Marie appears between them and staves it off.

This establishes the villain as a formidable threat, demonstrates Marie’s fighting prowess and sets the stage for the inevitable team-up in issue #5, all without having to throw Carol under the bus. She fails, yes, but not through abject incompetence: her actions are understandable and in character.

Anyway, yeah, none of those things happen. Instead, Carol freaks out for two pages, falls on her face, then watches helplessly while Marie fights Dishwasher single-handedly.

(lol bum)

No really though, whose idea was it to make the assassin a nudist?

Of course, it was a man. Forget I asked.

So then Marie… temporarily explodes the Janitor? Or something?

idk, it’s unclear and nobody particularly seems to care what’s happened to the homicidal naked cyborg or how quickly it might regroup or what it wants or how many ways it can kill them.

“Um, wut?”

JJ Danvers asking the question on all of our minds.

Carol: Ma? I mean… Captain? Marie: Thanks, Captain. JJ: Captain?!

JJ: Hold up, Beans. The Kree thing is contagious? You gave it to Ma? Carol: I think… she gave it to me. Right, Ma? Marie: What humans see as Kree ‘powers’ are just our biological adaptations to a life of combat. JJ: “Our”?! Marie: They’re triggered in battle, usually around adolescence. Sadly, most of us have known war by then.

So, um. Can somebody who knows more about the Kree tell me if this is even vaguely the way that their powers work? Because I am not hugely up on the Kree, but my understanding is that the usual Kree powerset is simply superhuman strength, stamina, agility and durability, and that those Kree characters with additional abilities like flight and photon blasts are the result of genetic/mutagenic manipulation, advanced technology and/or mixed parentage (e.g. Teddy is part-Skrull, Phyla-Vell and Genis-Vell are part-Eternal).

Marie is basically telling us that she — and, later, Carol — developed the powers of flight, energy absorption and photon blasts purely as a biological reaction to being hit often and hard enough.

But wait, there’s more.

Carol: Wait— So if I didn’t ‘get’ my powers when the Psyche-Magnetron [sic] exploded… Marie: You activated them. You triggered an ancient Kree defence mechanism. Not borrowed. Not a gift. Not an accident. Carol: My powers. Marie: They’re not anyone’s but yours. They never have been. Carol: I don’t… believe it. Marie: But you feel it. Light and power and speed and strength, because it’s who you are. Carol: Who we are.

YOU FUCKING WHAT.

“Not borrowed. Not a gift. Not an accident. … They’re not anyone’s but yours. They never have been.” YES AND NOBODY HAS EVER SAID OTHERWISE, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKNOGGIN.

So, okay. Let’s pick this apart.

The assumption that the writer and editors behind this comic appear to be working from is that Carol’s pre-existing superhero origin is flawed in that it denies her power and agency within her own story.

There is an argument to be made that this is the case.

Looking strictly at the 1969 Captain Marvel #18, in which Carol first gains her powers, we see a story that casts her as a pawn in a battle between two men, a woman halfway into the refrigerator. She has been kidnapped by the villainous Yonn-Rogg, when her love interest Mar-Vell arrives to save her. Yon-Rogg shoots at Mar-Vell, but hits Carol instead, inciting Mar-Vell into a rage.

“Carol! Carol Danvers! She was struck by your wild-eyed blast... perhaps killed!”

Yon-Rogg has already been responsible for the death of one of Mar-Vell’s loves, and now he may have caused another! Mar-Vell is on the brink of killing his foe when he reels back in horror at his own actions — and suddenly realises the Psyche-Magnitron is about to explode. He grabs Carol and runs, shielding her from the blast with his body.

“WAIT! That humming... growing ever louder...! The Magnitron... it throbs with heat... light... as if to explode! And the girl... still draws a faint breath!”

In fact, it was only much later, in 1977’s Ms Marvel #2, that this was retconned as the moment in which Carol became superpowered. As written, her experience in Captain Marvel #18 truly was nothing more than a helpless damsel being rescued by the noble hero.

Ms Marvel doesn’t give Carol much more agency in her origin story: while the exploding Psyche-Magnitron is said to have given her incredible abilities, the strain on her mind was such that it split into two personas, ordinary human Carol Danvers and Kree warrior Ms Marvel. The two are initially unaware that they even share the same body, let alone that they’re actually the same person. Since each 'blacks out’ when the other assumes control of the body, for a while Carol genuinely believes she’s going crazy. It’s not until Ms Marvel #13 that the two personalities are integrated and Carol is able to fully own her superhero identity.

“Oh no... this can’t be happening. I’m in my apartment, in my bed... and I don’t know how I GOT here!”

Superhero origins are rarely static, though, and in the four decades since then Carol’s story has undergone various additions, transformations and retcons. Her background as an Air Force pilot and civilian contractor has been fleshed out to establish her as a hero and legit badass long before she became super, and some of the dodgier aspects of her backstory have either been re-interrogated (Yon-Rogg and the Psyche-Magnitron, in DeConnick’s run) or else studiously ignored (there’s a reason nobody remembers the split personality nonsense).

Nevertheless, the broad strokes of Carol’s origin — a woman caught in the middle of a confrontation between two superpowered men, an exploding alien device that imbues her with the male hero’s powers, and her subsequent adoption of the male hero’s symbol, costume and name — remain more or less unchanged. And with a movie poised to introduce the character to a new generation of readers, now is a good time for a modernised reinterpretation of the story that addresses some of the dated or sexist elements.

So if we accept that Carol’s current origin story is flawed, the next question we have to ask is, what’s the problem that needs addressing?

And this is where The Life of Captain Marvel comes undone.

Because the problem the creators identify is this: Carol gets her powers as a result of a battle between two men. She gets powers patterned after those of a male hero. She carries on the legacy of a man, and she bears the name, symbol and costume of a man. And for this reason, they conclude, Carol’s origin is Sexist™.

Based on this simplistic assumption, the creators set about displacing the male Mar-Vell in favour of a woman. They create an alien mother as the source of Carol’s powers. They give the mother a name, costume and symbol reflective of those Carol uses. And then they smugly congratulate themselves for being Feminist™, despite having only served to erode Carol’s agency further.

The real problem with Carol’s origin story, I would argue, is that she’s an entirely passive character within it. A helpless captive, she does little but yell at Yon-Rogg that he’s mad and that Captain Marvel will stop him, before being hit by a laser blast for the sole reason of making Mar-Vell sad. She collapses, semi-conscious, and is carried to safety by Mar-Vell, unaware that the radiation from the Psyche-Magnitron is transforming her.

It’s crappy by any standard, but it’s particularly egregious in the context of the hero Carol is today — one whose story has come to be defined by unerring determination, an urge to constantly push further and reach higher, and a refusal to ever back down.

Making Marie the source of Carol’s powers doesn’t repair this lack of agency — it makes it worse. Carol not only remains a passive figure in the events that (for all intents and purposes) bestowed her powers, she becomes an increasingly passive figure in her own life.

Her ambition and determination to fly, to punch holes in the sky and glimpse the other side of space? It’s no longer a personal calling that she doggedly pursues in the face of every rejection and roadblock. It’s her Kree blood calling her home, a ~destiny~ that’s written in her DNA. Her fierce grit and persistence as she pushes her body to its very limit? No longer particularly relevant; as a half-Kree, she has always been physiologically superior to humans in every way. Her successes in the Air Force and in NASA are no longer hard-won; they’re just second nature.

By contrast, consider Kelly Sue DeConnick’s early run on Captain Marvel, which revisits Carol’s origin story through a time-travel adventure. It introduces past and present female mentors in the form of Helen Cobb and Tracy Burke -- women who have supported and inspired Carol throughout her life in a way that the virtually absent Marie/Mari-Ell never does in this story. It subtly retcons the effects of the Psyche-Magnitron to underline Carol’s agency — it’s not merely a freak accident that turns her into a Kree hybrid with Mar-Vell’s powers, it’s the overloading machine responding to the force of Carol’s willpower and making her wish manifest.

“I wished... for more time, that I’d done things differently, but mostly I wished that I’d been powerful enough to stop it. That I’d been strong enough to save myself, to save my friend. The device magnified brainwaves and manifested them as tangible weaponry. It was a wishing machine, almost... but one designed for war. In its last act, it gave me what I wanted. It made me powerful.”

It enables Carol to confront her own self-doubts and affirms that, powered or not, no matter the personal stakes, she is a hero who will not quit.

Carol [narration]: I don’t go in because I’m choosing to change anything. I go because he’s hurt and I can help. I go because I’m an Avenger and that’s what we do. Carol: Mar-Vell! Mar-Vell, can you hear me? Past Carol: [reaching for Yon-Rogg’s gun with a bloodied hand and pointing it at him] Y-you’re mad. C-Captain Marvel... battles to save both his world... and my own!

And you could absolutely go further on this! Give us a retelling of Carol’s origin in which she’s not Mar-Vell’s damsel, but his equal ally. Go a step beyond the original Captain Marvel comics — in which Carol rightly suspects that ‘Walter Lawson’ (Mar-Vell’s secret alter ego) is being duplicitous and goes to great efforts to catch him in his lies — and have her actually uncover Mar-Vell’s true identity. Have them confront Yon-Rogg together, and have Mar-Vell be the one who gets shot. Have Carol — injured, outgunned and hopelessly outmatched — defy Yon-Rogg even in the face of certain defeat, and let this be the moment when the overloading Psyche-Magnitron answers her unbending will with the power to enforce it.

And yes, by all means, give Carol’s mother a more substantive role in her backstory, give her more female role models and colleagues and friends, and continue to build the diversity of the Marvel Universe! All of these things are important! But boosting women’s representation is fucking meaningless if none of those women are given any agency, and that’s what is happening in this comic.

That’s it for this time. Stay tuned for part two, when Marie reveals the story of how she came to Boston, why it’s totally not Joe’s fault that he was an abuser, and why we should overlook the hulking mountains of evidence that Marie is a terrible parent and embrace her as Carol’s One True Hero.

#comics talk #the days of our lives of captain marvel #carol danvers

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alisvolatprcpriis · 8 years ago

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sibling reunion;

Finally! The reunion I’ve put off writing. Reminder that my Nero blog (and the Nero in this fic) is @exscientiavir. This takes place after Luci’s thread with @vandarnus, probably by a day or so.

Nero had no idea what time it was, once again -- it was some point around dawn, perhaps, but he couldn’t entirely tell as Mor Dhona was experiencing that odd sort of aetheric gloom that happened at times, making it incredibly hard to tell what color the sky actually was. But it seemed like dawn, maybe? Who knew.

It had been another few long, long days he’d spent in Carteneau, especially since the Alliance had up and decided to run a skirmish with its Grand Company members in the middle of that. He’d tried to hide best he could, which had mixed results -- he’s half sure he’d been seen, but that the adventurer had just assumed he was one of theirs and ran off again. Even so, it was harrowing to realize there were a good several dozen adventurers running hither and yon fulms away from him, weapons drawn.

But he couldn’t just...stop. Even if Thancred was busy enough to be unable to come along, he still had to go. With that eikon hovering above Baelsar’s Wall...they needed Omega. They needed him. He had to finish his work. If he did this...if he did this he’d achieve all he’d ever wanted, wouldn’t he? People would know his name. Maybe not as better than Cid, but they would know him. Eorzea would know him as the man who’d helped save them. It was nothing like his dreams of years past, when he was Tribunus, but...the end result was still the same. He’d be known. He’d be lauded and he’d be...he’d be worth something. He had to admit that last one to himself, painful as it was. But his father’s words never left him, and so...so he had to prove he was worth something. Worth more than his failures. And if he did this…

His thoughts are rather immediately and rudely interrupted by something small and egg-shaped nearly crashing right into him, whirring and chirping frantically. ‘Master, Master! It’s you!’

“Hold on, hold on,” Nero managed, trying to settle the little thing that was still beeping at him desperately. “Is that-- Amicus?” His eyes widened. “Amicus?! What the-- what are you doing here, where’s--”

“Amicus!” A young woman’s voice echoed around the corner, and she herself followed -- mid-twenties, blonde hair in a braid, dressed in plain Eorzean-style clothes...he didn’t recognize her at first, but...gods. It had to be her, who else? When she turned, the third eye on her forehead was unhidden, and he knew. She stopped dead when she was him holding the node, her own eyes widening as she took in the sight before her.

The last time she’d seen him he’d been a slight, small, gangly boy of twelve, not quite thirteen yet, with a mop of hair and bright eyes that a decade of abuse at the hands of their father and eldest brother had dimmed. He’d left with Minister-Provost nan Garlond (Cid’s father) to the Academy, and that had been that. He’d written, of course, but then he’d graduated second six years later and her father had forbidden her from writing again. He’d vanished then, disappearing into the military, and...and now, he was here. For the first time in two decades.

She hadn’t changed much, she knew that -- taller, of course, and older. A young woman instead of a tiny five year-old with ribbons in her hair. But she was still mostly the same, untouched by the ravages of life. Easily recognizable. But her brother...oh, her brother…

He’d filled out, of course -- skinny and gangly no longer, but tall (every bit inheriting the Scaevas’ natural height) and broad-shouldered. Built like a soldier...something she knew he’d never wanted. His hands were scarred and callused, decades of work without gloves leaving countless scrapes and burns marked on knuckles and fingers. And his face...his face, with the purple shadows thick under his eyes, the cheeks unshaven, his hair a disheveled mess...he looked exhausted, life having taken its toll. Exhausted and worn down.

“Nero?” She ventured, unable to tear her eyes away.

He didn’t even register that he’d let go of Amicus -- he’s crossing the room in seconds, gathering his little sister in his arms and hugging her as tight as he can manage. She let out a soft gasp, but returned the gesture, hands clutching at his coat. Neither of them were sure who started crying first, but soon they both are, slowly sliding to the floor as they wept into each other. Two decades apart, but they were still siblings. Still each other’s favorite, the only ally in a household that treated them terribly.

“Why--” Nero finally croaked out, hoarse from his tears. “How are you here? Did you come alone? Are you-- what did Father--” He had dozens of questions, but they tapered off -- too emotionally exhausted to put them into words.

Lucilia sniffled. “He disowned you,” she said, and she could barely watch him flinch as if slapped, cringing low as if he were still a child waiting to be beaten. Even after all these years away, their father was still a terrible spectre at his back, wasn’t he? “After-- after you disappeared, when the XIVth fell. He disowned you, and I-- I couldn’t…” She shook her head. “I ran away. I didn’t want to stay there and wait to be married off to some ugly old man for political reasons, when the only family I ever really cared about is here all alone. Valens is okay, but…” But he’s still too afraid to act. Not that she blamed him -- he’d been the main target after Nero left, his androgynous appearance and preference for ‘women’s work’ the things Father had tried to get rid of. It hadn’t worked, but Valens had folded inwards, terrified and hurting. He was sweet, but there would be no protection there.

She shook her head, smiling a little sadly. “I stole Father’s sword and some money and sneaked onto one of the supply transports, bribed someone to let me onto a ship bound to Ala Mhigo. And then I just...sneaked onto a supply transport heading to the wall, and got into the Shroud that way.” She laughed weakly. “It was terrifying, but...you were here. So I wasn’t going to let it stop me.”

He hugged her tightly when she finished. “Gods,” he managed. “You’ve gotten so damned brave. I don’t know if I could have done that. You stole his sword, Luci…” He laughed himself, strained and weak. “He’ll kill you, if you go back. That or beat you senseless.”

“He won’t,” she said bitterly. “I need to stay pretty so he can sell me off for marriage. He’d probably just lock me in my room until it was time to be sent away to my new husband’s place.” She made a face at that, burying herself into her brother’s arms. “I hate him. I hate him and Ennius. They hurt you, and they hurt Val, and mother doesn’t give a damn, and I’m just...I’m a piece of furniture at best and a bargaining chip at worst. I’m a woman. All I’m good for is to be married off. We’re not ranked enough for me to have studied medicine, and too far from the capital besides. So all I am is a wife-to-be, and I-- I refuse that.”

Nero smiled faintly. “So you’re here,” he said. “You’ll...I think you’ll like it here. It’s nothing like home, but I think it’ll suit you fine.” It was big and bright and full of color and life, variety and adventure...his baby sister would flourish. Hells, she was in the Stones with him -- that thought made him blink. “How did you end up here, of all places?” He asked. “This is…”

“Thancred,” she said with a laugh, and he had to do the same. “I ran into him when I got to the Toll, and he recognized me as Garlean, and he realized I was your sister after we spoke. So he offered his help.”

Nero looked amused. “He’s good at that, apparently,” he admitted. “There was a bit of a mishap, and we...ended up befriending one another, I suppose. It was neither of our intentions, but so it goes.”

“Well,” she said. “At least you have a friend besides Cid!”

That got him to laugh again, leaning his forehead against her shoulder. “I suppose,” he muttered. “Though I haven’t seen the man in some time. He’s always busy running around with the local heroes, and I’ve…” Tried to avoid him, he thought, but doesn’t say. “He’s doing well for himself, though.”

“I heard,” Luci said, and then her voice grows concerned. “And I heard about all that stuff that happened with that Crystal Tower. Thancred told me.”

Nero groaned, silently cursing the Scion for telling her, and Luci smiles thinly. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. “And I suppose I owe that Warrior of Light for saving your dumb ass...and I’m here now, so you won’t be alone, okay?”

“Alright,” Nero said, unable to disguise how much that meant to him. “I’m glad you’re here, Luci.”

He won’t be alone...gods, that sounds good. His family is here, the only family that mattered. And he was...this was his home now, for better or worse, wasn’t it? Everything he cared about -- Cid, Lucilia, the Allagan ruins that so fascinated him -- it was all here. He would never completely cut the ties to his motherland, of course, but...this was home. Eorzea was home.

And by gods, he’d make sure it stayed safe. He didn’t want to lose the place he’d come to belong, the place Cid loved so much, the place his sister had travelled to just for him.

#;writing #;headcanon #;carissimus frater #exscientiavir

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