#You already know I'm going to write it

[mercuryw1tch]

Hear me out: AU where Megatron and Optimus are coordinators of rival camping activities for younglings and it's an enemy to lovers in the woods and kids love them both because they are just silly and super competitive over stuff like sack race or fishing idk I'm in the mood for some summer AUs

[starrstruckcanuck]

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH A PUNJABI WOMAN IN PROFESSIONAL WOMEN'S HOCKEY ‼️‼️ FROM THE UBC THUNDERBIRDS ‼️‼️‼️ AND SHE'S GOING TO BE ON MY BELOVED PWHL VANCOUVER ‼️‼️‼️ MY LIFE IS A DREAM 💙

[igotyoubabeheffron]

Band of Brothers (2001) + dog tags

The tag itself individualizes the human being who wears it, despite his or her role as a small part of a huge and faceless organization. While the armed forces demand obedience and duty to a higher cause, dog tags, hanging under service members’ shirts and close to their chests, remind them of their individuality. - Library of Congress, Dog Tags: History, Stories & Folklore of Military Identification

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[taradactyls]

So I could be totally wrong but, I believe it was sort of expected that men/gentlemen lose their virginity before marriage in regency times. But I also there’s some fandom ‘debate’ about whether or not Mr Darcy would’ve had sex before getting married. So I was just curious about what your canon for Mr Darcy in T3W is. Is he a virgin or not?

I knew someone would ask me this eventually, haha. I've actually had really long conversations with my beta reader about this trying to figure it out. It sounds like this might all be stuff that you’ve already seen discussed in the fandom, but I’ve never thought about it deeply before and so these are new thoughts to me.

I keep going over the historical real-world likelihood, the authorial intent, and the text itself but I’m still not 100%. I’ll explain my thinking and what I find most likely, but here’s your warning that it’s not a clear cut yes/no.

Because on one hand, at that time period it was most common for men in his position to have seen sex workers or have casual encounters/mistresses with women from their estates. Though I do absolutely believe not all men did that, no matter how much wealth and power they had. To go back some centuries, William the Conqueror seemed to be famously celibate (no hints of male lovers either according to the biography I read) until his marriage, and there's no evidence of affairs after it either. The best guesses as to why are that it was due to his religious devotion and the problems that had arisen from himself being a bastard and not wanting to recreate that situation. Concerns over religion and illegitimate children would certainly still have been applicable in the regency to men who thought that way. And in modern times I've seen sex workers say that when an 18/21yo is booked in by his family/friends to 'become a man' often they end up just talking and agree to lie about the encounter. After all, it’s not like every man wants casual sex, even if they aren’t demisexual or something in that vein. But, statistically speaking, the precedent of regency gentlemen would make Darcy not a virgin.

On the other hand, just how aware was Jane Austen, the very religious daughter of a country rector, of the commonness of this? There’s a huge difference between knowing affairs and sex workers existed (and no one who had seen a Georgian newspaper could be blind to this) and realising that the majority of wealthy men saw sex workers at some point even if they condemned the more public and profligate affairs. The literature for young ladies at the time paints extramarital sex - including the lust of men outside of marriage - as pretty universally bad and dangerous. This message is seen from 'Pamela' and other gothic fiction to non-fiction conduct books which Jane Austen would have encountered. Here's something I found in 'Letters to a Young Lady' by the reverend John Bennett which I found particularly interesting as it's in direct conversation with other opinions of the era:

"A reformed rake makes the best husband." Does he? It would be very extraordinary, if he should. Besides, are you very certain, that you have power to reform him? It is a matter, that requires some deliberation. This reformation, if it is to be accomplished, must take place before marriage. Then if ever, is the period of your power. But how will you be assured that he is reformed? If he appears so, is he not insidiously concealing his vices, to gain your affections? And when he knows, they are secured, may he not, gradually, throw off the mask, and be dissipated, as before? Profligacy of this kind is seldom eradicated. It resembles some cutaneous disorders, which appear to be healed, and yet are, continually, making themselves visible by fresh eruptions. A man, who has carried on a criminal intercourse with immoral women is not to be trusted, His opinion of all females is an insult to their delicacy. His attachment is to sex alone, under particular modifications.

The definition of a rake is more than a man who has seen a sex worker once, it's about appearance and general conduct too, but again, would that distinction be made to young ladies? Because they seem to simply be continuously taught 'lust when unmarried is bad and beware men who you know engage in extramarital sex.' As a side note, Jane Austen certainly knew at least something about the mechanics of sex: her letters and literature she read alludes to it, and she grew up around farm animals in the countryside which is an education in itself.

We can also see from this exert that the school of thought seems to be 'reformed rake' vs 'never a rake' in contention for the title of best husband, there's no debate over whether a current rake is unsuitable for a young lady. And, from Willoughby to Wickham to Crawford, I think we have a very clear idea of Jane Austen's ideas of how likely it is notably promiscuous men can reform. This does not preclude the possibility that her disparaging commentary around their lust is based more on over-indulgence or the class of women they seduce, but it's undoubtedly a condemnation of such men directly in line with the first part of what John Bennett says so it's no stretch to believe she saw merit in the follow-on conclusions of the second part as well. Whether she would view it with enough merit to consider celibacy the only respectable option for unmarried men is a bit unclearer.

I did consider that perhaps Jane Austen consciously treated this as a grey area where she couldn’t possibly know what young men did (the same reasoning is why we never see the men in the dining room after the ladies retire, etc) and so didn't hold an opinion on men's extramarital encounters with sex workers/lower-class women at all, but I think there actually are enough hints in her works that this isn’t the case. Though, unsurprisingly, given the delicacy of the subject, there’s no direct mention of sex workers or gentlemen having casual lovers from among the lower-classes in her texts.

That also prevents us from definitively knowing whether she thought extramarital sex was so common, and as unremarkable, as most gentlemen treated it. But we do see from her commentary around the consequences of Maria Bertram and Henry Crawford's elopement that she had criticism of the double standards men and women were held to when violating sexual virtue. Another indication that she perhaps expected good men to be capable of waiting until marriage in the way that she very clearly believed women should. At the very least, a man who often indulges in extramarital sex does not seem to be one who would be considered highly by Jane Austen.

She makes a point of saying, in regards to not liking his wife, that Mr Bennet “was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice.” This must include affairs, though cheating on a wife cannot be a 1:1 equivalent of single young men sleeping around before marriage. However, the latter is generally critically accepted to be one of the flaws that Darcy lays at Wickham’s door along with gambling when talking about their youth and his “vicious propensities" and "want of principle." Though this could be argued that it’s more the extent or publicity of it (but remembering that it couldn't be anything uncommon enough that it couldn't be hidden from Darcy Sr. or explained away) rather than the act itself, or maybe seductions instead of paying women offering those services. I also believe Persuasion mentioning Sunday travelling as proof of thoughtless/immoral activity supports the idea that Jane Austen might have been religious enough that she would never create a hero who had extramarital sex.

So, taken all together this would make Darcy potentially a virgin, or, since I couldn't find absolute evidence of her opinions, leave enough room that he isn’t but extramarital sex isn’t a regular (or perhaps recent) thing and he would never have had anything so established as a mistress.

I’ve also been wondering, if Darcy isn’t a virgin, who would he have slept with? I’ve been musing on arguments for and against each option for weeks at this point. No romantasy has ever made me think about a fictional man's sexual habits so much as the question of Darcy's sexual history. What is my life.

Sex workers are an obvious answer, and the visits wouldn’t have raised any eyebrows. Discretion was part of their job, it was a clean transaction with no further responsibilities towards them, and effective (and reusable, ew) condoms existed at this time so there was little risk of children and no ability to exactly determine the paternity even if there was an accident. It was a fairly ‘responsible’ choice if one wanted no strings attached. In opposition to this, syphilis was rampant at the time, and had been known to spread sexually for centuries. Sex workers were at greater risk of it than anyone else and so the more sensible and risk-averse someone is (and I think Mr Darcy would be careful) the less likely they would be to visit sex workers. Contracting something that was known as potentially deadly and capable of making a future wife infertile if it spread to her could make any intelligent and cautious man think twice.

Servants and tenants of the estate are another simple and common answer. Less risk of stds, it can be based on actual attraction more than money (though money might still change hands), and is a bit more intimate. But Wickham’s called wicked for something very similar, when he dallies (whether he only got to serious flirting, kissing, or sleeping with them I don’t think we can conclusively say) with the common women of Meryton: “his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.” And it isn't as though Wickham had any personal duty towards those people beyond the claims of basic dignity. Darcy, who is shown to have such respect and understanding for his responsibilities towards the people of his estate and duties of a landlord, would keenly feel if any of his actions were leading his servants/tenants astray and down immoral paths. Servants, especially, were considered directly under the protection of the family whose house they worked in. I think it's undoubtable that Mrs Reynolds (whose was responsible for the wellbeing - both physically and spiritually - of the female servants) would not think so well of Mr Darcy if he had experimented with maids in his youth. It would reflect badly on her if a family entrusted their daughter to her care and she 'lost her virtue' under her watch. Daughters/widows of others living on the estate not under the roof of Pemberley House are a little more likely, but still, if he did have an affair with any of them I can only think it possible when he was much younger and did not feel his duties quite so strongly. Of course lots of real men didn't care about any of this, but Darcy is so far from being depicted as careless about his duties that the narrative makes a point of how exceptional his quality of care was. Frankly, it's undeniable that none of Jane Austen's heroes were flippant about their responsibilities towards those under their protection. I cannot serious entertain an interpretation that makes Darcy not, at his current age, at least, cognizant of the contemporary problems inherent in sleeping with servants or others on his estate.

A servant in a friend’s house would remove some of that personal responsibility, but transfer it to instead be leading his friend’s servants astray and in a manner which he is less able to know about if a child did result. That latter remains a problem even if we move the setting to his college, so not particularly likely for his character as we know it… though it wouldn’t be unusual for someone to be more unthinking and reckless in their teenage years than they are at twenty-eight so I don’t think having sex then can be ruled out. Kissing I can much more easily believe, especially when at Oxford or Cambridge, but every scenario of sleeping with a lower-class woman has some compelling arguments against it especially the closer we get to the time of the novel.

Men did of course also have affairs with women of ranks similar to their own, though given Jane Austen’s well-known feelings towards men who ‘ruined’ the virtue of young ladies we can safely say that Darcy never slept with an unwed middle- or upper-class woman. Any decent man would have married them out of duty if it got so far; but if he was the sort to let it get so far, I think it impossible Jane Austen would consider him respectable. Widows are a possibility, but again, the respectable thing to do would be to marry them. Perhaps a poorer merchant’s widow would be low enough that marriage is off the table but high enough that the ‘leading astray’ aspect loses its master-servant responsibilities (though the male-female ‘protect the gentler sex’ aspect remains) but his social circle didn’t facilitate meeting many ladies like that. Plus, an affair with a woman in society would remove many layers of privacy and anonymity that sex-workers and lower-class lovers provided by simply being unremarkable to the world at large. It carries a far greater risk of scandal and a heavier sense of immorality in the terms of respecting a woman’s purity which classism prevented from applying so heavily to lower-class women.

I think it’s important to note here that something that removes the need to think about duties of landlords towards the lower-classes or gentlemen towards gentlewomen is having affairs with other men of a similar rank. But, aside from the risk of scandal and what could be called the irresponsibility of engaging in illegal acts, it’s almost certain that Jane Austen would never have supported this. For a devout author in this era the way I’m calculating likelihoods makes it not even a possibility. But if you want to write a different fanfiction (and perhaps something like a break-up could explain why Darcy doesn’t seem to have any closer friend than someone whom he must have only met two or so years ago despite being in society for years before that) it does have that advantage over affairs with women of equal- and lower-classes. I support alternate interpretations entirely – it just isn’t how I’m deciding things in this instance.

I keep coming back to the conclusion that, at the very least, Darcy hasn’t had sex recently and it was never a common occurrence. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jane Austen felt he hadn’t done it ever. Kissing, as we can see from all the parlour games at the time, wasn’t viewed as harshly, so I think he’s likely made out with someone before. But in almost every situation it does seem that the responsible and religious thing to do (which Jane Austen values so highly) is for it to never have progressed to sex. I also don’t think it conflicts with his canon characterisation to say that he wouldn’t regard sexual experience as a crucial element of his life thus far, and his personality isn’t driven to pursue pleasure for himself, so it’s entirely possible that he would never go out of his way to seek it. So, I’m inclined to think that the authorial and textual evidence is in favour of Darcy being a virgin even if the real-world contemporary standard is the opposite. (Though both leave enough room for exceptions that I’m not going to argue with anyone who feels differently; and even if you agree with all my points, you might simply weight authorial intent/textual evidence/contemporary likelihoods differently than I do and come to a different conclusion).

Remember that even if Darcy is a virgin this wouldn’t necessarily equate to lack of knowledge, only experience. There were plenty of books and artwork focused on sex, and Darcy, studious man that he is, would no doubt pay attention to what knowledge his friends/male relatives shared. Though some of it (Looking especially at you, 'Fanny Hill, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure') should NEVER be an example of appropriate practice for taking a woman's virginity. Darcy would almost certainly have been taught directly or learnt through exposure to other men talking to make sex good for a woman – it was a commonly held misconception (since Elizabethan England, I believe) that women had to orgasm to conceive. It would be in his interests as an empathetic husband, and head of a family, to know how to please his wife.

Basically, I’m convinced Darcy isn’t very experienced, if at all, and will be learning with Elizabeth. But he does have a lot of theoretical knowledge which he’s paid careful attention to and is eager to apply.

[official--eve]

Books need to have fanfic tags because this book I just read???? Holy shit??? I mean I would have still read it but IT WOULD'VE BEEN NICE TO KNOW

[burningcheese-merchant]

Hanahaki burningcheese. Cheese lives in denial long-term while Burning Spice lives in denial short-term. Like.

BS suddenly coughing up a storm , spits out flowers like yellow peonies and thinks " must be the spices " ( the spice has never bothered him ) . impromptu beast meeting , he consults the guy that holds knowledge and first thing the guy says is "that's definitely hanahaki my guy " "oh that's what i thought then , do i go for her" and he goes for her anyways ( happy ending , woohoo ) ( or is it )

GC however , i think , will be extremely petrified that she even has this illness , how does the almighty one even fall in love ? Burdocks or daffodils ( im not truly well-versed in flowers meanings... ) sitting silently on her jam filled hands... It'll probably take a looong time before she accept who it is , the process of elimination is easy. As for whether or not she'll go for him... I think that'll depends on whatever happens

Hold on... You are cooking something... Something delightful...

BS spits up a few petals the very first time he sees GC, from afar, when he's stuck inside the tree still. Each glance he steals of her after that, he coughs up more and more. When they meet, and fight, and she defeats him, THEN he starts choking on and vomiting whole flowers. He never understood what it was, but tried to brush it off, like you said- until it became too uncomfortable, too painful, even for him. He goes to Shadow Milk for answers; thankfully, he has one on hand. A curse/disease brought by unrequited love, huh? And the cure is to confess and have it be reciprocated? Alright, then. Easy.

... Except it's not. He's not that foolish. Golden Cheese would rather strike him dead than even acknowledge his love for her, never mind return it. So he tries to be clever, and outwit the disease by pursuing her without ever directly stating his feelings; this way, they can grow closer and she can overcome her negativity towards him and fall in love with him naturally. Then, when her heart is well and truly in his possession, he'll confess for real. She'll reciprocate, and the curse will be broken. Sure, it hurts, and it hurts a bit more each day. But he's no stranger to pain; he's got a masochistic streak in him, anyway, especially in relation to his little bird. He can handle it. He'll just wipe his face and hands so he isn't covered in blood all the time. He's immortal, he has time to woo her, the disease can't REALLY hurt or kill him... Right?

You're right, Golden Cheese is in denial. Just like Burning Spice, she has no knowledge of this mystery affliction; but UNLIKE him, she seeks help immediately. Pure Vanilla delivers the same catastrophic news (to her, anyway) as Shadow Milk did to Burning Spice. But he doesn't know who it's for/about, and neither does she... or she tries to pretend she doesn't know. So desperate is she to avoid the truth that she makes a complete fool of herself and confesses to everyone she knows EXCEPT the actual object of her affection and affliction. It gets worse every day - when they meet, it worsens almost tenfold - but the hand her pride has wrapped around her heart is simply too strong. She can't admit something like that to HIM. It's preposterous! It's blasphemy! What would it do to her reputation? What would her subjects, her friends, the world think of her for loving a Beast? What would it do to her self-image? Her self-esteem? (... What if he says no? What if he rejects her? What if he takes her heart and grinds it to dust in his hands, cackling and cruelly mocking her as she cries her tears of heartbreak? She... She can't handle that. And she won't.

She won't say anything. She never will. Even if it hurts her. Even if it kills her...

[purplecelestial-buddy]

There's many little details in Harusono's works that tend to take space in my mind (like the background gag of the boys piling up bottles) but one of them is this picture:

There's cake, there's a ton of people and there's someone being thrown???

Idk I just think that they Kagiuras are probably great pary guests.

Full panel for more context:

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

I bring a sort of "flawed female characters can be fun and enjoyable blorbos - both flawed in terms of having character flaws and in terms of having occasionally flawed writing" that it appears many, many, many people do not like

[gingermintpepper]

As a bit of a break activity from the depressing reality of mainstream western greek myth retellings, today's agenda is cleaning out my childhood bookshelf so I can actually fit my newer stuff on it!

I'm already one shelf deep and a lot of these books are either older than or just about 10-15 years.

While it's not particularly aesthetic, the oldest books with their scuffed and torn spines and fraying edges are books I've inherited from my father, some of which he's inherited from his father. I'm actually not sure how I'm going to fit everything on here but hey! That's the fun of things like this lmao

[silversinfinity]

Cabin Fever

*this is a fetish blog- non-fet blogs and minors DNI (no age in bio -> blocked)*

Fandom: L/ove and D/eepspace Spoilers: None Pairing/AU: Z/ayne X f!Reader, normal universe Length: 5.4k

Contains: sneeze fetish content (duh), sickfic, fevers, caretaking, that trope where a character’s powers act up because they’re sick, reader insert

Summary: L/ove and D/eepspace's "Winter's Emissaries" summer event, wherein everything is the same, except I made it better gave Z/ayne a cold.

Notes: Backstory time! This game had an event last summer that included four different virtual roleplaying games to complete (one for each guy). In the one featuring Z/ayne, you play as “Winter’s Emissaries” searching for treasure to save a village. While playing through these, you also receive special social media interactions, one of them being this one from Z/ayne. I think my inspiration should speak for itself… 🥴

I wanted this to feel like it could seamlessly fit into the original canon plot, so a few lines of dialogue and description were adapted directly from the game. There's also gonna be casual mentions of things which might go over your head if you haven't played, but it shouldn't ruin the fic reading experience!

Okay, enough yapping. Enjoy 🫶

Fic Masterlist

Your reflection was barely visible in the glass as you stared out the window. Snow swirled in a gray and white cacophony, past the glass pane and all across the region as far as you could see. The conditions seemed more treacherous now that you had escaped them, free to observe rather than experience it. 

You'd experienced it enough today, anyways. Your face still stung of whipping, icy winds, and your hair dripped as clumps of ice and snow melted off your head. Every part of you felt chilled- your fingers, your toes, hell, your very soul. This little cabin was truly the desert oasis of the frigid mountain forests. There was no way either of you could've survived a night out there. 

To your right and behind you, a stunted rush of flames brought the fireplace to life. Your hand curled over your chest, relieved. There was never a situation where you weren't grateful to have Zayne around, but this one especially so. His simple presence was enough to flip an unfortunate situation into a favorable one, or at the very least, an okay one. This would be okay.

Another bundle of snowflakes rushed past the window as a new gust of wind took to the air with violence. You leaned into the knotted pine of the window sill and walls, pressing one ear to the glass.

Your brow furrowed. Only the crackling of the fireplace registered to your senses. Not even a muffled echo of the blizzard’s roar could be detected through the glass. Was the soundproofing of this cabin really that thorough?

Zayne’s hand on your shoulder shook the question out of your mind. “You shouldn't stand so close to the glass. A blizzard can break the window.” His voice was calm. “Come sit by the fireplace. It'll warm you up.”

You stood back from the glass, and one of Zayne’s hands caressed your cheek, palm hot against the chapped skin of your face. You found him in a similar state, skin flushed and wind-broken around and across his nose.

Zayne led you to the fireplace with a hand to your back. Heat instantly washed over you, and you tugged off the heavy coat that still clung to your shoulders. 

“You say I need to warm up, but you're the one who gave up your coat,” you said, hanging it on the hook off to the side of the hearth. He'd insisted you take it, once you realized the hard way that your own coat was highly insufficient for the weather.

“You're right. Come sit.” Zayne had seated himself in a wicker chair a few feet back from the fire’s glow. You paused to consider whether there was enough room to join him. If you were expected to fit next to him, you’d practically need to be sitting in his lap.

…Not that you minded. You never minded that.

As anticipated, you found yourself crunching your knees up to settle yourself next to him. You were squished against him, legs to legs, warm body to warm body.

It occurred to you, though, that there was plenty of sitting space throughout the cabin suitable for two people, much unlike the chair you had just forced your way into. You looked at Zayne and smirked. “I get it. You're using the fireplace as an excuse to cuddle, aren't you?” 

Zayne tilted his head and met your gaze. His lip curled so subtly you had to squint to see it: “Well, if you knew that was my goal, why did you still join me?” 

You nearly got lost in his eyes, aglow with a sunset orange reflection of the flames. “Because… I may or may not have the same goal,” you finally admitted, nestling the rest of your body to Zayne’s. Your head settled perfectly against his chest, like a puzzle piece to its match.

“I'm honored to be your personal heater after serving as your navigator.” 

A comfortable silence followed Zayne’s words. Your attention honed in on the crackling of the fireplace, the flames within wiggling their unsteady dance and casting a faint, smoky scent into the air. You inhaled deeper, chasing the nostalgic memories of summer bonfires lingering behind. The air was dry, but warm enough now that you didn’t feel moisture chasing every breath in through your nose. But the same couldn’t be said yet for Zayne, based on the still frequent sniffling above you. It really was dreadful out there…

The whole reason for your journey here slowly crept back into your mind. Today the blizzard would keep you both within the safety and warmth of this cabin, but you knew there was still a long journey in the cold ahead of you. As Winters Emissaries, it was your duty to complete the task given to you. The whole of a village was counting on it. 

As to what it was though, you still weren't completely sure.

“Hey… do you think the treasure the villagers mentioned is something like this?” 

You felt Zayne move above you at the sudden sound of your voice. He pondered your question. “A treasure that brings warmth in winter… the concept is similar enough,” he eventually said. 

“But visiting the palace just to get firewood for them would be pointless. They could just go into the forest themselves, couldn't they?”

“Perhaps the treasure is a self-heating energy stone. Winters Emissaries are like torchbearers. They've been entrusted with the responsibility of bringing energy to the village.”

An image of yourself and Zayne wearing special ceremonial attire during an Olympic opening ceremony, sacred torch and all, flashed in your mind. It was far more flashy and loud than your actual reality, traveling alone together in the winter wilderness of the mountains as the elements assaulted you. “Zayne, your imagination got a little wild there,” you giggled. 

“Oh? Then what sort of fantasy would you prefer to listen to?” Zayne sniffled again. Outside, the world had begun to turn dark.

“Something real, maybe.” Your eyes searched the space above the fireplace, as if the answer would appear there for you. “Hmm… talk about your childhood memories. When we were kids, wasn't there a time a snowstorm trapped you at my house?”

Long was the history between the two of you. You spent your childhood together, grew up together, and now Zayne was a unique combo of your primary doctor, lover,  and a formidable fighter you could rely on in any Wanderer encounter. 

So, you were a little hopeful Zayne would still remember your early days, after everything you'd been through. 

Zayne’s hand fidgeted at the small of your back. “...I remember that,” he finally began. “My parents and I went to your place for dinner. And then it suddenly started snowing. It was getting late, and we tried to head home but the car wouldn't start. We had no choice but to spend the night there.” Zayne paused, swallowed, and cleared his throat. His voice was noticeably rougher when he spoke again though, as if he hadn't cleared anything at all, “But you had already returned to your room. We had barely talked that day…”

There was a tremble you noticed in his voice too, as though the memories themselves manifested within the language he spoke. He wasn't always the most straight forward with his sentimentality of your shared youth, but there were always signs he cherished them the same way you did.

Yet you always felt strange, separated from yourself whenever you reflected on it, everything being the same and yet so different from what you had with him today. As children, could Zayne and I have ever imagined ourselves nestled by the fireplace one day, enjoying idle conversation?

“Maybe it's because I went to bed too early that day. If only I had known…”

You waited for Zayne to respond, or continue, but it never came. His breathing steadied and slowed above you, and you craned your neck to look up at him. 

His eyes were closed, long, dark lashes completely still. No surprise sleep took him so quickly; for as often as he would lecture you about getting enough sleep, you knew his line of work didn't allow him to rest as well as he'd like. He was known for taking any time he could between surgeries to nap. This quiet time in a cabin was the perfect environment for Zayne to take advantage of.

You were careful not to disturb him as you settled your head back where it was most comfortable. The warmth you shared between your bodies had only grown, stealing away any drive you had left to stay awake. The fireplace became a blur as your eyelids drooped.

Against your ear though, you were still awake enough to notice the slight wheeze in his breathing. And from his nose, the tiniest whistle when he exhaled. Both were not typical for him, in all the times you had rested together.

Mentally, you winced, remembering the pity taken on your poor choice of winter wear once the blizzard hit. Zayne assured you he still had enough layers on, and initially you believed him. 

Now though, you realized he would've told you that anyways. Of course he would've; he was prone to worrying more about you than himself. 

You wondered if this wasn't normal tired for him, but sick tired. Had he been hiding it from you? Or was it too early for him to even realize?

You were only barely awake yourself anymore, unable to think clearly. “Zayne?” you murmured, quiet, still hesitant to wake him. You heard nothing back, and then you heard nothing at all, as sleep stole you away too. 

—

You woke up suddenly, somewhere soft, warm. Pillow under your head, and layers of blankets draped over you. Sluggishly, you picked up your head. The grey light of morning seeped through the windows, pale and too early to be awake. You squinted to make out flecks of snow billowing past the window, just as energetically as the day previous. 

This wasn't where you had fallen asleep. So how did you…? 

Oh, right.

Somewhere in the night, you vaguely remembered being lifted and held to Zayne’s chest before he settled you somewhere else- it was in this bed, you now knew. You stretched and whined beneath the blankets before rolling over. Next to you, the comforter was pulled back and the fitted sheet wrinkled, implying Zayne had slept there next to you. The bed suddenly felt cold.

As you sat up, you frowned. Something had woken you, but what? It was quiet in the cabin. “Zayne…?” you called out groggily.

“heh’tSCHh-!”

Oh.

“hegH’SCHUhh-!”

Sneezing. Zayne sneezing, to be exact. Muffled and echoey beyond the half wall immediately behind you, you concluded he was too far away to have heard you, in another room of the cabin. 

You heard him sneeze again, after a longer delay. You internally winced as you had the night before. For all the time you'd known Zayne, you'd never heard such frequent disruptions, except for when an outside factor- such as illness- was actively aggravating him.

The urge to investigate dragged you out of bed. Your ears pointed you towards the bathroom across the way. As you got closer though, you stopped. The sound of rushing water could be heard, loud and clear with the door of the bathroom wide open. Your approach to the door was a little more hesitant- was he showering this early in the morning?

Beyond the steam cloaking the room, you found Zayne not in the shower, but hovering just to the side of the sink. His hair was slightly disheveled from its usual neatness, and damp, implying he'd been standing in there for some time. Even from where you stood in the doorway, his body language read of discomfort.

Though you stepped lightly, your bare feet weren't quiet enough to avoid alerting him. Zayne turned to look your way. His posture instantly straightened, but it didn't hold, wavering in tune with his breath. 

“Y-Y/N, hih…! hH’gnx’SCHhh-!” He notably pressed into his wrist, cutting the volume. That wrist flipped, and his fingers clamped over his nose, pinching tightly over the bridge in a fashion you'd seen before, when he was either annoyed or- “heh-NGTt-uh!” -suppressing a sneeze. 

“Bless you… thanks for the wake up call.” You couldn't help yourself from teasing him.

“Did I wake you?” He paused to sniffle, thick, unproductive. “I tried to be quiet getting out of bed, but I suppose that didn't last…” Zayne’s voice cracked and he coughed, hoarse. 

Concerned, you stepped into the bathroom, closing the space between you. “What's with the shower?” you said. 

“Clearing out my sinuses. You can turn it off.” The steam in the room was pleasantly warm, but the humidity was a little much, you thought. You shut the water off.

“Did it help?” you asked. 

“Well, it made me sneeze through the worst of it.” With the water off, you can hear congestion in his voice more clearly, and you shuddered to think this was an improvement from when he'd first awoke. His illness had set in, and it had done so quicker than you thought possible. Zayne took one step back from the counter, touching one temple and wincing. You saw him sway.

Your brow furrowed. One of your hands drew up to his forehead before Zayne had the chance to stop you. Your fingers brushed his bangs aside with a gentle sweep, and the pads of your fingers ghosted heat, searing his skin deeper than any steam could create on the surface. 

“You have a fever…” Zayne swatted you away, but you grabbed at his wrist in rebellion. Instantly, you gasped and froze in place. Under your palm and fingers was an icy cold, etched across his skin and leaving purple welts in his wake- it could only have originated from his abilities. “Your Evol, why…?”

In one quick move, Zayne shook his head at you, tugged his freezing wrist from your grasp, and twisted away with a wrenching sneeze. 

“hegH’NSCHhih-! Hh…” The exhale carried exhaustion. You allowed him the space to recover but refused him another inch beyond that. As you examined him closer, you realized that white, crackling frost glazed not just his wrist, but his neck too. 

“Are you…okay? Why is your Evol doing that?” you asked.

But Zayne couldn’t seem to catch a break. “I'm f-fine…hih…!” His denial was drowned out in a shuddering hitch of breath. He managed to retrieve a bunched up wash cloth from the counter, just in time to jam it under his nose before he-

“hih’MPFSChh-!”

Punctual.

“Bless you,” you said, wincing. “Uh, you were saying? About being fine?”

He was even slower to recover, as though the very last of his energy had seeped out through his sinuses, dampening the already soiled cloth in his hand. “I'm not denying that. Obviously I'm not well.” Zayne slid past you to leave the bathroom, and you followed nervously behind him to where he dropped down on the couch. He barely seemed to be present, tilting his head back, eyes closed. The dark shadows under his eyes told you he hadn’t slept much. “I just meant… the ice. I'm fine, this always happens when I'm unwell.” 

From where you sat next to him, you took the chance to touch his forehead again, and Zayne didn't protest this time. It was worse than you initially thought. “You're really hot, Zayne…”

One eye opened. “Flirting with me while I'm sick?”

“Hey, you know what I mean…” You smiled and felt at ease- at least he wasn't so ill that mirth failed him. 

It couldn't cure all your worries, though. Your touch trailed down his cheek, to his jawline, and then his neck. It was there that the temperature under your fingers went shockingly cold, as though he'd just been outside in the winter elements without a scarf. Zayne’s brow knitted at your touch, and he shivered. 

“You're freezing,” you commented. It wasn't a question, but Zayne nodded anyway. “Let me warm you up, then.” This too, wasn't a question of permission, but rather a warning that you would try regardless.

Again though, Zayne nodded. Even a doctor as work-driven as he was knew when it was time for someone else to do the caring.

You looked first to the fireplace across from the couch, in front of the chair where you had both dozed off last night. The flames weren't flames but small, smoldering ashes- certainly of no substance to subdue a fever and keep the chill of winter out. 

You tossed another couple logs on and allowed a moment for the fire to catch.

Then, back on the couch, you adjusted your knees under you. “Here, let me squeeze in.” You sidled close to Zayne’s spot on the sectional. He hesitantly straightened his legs, allowing you space between him and the back cushion of the couch.

“It'll get nice and warm here soon,” you assured. Zayne hummed, glassy, hazel eyes fixed to the ceiling above. Your attention drew back to his Evol, still vicious and frosty at his wrists and throat. The warmth of the fire couldn't sedate this- this cold came from within, and the longer you lingered on it, the more uncomfortable it looked. You feared self-inflicted frostbite was in his near future.

“Do you think you might be overdoing it? Your Evol, I mean.”

“It's…” Zayne paused, shivering violently as though simply acknowledging the sensation made it worse. You swore you saw vapor as he exhaled, as if the air of winter itself were contained around his head in a bubble. “It's against my will, mostly…”

His discomfort was nearly palpable to you as you realized this was completely out of his control. This was the same cold extreme enough for Zayne to use in combat, after all, and now it was acting of its own accord, attacking him. 

“Think of it as a flight or fight response,” Zayne went on. “My temperature is up, therefore my body is responding by trying to cool down.”

“It's just too much, isn't it?” you said, finishing his thought for him. Zayne nodded, casting his gaze towards you. He'd never looked so openly vulnerable underneath you, except in distant memories, and you felt your heart soften despite the circumstances. 

You laid your weight heavier into him, shuffling so that one leg intertwined between his own. He caught your eye when he moved his hands out of your way. 

Maybe… if you resonated with him…?

You reached for one hand. “Here, let me just…”

Zayne shrunk away though, tucking his arms to his sides. “No, you shouldn't…touch me when I'm like this. Not on my skin.” Worry, genuine worry flickered in his eyes, and you felt that soft glow in your chest trip and falter.

“Zayne…” Your hands remained hovered at his wrist. Begging him with your eyes. He tensed, but he didn't stop you from closing your touch over his wrist. His skin was frigid, burning against your warmer palms, but only that. “You won't hurt me. I promise.”

You seemed to get through to him, and Zayne found it in himself to relax, finally. Your squeeze over his wrist was firm, but gentle, wringing your grip back and forth. You slowed your breathing and sought his Evol’s frequency, and it met you with a chaotic and unusual rhythm. A warm light glowed from your palms. In a matter of seconds, his skin took the warmth of yours.

“Better?” You asked. 

Zayne nodded, brow raised just slightly as though he didn't expect this outcome. You weren't sure you had expected it to work either. Discomfort crept back into his features, and he breathed through clenched teeth- you healed his other wrist with more urgency.

Briefly, you chewed the inside of your cheek. You couldn't deny that you found it all alarming, try as Zayne might to act casual about the whole thing. The nature of Evol was different person to person, but was it really okay for it to attack its user? Even under circumstances of illness? What if there was more to this?

…No, no. You had to shake this out of your head, stick to the task at hand. Interrogating him in the midst of being miserable wasn't good for either of you.

You forced the frown out of your expression, before Zayne could read it and interrogate you instead. “Your hands look better,” you said. “Is it just your shoulders now?”

“Yes. I think.”

“Get comfortable, then.” Both having lost their icy touch, he tucked his hands under you, and you properly draped yourself over him like a weighted blanket. Zayne tilted his head up to accept your arms wrapping over the back of his freezing neck.

You suppressed a shiver of your own as you nuzzled your cheek into the crook of one shoulder, the cold seeping into you through his shirt. Then, you remained still, focusing to match the frequency of his powers again, further resonating. Any remaining anxiety drained out of you. Maybe you couldn't cure his cold completely, but a small win was still a win in the war against misery.

Zayne sighed above you in relief. ”hh…hih…!” And then in urgency. He fidgeted under you, prompting you to lift your head.

You were greeted with the sight of a man most definitely about to sneeze.

And it had you a little mesmerized, to say the least- the stoic type, you rarely ever witnessed his face so obviously contorted. Somehow, Zayne always maintained a calm and collected demeanor, even when he was feeling anything but. This expression he currently wore though, was scrunched up, needy. His brow pinched together, eyelids taught. And the pink rims of his nostrils ticklishly flared, lip curled back into a snarl.

“Y-Y/N, my…hands…!” His breathy voice barely hung above a whisper.

You didn't get the memo- at least not fast enough. His hands remained trapped under you, and with nowhere else to hide, Zayne twisted toward the couch cushion, squelching the sneeze into submission by willpower alone.

Willpower didn't carry him very far, however. “hH’NXTt’shih-!” The burst of moisture that broke through was audible. Zayne’s chest swelled under you to gear up for a second one, and you braced a little tighter around his neck- “hegH’SCHUhh-!” The force his sneezes wrought nearly folded him at the waist, even with your full weight on top of him.

Zayne stilled after that. You were more timid as you looked back up to him. “Bless you. You shouldn't fight it like that…” you said softly.

“You shouldn't keep my hands trapped, then,” Zayne shot back.

You shrugged, although you did shift your hips up to free one of his arms. Zayne took to knuckling under his nose, before carefully dabbing at any excess dampness with the edge of his sleeve. 

“Really though, don't worry about politeness,” you went on. Your expression turned downcast. “You're sick because of me, after all.”

Several seconds passed as Zayne processed your words. Then, he gave you a look, the one he always had when you said something silly.  “You know people don't get sick just from being out in the cold, right?” 

“Says who?”

“Y/N, I'm a doctor. Your doctor,” Zayne deadpanned. 

You couldn't hide your grin. “Okay, but consider this: I saw it happen in a movie. A lot of movies, actually.”

Zayne shook his head. A yawn crept into his voice, and his eyes closed. “Right. Next time I need continuing education credits, I'll just watch some movies instead.”

“You better invite me over for a movie date night then!”

“But of course.” You held him a little tighter. The corner of Zayne’s mouth tugged into a smile. “Y/N… you really never grew up,” he said. 

“Oh?” You tilted your head at him. 

“You're just as unserious as you were when we were young,” Zayne went on. “More than when we were young, actually.”

To that, you stuck your tongue out. “Coming from the most serious guy I know? You should try it sometime.” 

Zayne opened his eyes, and there was That Look again, the Y/N-Said-Something-Ridiculous Look. For a moment, it even seemed like the feverish haze had left his eyes. But it only lasted a second, and the sorry state of him continued to be evident.

Your eyes shifted down to his throat. The skin looked healthy now, as though it had never been coated in a deadly ice. “So is this whole, uh, Evol thing gone now?” you asked awkwardly.

“For now. I imagine it’ll stay away now, so long as you're here.” 

A complicated knot of feelings sat in your chest, out of nowhere. For all the times Zayne had gone out of his way to protect you, save you, cure you, rarely could you return the favor. And it was a regular experience- you were good at getting yourself into trouble, after all.

But now, here you were, in a position where he needed you. 

“Good,” was all you could muster in response. 

Your hands snaked out from behind his head where they found his face. Cupping his cheeks, your fingers brushed over all the contours you now knew deeply, intimately. You let your eyes drift thoughtfully over his lips, threatening your resolve. 

Clearly you had grown up in some way- the idea of kissing Zayne would've been strange and wrong in your youth, but now you found yourself fighting with your better judgment not to. You could already hear him quietly scold you for kissing him while he was sick.

Only then did you realize Zayne was looking at you. You found yourself instantly shy under his scrutiny- for all the times you had kissed him, gone on dates, fully gave yourself to him, he still managed to make you nervous. 

Just as the tension of your eye contact threatened to become too heavy, Zayne sighed and melted a little deeper into the couch. You shook yourself back into a caretaker mindset. 

“Are you warm enough?” Zayne hummed his confirmation. “Okay… can I get you anything? Fever reducers, maybe?”

You sat up, preparing to get up from the couch, but Zayne’s hands held your waist firmly. “I already took some. Why don't you just rest here with me?” His words caught and he coughed into his shoulder.  

Zayne’s voice was growing ragged, even for how softly he spoke. You made a mental note to raid the cabinets for tea later, whenever he was ready to accept it. 

For now though, resting with him would be an easy task. The light filtering through the snow plastered windows was still too dim and early for your liking. And with the most concerning of Zayne’s symptoms relieved, you were content to relax a little. Your breathing synced with the slowed pace of his, calm.

For all the symptoms that had been relieved though, there was always another waiting to rear its head and break the moment.

Zayne suddenly stirred under you. He stiffly exhaled. “Actually, Y/N…” Zayne sniffled, and then sniffled again, sharply squeaking within his swollen sinuses. “Maybe…you should, hih…!”  You sat up in time to see the twinge in his expression take hold, uncertain, a will-he or won't-he battle. The fluttering of his eyes and twitch of his nares tells you he definitely will, though Zayne seemed intent on holding back. The rest of his words tumbled out in a rush, “...should get me some tih-! tissues, hH-!”

His arm tensed over your back, and he swung up with the intent to cover above you. You moved quicker though, tucking his face against your shoulder. Another gasp shook him beneath you, fluttering against your skin. You only held him tighter.

“heH’MFSCHHeh-!” Throaty and violent, the sound was squashed into your shirt. It was a warm and damp rush in the fabric, and Zayne jostled you as his nose betrayed him a second time. “hH-! ‘ESCHh’uh-!”

Several peaceful seconds came and went. You propped yourself up and met his gaze sheepishly, exposing the damp spot that now soiled your shirt. Zayne’s face was hard to read, but his ears were noticeably pink. “You know, when people ask for tissues, they don’t usually mean someone else’s shirt,” he mumbled.

“I- wasn’t thinking, I guess…” you said. One hand lazily traced along the curved top of his ear. “You don't need to be so embarrassed.”

“I have a fever, remember?” Zayne retorted, so casually that you almost couldn’t detect it as an excuse- almost. He sniffled again, wet and productive. “Listen, I could still really use those tissues… unless you’re expecting me to use your shirt for that too.” His eyes shifted away from you.

The heat on his face seemed to possess your own cheeks, as it occurred to you just how compromised he was under you. Completely at your will, or at least as completely as he would allow, and so far it seemed to be a lot. Your mind threatened to drift to places far from innocent. 

“No, not unless you- asked to, I mean…! N-not at all.” Your words tripped over themselves as your tongue knotted itself with your inner desires. You shimmied back to the other end of the couch, part in preparation to get up, but mostly to hide yourself from Zayne’s intelligent gaze. He could always read right through you.

You managed to pull yourself together while fetching a tissue box from the bathroom. And a glass of water- you were sure he needed it.

You stopped in your tracks exiting the bathroom. Zayne still laid on the couch, eyes closed, somehow serene despite  being in the throes of a bad cold. 

Cute.

He stirred once you approached close enough to be heard. “Here,” you said, passing the box of tissues to him.

“A whole box? How generous,” he playfully remarked. Zayne plucked a tissue from the box, and then another. You looked down at the glass of water still in your hands, for whatever shred of privacy it would offer him as he loudly blew his nose. Soiled, he tossed the tissues into the wastebasket nearby. At this rate, and with the way that had sounded, you had a feeling that the bin would be full of them by the end of the day.

“Thanks,” Zayne said in a thick voice as he took the water from you next. He made quick work of it, and you mentally patted yourself on the back for thinking of his needs before he had even voiced them. 

You checked that the fireplace was still lively, and then you turned back to Zayne where you stood before him.

“Can I get you something else?”

Zayne looked at you with warm eyes. “I don't know… I’d just really like my blanket back.” You frowned, only to falter when Zayne winked at you. Duh.

You needed no other prompting to crawl back into your original position, settling yourself over Zayne like a large lap cat, or a blanket, as he had put it. A new sense of ease washed over the two of you. 

You turned your head where it was more comfortable on its side. Snow still billowed past outside, and you found yourself reflecting again on why you were both here. Although there would be much to do later today, or more likely tomorrow, when the snow had slowed, you could both have this moment. You didn't get to lay and nap together at home nearly as often as either of you liked, but right now, you were free to indulge in it. 

You had each other's comfort. And you had each other's warmth.

“Ya know, maybe what you said yesterday was right,” you suddenly spoke.

“Hm?” Zayne opened one eye, brow raised.

“About the treasure being something warm within winter, or however you put it.” Your limbs twitched, and you curled a little tighter into Zayne. “Maybe it's cheesy, but I feel like we have our own little treasure here, ya know?”

Zayne exhaled a laugh, but it was genuine. “Perhaps you're right.” He closed his eyes, and through a yawn, “We had to find our own little treasure before we could find one for the whole village.”

“Exactly.” You smiled, closing your own eyes. Your ears zoned in on the cracking and popping of the fireplace, coupled with Zayne’s soft breathing. 

Flashbacks of the cozy night prior crept into your mind. “Can you tell me the rest of that story from last night?” Your words were slurred by almost-sleep. Zayne only responded with a soft snore. 

Ah well, you thought. Another day, then; this treasure was treasure enough. 

[lesleymoonwriter]

Hi Writblr, I was wondering what y'all use for book cover and interior design? I wanted to do a blog post on how aesthetics go a long way in making a book appealing, but I also wanted to provide some low-cost methods for book beautifying so I don't just sound like a whiny jerk.

[quatregats]

Thinking a lot of thoughts about Hornblower's relationships with Barbara and Maria as a metaphor for his larger relationship to social mobility and ambition, and I think there's actually a lot there - not sure if it was intentional, but I do think that whether intentionally or inadvertently, Forester did an interesting job with the parallels.

Quick note beforehand that some of this is based on my constant brief paging through C. Northcote Parkinson's Hornblower "biography", which, while I absolutely abhor his interpretation of Hornblower, gives even more food for thought on this point. I'm also leaning more into his interpretation of Hornblower's background and childhood, as opposed to the TV show's, so it might not work if you're coming from the TV show's perspective.

Parkinson takes Forester's comment that Hornblower was a "doctor's son" to mean that he was the son of an apothecary, rather than a physician like in the show. I'm not a historian of the period, so I would be hard-pressed to actually try to fit Hornblower's father within the 18th-century framework of medical practice, but either way, given his awkwardness around upper-class life and that he seems to have grown up in rural Kent, I think that Parkinson's claim that he was the son of an apothecary, rather than a physician, does have some reasonable foundation, or is at least equally plausible (to me) as the show's.

Hornblower struggles with poverty through most of the series, especially the first half, but even when he is barely scraping by, such as at the start of Lieutenant, this does not seem to be an abnormal state; and when he finally arrives at wealth and success, he constantly wishes to go back to the days when he was a penniless lieutenant, so from this we might also surmise that he did not come from wealth. (I'm also comparing especially to Jack Aubrey, who, while he admittedly makes a hash of coming into large amounts of money, and who also lives perfectly happily on very little, is clearly quite comfortable being the "lord of the manor" by comparison.)

One of the biggest changes in the second half of the series (from The Happy Return/Beat to Quarters onward) is that Hornblower's career comes into fruition; he becomes a decorated Captain, a member of the landed gentry, a Knight of Bath, a Peer, and finally an admiral, and marries into an enormously influential family. He's constantly in conflict about this, until he isn't: he wants to become someone powerful and important, except that he doesn't like the role once he gets it, and constantly wishes about the old days, then feels guilty for wishing for them. Most importantly, he seems to become less and less himself, his mental narrative getting more and more distorted as he tries to mold himself into the person he thinks he wants to be.

I don't think this is a particular novel interpretation, but I think that in light of this, the contrast between his marriage to Maria and his marriage to Barbara is very interesting. If he was an apothecary's son, his and Maria's marriage would make a decent amount of sense - they'd be from similar social backgrounds, and probably a reasonable match, if Hornblower's career had continued as expected. Hornblower feels comfortable around Maria at the start of their friendship and the very beginning of their marriage in a way that mirrors his comfort with the life he's living at that point - which is to say that he clearly knows and understands what's expected of him and how to interact, in clear contrast with later books. But on the other hand, for all that he originally does love Maria, Hornblower comes to find her to be coarse, unrefined, and boring, and feel that she is not good enough for the person he wants to become. It's at the point when he starts to feel that he's moved passed Maria that he begins to take on his new, ambitious, performative persona.

On the other hand, Hornblower feels stiff and uncomfortable around Barbara from the beginning of their relationship, notably for reasons of class, and even in later books, consistently sounds intimidated by her poise and upper-class untouchability. With Maria he doesn't feel enough for her; with Barbara he feels too much, an almost uncouth sentimentality. He craves Barbara's status like a man drowning, but can't hold up under the weight of what it would mean. They have very strong intellectual chemistry, but socially they are a disaster of a couple, and yet nonetheless, Hornblower continues with the marriage because it feels to him like the thing he ought to do, just as he ought to become squire of Smallbridge. He's so viscerally uncomfortable with his position in the later books in a way he wasn't even at the height of his earlier miseries, but he refuses to let himself admit that his ambitions might have led him astray.

I think it's also interesting that the relationship which Hornblower arguably finds the most fulfilling (or rather, it was written very poorly if Forester wanted to make it feel fulfilling for the reader, but nonetheless it was clearly meant to be the most fulfilling for Hornblower) is his relationship with Marie, who sits at a similar odd juncture to him. In the text, Forester says outright that Marie fulfills Hornblower's interest in upper-class women (ambition) while not intimidating him, yet still being a satisfying intellectual partner. Nonetheless, just as Marie and Hornblower can never actually end up together, Hornblower can never actually be comfortable with his position, and no matter how many times he tries to find solace in her, he is eventually forced to continue down the path that he began, making up with Barbara and fully taking up the mantle of Admiral and Peer of the Realm.

In short, I think that watching the way in which Hornblower's relationship with Maria evolves over the course of the early books and the way in which his relationship with Barbara takes up after that ends up being a very neat parallel to his own ambitions and class identity. With Maria he is at home, but bored and restless; with Barbara he gets everything that he wants, but feels like a fish out of water. I think that particular parallel is part of the particular tragedy of Hornblower - he can't ever be satisfied with the person he was, or the person he's become. But I think that adding in aspects of extreme class difference - even more class difference than the general trends of social mobility during this period - also helps to elucidate the fundamental tension which drives Hornblower forward as a character. The world he came from was too small for him; the world in which he moves now is far too big; but there's no in-between option. He has to choose what he wants to be, and sacrifice some part of himself in order to do that, and in light of this reading of him, I think that there's a lot of interesting dilemmas to be raised.

[queerofthedagger]

sometimes. what i like to read or write in fic or just generally play around with.... is different and, dare i say, sometimes even contradicting to what i think the canonical reading is offering. like yeah he would not fucking say that but every once in a while i do like to indulge. sue me

[sysig]

Talk yourself into it (Patreon)

[caeslxys]

Something I think is extremely interesting thematically when it comes to connecting what Downfall and the ideas it tackled to the overarching narrative of campaign three is that the things Downfall made a point to showcase of Aeor—Cassida, Hallis, the visual of an aeormaton proposing to her partner, the specific and intentional decision to shed light on a far from insignificant amount of the population being civilians or refugees—is that it plays in perfect parallel across from what is happening (and, really, has been happening) to the ruidusborn on Exandria in present.

Bear with me for a moment. Aeor is ultimately a city that was collectively punished for the decisions of its leadership. We could (and, judging by the amount of discourse around this particular topic already, probably will) argue about what the Gods’ motivation for all of this was—whether it be that they could not, in the end, bear to kill their siblings or that they were terrified at the prospect of mortality—for me it is a very healthy dose of both—but for this I am much more interested in the latter. They were scared. That, really, is the driving force behind both this arc and their role in c3 as a whole.

Why I point this out is: It is far more interesting to me, especially as we go back to Bells Hells this week, to dissect the Gods and their decisions not purely on sympathetic motivation alone but as beings in the highest seat of power in the highest social class in Exandria.

So, having established that the Gods (in relation to mortals) are more a higher social class than anything we could compare to our real life understanding of divinity and that Aeor was eviscerated largely because of their fear—what is the difference between those innocents in Aeor caught in the trappings of their autocratic government leadership and a divine war on the ground, and those of the ruidusborn being manipulated both by Ludinus and by the very thing that inspired such visceral fear in the Gods to start with. I would argue very little.

I think of Cassida, doing what she genuinely thought was right and good and would save people, her son, and the object of her worship—and how that did not matter enough to any of them to spare her because of the fear they held at the very concept of mortality. I think of Liliana and Imogen, one of which we know begged for the gods to help her or send her a sign for years on years, and how every single one of their largest struggles could have been avoided had the gods loved them, their supposed children, as much as they feared what they could be. I think of how the thing that did save Imogen, in the end, was a woman who herself existed in direct defiance of the gods will. I think of that young boy, sixteen years old, that Laudna exalted on Ruidus.

I think it’s completely fair to judge Aeor’s overall society as deeply corrupt—it was!—but its leadership and police force are not a reflection of every one of its citizens. Similarly, it is fair to judge the Ruby Vanguard as corrupt—it is!—but its multiple heads of leadership and even the god-eater further are not a reflection of every one of its members.

Notably, and what I think the Hells will latch onto, this did not matter to the Gods. It did not matter that Cassida was trying to help. She was still too much of a risk. Will it matter, what Imogen does? Will it matter, if that young boy is in the blast radius when they decide to take no further chances?

I’ve seen a lot of people say that the Hells will side with the gods and I don’t think I agree. Especially as Imogen has been scolded and villainized over and over for daring to try and save her mother—who herself has been seen by some as an irredeemable evil in spite of her drive being the exact same—her family—but when it’s the Gods it’s justified? When it’s the Gods, it’s sympathetic? Too sympathetic to criticize further than “they’re family”?

I obviously do not think the Gods should die or be eaten or what have you, and I certainly don’t agree with Ludinus (though I find him much more compelling than just a variation of hubris wizard), but when talking about the Gods in Aeor and in present it isn’t really at all about their motivation or their family. It can’t be. Too many people, including our active protagonists, lives have been effected for it to be as cut and dry as “they’re family”. These are your children. They are your family, too.