#only problem is that it's supposed to be a comparison of two guest lectures from the semester and i took absolutely dogshit notes

[nessvn]

im so exhausted but it's literally all my fault lol. one of these days i will learn to manage my time alas it is clearly not today. nor will it be next week lets be realistic.

[imaginedhaven]

Rules of Engagement: Chapter Two

Link to Masterpost

Aelin rose shortly before dawn, quickly grabbing the trousers and shirt she usually wore to train with Aedion and his men. As inclined as she was to distrust this new trainer—Rowan Whitethorn, according to her cousin—she might as well begin their time together on something approximating neutral ground. Being late on the first day would only provoke him unnecessarily.

With that in mind she darted down the stairs, still tugging on one of her boots as she went. With a yelp she stumbled, but a quick grab at a handrail turned what would have been a tumble into a smooth slide instead.

Aedion caught her at the bottom of the stairs. “Your hair’s a wreck,” he muttered as they jogged off toward the training ground.

“As though yours is any better,” she growled.

“Sleep late?” Aedion knew better by this point than to let her rile him up, so it had become too difficult to do with such a simple jab. She wasn’t really trying to anger him, though, so instead she focused on doing her best to keep up with him and braid her hair at the same time. No time to secure it any further, not if she wanted to be early.

“Hardly,” she retorted. “You’re up early, though. Observing the fun?”

Aedion hummed in reply. “An entire patrol of the Bane is stationed nearby, just in case. He is a foreign soldier, after all.”

“I’d expect nothing less from your security,” she smiled as she finally tied off her braid.

They turned the corner by the stables, and Aelin turned to face Aedion as he slowed to a stop. “What, not coming?”

“We’ll be keeping an eye on him, of course, but he has specifically said that the guards are to keep a wide berth,” Aedion replied as he ran wide fingers through his own hair to pull it back in a simple leather tie. “You’ll be safe.”

And everyone else will be safe from me, she realized. Though he didn’t say as much, the look in his eyes confirmed that this was a move supported by the rest of the guard for their safety as well as her own. “Well,” she started, reaching for her usual confidence and hoping it was sufficiently convincing. “You’ll just have to meet your hero some other day, won’t you?”

Aedion smirked. “Who’s to say we haven’t already met?”

“I know you’ve met me,” she said with a laugh. “I’m talking about your other hero, who squashes people like grapes apparently.”

“Very funny,” he sighed. “Look, we’ll all be watching this morning, all right? I’ll only leave to see to the preparations for your next guests when I must, and not one moment before I know you’ll be safe enough. You have your knives?”

She nodded in response, patting the sheaths she usually tucked into her training outfit.

“Good. I… don’t antagonize him, okay?” he asked. “I know you. He’s come a long way to do you a favor.”

“No promises,” was her only reply before she left with a jaunty wave.

From the stables, it wasn’t a far walk to the open fields the men preferred for training. Aelin pulled out one of her knives as she walked, carelessly twirling it around her fingers. She may agree with her cousin that it would be poor form to antagonize the Fae who awaited her, but there was a fine line between antagonism and showing him that she was not someone to be trifled with. Far better that he go into this knowing that she would not allow any male to walk all over her.

With all the grace expected of a princess, Aelin stepped onto the training field, eyes trained on her knife rather than any other occupants. Slowly, she allowed herself a scan of the area, starting at the ground level. One other pair of boots, well-worn from travel but clearly well-made, stood before her. The remainder of the field was abandoned as Aedion had said. Sweeping her gaze up, she found he wore rather utilitarian clothes. A pale surcoat broke neatly over matching trousers, neither adorned, both loose enough to allow the male to conceal multiple weapons on his person. A closer look told her he had indeed armed himself, just as she had. Good. She would hate to be taught by someone who couldn’t fight.

His arms were crossed before him, posture showing a lack of amusement but also highlighting his broad chest. Yes, he was a warrior to be sure, tall and strong. Any other profession would be a waste of all that muscle, she mused. His hair didn’t seem to match the profile of a warrior at first glance, long silver locks falling neatly to his elbows. Perhaps all Fae males kept it long, though, so she decided it was still possible that he actually intended to train her today instead of lecture.

A dark tattoo disappeared under the collar of his surcoat, and she spent a few moments tracing the graceful curving lines. It took a while to recognize the symbols as characters in the Old Language, and with the artistic license that had been used in its creation Aelin knew it was beyond her ability to translate. From the side of his neck it appeared to swirl up toward his left temple—or perhaps that was the starting point and it cascaded down from there? It was difficult to say, and even more difficult to discern exactly how far beneath that coat it extended.

Aelin’s eyes followed the curves of the tattoo back up over a strong jaw, and over to the deceptively delicate points of his ears. She knew that he would have equally delicate fangs—or would he? Would they be as strong as the rest of him instead? She had never met a full-blooded Fae male before, she had no basis of comparison but her own face. She would find out soon enough, though, she was sure.

The knife still twirling between her fingers slowed and then stopped when she met his pine-green eyes.

“You,” she snarled as she launched herself at him, knife angled toward that broad chest.

~*~*~

Aelin’s attack was cut embarrassingly short as the wind itself around him picked up, knocking her flat on her back.

The male’s—Rowan’s—voice was smooth and unruffled, as if he had been expecting her to do exactly what she had done. “You’re on time, at least,” he said.

“You—that was your magic,” she realized. “The wind, just now.”

“It was,” Rowan confirmed. “But it’s not my magic that brings us here.”

Aelin glared up into those green eyes as she sat up. The cold intelligence behind them seemed familiar… “The hawk,” she realized. “That was your secondary form. You delivered your own message. Why?”

“Shift, and I’ll tell you,” came his retort.

“What?”

Rowan gracefully folded himself into a seated position, and Aelin realized that the tattoo down the left side of his face also covered his left hand. Did it extend all along his arm, or were they two separate sets of markings? “That is the only task we have for today. If you can’t control your shifting, how can you hope to control your magic?”

“If this is some kind of trick—” she snarled.

Before she could finish, though, the warrior carefully pulled a knife from under his surcoat and set it on the ground in front of him. “You can also earn this back by shifting,” he said quietly, green eyes glaring back at her.

Aelin stilled. How had he known…? “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied.

“Are we really doing this?” he demanded. “You’re going to sit there and act like you didn’t throw that at me?”

“We are,” she growled. “And I’ve never been able to control my shifting, so I don’t see how this matters in any case.”

“Need I remind you that you’re the one who attacked me?” he asked, a dangerous edge to his voice and a steely glint in his eyes. “Both times, actually.”

Aelin did her best to keep an embarrassed flush from her cheeks. He was right, of course; she had lost the ability to pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about when she had leapt at him with a drawn dagger. “There remains a problem which you failed to address,” she drawled. “I can’t shift. I’ve never been able to do it on command.”

“So you would rather admit to being lazy, then.”

Aelin bit back a snarl. “If you’re trying to rile me into shifting, it won’t work.”

“Oh, I think it will,” Rowan said with a smirk. “The pattern of your… incidents… indicates as much. Unless you weren’t angry to be caught sneaking out like the child you are last month, that is.”

Aelin growled, hands fisting where they rested by her knees. “You’re going to be here a long time if you think you’re going to win this way. I don’t suppose you thought to bring snacks?”

“What, for you? Perhaps you’re accustomed to having your every whim catered to and your life made easy for you, but—”

Whatever Rowan said next was lost to Aelin, who had launched herself at the warrior again before she could talk herself out of it.

This time, rather than deflecting her with his control over the wind, the warrior grabbed her arms and redirected her, neatly throwing her over himself and then standing again as her back hit the dirt. “A few words of advice,” he said, and it infuriated her that he sounded as unaffected as he had when they’d first begun. “I’ve been sworn to my queen as one of her most trusted warriors for almost two centuries longer than you’ve been alive. I promise you I’m meaner, stronger, and tougher than you are. So if riling you up is what it takes…”

In a single fluid motion Rowan leaped at her just as she attempted to rise, knocking her back into the ground and pinning her wrists over her head. “Shift,” he snarled, green eyes blazing against his lightly tanned face.

Aelin rolled her shoulders and glared right back at him. “No.”

As Rowan opened his mouth to growl a reply, Aelin jerked her knee upward. Taking advantage of his surprise, she was successfully able to roll away from him. She rose back up as quickly as possible and gave herself a few moments to take stock of the situation.

As a Fae male, he was superior in every way to the limitations of her own human appearance. He was faster, he was stronger, and even if she did manage to get away he’d be able to track her down. That wasn’t even taking his magic into account. He had already demonstrated his mastery over the winds, and she’d thought his hands seemed colder than they should have when he’d pinned her. A side effect of the winds, she wondered, or a secondary gift?

If she could shift, or if she could access her own magic without burning down everything around her, she might have stood a chance against him. But as it was, she was outclassed in every way, and she growled as she realized her only advantage was that of surprise. Even that would run out soon enough.

Aelin scowled. She might not be able to win this, but she could absolutely dictate the terms of her own defeat. She could do what he expected, throw herself back into the fray until she was beaten down into exhaustion. She could run into the forest, and hope her knowledge of her surroundings could keep her away from him until he tired of the chase. Or…

Aelin sat on the ground and crossed her legs in front of her, smirking as he halted in his tracks. “You first,” she said.

Looking up at his face through her lashes, she grinned as she read the anger and surprise mixing in his expression. What? he seemed to say without words.

“You heard me,” she replied. “You first.”

He growled in response, displaying canines that Aelin realized were definitely more impressive than her own. “Why?”

Aelin carefully suppressed her natural reaction to shiver at the threatening display. The gods knew she’d been in actual danger before, and she would not let him think this was affecting her in the same way. “I don’t know if your queen told you, but we’ve had very few Fae in Terrasen since I was born,” she said. “I’ve never actually seen the shift before. Maybe if I see what it looks like, I’ll have better success.”

She watched as Rowan considered his response, leaning back on her hands. “Fine,” he finally snarled. “Once.”

For a single moment the male was enveloped in a soft white glow, and then a hawk took off from the ground where he had once stood. She looked on as he flew once around the courtyard, and allowed her fingernails to bite into her palms to keep herself from flinching as his landing took him a little too close to her head. She couldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he had gotten to her, after all. Everything depended on her maintaining what little of an upper hand she could.

With another flash of white light Rowan stood before her again, every bit as irritated as he had been before she’d provoked him into shifting. Well? he seemed to say.

Aelin leaned forward, allowing her curiosity to show. “Where do your clothes go, when you shift?”

“Does it matter?” he responded, clearly taken aback.

“Of course it does.”

He sighed. “It doesn’t for you, since your secondary form is roughly the same size as your Fae form, but fine. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I don’t think about it.”

“You don’t think about it, and yet you’ve never lost your clothing in a shift?” she asked.

He scowled in response. “I fail to see how this is relevant, but no. I will the shift, and it happens, and I still have my clothes when I shift back.”

Aelin opened her mouth to ask another question, but he cut her off with another growl. “Your turn,” he said. “Shift.”

~*~*~

A week of training passed, and Aelin still had yet to shift on command. Rowan had scrapped with her, yelled at her, growled at her, and generally been the toughest trainer she had ever dealt with, but it was all to no avail.

Worse still, she had actually tried to shift in those rare moments she found herself alone, usually when Rowan stalked off into the forest muttering things she pretended not to hear. She had reached down to where she had felt her magic explode out of her time and again.

There was nothing there but embers and ashes.

Aelin sighed. She had mercifully been given the day off today, so that she could properly greet the dignitaries that would be arriving today. Her friends, from various nations. More would arrive in the coming days, but those she considered dearest would be spending an entire week in Orynth to celebrate her birthday.

If only she could fall asleep, so that she would at least appear somewhat rested. She had already visited a healer for her black eye, but the mental and physical exhaustion were impossible to truly magic away even for the most skilled.

She found she was unable to find rest, though, no matter how hard she attempted to clear her mind. Every time she came close, the same thought ran through her, shaking her to the core.

Today’s the day.

Lysandra’s check into her Regent’s list of eligible marriage candidates was complete. Tonight, they would get together with her newly-arrived friends and sort through what she had been able to find.

Tonight, she would choose someone to seriously court and eventually marry.

Certainly, she hoped that she would be able to work her way out of the requirement to actually marry whoever it was she selected. But Darrow had seemed so adamant that the lords would never fully approve her without a consort. To keep you in line, he had sneered, and she scowled at the memory.

Hopefully Lysandra’s research would reveal a candidate she could at least stand, if she couldn’t avoid marriage altogether.

Finally Aelin gave up on sleep, instead slipping into her closet. While she was greeting dear friends today, their status as Queen of the Wastes and Princess of Ellywe respectively meant that proper dress was required. Skipping over her various tunics and trousers, she smiled when she found exactly the right gown for the day.

The gown was silken in material, color matching the blue of her eyes at the top of the bodice, fading to a paler hue in the skirts that would swirl about her legs as she walked. While it did have long sleeves that clung to her arms with just enough give to allow her to move freely, they sat just below her shoulders, which led to a back low enough to displease Darrow but high enough for propriety. All down the length of the gown golden thread created patterns of branches and flowers. While she would be expected to don something more imposing for her birthday the following week, this would more than suffice for today. She quickly dressed herself, and was working on the ties in the back when Lysandra swept in and took over for her.

Aelin smiled at her friend’s reflection in the mirror they stood before. “Thank you,” she sighed. “I suppose the fact that this is a big day is affecting me.”

“That would explain why you’re overdressed,” Lysandra replied. “If you’re trying to get Darrow on your side, I somehow doubt this gown would succeed. That said, I fully approve regardless. You look stunning.”

“I do try,” Aelin said with a grin. “You’ll be meeting us here tonight, yes? Might as well get it over with.”

“Of course.” Lysandra carefully rearranged Aelin’s skirts before stepping back. “Are you doing something to your hair today, or just throwing on a circlet?”

“Please,” she laughed. “Ansel would tease me mercilessly for standing on ceremony if I showed up in a circlet.” As she spoke, she began to twist parts of her long golden hair into a braid. Most of it would hang down her back, but she carefully pinned the braided top half into a knot at the crown of her head. “They’ll be arriving any minute now, won’t they?”

Lysandra cleared her throat delicately. “Nehemia actually just arrived.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Aelin demanded, shoving delicate slippers onto her feet before practically flying out of the room, Lysandra following close behind in the form of a cat. Halfway to the throne room where she was to meet her new arrivals, though, she ran into a broad and firm obstacle that she quickly realized was a man. “Oh!” she gasped, startled. “I’m so—”

The apology died on her lips, quickly replaced with a familiar frustration as she looked up and realized she had run into Rowan. “It’s you,” she scowled. “I thought you would be off running through the forest, or perhaps flying over the castle, since I doubt you believe in days of rest.”

“Believe it or not, I do have other duties,” he responded cooly, pine-green eyes seeming to glow within his lightly-tanned face. “If you must know, my queen expects regular updates so that she knows when I’ll be returning. I also train with your guard. I would have more time for both of those duties if you—”

But before he could rile her any further Aelin turned on her heel and breezed into the throne room, ignoring her trainer in favor of beginning to welcome her friends. As the door closed behind her she squared her shoulders, determined to spend just one evening not thinking about Rowan or his harsh training methods at all.

~*~*~

Later that evening Aelin leaned against a pile of pillows on her bed in a robe of dark blue silk, Princess Nehemia Ytger of Ellywe to her left and Ansel of Briarcliff, Queen of the Wastes, to her right. “I never expected you’d be the first of us married off, you know,” Ansel said quietly. “Honestly, I was expecting it to be…” she trailed off, glancing over at Nehemia.

The tall, willowy princess sighed, a small smile gracing her dark features. “You can say it, you know. I was expecting that as well. At least you have options to select from, Aelin.”

“That’s true enough,” Aelin agreed. “Lysandra will be meeting us any moment. I had her researching the list I was given.”

“Do you think she’ll have portraits available?” Ansel grinned. “We can’t marry you off to some ancient noble just because your regent says so.”

At that moment Lysandra slipped into the room, a small stack of papers with her. “Of course I have portraits,” she sniffed. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”

Aelin sat up straight as the shifter set her papers on the center of the bed and then climbed up to join them. “Very well,” she said. “Let’s hear the first one.”

Lysandra smiled. “You won’t like the first one. It’s Aedion.”

As Aelin scowled, Ansel leaned in. “Your cousin? I suppose it’s not unheard of, but…”

“But nothing,” she responded coolly. “I’m not marrying Aedion and Darrow can’t make me. Next?”

Lysandra shuffled her papers. “Next up is Sartaq, a prince of the Southern Continent.”

“He’s unlikely to agree to a match,” Nehemia pointed out. “He’s first in line for his own throne at the moment, the favorite of his father. As you don’t have an heir he would need to give it up and come here.”

“I agree,” Aelin responded. “We’ll keep him in mind in case the rest of the options are horrid, but it would look better if I made a good faith effort to comply with this requirement before I proposed an option that would never work.”

Lysandra nodded. “I thought you would say that. He’s more distantly related to you, but I discounted Crown Prince Galan Ashryver of Wendlyn for the same reasons as Aedion and Sartaq,” she said as she flipped to a portrait of the male in question.

“If he’s not truly to be considered, why did you bring his portrait?” asked Nehemia.

Ansel grinned. “What Nehemia means to say is thank you for bringing his portrait. For those of us who aren’t related to him, he’s certainly easy to look at.”

Aelin sighed. “Lysandra, is there anyone on this list who might work out?”

Lysandra smiled at her. “There are a few more reasonable options. Lord Chaol Westfall, formerly of Anielle, currently Captain of the Guard in Adarlan.”

Aelin glanced down at the portrait before her, smiling as she was met with an artist’s interpretation of short chestnut hair and coppery eyes. “Unusual, that Darrow would put anyone on the short list who didn’t come from a royal family.”

“It could be a test,” Ansel speculated. “See if you’ll pick what he sees as an inferior choice, just because he’s pretty.”

Nehemia shook her head. “It’s possible, but unlikely. The Westfalls are a very old family in Adarlan, and have been close to the Havilliards for as long as they’ve been in power. He may not have a royal title of his own, but the name does still hold weight.”

“I do have concerns, though,” Aelin remarked. “He currently holds a position that commands great royalty to a monarch that isn’t me, and he would have worked hard to attain that position. I don’t know if he would be easily convinced to be loyal to Terrasen instead, if it were possibly at Adarlan’s expense. It would also be a point of weakness in any future negotiations with Adarlan. Set him aside for now, but we’ll keep him in mind.”

“Very well.” Lysandra set his portrait to one side and returned to her notes, then laughed. “Are you ready for the next candidate on the list?”

Aelin’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I suspect that I’m not going to like this?”

Lysandra grinned and set out the next portrait, and Aelin felt heat at her fingertips at the sight of familiar green eyes. “Prince Rowan Whitethorn of Doranelle.”

“No,” Aelin said sharply. “Even if we hadn’t already met personally, he’s blood-sworn to another queen.”

Lysandra laughed. “You could’ve mentioned you were training with a prince. From what I found, he’s essentially a prince in title alone, more a distant relation of the Queen, but surely it was still worth mentioning?”

“I prefer to discuss him as little as possible,” Aelin said loftily.

“That’s not what Aedion says,” the shifter remarked with a grin.

Aelin growled. “No, and that’s final. Who’s next?”

“The last on the list is Crown Prince Dorian Havilliard of Adarlan,” Lysandra said, revealing a portrait of a young man with sapphire eyes and short dark curls.

“I met him once,” Aelin recalled, “when we were both younger. He spilled his tea on me.”

“Oh, surely you can forgive that,” Ansel said. “He’s attractive enough. Not to mention, your kingdoms are neighbors. Most would support a closer relationship between Terrasen and Adarlan.”

Lysandra smiled. “My contacts here from Adarlan say he’s something of a reformer, bending his father’s ear on all manner of policies to better lives in the country. He’s well loved by his people. And Ansel is correct that he would be more likely than the other crown princes on the list to accept a proposal, given how close your countries are. He has a younger brother, a boy of ten, who he could potentially influence to be a great king. Assuming, of course, he can convince his mother to stop spoiling the boy.”

“A tall order to be sure, from what I hear,” Aelin murmured, but she picked up his portrait regardless.

“He’ll be here next week for your birthday, will he not?” Nehemia asked.

Aelin nodded. “He was among the first to accept the invitation. We can discuss the matter further then. For now, I’ll tell Darrow that I intend to ask him about a courtship. Hopefully that’ll keep him off my back for a little while.”

And as the other girls began to catch up with each other and Lysandra gathered her documents, Aelin stood and walked toward her window, slipping out onto her balcony and gazing up at the familiar constellations. How strange, she mused, that the condition she had thought would be the most difficult to overcome in her ascent to the throne was proving to be the more simple.

As she looked out over the garden, though, loosely braiding her hair in preparation for sleep, she couldn’t help but feel as though this whole matter was about to become more complicated.

[thederailedtrain]

The Mark of Oblivion: City Hall Station [One]

Kira lived her whole life without a father. Her mother had a clever way of dodging any questions about him. By the time she reached college, she just stopped trying. Linh Nguyen had never been one for serious romantic relationships. Sometimes, Kira wondered if her mother knew her father’s identity herself. And if she didn’t know, there was no way Kira was going to find out.

Eventually, she came to realize how little it mattered to her. She’d made it this far without him and her mother did plenty to support them both. Just because they disagreed on a lot, that didn’t mean the two weren’t close. It never felt like part of her life was missing.

In fact, Kira hadn’t thought about her father’s identity for years. That is, until the night she’d learned that she was a witch. There was a moment there when she thought she might’ve inherited her magic from her mysterious paternal specter. It also entered her mind again when they were investigating the Guillroy’s library. ‘Your neutral magic comes from your father’s side,’ Vanessa had said. Or something like that - Kira was paraphrasing.

With everything she’d been able to put together about her father, Kira was embarrassed she hadn’t clocked Salazar the moment they were introduced. The signs were all there. Kira liked to think a part of her always knew - that the connection she felt the first time they met was her latent intuition - but it was never easy to tell with this sort of thing.

And even now that she had irrefutable proof of their shared ancestry, some part of Kira’s mind found the whole thing to be completely...surreal. The person she’d spent her whole childhood wondering about was part of her life after she’d given up any hope of ever meeting him. What did Cedric like to say about fate again?

Two days after the revelation that Salazar was her father, Kira still had a hard time reconciling the fact. That revelation was just one of many that she was struggling to process from the battle.

Watching him sleep now, Kira felt more confused than ever. This was the first time she’d seen Salazar since they took him away. She’d been too busy trying to get back to normal to visit him in the hospital - at least, that’s what she kept telling herself. The doctors only released him a few hours ago and they had Josie to thank for his speedy recovery. She really was the best healer this side of the Mississippi.

Kira was in her Pre-Renaissance Christianity lecture when she’d gotten the text from Cedric. It took all her self control not to drop everything and run out of class the moment the message flashed across her phone’s screen. Instead, she chose to politely excuse herself and race to the shop...Only to find Salazar asleep on Cedric’s couch.

At the very least, he looked better. The last time she’d seen Salazar, he was unconscious, and still his face was twisted in a mask of agony. Now, he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. There was a white gauze pad covering his right eye - or where his right eye used to be. As much as Kira wished she could remove the image of his injury from her mind, she knew it was burned into her memory.

With Salazar asleep like this, Kira took the time to search his face for proof of their relationship, to find similarities that didn’t have to do with their magic. It was proving nearly impossible. They both had angular features, but set in completely different ways. Where Kira’s jawline came to a fine point, Salazar’s was wide and strong. His face was warm and inviting while Kira’s resting face froze other pedestrians she accidentally made eye contact with.

Maybe this was why Kira had never given the identity of her father any thought - her relatives always said she looked just like her grandmother when she was younger. The biggest discernible differences between herself and her grandmother were Kira’s deeper skin tone and the fact that her hair got wavy sometimes in humid weather. Maybe there was something in the shape of their noses…

Try as she might, Kira couldn’t find any sort of similarity between the two of them. It seemed like the only thing Salazar had given her was neutral magic, and now the burden of the Mark on her heart.

Shaking her head, Kira exited the room. It was probably best for her to let Salazar sleep. He still wasn’t fully healed and he needed his rest. Kira could give him that.

Cedric was waiting for her in the hall. “He was still asleep,” Kira explained. “I didn’t want to wake him.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Cedric agreed, then fell silent.

The only sounds in the hallway came from what filtered in from the street below. Cedric turned his head to look out the window when a car alarm went off, but Kira never took her eyes off of him. The slight tension in his jaw told Kira he could feel the weight of her stare. It also meant he was still on this stubborn kick. The burden of breaking the silence fell to her.

“So…” Kira said slowly, waiting until Cedric acknowledged her to move on. “What’s the plan now? It’s been four days since, um, everything happened. Where do we go from here?”

Strangely enough, there hadn’t been any news from the Harbinger camp yet and Kira figured they were laying low. If nothing else, it was a welcome reprieve from fighting them every other night.

“Well, we’re fortunate in that, with Toni on our side, we have an ear to whatever the Harbingers plan next. Tempting as it is to go after them while they’re recovering from battle, we’re in the same position. I don’t think it would be wise to provoke them just yet,” Cedric murmured. His gaze was far off, but flickered down the hall at the mention of their wounded. “We should take advantage of this time by getting the Ward back in order. Just because the Harbingers aren’t doing anything doesn’t mean they’ve taken all the Otherworld’s problems with them.”

That sounded like a good step one, but... “What about Mill?” Kira asked. “You mentioned something about a Council meeting to decide his sentence, but that was the last I heard of it.”

It was no wonder that Mill was the first thing on Kira’s mind. The first thing she did when she got to the shop that day was drop off vegan curry and new reading materials for the former Warden. She’d been designated the one to deal with him while he was cordoned off in Cedric’s guest room. Cedric told her it was because her neutral magic let her pass through the anti-magic wards easiest, but Kira figured it was an excuse to not see his ex. Considering said ex tried to kill him less than a week ago, she decided not to argue.

Cedric let out a sigh, lips curling into a deep grimace. “I’m fairly certain that idiom about herding cats was written about the Council,” He muttered darkly. Were the situation any less serious, Kira might’ve laughed. “Thankfully, given the severity of what’s at stake, we’ve managed to set a date in record time. The meeting will take place in exactly one week - you’re invited, of course.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Kira nodded. If it gave her a chance to testify in Mill’s trial, then all the better. His ‘model prisoner’ behavior over the last few days did absolutely nothing to erase all the other shit he pulled. Kira very much looked forward to reading him for filth at the Council meeting. “And I’m assuming Mill’s fate won’t be the only thing on the discussion table?”

Judging by the way Cedric shook his head, he didn’t need clarification. “Most of the Council has already caught word of Layla’s rebirth,” He told her. “Chances are high the rest of them will have heard by the time of the trial. Dealing with her, mobilizing forces - that’ll be item number one on the itinerary. As the current Guardian of Mixba’al, you’ll be an honored guest at the proceedings.”

Oh, right. She was supposed to be the Guardian of Mixba’al now, wasn’t she? Hearing it said out loud brought up the same feelings in her chest she got whenever she thought about her connection to Salazar. It was like learning she was a witch all over again.

Absently, Kira grabbed at the fabric covering her heart the way she used to grab at her mother’s necklace. Even with Ravid’s rings cutting off her connection to ambient magics, the Mark felt hotter than the rest of her skin.

Kira let go of her sweater to stare down at the rings, her mind taking her back to earlier that day. It had been in the middle of her first lecture, during a quick trip to the restroom. When she went to wash her hands, she’d slipped the rings off. It had been an automatic process. She didn’t think twice about what she was doing until they were both sitting on the counter. There was a sudden soreness behind Kira’s eyes, like the beginning of a headache, and her heart started palpitating. By the time she realized what was happening and put the first ring back on, it was already too late.

Good thing the third floor bathroom was always empty - that ensured the only victim of her power surge was an unfortunate garbage bin. She scrambled for the second ring, collapsing to the floor once it was finally in place.

Afterwards, when it was all over, Kira found herself staring in the mirror. Her reflection showed the same thing as always, aside from one key difference. Thin, black lines crept out from under the neckline of her sweater. Slowly, Kira pushed her shirt aside, revealing the Mark underneath. It stood out easily, making her tanned skin look pale in comparison. Kira took her time staring at the Mark, trying to memorize the intricate pattern of lines weaving together over her heart. If she watched long enough, she swore she could see them move.

When Kira finally made it back to class, one of her classmates mentioned never knowing Kira had a tattoo. Well, Kira wanted to say, being next in line to inherit the Mark of Mixba’al was a surprise for them both. Instead, she’d just shrugged and tuned back into the lecture.

Kira relayed the story to Cedric as they made their way downstairs. It helped fill the silence as they waited for customers to trickle back in, particularly since Cedric wasn’t showing any initiative on the conversation front.

“It may seem like you’ve made no progress, but it hasn’t even been a week. Remember how difficult you found those candle exercises in the beginning?” He commented once Kira had finished her anecdote.

While she appreciated the attempt to make her feel better, there was more to it than that. Kira couldn’t even begin to think about control when she didn’t even have a basic understanding of the Mark. The two were tied so deeply together, through a millennia of being passed from one successor to the next. How could she even be considered the Guardian if she didn’t know the Mark’s history?

While Kira continued to stew in her quickly diminishing self-esteem, Cedric went on. “I may not know much about the Mark, but,” he hesitated, looking just as unsure as Kira felt. “It sounds like it took longer for you to become overwhelmed at Henderson than when you were here.”

Actually...Kira blinked. “Is that because the telluric currents are stronger here?” She guessed. Cedric’s shrug told her he was thinking the same thing. Kira narrowed her eyes at the back of Cedric’s head. “Yeah, well it’s not like I can just stop coming here.”

“And I’m not asking you to,” Cedric replied quickly, but his voice was soft. Kira swore he hadn’t looked her in the eye like this in ages. “I’m just…” Worried. He didn’t need to say it. And just like that he was turning around again. “I saw what it was like for you when we got back from the Great Lawn…”

“Guess it’s a good thing you were there, then,” Kira remarked, moving on to reorganize the bookshelves. “To pull me out of it.”

Cedric gave a chuckle. It was just a small sound, but it managed to warm her whole chest - and not in the way that made her nervous. “Please, you did all the heavy lifting there,” he said.

A self-deprecating remark? Cedric might as well have started speaking another language. “Alright, but you definitely helped,” Kira relented. “Seriously, Cedric, thank you. I’m not sure I would’ve been able to do it without your help.”

“You’re welcome...and thank you too,” Cedric replied after a slight hesitation. And then he coughed, utterly destroying Kira’s hopes of making progress. After that, she figured a change in topics was inevitable. “So, I haven’t heard from Gus today. What’s he gotten himself up to?”

Kira rolled her eyes, but aimed the gesture at the books. She didn’t feel like starting anything today. “He’s back at Henderson catching up on lab work,” She told him. “Apparently his advisor isn’t too happy with his recent flaky attendance...”

Oh, Professor Martinez was more than unhappy with Gus’s messy track record - as were his labmates. She really let him have it when he’d shown up earlier that day, in full view of god, interns, and post-docs alike. Considering the full moon, his time spent helping Kira with recruitment, then the battle and aftermath, Gus had been out of the lab for well over a week.

It was the second time in the last three months he’d dropped off the face of the planet with no warning. His advisor was beginning to question his dedication and took special care to remind him that his thesis review was only a few months away. And the worst part was, Gus literally couldn’t tell her anything. All he could do was stand there and nod sheepishly while she dragged his ass up and down the entire science wing.

“And she has every right to be pissed,” Gus grumbled into his microscope. Now he understood what Kira must’ve felt back in the fall. The frustration of having the perfect explanation for something, but not being able to tell anyone about it, was almost unbearable.

As if things weren’t bad enough already, Sophie wasn’t even in that day. To be fair, she usually didn’t come in on Tuesdays, but it would’ve been nice to see her. The last time they’d seen each other was the night before the battle in Central Park. Back then, he’d promised her an explanation. In the confusion of the last week, Gus still hadn’t gotten around to asking Cedric for clearance. It would be hard enough to come up with an excuse for this most recent disappearance without the go-ahead, but he was willing to try. This was Sophie he was talking about.

When he realized she wasn’t at the labs, Gus went and called her. He’d only gotten her answering machine, but he made sure to leave her a message. Hopefully she wasn’t pissed enough to give up on him yet.

As Gus was saving his recent data, he felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket. Never before had Gus been happier to see that image of himself planting a kiss of Sophie’s cheek flash across his home screen.

“Sophie, oh my god, I was so worried you’d never want to speak to me again,” Gus blurted the moment he accepted the call. He barely stopped for a breath, continuing immediately, “Sorry about Friday night. I know told you I loved you and ran out - which was super uncool on my part - but I was under a lot of, erm, stress and then Saturday was a complete mess- Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for that because-”

But that was as far as Gus into his rambling apology before the sound of someone laughing on the other end cut him off. It wasn’t Sophie’s laugh either. This sound was much bassier and masculine. There was a distinct manic edge hiding within it that Gus recognized instantly. His hackles rose as adrenaline flooded his system.

“Wow, MacConnal, you told a girl you loved her and ran out on her? That’s pretty embarrassing, even for you,” a low voice replied.

All the anxiety coursing through his veins disappeared at those words. Anger flooded his veins in its wake. Alone in the lab, Gus didn’t bother to hide the growl that rose from his chest. “Bryce,” he ground out. “Mind telling me why you’re calling from Sophie’s number?” Maybe Bryce was just messing with him by magically hacking his girlfriend’s phone. Did magic even work on technology like that? Gus didn’t want to entertain any other options.

“Remember orientation week, when our RA snuck us on a ride through the abandoned City Hall station?” Bryce asked instead.

Yeah, it was nearly ten years back, but Gus remembered it perfectly. Still- “What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Gus snapped. As much as he knew he wouldn’t like the answer to his previous question, he had to know.

“Well, you asked why I have Sophie’s phone,” Bryce explained. “Swing by the old 6 train station and ask her yourself.”

The surge of anger that overcame him was so sudden and white-hot it almost blinded him. Gus nearly crushed his mobile, only just remembering to relax his grip, claws retracting back to normal human fingernails. Without thinking, Gus let his free hand slam against his lab table. There was a sizable dent in the metal counter when he pulled it back.

“Ooh, sounds like someone’s not in a good mood. That time of the month?” Bryce simpered.

The tone of his voice had Gus seething all over again. When he spoke, his low, steady tone belied his boiling rage. “The next time you see my face, I want you to remember something Sophie taught me,” Gus told him. “Wolves bare their teeth as a sign of aggression. So if you see me smile, know that I’m planning how to rip your head off with my canines.”

“Looking forward to it,” Bryce replied. It almost sounded sincere, and the chipper tone made a shiver run up Gus’s spine. “Abandoned City Hall station. My guest and I are waiting.”

Then the line went dead. Gus pocketed his phone on autopilot, eyes scanning the room as he tried to calm his thoughts. What he needed to do now was start drafting a plan. Obviously, he had to go - he couldn’t just leave his mortal girlfriend in an abandoned train station with a Harbinger. Running back to the shop would take too much time, werewolf powers and marathon training notwithstanding. So Gus would have to cut that part out and head straight for the station. He could text Kira something on the way there. Saving Sophie’s life came first.

[shark-myths]

“From Now On, We Are Enemies”

I am pleased as hell to present you with A GUEST POST BY THE BRILLIANT @leyley09, who I am endlessly grateful to have met and even more thrilled to be hosting tonight! They destroyed me for days on end with theories about this song, and I have been singing it on loop all week. I hope the same happens to you. 💜

This is a bonus track from the Believers Never Die: Greatest Hits album that sustained so many of us during the hiatus. The title here isn’t in quotation marks just because I’m a grammar nerd; it’s actually a quote from the film Amadeus. If, like me and the members of the band, you were a kid during the 80’s and 90’s, you’ve probably seen this film. If you haven’t, you should. A lot of the surface interpretation of the song can be easily connected to this film about Mozart - a kid genius who flew too high too fast and burnt out too soon.

But that’s not what we’re here for, is it? :D We’re here because the chorus of this song caught my attention the other day, and I messaged shark-myths that we should talk about this, and I got a little ramble-y, and then I made her cry. So let’s see if I can do the same to anyone else!

shark-myths and I have been talking a lot recently about the conversations that take place in so many Fall Out Boy songs. Regardless of who you feel that they are between, there are clearly two points of view represented in a number of songs. Some of them are pretty obvious, and I think this is one of those songs.

If you listen carefully, you can hear the difference between the intro/refrain - I just want to be better than your / Your head's only medicine - and the rest of the song.

It's a different volume, it's a different tone. It’s less forceful than the verses, less confident about what is being said. To me, it sounds more like Patrick - actual Patrick, in conversation Patrick - than the rest of the song. And please remember, Patrick is a voice actor in addition to being our most favorite vocalist. He knows how to use his voice to be different people.

I don’t know who’s responsible for which pieces of this song, but that feels like Patrick. Because when you care about someone who struggles with the kinds of things that Pete has/does, the last thing you want to do is add to the problems. You can read “better” in more than one way -- that could be “better” as in “I want to work better than your medicine”, but also “I want to be better for you than your medicine.” Because all medications have side effects, and some of them are very unpleasant.

When you follow that immediately with the first verse:

A downward spiral, just a pirouette G-getting worse 'til there's n-n-nothing left What good comes of something When I'm just the ghost of nothing, nothing?

That’s an immediate contrast between “I want to be better than your medicine” and clearly this medicine isn’t working because that’s the kind of thing that it’s supposed to prevent. There’s also the contrast of the volume at which they’re sung. The intro is at the volume of someone speaking quietly, especially in comparison with the loud, almost aggressive way the verse is being sung. It’s practically someone speaking to themselves.

I’m going to skip over the pre-chorus and the first part of the chorus, not because I don’t think they have anything to say (and even though shark-myths has mentioned that fall to your knees is an interesting recurring lyric), but because for me (and probably for you if you’re on this blog reading this post), the most important part is the last part of the chorus:

A composer, but never composed

Singing the symphonies of the overdosed

A composer, but never composed

Singing, "I only want what I can't have"

"I only want what I can't have"

Because Patrick's not really as composed as he might want to appear, is he? We’ve heard, especially in the past, about Patrick’s temper. And he might appear to be calm and collected in comparison with some other people, but everything’s relative, right?

Oh but wait. Because I’m obnoxiously thorough, I had to pull out my copy of BND to see if the lyrics in the liner notes look different than the ones on genius.

And they do.

There are two things I really like to lecture about. Music and writing. So bear with me a moment while I grammar-lecture. (There’s a point, I promise.)

Here’s what this section looks like straight from the liner notes:

A composer but never composed / Singing the symphonies of the overdosed / A composer but never composed / ‘Singing’: “I only want what I can’t have”

The first difference is the lack of a comma from the first line. The comma in the lyrics from genius makes that second phrase almost off-hand, like an afterthought. The lack of a comma changes that -- “but never composed” isn’t an afterthought now. It’s a key part of that clause.

Next: ‘Singing’: “I only want what I can’t have”. The single quotes around singing draw attention that word. Those are the marks you’re representing if you’ve ever done the “air quotes” thing. It strongly suggests that singing isn’t really what’s going on -- or maybe that singing is a code word for something else.

One option is that this is a reference to the often-mentioned idea that Pete ‘sings’ through Patrick.

“I don’t think Pete thinks of himself as a bass player. I think he thinks of himself as a singer. He sings through me.”

That’s an interesting idea, because it makes these two lines a comparison between Patrick - the composer who sings Pete’s words - and Pete - the ‘composer’ who ‘sings’ by writing those words.

It gets even better (or worse) if you read this section without the line breaks

A composer but never composed signing the symphonies of the overdosed

A composer but never composed ‘singing’: "I only want what I can't have"

But let’s assume for our purposes here that composer always means Patrick. Not only is Patrick "never composed", but he is never composed in those two circumstances to an extreme enough degree that it’s worth mentioning them directly - never composed any time he's singing something Pete wrote, and even more specifically, when singing I only want what I can't have.

When Pete says “never composed” here, what exactly does that mean?

Composed: calm; tranquil; serene

And the opposite of that: agitated; nervous; upset; worried; distressed; excited; angered; annoyed; aroused

He also calls Patrick a composer, which we already know means to create a piece of music, but it also has several other meanings which I personally think are interesting in relation to Patrick.

to make or form by combining things, parts, or elements

(We know Patrick combines sections of Pete’s lyrics to create a lot of their songs)

to be or constitute a part or element of

to make up or form the basis of

(If you don’t think Pete considers Patrick a very important base (if not the very important base of this band) we’ve been watching very different people over the years)

to put or dispose in proper form or order

(Art.) to organize the parts or elements of (a picture or the like).

to create (a musical, literary, or choreographic work).

to end or settle (a quarrel, dispute, etc.)

to engage in composition, especially musical composition.

to enter into composition; fall into an arrangement

All emphasis mine, especially that last part which really falls square in the lap of shark-myth’s Tryst Theory™ and just makes me giggle.  

Point: Patrick is someone who does some and/or all of those things, and he becomes someone who is agitated; nervous; upset; worried; distressed: excited; angered; annoyed; aroused when he's singing stuff Pete has written about how Pete only wants what he can't have.

Which is Patrick.

At least Pete thinks so, which I suspect would be directly related to which “not composed” reaction he thinks he’s seeing. A Patrick who is annoyed or angry singing that stuff? Most likely a Patrick he can’t have, be it temporarily or permanently.

Which is why I think you get more of that secondary point of view, after the second chorus

A composer but never composed signing the symphonies of the overdosed

A composer but never composed singing "I only want what I can't have"

I just want to be better than your head's only medicine

Once again, it’s quieter, smoother. That second chorus is practically being shouted by the time it ends, and the refrain is layered under it, almost like someone in the background trying to make a point but not willing to shout to do it -- someone who isn’t quite sure that they are better than the medicine, that they aren’t making things worse. Someone who is some kind of agitated having to sing things that they know are about them (I’m sorry every song’s about you, anyone?), SONGS THAT ARE WRONG because it’s not that Pete can’t have him, but that he shouldn’t have him. If he’s not better than the medicine, if he’s making things worse, THEN IT’S BETTER FOR PETE TO NOT HAVE HIM AT ALL.

But it doesn’t sound like Pete’s listening or understanding because the song goes right back to that other voice to repeat the bridge and chorus again, a chorus that ends on an extended repeat of "I only want what I can't have" and a particularly desperate-sounding note.

By the time this song ends, no one is composed.

(And that includes me.)

[longforgottenunofficial]

There Goes The Bride

Let's wrap up our current tour of the attic.  Don't worry, we'll be back. Consider the following scenario: A razzle-dazzle new ghost is installed at the DL HM attic, with high expectations, but the effect is basically pretty simple, achieved simply by clever manipulation of light projection.  Alas, the figure is too close to the track for the effect to be truly convincing, and the Imagineers fiddle unsuccessfully with the new figure, trying to get it to look right... Sounds like you-know-who, but of course I'm talking about Constance.  The only thing missing is the part where they give up and take it out. There isn't much to say about how the Constance effect works.  It's the old "Leota effect," a projected movie on a white dummy.  The problem for many fans is that it looks like what it is, a two-dimensional projection.  The arms in particular are unconvincing.  There's evidence that the Imagineers are aware of the problem and have experimented with ways to improve the look.  Compare these two shots of the mannequin under regular lighting.

If anyone wants MY free advice, I'd say the secret is to go fuzzy.  Her arms should be nothing more than white, blurry shapes, just thick cloudy hoses.  You could sharpen up the hands and hatchet when the hatchet appears, but only for a second.  Murk it up, boys, murk it up. By all counts, the WDW version looks and sounds better than the DL version.  Even in photos you can see the difference.  Here's DL Connie:

And here's WDW Connie:

(pic by Jeff Fillmore)

Definitely better, but we're still not at the "Gee whiz, how do they do that?" stage for anyone over 11.  Hate to sound harsh, but there it is.  Is she better than what she replaced?  For ease of comparison, here are three nice 3D's, showing the three basic bride types over the years.

Let's talk about something else.  Let's talk about the other razzle-dazzle effect that came into the attic with Connie: the wedding portraits.  Here the verdict is much more positive.  When they're working right, they are impressive, very much in the coveted "how do they do it?" category.

So how do they do it?  You may have noticed that when people don't know how a Mansion effect is achieved, and they want to sound like they doknow, so as impress their friends, they mumble about "fiber optics" and "holograms" and sprinkle the word "digital" around like oregano on a pizza.  Most of the time they overshoot, spinning out elaborate explanations when the reality is some ridiculously simple trick.  Like so many other effects in the HM, this attic-portrait effect is essentially pretty simple.  You have a painting on a thin, translucent fabric, and another painting underneath it.  There's a spotlight on the front and a sort of light box behind.  Actually, it's a little more technical than that, but I'm going to spare you the details.  It's all digital fiber optics, and other things you wouldn't understand.  Anyway, when the light box is dark and the frontal spotlight is on, you see the front painting with the guy's head on.  When the spotlight goes out and the light box in back goes on, you see the headless version behind it.  That's because when the back one is lit up, you see it through the translucent front painting, which is now unlit and essentially invisible.  It's the old scrim trick, not different in principle from the ceiling in the stretching room.

You can most easily figure out how it works when it isn't working!  It is extremely important that the spotlight fade in and out in such perfect coordination with the fading in and out of the back lighting that you don't notice any difference in overall luminosity.  Sometimes they're out of whack, and you can notice the picture brightening and fading in synch with the disappearing head.  The following two shots are grabs from the same continuous video.  Note how the frame is illumined when Reginald's head is visible, but not when it isn't.  It's not supposed to be like that.

The other reason the effect can be figured out is because it's been done before, more or less. Sherman, set the Wayback machine for Paris in the 1890's. The Montmartre section of Paris saw the invention of the fully-themed nightclub during the late Victorian era, including costumed staff, elaborate decor, and theatrical floor shows.  Some of them had otherworldly themes and put on ghost shows.  One of the most successful was the Cabaret du Néant ("Tavern of Nothingness" or "Tavern of the Dead"), where the theme was death and decay.  In the first room, the waiters dressed as undertakers and you sat at tables that looked like coffins.  In the second room they had a first-rate magic stunt in which volunteers from the audience would stand in a coffin and turn into a skeleton (and back again; sorry, it's the law).  In yet a third room the volunteers would sit onstage while ghosts that they could not see (but the audience could) made them look like perfect fools.  By that point you were pretty drunk and thought this was the funniest thing you'd ever seen.  And I dunno, maybe it was.  We'll go back to the intriguing C du N sometime later, since it is undoubtedly a source of inspiration for the Haunted Mansion, but for now I want to point out a special effect in the first room, which room looked like this:

Like the chandelier?  Anyway, the walls were covered with normal-looking paintings that changed before your eyes into gruesome scenes.  Sounds familiar, doesn't it?  You would think such a subtle effect would not be picked up under the harsh lighting necessary for 1890's photography, but not so.  In the photo above, note the large painting on the left with a skeleton in it and another, smaller painting up in the right hand corner with nothing showing on it:

In other photos of the Cabaret, the skeleton in that left hand painting is halfway or nearly gone.

Conversely, in other photos the smaller painting has a skull in it.  Here's a side-by-side:

You're looking at the direct predecessors to the changing portraits in the Haunted Mansion, kids.  But how did they do it back then?  The gullible masses may have been baffled, but not Albert A. Hopkins.  No, siree. "Around the walls of the room are placed pictures to which the spectator's attention is called by the lecturer.  Seen by the light of the room these pictures are ordinary scenes, but a new aspect is given to each when the lights directly behind it are turned on; the figures in it appear as skeletons, each picture being in fact a transparency giving a different effect as it is lighted from the rear or as seen simply by reflected light."

The main difference between this effect and the HM wedding portraits is that the Cabaret du Néant pictures were evidently paintings on both sides of the same thin cloth, while the Disney version uses two separate paintings on top of each other and more sophisticated lighting so as to make use of the scrim trick.  Still and all, the similarities are greater than the differences. [Edit: I now think Hopkins got it wrong.] There's an interesting footnote with regard to these changing attic portraits.  They were installed in May 2006, but more than a year before that the pictures in the changing portrait hall were replaced with fancy new ones with a more impressive lightning-flash effect.  These work the same way the attic portraits work, with two layers and backlighting.  That was in January 2005.  A few months before that, something very weird happened in the portrait hall that is little-remembered today because it didn't last long.  One day in August 2004, the stretch room doors opened and guests found themselves in a noticeably lighter portrait hall, with out-of-place looking Art Nouveau-style light fixtures by the doors, a more lurid, bright green EXIT sign over the chicken exit, and a row of light fixtures along the wall under the portraits, illuminating them.  As usual, Allen Huffmann at Disneyfans (an invaluable resource) got some photos.

Everyone thought these abominations had something to do with "safety" and muttered unkind things about Disney lawyers and OSHA inspectors.  When the EXIT signs returned to sane levels and the goofy lights were gone, the whole business was quickly forgotten. I don't think the mounted lights under the portraits had anything to do with safety.  I mean, come on, were people bumping into the wall?  What I think the Imagineers were doing was experimenting with frontal illumination for the hallway portraits.  If the lighting could be successfully controlled so that the front could gradually come up while the backlighting went down, these paintings could have been as sophisticated as the wedding portraits.  If this surmise is correct, the experiment must have failed.  The changing portraits have no special frontal illumination.  This means that in order for the back-side portrait to be visible, it has to be very light and the front portrait much darker, so that backlighting alone can do the job.  It's a cruder effect.  That's why the changing portraits in every case flash to a secondary image that is all white.

Originally Posted: Monday, June 7, 2010 Original Link: [x]

[aporeticelenchus]

Fakest Fake Dating AU update

Following directly on part 1 (in which Marius semi-accidentally convinced his grandfather he was engaged to either/both Bahorel and Grantaire in order to make Cosette seem more eligible by comparison.) 1486 words.

After several days of anxious contemplation, Marius was no closer to having a solution to his problems. Even the ever-faithful expedient of laying his head on his desk for several hours and crying produced no results.

The thought of going out in public where people might see him was intolerable. Clearly, the only thing to do was to convert his apartment into a hermitage and never speak to anyone again. He would correspond with Cosette by carefully coded letters, telling of his love and his wretchedness until he died of heartbreak and perhaps embarrassment. It would be very tragic; alas, no one would ever know or care besides his dear Cosette, if she even still loved him at all after she heard of his failure. He would be solitary, alone, solus cum solo –

“Hullo Marius!” Courfeyrac’s voice called in from the hallway, disturbing Marius’ thoughts. “You’ve got a letter here!”

“Bahorel! Bahorel I need you!” Marius cried, pushing his was into the café.

Bahorel waved lazily from his chair in the corner, feet up on the table. “Ah, if only I had a sous for every time I’ve heard that.”

“You’d have one sous,” said Feuilly, sitting next to him. He tossed a card out onto the table. “Your turn.”

Bahorel laughed. “And wouldn’t that be a fine thing!”

Marius straightened and coughed indignantly. “Excuse me! Bahorel, I have an emergency!” He pulled the letter out of his coat and brandished it in front of him. He stood there dramatically for a moment waiting for someone to ask him what the emergency was. No one did.

“I suspect,” said Bahorel after a few moments, “that you are referring to the contents of that bit of paper. Alas, even I haven’t been educated enough to make out letters through an envelope. Law school has failed me, as it fails us all.”

“I, well, yes.” said Marius. He refused to give up his dramatic stance. Having struck it in the first place, he felt he was stuck. He tried to fumble the envelope open with the same hand that was holding it and had the letter half out before managing to drop the whole thing.

“Aurgh,” said the floor. Marius jumped and narrowly missed landing on Grantaire’s arm. The man was stretched out on the floor in front of him with Marius’ letter on his face. Grantaire picked the missive up and quickly scanned it. “Your grandfather wants to see you? What of it?”

“He’s going to ask me questions!” said Marius.

“I imagine so,” said Grantaire. “My relatives usually do. I broke them of the habit by answering.”

“Monsieur my friend Grantaire has a point,” said Bahorel, before Marius could respond. “Take the chance to convince your grandfather of what bad company you’re keeping and how low you’ve fallen in love. It shouldn’t take much more prodding.”

“But that’s just it!” Marius burst out. “I can’t lie to my grandfather!” It would be wrong, he had decided, and also it seemed from his previous encounter that he wasn’t very good at it.

“Well then,” said Bahorel, who had yet to budge even slightly from the posture he has been in when Marius had entered the room. “Tell him the truth. What do you need me for?”

“Don’t you see?” said Marius. “You can lie to my grandfather. He isn’t your grandfather, after all. I don’t think it’s a sin to lie someone else’s aged relatives,” he added after a moment’s thought.

“A true philosopher!” came Grantaire’s voice from near Marius’ shoe. “It’s well that I’m pretending to marry you for your money, not your morals.”

Marius kicked him, but only very slightly. Grantaire had helped him after all he supposed.

“I can’t face my grandfather alone,” he told Bahorel. “What if he offers me more money? Oh, you don’t know what a torment it is!”

Bahorel nodded solemnly and put a comforting arm on Marius’ shoulder. With his free hand he threw another card towards Feuilly without looking. “Of course we’ll help.” Marius felt slightly reassured until Bahorel grinned. “Just let me stop by my apartments to collect some pamphlets first.”

They made their way to Gillenormand’s house without much trouble – Marius only had to duck behind bushes twice to avoid people whose faces looked familiar but whose names he’d forgotten.

(“Careful,” he’d whispered to Bahorel and Grantaire; “if they see me they might greet me by name and then I’d have to just say ‘hello’ back and they’d know.”)

His grandfather’s house itself represented a minor problem. Marius stood before it for several moments feeling lost and alone. It felt impossible to imagine himself knocking on that old door, so familiar yet so alien after his years away, and announcing himself as a guest. He felt at once torn between two times and trapped between them in neither, too late to be a stranger but –

“Oh for – “ Grantaire muttered, then pounded his fist indecorously on the door.

A wave of relief and gratitude swept over Marius, along with a resolution never to let Grantaire know. The feeling lasted until the door began to open and revealed –

Someone Marius didn’t know.

“Hullo there! It’s Marius Pontmercy!” said the stranger, in entirely too familiar a tone. “I’ll be damned! The prodigal grandson returns at last.”

“…hello?” said Marius helplessly.

The man Marius didn’t know thwacked his shoulder jovially, hard enough to sting. He was dressed like a lancer, with a thin moustache and a handsome face. Marius instantly disliked him. “Here to shake the old man down I suppose? I wish you better luck with him than I’ve had. Buy me a drink if he coughs up for you, eh?”

“Hello?” Marius attempted again. As a conversational gambit, it had the advantage of not needing a name or identity to advance the conversation.

Fortunately, the man turned his attention to Marius’ companions. He eyed them both appreciatively.

“Who are your friends?” He flashed an entirely too charming smile. “We haven’t been introduced.”

Whoever the man was, Marius decided, he certainly wasn’t a venerable and aged relative, so it should be alright to lie to him. Besides, Marius wanted to make him go away.

“This,” he said dramatically, gesturing towards Bahorel and Grantaire, “is the man I love. We’re going to be married, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop us.”

The man didn’t have the grace to look shocked and appalled. Instead he looked positively intrigued. “Well well well!” he declared. “Which one?”

Marius was beginning to suspect this man was another relation of his grandfather’s. He asked the same difficult and penetrating questions. “Er, that is, I haven’t quite –”

This time Marius didn’t even need Bahorel to save him. The strange lancer clapped his hands together in obvious delight and then planted them firmly – and uncomfortably – on Marius’ shoulders.

“Marius, I have misjudged you,” he said gravely. “For all these, years, I thought you were an old stick-in-the-mug. A priggish chap with no mind for games or love affairs, wed to his books and too churlish for good company. Offensive in your politics, perhaps, but so is every second man on the street these days.”

Marius felt he ought to object at this juncture, but the lancer steamed on ahead without giving him a chance.

“But here you are, engaged in an affair of the Greek variety, courting scandal and two men at once, setting friend against friend in a battle of the heart. Why, I dare say you have become quite disreputable!” He flicked away an imaginary tear of pride. “Tell me – do you go to the theater?”

“Daily!” said Bahorel proudly.

“When I can’t help it, which is often,” said Grantaire.

“Excellent!” said the lancer. “Be sure to tell the old man. He’s been polishing up a lecture on the perfidious ways of theatrical types. You don’t want to miss it.” After a moment’s consideration he pulled a ticket stub out of his coat pocket and artfully dropped it into one of Marius’ pockets, with the tip just peeking out.

He clapped Marius heartily on the back before making as if to go. As if thinking of one last thing he leaned in close and said in a stage whisper loud enough for anyone present to hear, “Oh, and Marius? Let me know which of them you decide to jilt.” He winked at Grantaire and Bahorel then sauntered out the door.

To Marius’ horror, Bahorel winked back. Grantaire positively leered.

(It had taken Marius a matter of months to learn to distinguish Granatire’s leers from his usual expression, but sadly he was quite sure he’d gotten the hang of it.)

Eager to put the entire episode behind him as fast as possible, Marius dragged the two of them up the staircase to lie to his aged grandfather.

Bahorel’s pamphlets turned out to be both many and illustrated. Even Grantaire was impressed.