#// late night elegy emotions }

[randomfoggytiger]

The Scully Family In-Depth (Part XI): The Last Conversations of One Melissa Scully

Melissa Scully is not long for this meta series; but what she does contribute is a rather intriguing peek into Scully's psyche-- exposing how drawn her sister was to radical or "out there" ideas long before Scully admitted it to herself-- as well as the funny confirmation that both her sister and her mother find Melissa's antics aggravating.

SEASON 2'S ABDUCTION FALLOUT

The effects of Scully’s abduction silently punctuate her resolutions throughout Season 2, spurring her to appear stronger than her capabilities (Firewalker’s “Mulder, I appreciate your concern. But I’m ready. I want to work” and Irresistible’s “I’m not having trouble, Mulder. I’m fine. Really”), an extension of her denial in Beyond the Sea but with more mature fragility. (Both are, of course, symptoms of growing up in a Naval household with an eagerness to please a father that respected perfection in himself.)

Although Scully references her experience on the brink of death once in Dod Kalm--“Mulder, when they found me, after the doctors and even my family had given up, I experienced something I never told you about. Even now it’s hard to find the words. But there’s one thing I’m certain of: as certain as I am of this life, we have nothing to fear when it’s over"-- the theme of her loss plays heavily upon the rest of the Season, be it Mulder's overprotective streak or her resolution to appear stronger than her capabilities (i.e. Firewalker, Irresistible, Our Town, etc.)

This response stems back to her childhood: wanting to please her Naval father, she internalized and emulated his efforts to achieve perfection in himself. In The Blessing Way, Scully is told that her self-perceived failures would be considered strengths by the late captain; but it takes years for her to embrace that truth for herself.

Digging a little deeper, we find that, although she relates tidbits of her time in the beyond, Scully leaves out her communion with Melissa, Nurse Owens, and especially her father-- still not able, at this point, to accept those parts of her experience.

MULDER'S DEATH AND SCULLY'S SHAME

Anasazi and The Blessing Way are a whirlwind for Scully, leaving her vulnerable, bashed, and beaten down when all her efforts are seemingly in vain.

After being put on leave from the FBI and “losing” the tape her partner died for, Scully stumbles to her mother’s house, ashamed and wavering in her convictions. 

When her mother opens the door, Scully is lightly tapping at her right thigh with her shoes, an attempt to focus on that repetition rather than her stampeding emotions, and attempts to keep a semblance of control through her tearful confession (without much success.)

Maggie welcomes her with a gentle “Dana…”; and Scully forces a practiced smile as she breathes an answering, "Hi, Mom."

Taking in her daughter’s fragile stance and barefoot condition, Maggie asks, “What’re you doing with your shoes?”

It's a tell-tale sign that all is not well: despite the various difficulties in the field or at home, Scully has never voluntarily taken off her shoes unless in extremities; and her mother, knowing these prim and proper habits, immediately intuits something serious has happened.

“They, uh, they started to give me blisters…” Scully warbles, lifting and dropping her shoes as more of her facade cracks, reality cruelly setting in.  

Her mother’s incredulous, “You walked here this time of night?” breaks the last of her escape from reality: there is nowhere else to escape, no other distraction on hand to keep her emotions at bay; and Scully can no longer pretend that everything is alright as long as she puts one foot in front of the other (a method she’d tried and failed to use in Beyond the Sea-- and will again in Memento Mori, Elegy, Gethsemane, and Redux.) 

Her composure melts completely, face crumpling as she moves into Maggie’s arms to simultaneously seek comfort and hide from her own vulnerability. It’s a signature of Scully's the audience and Mulder were introduced to in Season 1's Pilot and Season 2's Irresistible; and is now confirmed to have been her coping mechanism stemming from childhood.

Matron Scully scoops her up unhesitatingly, worriedly questioning her baby girl until Scully admits, heartbroken, “I’ve made a terrible mistake. Dad would be so ashamed of me", and breaks down into an onslaught of constrained tears and grief.

MELISSA FUMBLES THE BALL

The Blessing Way has a notorious deleted scene; and this analysis would not be complete, I believe, without including it. Not only does it align perfectly with canon, but it also reinforces the interpersonal dynamics present in One Breath; and is, therefore, vital to the Scully Family meta series.

After Scully has poured her heart out, Maggie does her best to glue her daughter back together. “I don’t see how you can fault yourself. You had to make a choice-- you did what you thought was right.” 

“No,” Scully negates, voice wavering, eyes turned aside, “I did what I thought was right for my partner.” 

Their interaction is incredibly telling not only of Scully’s Starbuck complex but also of her modus operandi when acting outside of known variables: trusting another person’s judgment over her own. This kneejerk reaction can be used healthily if she follows her own intuition as well (e.g. Anasazi and All Things); but if Scully distrusts or doubts her intuition, she kneejerks to an opposite reaction, shutting down and seeking purchase wherever she can (The Blessing Way, Never Again, and also All Things.) This aspect of her personality isn’t resolved until Season 7 when Scully saves Daniel Waterston’s life by relying solely on her instincts; but until then, Mulder and her family act as the solid foundation upon which she builds herself... until, until.  

"Wouldn't Mulder have done the same for you?"

That sentence is two-fold interesting: not only does Maggie call Mulder "Mulder" here instead of "Fox"-- likely due to a scripting error or perhaps in deference to her daughter's pet peeve-- but she also places complete faith in the man that shouldered her daughter's disappearance and recovery alongside the family. It's a simple, touching nod to Mulder's impact and the bond she shares with him.

“Yes, but that’s exactly it, Mom! I behaved exactly how Mulder would have behaved-- I lied and I countermanded my superiors because I thought that the pursuit of the truth was more important.”  

Maggie listens, unruffled. “And wasn’t it?” she asks, showing her naturally rebellious streak that is not deterred or dissuaded by protocol, rules, and regulations-- completely opposite to the obedient military wife one could easily attribute to her. 

“I don’t know what the truth is,” Scully admits. “But as far as the FBI is concerned, the truth is that if all of their agents behaved this way… they wouldn’t be able to do their job. And they’re right.”  

Maggie knows what her daughter won't, can't say out loud; and cuts through the doublespeak to give the assurance she could not in Beyond the Sea: “Dana, if you’re really worried what your father would think of you… I think that he would see that there’s no right choice… and no wrong one.”  

From Scully's view, the disobedience to her superiors outweighs the pursuit of the truth, at least to her father. But in light of Maggie's revelation and rejection of that notion, it leaves the audience-- and her daughter-- wondering how well Scully knew, or thought she knew, the late captain. As strict and striving and ladder climbing as he seems to be, at a glance, Captain Scully was also a man who stood by his principles and married a woman prouder of her husband's personal achievements than his professional ones, willingly carrying on his legacy to their children after his death.

Though comforting in its nuance, this thought is at odds with what Scully supposed of her father, failing to alleviate her doubts long after this conversation ends. Not until she irons out her own internal struggles can Scully accept the wisdom her mother provides.

Reaching out to draw in Scully's chin, Maggie adds, “He would have been very proud and supportive of his daughter.” 

Another interesting sidenote: Maggie’s action and Scully’s response is another proof of Mulder's instincts to draw her attention back by gently maneuvering her chin or face. Without being told, Mr. VCU Golden Boy divined a second method of comfort stemming back to his partner's childhood (as if those two’s connection wasn't spooky enough.) 

Scully still clings to her naysayings. “Mom, there was a right choice to make. And I didn’t make it. I went with Mulder to New Mexico--” 

They’re both interrupted by the door opening abruptly, her eyes blinking in vexation as she prepares for a domestic intrusion.  

Melissa barges in, halts, and treads carefully forward as Scully seamlessly picks up the thread she’d dropped a moment ago: “I never should have let him go off by himself. He was in no condition…” 

This sets up the dynamic present not only in The Blessing Way but also throughout the show: Scully is reluctant to offer up information unprompted to her mother, but does not seem to share the same reticence with her sister (no matter how meddlesome or pushy Melissa tends to be.) 

Melissa pulls a psychic prediction out of her hat-- “Something happened to the man you work with, hasn’t it?”-- and smiles, elated, over the talent of her sixth sense.

Maggie, as usual, tries to cut off her older daughter’s intuitions… which means that even a woman who believes in her own loosely psychic dreams barely tolerates Melissa’s enthusiastic tirades (post here.) 

“Melissa, please.” 

“No,” her daughter continues, “no, I’ve been feeling it for the last couple days. He’s become ill or something.” 

Scully, predictably, looks annoyed at her wound being so blindly poked at. 

Melissa predictions raises an interesting point: if Melissa can sense when Mulder is gravely ill or on the verge of death, does she channel it through her sister, like Maggie did when predicting her daughter’s abduction? If so, that further proves my "Scully is a conduit" theory (posts here and here.) 

Maggie, noticing that Scully has shut down after Melissa’s speech (and fed up herself), announces “I’m going to go make coffee” before stalking away to take a breather. 

Melissa hesitates, reading the tension in the room while internally debating if she should probe further; but, incorrigibly, she decides not to let the matter rest.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” 

Scully keeps her sister in the peripheral, sighing as she prepares herself for the impending conversation.  

“Melissa, Mulder is very likely dead.” Even after seeing the smoke billowing out of a train car, even though she believes it herself, Scully still won’t admit to what can’t be proven. 

Melissa pauses, stares into the middle distance as she searches for something, and pronounces, “No-- you don’t believe that.” 

“No, I do.” Scully insists. 

“I’m getting very strong feelings otherwise.” 

Scully looks almost frightened by her sister's denial. The fear of the unknown is driven by Scully’s fear of not truly knowing herself; and she avoids what she cannot understand-- her father’s death, her memories, her endless line, her cancer, etc.-- but can’t stop feeling until her concerns are addressed (in this case, through Melissa’s insistence; in other cases, through Ed Jerse or Daniel Waterston's false leads or Mulder's insistence that she face facts.)

“I wish it weren’t true…” Scully begins, wobbling over gathering tears. 

“No! No, Honey, it’s more than that--” Melissa ecstatically reassures, kneeling beside her sister and rambling in her enthusiasm. Here, she can help; and she intends to do so. “You’re radiating, Dana.”  

However, the bonding moment is lost when she mentions, “You have a connection with him that’s still strong, powerful,” hitting on two things Scully doesn’t want to own: the depth of her love for Mulder and her current disbelief in her own intuition (which is still whispering that Mulder alive.) 

“Melissa. Don’t do this.”  

Melissa recalibrates, but insists. “Well, I know what I feel.” 

“Fine, we’ll leave it at that,” Scully snaps, getting up as fast as she possibly can, “because you have no sensitivity to my feelings.” 

“Oh, Dana.… I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t feel so sure.” After a second of empathetic silence, Melissa again insists, “You need a second opinion.” 

“This isn’t a medical condition, Melissa. It is a statement of fact-- it is either true or it isn’t.” 

Melissa tries to salvage the conversation, but accidentally hits nerve after nerve in her unwieldy use of the truth: “...you may even be feeling responsible right now, but if you could just see through your guilt and your anger, then maybe you can look past this Western empiricism.”  

Predictably, her sister does not relent: “I’ll make sure to consult my taro cards when I’m out looking for a new job, thank you.” 

Casting her eyes to the heavens (a tic often used in fractious conversations with her sister), Scully doubles back to chastise and more accurately vent her feelings. “Melissa, I have lost somebody.”  

Even though Melissa wisely shuts her mouth rather than doubling down, the brief second she'd pondered it nettles her sister further.

“I would like to deal with it in my own way.” 

Again, Melissa stays silent (against her better judgment), allowing Scully to have the last word before following in Maggie's footsteps by walking swiftly away.  

Once Scully is no longer in sight, Melissa grips her forehead, clasps her arms around each other, and turns inward, reflecting on Dana's throbbing wound and, perhaps, how she could have handled the situation better. 

DENIAL AND UNWIELDY TRUTH

When Scully finds the chip in her neck, her desperation drives her back to Melissa, another proof that she and her sister's bond is tighter than any temporary annoyance or fight between them.

But it also begs the question: Why not her mother? 

When Scully reaches out to Maggie-- The Blessing Way, Wetwired, Redux II, A Christmas Carol, etc.-- it is only when she is on her last leg and has given up and given in, seeking maternal comfort in a "weak" moment of strong, human emotion. These moments, however, are fleeting when compared to the times she reaches out to Mulder and Melissa; but if we look closely, a pattern emerges. When Scully needs to be encouraged to fight her battles, she seeks out Mulder or Melissa; when she needs to bind up her wounds and heal, she finds Maggie. Overtime, Mulder takes on both of these roles, becoming both tender protector and immovable truth pursuer; but the shift truly begins after Emily Sims's death, carrying through the events of Season 5 and onward (and widening the gulf begun between mother and daughter during Memento Mori.)

“I don’t even know how long its been in there,” Scully tells Melissa, shaken by another layer in the many unknown layers lingering from her abduction. “I have absolutely no recollection of it being put there.” 

“That is frightening,” her sister agrees, while Scully visibly shakes at the opposite end of the table.  

Both sisters know how terrifying this: Scully relies on what she knows and can prove; which ties her memory directly into her understanding of the world, either through knowledge of its mechanics or direct, first-hand experience. To have that taken was one of the greatest evils inflicted on Scully; but the fear of recovering even more traumatizing memories keeps her in a paralyzing stasis, too fearful to face how much she has lost and too fearful to reclaim what little she can.

“Dana, this is very serious-- you’ve gotta find out… what this is.” 

Scully’s shift from shaking tower of strength to bothered and inflexible little sister goes unnoticed-- or ignored-- as Melissa twists the chip back and forth in scrutinizing study.

“I don’t have access to the FBI labs,” Scully begins before Melissa, stunned at her sister’s priorities, redirects with, “No, I’m talking about access to your own memories.” 

This is stage one Melissa: so focused on uncovering a particular truth that she obliviously steamrolls over the other person’s silent objections-- tactless in her fervor. Any attempts to cut her off only escalates her feverish insistence-- “I mean, obviously you have buried this so deep you can’t consciously recall it."

Scully visibly struggles to press her emotions and fears down in order to shut the conversation down-- “Melissa.”

“I know someone who can help you--”

“NO!” yells Scully, slapping the table hard enough to shake the dishes. In her anger she betrayed weakness; and both she and Melissa know it. 

Melissa, hurt but sympathetic, swallows her own frustrated feelings and shifts into stage two: purposeful pushing of another person’s boundaries (ala confronting Mulder in his apartment in One Breath)-- measuredly pointing out a weakness with an honest rebuke.  

“What are you so afraid of, Dana?”

“You’re afraid you might actually learn something about yourself?”

This pulls Scully up short, tapping into the perpetual struggle she’s warred with since Beyond the Sea (and that won’t put to rest until ourobors tattoos and Buddhist temples.)  

“I mean, you are so shut off to the possibility there could be any other explanation except for your rigid, scientific view of the world.”  

Scully swallows down her fears once again, angrily ping-ponging back and forth between rebuttal or allowance. Ultimately, the words stick-- perhaps echoing her later partner’s own confrontations or guidance-- and she slowly lowers her defenses, walking closer to (but not toward) her sister. 

Melissa continues: “You’re carrying so much grief and fear that you can’t see that… that you’ve built up these walls around your true feelings and the memory of what really happened.” 

Scully is too exhausted to keep fighting, having flailed nonstop against herself and her beliefs and her convictions since Mulder’s death; and at Melissa's “Just do this for me" she acquiesces, expelling more fear in a rushing outtake of air.

Melissa isn’t satisfied with a non-answer, pressing further with an “As your sister. Please” until Scully’s face shifts into firm resolution. 

As we know, Scully bails on the regression hypnosis; but this this scene highlighted a key aspect of her of her relationship with Melissa, especially when contrasted to her ones with Maggie and Mulder:

It established her sister as the person Scully gravitated to for advice: even if Melissa's words were chafing or unintelligible, she still sought out that comforting, “bigger picture” perspective, the same one her partner has provided since the Pilot. Before she even met Mulder, Scully had a thirst for other perspectives, and was more open to taking in and heeding “out there” opinions than she liked (likes) to let on.  

Maggie Scully was not her daughter’s confidante. Throughout the series, Scully avoids life-changing decision talk with her mother (joining the FBI, giving credence to her mother’s dreams, telling her directly about the cancer diagnosis or the baby’s sex, etc.); and, as previously mentioned, that begins to widen the gulf between mother and daughter. Maggie feels loved when her loved ones share their personal feelings and struggles with her-- which Melissa and Bill Scully seem to do more freely (we’ll get to that) and Dana does not. Why is this the case? Perhaps it has something to do with Maggie's gossiping tendency (which we shall hit upon in Gethsemane), or perhaps it's because of the strict lines she draws in and around her personal life.

Scully does not want crossover in her life: her family and friends are organized into two categories-- comfort or confidante-- and stay in those categories for their protection and her sanity. Maggie Scully is her mother, not her confidante; Melissa is her confidante, not her mother; and when the two try to cross into areas not offered to them, Scully gets annoyed and withholds even more information. Mulder, it seems, is the only person to peel back the dividing line between the two; and even then, not without resistance and patience (Memento Mori, for example.) It’s part of Scully’s fear of letting her walls completely down (as explained in her monologue to the social worker in A Christmas Carol); and part of the mystery of Mulder, who is the perfect combination of Maggie’s comfort and Melissa’s persistence: helpful and supportive but truthfully exacting. 

THE LAST CONVERSATION

Melissa calls after the mytharc plot kicks up to dangerous levels for Scully, eager to help her sister process whatever was uncovered in the (ditched) hypnosis session. 

"Hello?" Scully asks, on-edge; but walks back from her paranoid greeting when Melissa responds, “Dana? It’s your sister.” 

Melissa’s “Hi-- where’ve you been?” implies she’s been calling for a day, maybe more, in worry when Scully left her high and dry after their talk.

“I, uh, I had to go to Boston. For a funeral.” 

“Well, I was worried about you.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t heard from you since you saw Dr. Pomerantz.” 

Scully immediately tenses, knocking herself mentally over the head for forgetting; then realizes she either has to face Melissa's scrutiny now or slough off her concerns for a more convenient time.

“Missy, something strange happened to me today," she says, admitting her panic over strange events that were unfolding in her life.

Anticipating and accepting her sister’s offer to drive over, Scully ends the call with renewed resolve: having turned a new, hopeful leaf after her vision from Mulder, she is-- more than ever-- ready to listen to her intuition, open her heart, and confide her fears and feelings to someone else. 

That openness follows her to a reunion with Mulder… but clams up, once again, after her innocent decisions lead to the death of her sister.

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

[dalmascan-requiem]

Shadow's Elegy: Repentance

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Why should politics and laws get in the way of justice?

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Read on AO3 or keep reading after the jump

content warning: death

Part of FFxivWrite 2023

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FFxivWrite's Day 29 prompt was Contravention. It made me think of Kris's somewhat skewed moral compass--he's not above killing people to enact what his sense of justice is. It's not really surprising, though... that is a Dark Knight more or less in a nutshell.

I am a day late on this one, but I still wanted to get it done and put it live :)

"What happened to the priest?"

Kris's tone is even as he asks. Too even, Tataru notes. It was clear the Viera was holding his anger back--not that she could blame him. The situation with the True Brothers of the Faith was nothing short of harrowing, and one of the priests became desperate enough when cornered to throw a child off the roof of the Vault.

Thank the Twelve Vidofnir caught her before it was too late… The chaos of the situation pulled Kris away from the aftermath, but he was clearly upset about what happened. Wish I had better news.

Tataru takes a moment before responding. "Trying to punish the True Brothers was… difficult, given the tense climate in Ishgard. The Lord Commander was forced to let them all go, including the priest on the roof."

"I see." Kris's voice betrays no emotion. He stares at the fire for a few moments before turning to leave the room. "It has been an eventful day… I need to rest. Have a good night, Tataru."

"Mm." Tataru frowns as she watches him leave. The Warrior of Light's time in Ishgard had left him withdrawn and jaded, and she worried for him. What am I to do, though? It's upsetting for us all… but our hands are tied.

~

It's always so cold… Kris lets out a sigh, looking up at the night sky. Cold in so many ways. It's been a few days since the True Brothers of the Faith tried to overtake the Vault and force Ayermic to stop his efforts to broker peace.

Kris had barely slept since then. He had been spending his nights in taverns and churches alike, looking for information. It's been so long since I've done something like this… good to know I still can, though.

He was surprised at how easy it was to find out more about the priest. Perhaps it was stupidity, or perhaps it was arrogance, but the Elezen made no effort to conceal himself after rebelling against Aymeric.

"Ridiculous…" Kris muttered under his breath. I will resolve it soon, though.

The Viera continues to watch the empty street, waiting patiently. He doesn't have to wait long, though, before he spots someone. Those robes, that face… it's him.

Kris waits until the tall Elezen passes by him before making himself known. "It's about time."

With a start, the priest spins around towards him. "Who are yo--" His voice quickly dies, however, when he lays his eyes on the Warrior of Light. 

Kris's eyes shone with amusement as he takes a slow, deliberate step towards the priest. "What was it you said in the Vault?" He takes another step forward, causing the priest to stumble back slightly. "You would rather die than surrender, was it?"

Another step forward. "You still seem alive to me, priest."

The Elezen finds his voice again, though he starts to inch away from the Viera. "You… you dare threaten me?! Heathen! You came here and tore everything down--and you dare act like I am in the wrong!?"

He doesn't respond, and simply takes another step forward. The priest's indignation turns to fear. "Y-you cannot kill me! Everyone will know it's you! You'll ruin the precious peace that bastard is trying to broker with… with those things! You'll throw all of Ishgard into disarray--"

The priest is cut off as Kris suddenly chuckles. "You find yourself that important? No, I'm afraid you're mistaken." He suddenly lashes out, grabbing the priest by the collar before he's able to get away. "This is simply personal."

It doesn't take much to force the taller man down to Kris's eye level. "What is the point of all this if we do not rid cowardly scum like you from this world? You, who'd try and kill a child for your delusions?"

Kris's tone is eerily devoid of emotion as he pulls a knife out from his jacket.

"No, you will not be missed."

[i-eat-poetry-like-air]

Good For Her by Carson Jordan Review

Rating: 🤠🤠🤠🤠 out of 5

Overall: As a complete collection, this work brings to mind the dusty nostalgia of long road trips, late night rodeos, and neon signs. The journey between ache, need, love, and self acceptance is perfectly captivating and it makes for a wonderful read.

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The opening poem:

"I AM DEDICATING LOVE SONGS TO MYSELF AGAIN"

--This particular poem has a deep feeling of accepted doom; it has an acknowledgement of the cycles of love; both of self and of others.

--The opening lines of stanza 1 mark the anger and frustration of being effected over and over by the wounds love gives us: "already touched the hot plate/ ten ten ten times/ am I allowed to be utterly unimpressed by the ouch"

--This coupled with the ending lines of the last stanza: "Extra Special Friend/let me die,/stunning and terrible," brings forth such a stunning and stark image; it reads with such a wicked resignation and weakness; that line is such a wrenching end that I cannot help but feel some impossible and lonely kinship.

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Middle Poems:

"HOW ABOUT THEM APPLES"

--The main theme of this poem is defiance. In particular, the defiance of being too much. It says so proudly--I will be too much, but I will also be the mess you keep choosing; I will remain on you--I will leave a mark.

--You can see the synthesis of this idea in the last stanza; " I am a religion/of/ too much/ but you are the only thing/ I never left cleaner/I've made a mess of you/ how bout it"

--The author also makes a double meaning in the line "I never left cleaner' As if to say she has washed clean all marks they may have left on her--or at least attempted to.

"BETTER LIFE THROUGH CHEMISTRY"

--The narrative lens of this poem is a glamorous yet tired portrayal of a cocaine habit--it reads like looking the portrait of an aging beauty queen; and that is a good thing! It makes me feel like I am the reflection in the old Hollywood vanity mirror that is being talked too.

--The need to be more, to stay alight forever comes through so clearly in the lines of the last stanza; "Be careful I will a man named Cowboy/You might go blind if you stare into the sun/how fruitful I could be"

Overall it is a wistful and weary poem that hangs on to the mind when read.

"WHAT I WANT YOU TO CALL MAGIC"

--Poetry is about invoking an emotion--an idea--and Carson Jordan achieves a feeling of loneliness and hunger that resonates through out; it is a perfect calling for magic and miracles.

--I really loved this poem and I believe it is because the feeling sticks with me so well. I am very familiar with the feeling of small world/ small town itch; and the aloofness of the real power in a quiet town--the author, she achieves this so perfectly, especially with the lines in the second to last stanza: "but I'll always be here/ to burn your tongue on,/turning dense men into tea drinkers"

She perfectly captures the way memory stays with us forever--the way longing stays in the blood.

I think this might be my favorite of the bunch.

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The closing poem:

"TCHOTCKE"

--As a closing thought, Jordan brings forth an elegy for all those who treated as the cure but never the prize--a strong image through out is of love distilled through a good enough or even better than most lover that is then taken to the next person they choose.

--This poem is written for those who are seen as symbol of good but is no one's perfect last pick. The words vibrate with loneliness of wanting to be someone's last stop. To not just be used for healing, but for someone to stay and be proud of the love you offer.

This becomes abundantly clear in the second to last stanza--"a dirty girl wants a good/crying/destined to be a stolen heirloom/ on your altar"

With that powerful image the collection comes to a close. Definitely a worthwhile read!

[calicostorms]

I am glad you found rest easy to come by my dear warden. You don’t look nearly as fatigued as you did last night. Though I did think you would have slept longer.

It’s a taste I’ve always known but I imagine since you’ve had an array of emotions to feed off you have a favorite. Tell me darling, what emotion is most pleasing on your tongue?

I can survive weeks at a time without feeding. Being specialized does have its downfalls at times, needing to find the right person to energize oneself. Though it’s better not wait that long, being with that much hunger leaves one weak.

Not a pleasant feeling as you can contest to right now.

-Vega looks down at their still joined fingers, then back up at his warden’s eyes-

Do you get to visit Elegy often? I have not gone home in quite some time.

-Vega 🚩

I would've usually, I think. Being outside of my routine is strange for me more than anything, and it's been putting me on edge. Sleeping has been lighter recently, with all the breakouts happening lately. Though I guess we could be considered one of those, now.

I think most inchoates develop different taste preferences, honestly. I know a few who are preferential toward serenity or happiness back at the department- other employees I see occasionally. For myself though, I've always found pride and...frustration to be my favorites. Pride is sweet, almost decadent, similar to a good bar of dark chocolate. Frustration is different, lingers when it goes down and burns well in your mouth. I know I shouldn't enjoy that sort of feeling, but it's always been a secret pleasure of mine.

Elegy...my life is here, if I'm honest. I have few reasons to go back to Aria, beautiful as it can be. Flawed as the department can be, it's given me a purpose to being on Elegy so often outside of feeding, and I appreciate that. I'm surprised to hear you haven't returned home in a while- I would've thought you would take pleasure in being around other demons instead of on the human plane.

[rcmndedlisten]

The extended play and split format are for discovery and looking forward to what comes next. Be it new artists bubbling up from beneath the surface, favorites furthering where they’ve already been or will be going, or the mutual inspiration between two parallel creative worlds, this year’s list include an eclectic palette of sounds in evolving form. Here are the Best EPs and Splits of 2022...

AKAI SOLO - Body Feeling [Backwoodz Studioz]

Body Feeling is AKAI SOLO’s first team-up with Backwoodz Studioz and serves as a prelude to his other standout in this year’s followup full-length, Spirit Roaming. The Brooklyn MC’s heady nature takes the opportunity here to touch the surface before sinking itself deep into the thought void, with production from a myriad of collaborators in Preservation, Nicolas Craven, Child Actor, and Argov churning the waters for AKAI to flow through existentially in what feels like the art of painting life with words over a surrealist, soulful beat ebullience.

ASkySoBlack - Autumn In the Water [New Morality Zine]

In the many splintering limbs of hardcore, ASkySoBlack are growing into several directions at once, and yet still come to the same conclusive idea that heavy music is at its most resounding impact when it’s as multi-dimensional as the emotions that envelope it. Pressing play on Autumn In the Water, the five-piece continue what they started on last year’s debut EP, What Is Yet To Come?, in tearing through the fabric of the heaviest atmospheres as their sound transforms the scene’s elemental form.

awakebutstillinbed & for your health - hymns for the scorned [Twelve Gauge Records]

hymns for the scorned, a split EP between awakebutstillinbed and for your health, make both band’s sound exponentially bigger than respective debuts. Like MTV2 peak commercial emocore big. Both mastered by Jack Shirley and with fyh’s half produced by Chris Teti of the World Is a Beautiful Place & I Am No Longer Afraid to Die (who maybe the only studio guru besides Will Yip doing scaled-up production justice for today’s current of modern punk and hardcore bands,) these are only hints at how both artists have not only burned down former walls, but are now building towers with their furious elegies.

Big City - Liquid Times [K Records / Perennial]

As the combined creative forces of Katayoon Yousefbigloo, guitarist of buzzy-in-their-own-right noise pop bands Puzzlehead and Hotline TNT, alongside underground dance experimentalist Davey Biddle of Copyright Linda Fox, the duo’s debut EP, Liquid Times, is a certifiably sick trip for late night minds wandering and needing to be warped where you will encounter transfixing elements adjacent to the time-collapsing sensations of SVIIB-esque shoegaze, the light speed of trance, and grooving lounge sax intermittently apparition in pop form.

Burial - Antidawn [Hyperdub]

Consider ANTIDAWN’s Burial reset. After having prominently defined the last several years’ of experimental electronic music through bleary, romantically broken soundscapes, the enigmatic producer has retreated into an ambient wilderness i a listen devoid of kinetic waves and more so focused on the body in its fully present moment. The interpretation of it is more so malleable and upon the individual to feel their way through, although the wind effects, sparkle of echoes, chiming, frigid prisms, glow of hymns in crackling nightlight passing, and ceremonial ascent through crystallizing flakes very much venture into an alternate projection of this world that mirrors its tunnels.

Ela Minus & DJ Python - ♡ [Smugglers Way]

After rising against through movement sounds and strobing club lights on 2020′s breakthrough debut, acts of rebellion, Ela Minus softens the bulbs in a reprieve for personal space and meditation alongside fellow NYC-based producer DJ Python on the collaborative EP, ♡. Inside voice vapors through an immaculately designed space of peacefully meditating ambient pools and a well-paced glitch in the timeline, the pair of electronic artists remind you what it is to fall in love and stay in that feeling eternally.

Glitterer - Fantasy Four [ANTI-]

With the listen being dedicated to Riley Gale of Power Trip and Iron Age’s Wade Allison, Glitterer’s latest EP, Fantasy Four, lives in four songs which find Ned Russin in the throes of asking why to the sky and maybe hoping there’s a chance on another timeline that he’ll see his departed friends again. Musically, it cuts beneath the short-form glitch and static core of what’s come before it, and though the downtrodden waves toss his brain around roughly, it also taps into a deeper side within Glitterer’s psyche that will make it interesting to hear where these questions will take the band’s sound next.

Home Is Where & Record Setter - dissection lessons [Topshelf Records]

In their own breaths, Home Is Where and Record Setter are harsh and necessary on their split, dissection lesson. As two breakthrough bands advancing the forms of screamo and experimental hardcore well beyond an already unconventional atmosphere, they're also two bands fronted by trans women who are loudly making their presence and their individual experiences known in a world that continues to try to hinder their existence. Home Is Where over-intensifies even last year’s standout “assisted harakari” with a righteous anger toward the rise in violence against members of the trans community. Meanwhile, Record Setter’s is set against a beautifully despondent Denton, Texas backdrop and is a awakening for the rest of us led by Judith Mitchell surrounding her own experience with transitioning, depression, and living under societal duress.

Hotline TNT - When You Find Out [Poison Rhythm]

Former Weed frontman Will Anderson and his band of cult DIY purists known as Hotline TNT carry on with the out of body, out of mind noise-pop oxytocin rushes carved out on last year’s breakthrough debut full-length, Nineteen In Love, with four more tracks of fuzz-indulgent spinouts that tangle the lines between colorful swaths of indie rock, hardcore’s coarse edges, and shoegaze’s daydream recollections. When You Find Out may hiss in cassette-quality feedback compared to the clearer visibility of its predecessor, but Anderson’s refinement in his songwriting craft continues to absorb rooms much bigger as time goes by.

Jivebomb - Primitive Desires [Flatspot Records]

Sometimes music – especially hardcore music – has the ability to destroy everything around it from the inside-out. Primitive Desires, Jivebomb’s heavy-handed debut EP, offers those emotions in combustible motion within minutes as vocalist Kat, guitarist Harper, bassist Ethan, and drummer Mees scourge the soundboard with scathing vocals and heated electricity from self-immolation. Carnal instincts kick in, and then destroy societal structures like they’re coming at it like an inside job.

Jobber - Hell In A Cell [Exploding In Sound Records]

Fans of pro-wrestling know that behind every great persona or gimmick, there’s a human behind it all bringing those characters to life in front of them. Jobber is kind of like that, but for indie rock and wrestling nerds who enjoy their storylines being a mirror of their own lives, too. Helmed by Kate Meizner, who has spent her musical career playing in live bands for Snail Mail, Potty Mouth, and more recently, Maneka, she steps out to the front to lead a faction (including former Speedy Ortiz guitarist / current Hellrazor frontman Mike Falcone) of grunge and ‘90s alternative riff rockers on the Brooklyn band’s debut EP, Hell In A Cell, that goes toe-to-toe with the daily grind inside the squared circle, and attempts to avoid submission.

Mo Dotti - Guided Imagery [Smoking Room Records]

Mo Dotti’s second EP, Guided Imagery, delivers with six solid singles-worthy tracks that concentrate woozy color forms with lush pop and a knack of heaven-scent melody that naturally boosts serotonin despite any forecast. That vocalist and guitarist Gina Negrini, guitarist Guy Valdez, bassist Brian Rodriguez, and drummer Shelly Schimek perform as equals in tandem as well means that no corner of their outweighs the other, which make them a more docile form on the sound, be it climactic sparks, wave-splashed daydreams, or psychedelic detours into the mind.

Mr Twin Sister - Upright and Even [Twin Group]

Upright and Even, a four-song EP recorded in adjacent to its predecessor, Al Mundo Azul, suggests that Mr Twin Sister are still at their best when they’re embracing more uninhibited ambitions. Stretching and contorting their musical limbs further out into dark club spaces with tracks that absorb themselves in ecstasy, a lounge sophisticate and jazz molecularization through Andrea Estella’s guiding light, the New York City groups binds unexpected motions together in a remarkable manner neither still or symmetrical, even if by their own titular definition.

Poorly Drawn House - Home Doesn’t Have Four Walls [Self-released]

Poorly Drawn House are the kind of band who defy any certain clear-cut definition in what to expect from their sound, as the Spartanburg, South Carolina three-piece look to their surrounding darkness only to inform them on their latest EP Home Doesn’t Have Four Walls. There’s a stop-and-start entanglement between loud bursts and deafening silence that would suggest a foundation in slowcore and post-hardcore, but the presence of clarinets and horns throws a wrench of dark free jazz into their music. Spoken word verse, a mournful presence behind them, and field recordings turn the dead leaves of emo and natural experimental elements onto their canvas.

SPEED - Gang Called Speed [Flatspot Records]

Sometimes it takes a group of outsiders to be that change, and because SPEED are far removed physically from the hardcore scene’s central roots here in the States – they hail from Sydney, Australia – their vantage point on a certain sound and fury comes from a different perspective. On their breakthrough EP Gang Called Speed, that’s most apparent in their fast approach on NYC’s gritty past, Los Angeles current fault lines, and whatever is wilding out of Baltimore with hard-grooved riffs and vocalist Jem Siow’s nasty charge into the pit.

Stand Still - In A Moment’s Notice [Daze / Triple B Records]

Born out of Long Island’s storied scene, Stand Still double down on what made last summer’s debut EP, A Practice In Patience, a promising first step. Heart-on-the-sleeve melodic hardcore will always be a full-proof method, with Stand Still’s binding of vocalist Gerry Windus’ personal admissions on tumbled relationships, be it romantic or familial, in lyrical prose behind five tracks – three recorded live to seamless cohesion. Microdosed with anthems in burled riffs and a well-paced headcharge against life’s seasons, In A Moment’s Notice leaves a timeless imprint.

They Are Gutting a Body of Water & A Country Western - An Insult to the Sport [Topshelf Records]

An Insult to the Sport, a split introducing the world at large to the strange wonders of local peers They Are Gutting a Body of Water and A Country Western through Topshelf Records, immerses the soundboard in wavering shoegaze and weirdo pop that flickers in the Phllly spirit of Strange Ranger and Spirit of the Beehive on the former’s first half, and a gonzo take on the slanted and enchanted with the latter. It in turn collectively piques the senses with sonic schisms, be it synthetic or electric, for two rising artists beyond concrete definition who’ve been quietly prolific in the background of the DIY scene, but maybe not for too much longer...

Weeping Icon - Ocelli [Fire Talk]

Born out of the hellscape that was 2020, Ocelli’s purpose in feeding off the anger from those times’ political and social dumpster fire helps Weeping Icon dig deeper into their crass-coated drive, and it burns through their art. Uniform’s Ben Greenburg recording vessel holds the Brooklyn noise-punk band’s collective rage through the dizzying sardonic static, a menacing, industrial warped timeline, and the combustible accelerant, as if to tell the story of that year in three parts that begins in anger and ends with them throwing that dumpster fire right into a bottomless pit.

[themonotonysyndrome]

REDACTED verse - The games we play

Prompt: any fandom/any character/telling a lie isn't always wrong

Word Count: 1,503

Author/Team: LadyMonotone

Fandom/Original: Redacted ASMR (Vega/Warden. Mentions of Ivan/Baby, Sweetheart and Camelopardalis)

Rating: T

Triggers: Possessive behaviour. Obsessive behaviour. Mutual subtle manipulation. Explicit implication. 

Summary: The greatest happiness to a Sadism Daemon is ultimate submission, and Vega has his eyes set on his Warden. 

ConCrit: Y 

With this oneshot, I just want to remind everyone that this blog is 18+. There are some sexual implications down below in Vega's scene, and I just want to give everyone a heads up. 

Also, I just want to write something sexy with him after listening to his Patreon audio yesterday. Yum! 

Oh! And another thing, I wrote this in one day, and it's super late now. So I'll go through the editing process tomorrow. 

-

An hour before his regular visitor arrives, Vega contemplates a human phrasing he has learned over his time here on Elegy. 

'You are what you eat', a common human phrasing that Vega wholeheartedly agrees. For all of their cognitive dissonance, Vega supposed he should give credit where credit is due. After all, he's nothing but true to his Daemonic nature. 

But what about his dear Warden? 

"I'm curious, Warden. As an Ichoate, you can survive by feeding a variety of human emotions. So which is your favourite, hmm?" Vega inquiries, lingering close to the wards. Close enough that the Warden could feel his presence yet distant enough to be out of harm's way from being electrocuted. "Are you leaning towards our more Serene kin, or are you the type to hop from one bed to another? Ah. Judging by that stoic look on your face, you're making me work for my answer." He chuckles, deeply amused despite his situation. "You always know how to make my day a little better, my beloved Warden." 

See, here's the thing: Vega is intimately in tune with the unsavoury emotions that humans try so hard to hide; he loves basking in a storm of humanity's darkest sides. But what he's fascinated with the most is the nature of obsession. Nudging Ivan in the wrong direction and watching him give in to his jealousy and possessiveness was terrific. An experimental success with results that makes Vega one satisfied and full Daemon. 

And now? The same obsession that he nurtures within Ivan is starting to bloom within Vega. 

And it all thanks to his darling Warden. 

When Vega first laid eyes on the Inchoate Daemon as they introduced themselves to him with all the pomp and circumstances of a senior Department employee - if not an overworked one - he was... a little intrigued. His eyes roam their body, appreciating the eye candy that the Department had so ignorantly given to him. Every tiny frown on those pouty lips because of his sly remarks sends tiny euphoria inside of Vega's twisted heart; lust tinted with dark intentions start to spread within him. Every clenched fist as he readily admits how easy it is to tug humanity's dark threads send shivers down Vega's spine; his hunger gradually expands more than just food. 

Obsession is a form of hunger too. Too bad the Warden doesn't know that little fact or how much they fuel his hunger. 

Even though Ivan is a human, Vega watched him fill his own hunger with his sweet, captive lover every night; whispering sweet nothings in one ear while the other made them believe that no one else in this world loves them more than him. That no one else in this world could make them happy the way he could. Ivan would've made a fine Sadism Daemon, albeit one with a romantic heart. 

But Vega is self-aware enough to see that the road he's taking is similar to Ivan's, and he's looking forward to dragging his Warden along. 

Vega wonders what they are like on the bed. His comment about their feeding habits instantly raises walls around the Warden. It's cute how they always become stoic when it comes to topics that they refuse to entertain. He's so tempted to ask if he struck a nerve; there's really no shame for an Inchoate Daemon to feed like an Incubus. 

When Vega is left to his own devices, he indulges in his fantasies where his darling Warden is wanton to his touches; open and eager for him. Would they sweet writhe when his hands are around his neck? Would they buck wildly every time his hips slam with theirs? Vega's no Incubus, but pleasures had never seemed sweeter before the Warden came into his life. 

But what's sugar without a bit of cyanide? 

Sometimes, Vega likes to spin his fantasies with a hint of cruelty. He dreams nothing more but to overwhelm his Warden, bind them and take whatever he wants while they're helpless to do anything but moan. Transform them into his cute sex kitten who can't do anything but cum again and again... and again until he's satisfied.  

Until nothing exists except for Vega. 

'You are what you eat' after all. 

So Vega continues to play his waiting game, letting the Department believe that they could rehabilitate him; undo the sin that he was coalesced with. It's a futile attempt, but as long as they continue to allow his Warden to come and visit him, Vega is more than happy to play the part of a perfect prisoner for them. Give them the kindest answer because telling a lie isn't always wrong; especially when the prize is just too enticing. 

But for now, he'll cultivate his hunger right until he could break out from the wards, and his darling Warden would finally be his. 

-

During their last work hours on Friday, Sweetheart comes across a colleague occupying the more secluded garden of the Department. It's a hidden place you can only find if you're tight with employees working here for more than five years. 

Or if you are a Daemon who can see through the invisible wards around the garden. Sweetheart is the former, unfortunately. 

They walk up to their colleague, whose back is facing Sweetheart. "Hi. It's been a while since I saw you hung out here. Long day?" 

The Inchoate Daemon inclines their head towards Sweetheart with a tiny smile. "You can say that. How about you?" 

"I was just getting ready to call it a day and go home when I saw your horns." Sweetheart explains. When the Inchoate Daemon scoots aside on the bench, the Stealth takes a seat beside them. The garden is very beautiful and serene. Speaking of which, "Were you with Cam? I remembered he wanted to catch up with us for a lunch break, but I was drowning with paperwork today. Urgh." 

The Daemon shakes their head. "Unfortunately, no. My session with Vega lasted longer than usual, so I  had to feed nearby before rushing back to work." 

Sweetheart lowers their eyes to some documents on their work buddy's lap. The name 'Vega' and 'Sadism Daemon' are bolded in big letters and highlighted on top of the paper. "Wait. We have a Sadism Daemon in our custody? They're so rare!" 

"An Incubus reported him a few months ago, and they've assigned me to rehabilitate his feeding habits ever since. It's been a... slow progress." The Inchoate Daemon sigh and rubs the bridge of their nose in exhaustion, thinking about their earlier session with Vega. 

"The bad apple of the bunch, eh?" Sweetheart gently nudges the Daemon's shoulder in a show of sympathy and solidary. "Is he as bad as those comments written in red ink? It seems to me that the guy is a walking red flag." 

"Oh, he is. Manipulative as can be and solely driven by his hunger. I did quick profiling of him on our first day together, and it's enough for me to organise a worst-case scenario team on stand by." Warden enlightens Sweetheart in a deadpan tone, to which Sweetheart grimace at the thought. 

As the two enjoys a comfortable silence, Warden lets their thoughts wander, yet soon enough, it trails to Vega. It always returns to him. 

When they're in the same room as him, Vega moves with the grace of a feline predator, pacing back and forth behind the wards as they talk. His long legs always move slowly and with a purpose to intimidate them. 

Warden makes sure never to give him that satisfaction. 

They're no stranger to Vega's game and the hunger that drives him than Camelopardalis, a renowned memory modifier within the Empowered world. 

Even when their back is turned, Warden can feel his red eyes drilling through them. His gaze is always heavy, waiting for any moment of weakness that he can devour. 

The Department has given Warden a monster capable of destroying countless lives in a blink of an eye with the heavy expectations to declaw him. 

And this monster hungers for them, constantly watching his Warden with dark desires that it could be to their advantage if they play their cards right. 

They're the prize. They're everything Vega wants and more. 

And during that moment of realisation, Warden sets their own plans in motion. 

No one can declaw a monster; the best they can do is tame it. Even a Daemon believe this. Warden can buff the rough edges and give him a longer leash if Vega promises to play nice. It's a long shot, but it's a risk worth taking. 

Vega wants them? Then he needs to play by their rules, not his. He can stare, mock, flirt and threaten them all he wants. As long as the wards remain strong, the field is even between them. 

Patience is everything in both Vega's and Warden's game. The question is, which one of them will succumb to the other first? 

[haildoodles-writing]

And So We Sing in Elegies -- Chapter 5 

Oberyn Martell x reader

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

A/N: hello everyone! So sorry for being MIA, covid hit me like a train last month and threw my motivation into the gutter lol. Reading your lovely comments has been a huge motivator for me to keep going, though, and so I pushed myself back into the writing groove and finished this chapter hahaha. Love you all! 

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: none

The walk back to your quarters was . . . complicated, to say the least.

After Oberyn had left his chambers, you tidied the room in silence before changing into your riding clothes from the day prior. The pants and tunic were stiff from dust and wind, making it uncomfortable to put back on--but you would much rather be stuffed into awkwardly-fitting clothes than have to slink through the halls in Oberyn’s robe. Had anyone caught you wearing his attire . . .

You didn’t want to cause any rumors. You couldn’t afford to. 

You are my friend, he had told you earlier--pleaded, even, as if he were trying to convince you that it was true. 

And it was. Of course it was. 

But despite the bond you two shared, you were still a maid serving a prince. You were miles below him, and that distance came with rules. Protocols. And to a man where jurisdiction was at his fingertips and love came at no price, you weren’t sure he would understand why you stuck to them so closely. You weren’t sure he could. 

You shook your head as you crossed the building to the servants’ wing, stifling the thoughts as quickly as they came. You didn’t have the energy to think about it any longer--not after what had just happened. 

You were certain that you wouldn’t be seeing Oberyn for a while. Situations like that usually ended in him finding some place to isolate himself and think, whether it be the gardens or the library--or even the sparring ring, if he couldn’t shake off his anger enough. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he ended up in the latter. 

Though you didn’t blame him much for it. His anger was out of protection, and you understood why. Had the roles been reversed, had Oberyn been the one pushed into an arranged marriage against his will . . . you would have responded the same. 

You prayed that he wouldn’t affect him for much longer, though, and that he would calm down soon enough. And that eventually, maybe, he would become numb to it. Just as you were beginning to be. 

The servants’ wing was lively when you arrived, more so than it usually would have been at that hour. A glance into a few open doorways and at a few scurrying maids answered your question: they were all packing. They were to leave for the Old Palace tomorrow, you remembered--and they would arrive a day before you. 

Thankfully, no one paid you any mind as you hurried down the halls, likely too preoccupied with putting together their own belongings to give you much notice. A few familiar faces glanced your way as you passed--but you kept walking, slinking back into the crowd before they could recognize you. 

Much to your relief, your chambers were quiet when you entered--and so you went about gathering a spare set of clothes, a towel, and a few toiletries as quickly as you could. You wanted to sneak to the bathhouse before Khaegan came in. Or anyone else, for that matter. 

After stuffing everything into a cloth bag, you locked the door and changed into a bathrobe and sandals. You threw your riding clothes into a heap at the foot of your bed—you didn’t have the time to wash them now. You didn’t have the energy to, either.

The moment you finished changing, you collapsed onto the edge of your bed and released a heavy, quiet sigh. You nearly considered lying there for a while, perhaps slipping in a nap before you bathed and inevitably went back to your duties—

As if on cue, a knock sounded at the door. You nearly groaned. 

It was a feat to get your feet underneath you again, but eventually you crossed the room and unlocked the door with clumsy fingers. And beyond it . . .

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” Khaegan said, his face blank as he leaned against the doorway. Judging by his lack of surprise, you presumed he had seen you in the hallway and followed you back. Probably. 

You shrugged, turning back to collect your things as he stepped further into the room. “I arrived late last night,” you told him. “I’ve been with the prince since then.” 

At that, Khaegan raised a brow--but he closed his mouth when you shot him a dry look. 

You grew quiet as he rummaged around his side of the room, pulling clothes and toiletries and a random assortment of items from the boxes underneath his bed. He dropped everything into an old, fraying wool bag at his side. Only when he was finished did he turn to look at you.

His eyes flicked around your side of the room--likely looking for your own luggage. “Are you not packing?” he asked.

“I suppose I forgot to tell you,” you chuckled, “I’m leaving a day after you all. The prince wishes for me to travel with his escorts.”

To his credit, Khaegan didn’t seem fazed by your comment. You suppose it made sense, after all, for you to travel with Oberyn instead of the other servants; your job required you to be close to him as much as possible, especially since you were his only handmaiden--at least at the Water Gardens. 

You wondered why that was. 

Khaegan let out a loud, dramatic sigh as he sat on the side of his bed. “Disappointing,” he muttered. “I was rather looking forward to watching you blush over the prince on our journey there.” 

“Bite me,” you huffed. Khaegan merely laughed. 

Being the perceptive one he was, it didn’t take long after you met for Khaegan to realize your feelings for the prince. Though, you weren’t necessarily inconspicuous about it; unlike your chambermate, you were never good at hiding your emotions. And so Khaegan had to witness your years-long pining over the prince, but he never once pressured you to speak of it unless you felt inclined to do so. 

. . . Though you never outrightly expressed how you felt about him. And truth be told, you weren’t necessarily sure how you felt about him yourself. It was just a flurry of emotions and feelings--some that came in passing fancies and others that made home inside your chest. You weren’t sure you could put it into words, even if you tried. 

You assume it’s because you refused to acknowledge it for so long.

Khaegan didn’t respond to your jab, and you allowed yourself to bask in the quiet--so at odds with the commotion beyond the door--for a moment longer. But then, just as you shouldered your bag and stood, his next words stopped you. 

“Why have you returned so soon?”

 . . . You paused. 

And then you took in a breath. Another. 

“Things . . . didn’t turn out well, with my parents,” you offered. To your own surprise, it wasn’t difficult to spit out. You supposed that it was because you had already said enough with Oberyn; what was one more confession?

For a minute, Khaegan paused. 

“Do you want to speak with me about it?”

“I . . .” You chewed on your lip. 

At first, you weren’t sure you wanted to--weren’t sure that you had the strength to. But the longer you thought about it, the more you realized that you should. Kaegan was the closest friend you had--and, more than that, he was one of the few you trusted.

“I suppose I need to,” you whispered. “Just . . .” 

Khaegan watched as you tensed under his scrutiny. And you tried--you tried--to straighten yourself, to throw your shoulders back and release the tension in your arms until you appeared relatively normal. But that weight, the one that hung like a millstone around your neck, gave it all away. 

“Why don’t you clean up,” he offered. “Then we can talk.” 

 ☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼

 You told him everything. 

. . . Well, nearly everything. You couldn’t bring yourself to go into too much detail, despite the fact that you knew you should. You promised that you would tell him in time. Just . . . not now.

Khaegan was still seated on his bed when you returned from the bathhouse, and he waited patiently until you gathered your thoughts together. And when you eventually confessed, he sat there in relative silence, only speaking up occasionally when he needed more clarification--the whos, the whats, the hows--

Though, he never pushed too far. He never asked why, either. You were grateful for it.

Once you were finished, you waited for a minute as Khaegan’s gaze turned shallow--likely processing everything. You weren’t bothered by it. 

Eventually he spoke up--and unlike you, he wasn’t one to palter. 

“What will you do?” 

His face was impassive--it had been since you began to spill. It was normal for him to take in information before reacting, though. You didn’t expect any emotion-driven comments from him any time soon. 

“My parents will send a letter with the location of the suitor’s estate, and I’ll meet with him soon after,” you shrugged. It sounded monotonous--and by that point, you were sure it had to be. 

“And then?” Khaegan pushed. You knew what he was pressuring you to say. 

And then . . .

You swallowed thickly.

“I’ll marry him,” you whispered, and it felt heavy on your tongue. And as they fell from your lips, you realized it was the first time you had spoken it aloud. The first time you had truly and openly confirmed it. 

I’ll marry him.

It was final.

In front of you, Khaegan rested his elbows on his thighs. “Though you don’t want to,” he concluded quietly. His eyes flicked over your face, your posture, taking everything in. 

Processing. Always processing.

“If I’m being completely truthful . . . part of me does,” you admitted to him. “If I don’t marry now, I likely won’t have the opportunity to again. And I’m not going to leave my family behind, either. So I suppose that in doing this . . .” You shrugged. “It kills two birds with one stone, so to speak. I told the prince the same.” The words were still raw from when you spoke to Oberyn, though, merely an hour or so prior. Saying them still hurt.

Perhaps if you repeated them enough, they wouldn’t weigh you down as they do now. Perhaps they would lose their meaning, and saying them wouldn’t feel like you were trying to breathe around a blade in your chest anymore. And maybe the weights hanging from your neck would shatter, too, and you would finally be able to move without breaking.

For a minute, Khaegan didn’t respond. He simply sat there and waited, watching as you finally hunched over and buried your head in your hands--

You didn’t look up as you heard shuffling, and then the quiet sound of footsteps. And then the bed dipped, and he was next to you, pressing a tentative palm against your back.

Khaegan wasn’t one for touch. He was protective of his own personal space, and any invasion made him uncomfortable--it always had been. So the fact that he had moved to your side, sitting close to you, offering a supportive hand because he knew how much you needed it . . . 

Your eyes burned.

“You’ll be alright,” he whispered, his voice flowing through you like a gentle tide. And for a moment, it was enough to calm you, enough to soothe your frazzled mind and rushing thoughts--

“I know I will,” you croaked. 

I will. I will. I will--

Your hands dropped to your lap, and everything around you began to grow blurry. Somewhere deep inside you, you felt the last remaining piece of your strength crack. 

You began to sob. 

 ☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼‐‐‐‐☼

 Khaegan and the rest of the staff left early the next morning. 

The switch in workers was, unsurprisingly, an ordeal that lasted quite some time. Overnight, the servants stationed at the Old Palace arrived in small waves in an attempt to make the transition smoother--which was successful, of course, but it didn’t make the Water Gardens any less loud. 

Unlike your chambermate, you found yourself tossing and turning as you tried to sleep. Over time you grew irritated at the constant bustle--and when that irritation manifested into clenched fists, a large headache, and a heavy weight behind your eyes that refused to fade, you climbed from your bed and trudged through the hallways with a heady sigh. The blanket you brought with you was hung loosely around your shoulders, and you managed to shuck on a pair of sandals before you left. Luckily, no one paid you any attention as you wandered. 

To where, you didn’t know. Just . . . somewhere. Wherever, as long as it didn’t claw at your ears any longer. 

Your head still ached from the previous day’s events--and your body was still exhausted from the past two. It had begun to wear on you, little by little, and now you were left completely defenseless. Usually, noisy quarters and a lively atmosphere just beyond your door was something you could sleep through--but tonight, as if the gods had cursed you, sleep was no easy feat. Relaxation wasn’t one, either. Eventually, you became so overwhelmed that your eyes burned of frustrated tears. All you wanted to do was to rest.

And so, needless to say, the sigh that washed through you as you wandered further into the estate gardens nearly toppled you over. You could feel yourself relax with each step down the cobblestone path--and, unsurprisingly, with each step came more exhaustion. 

Eventually, you found yourself in an alcove towards the edges of the gardens, a few turns past the drawing desk you so frequented. It was a place that you visited often, somewhere most of the servants were unaware of--or at least were too busy to discover. For the most part, you could call it your own. 

The alcove was small, roughly around the size of your own chambers, and mainly consisted of a handful of wooden chairs and a circular table--though at the furthest end from the entrance was a long settee, with an arch of vines nearly concealing it from view. It was exactly what you were looking for. 

In an instant, you collapsed onto the settee and threw the blanket over you. The air that night was cool enough for you to be comfortable as you laid there--and you found your hands unclenching and your eyes drooping almost immediately. The rustling of leaves in the wind and the blinking stars above felt like a lullaby. 

It didn’t take you long to fully relax. 

You didn’t realize that you had fallen asleep, however, until a hand on your shoulder jolted you awake. 

Oberyn. 

Why does he always seem to find you?

“My dove, why are you sleeping out here?” 

Turning on your side, you found that he was crouched next to you, his head tilted as he stared at you. He was dressed in a loose, burnt orange robe, one that looked almost burgundy in the deep blue night. Likely his nightclothes--or, well, his wandering clothes, as you liked to call them, as it was usually something he threw on just so he didn’t look too improper when he wandered the halls. 

And as he watched you, despite the worry on his face and the crease between his brows, he looked . . . calm. Mellow. The curls brushing his forehead twisted and twirled in the late night breeze, and his eyes glowed and flickered in time with the stars above him—

You wanted to paint it. Paint him.

Though, that wasn’t anything new, was it?

As you sat up, you shrugged. “I couldn’t fall asleep. The servants’ wing is quite lively at the moment.” 

At that, Oberyn paused.

“Why didn’t you come to my chambers, then? You know you are welcome there.” He seemed . . . well, confused, at the fact that you didn’t disturb him, didn’t wake him by creeping into his rooms to fall asleep on his settee or something of the sort--

“I needed some quiet. It’s . . . rather peaceful here.” 

And you’re too timid to face him, you thought. Not after earlier.

Why would he want you in his chambers after that?

A small, almost sheepish smile tugged at his lips. “Well, if I’m intruding, I can leave you be--”

“No, no,” you interrupted, and it was much louder than you intended. You bit your lip.  “I mean . . . you’re welcome to stay, if you’d like.” 

He hesitated for a moment--as if examining you, trying to deduce if you really wanted him there. But then, before you could say anything more, he smiled, smoothing down his robe as he came to sit next to you. Again, not too close, just in case . . .

“I thought you could sleep through such noise,” A small, cheeky smirk pulled at Oberyn’s lips. “You certainly did last time.” 

“I beg of you, don’t torment me again,” you groaned--a sound that was drowned out by his laughter. It was one banquet, and he never seemed to let it go--

“It’s much more difficult to remain asleep when my chamber door screeches every time it opens,” you sighed. Though you couldn’t hide your smile. 

At that, Oberyn chuckled. “Remind me to have someone replace that.” 

You almost protested--surely a rickety servant door wasn’t enough for a Dornish prince to send for aid--but you knew that objecting would only make him fix it faster. He was always like that.

Hard-headed, you thought.

But then, as you took in the man at your side, a realization came to you. “Why are you awake, my prince?” 

He hummed. “Oddly enough, the rest of the estate isn’t any quieter. I thought a walk would do me well,” he answered. And then you saw how his eyes glimmered--

“Though, I did come out to simply walk. I didn’t plan to find you asleep in the farthest alcove from the estate.” You pushed at his shoulder, and his resulting laugh echoed throughout the alcove. It was thrumming and bright, and it warmed your skin like sunshine. “You mock me,” you muttered. 

“Only sometimes,” he smirked, throwing you a wink. “When you deserve it.” 

You rolled your eyes.

And then, before you could help it, you yawned. 

Loudly. 

Oberyn laughed at that, and you felt your face grow warm out of sheer embarrassment--

“You should sleep, my dove,” he told you. “Though not out here. I can prepare my rooms for you--”

“No,” you objected. It was a little louder than you had hoped. “No, that’s alright.” 

You didn’t want to intrude, not again. No matter how much he insisted.

You wept last night, in your sleep, he had told you yesterday. And it didn’t take long after that for you to shatter in front of him. 

. . . You didn’t want to risk him seeing that again. 

Oberyn must have noticed something in your face, in your tone--because after a minute, he gave up. He only hummed in response.

You both fell quiet, and you felt Oberyn’s eyes on you as you fiddled the hem of your blanket. You couldn’t meet his gaze. And in that moment, you were surprised that he hadn’t brought up the unspoken issue between you both yet, the floating question that turned the air so thick it was hard to breathe--

The words slipped out of you before you could think twice.  “About earlier . . .” you swallowed. “I hope I didn’t upset you too much--”

Oberyn cut you off. “Nonsense,” he said. “My feelings shouldn’t be placed above your own. In this case, especially.” 

He paused, then, and you felt his gaze on you--taking you in, analyzing you once again. Likely noticing your hunched shoulders, your puffy eyes, the way your body just yearned for some peace--

“Besides,” he offered, “something like this is much better suited for daylight, hm?” He tilted his head as he looked at you, and you fought the urge to shrink under his gaze. “The night has no use for such solemnity.” 

He was always the more logical one between the two of you. The wiser one. 

Eventually, you agreed. “Perhaps it would be better to discuss after your name day, wouldn’t it.” And it was, in all honesty, the best decision--you had preparations to take care of, and you were traveling in less than a day’s time, and you hadn’t so much as gotten the location to your suitor’s estate--

“Perhaps,” Oberyn shrugged, pulling you from your thoughts as he turned his gaze to the alcove before you. And in that moment, you realized that his lightheartedness was more for your sake than for his. That he would continue to remain casual, at least until the air was lighter and your shoulders felt less heavy. And it worked.

You were grateful for it.

Oberyn didn’t let the moment stew longer, though, and he let out a deep sigh as he rubbed his hands on his thighs. “I deem that this calls for something to brighten the mood,” he grinned. He shifted to reach into his robe pocket, and it was only then that you realized he had hidden something there. In the darkness, however, all you could make out was a thin, long bump.

“I’d loathe to see your gift be hidden away in my drawers again, after all.” 

At that, you perked up, and your eyes widened. You couldn’t help it—and Oberyn knew it too, which is why it only made him laugh harder.

“A gift?” You swallowed. “Oberyn, if this is about the other day—“

“It’s not.” 

He held up the object--wrapped in cloth and secured with a piece of twine--between you both. And when he spoke again, his voice was soft. “Consider it an early name day gift.”

You took it from him carefully, eyeing him for a moment until he motioned for you to continue. And so you tugged on the string, unfurling the gift onto your lap--

“. . . A paintbrush,” you breathed. An expensive one at that; you hadn’t seen a pure rosewood brush in years, let alone one that was made with sable hair--

Oberyn let out a chuckle as your fingers fluttered around the brush.  “It’s from Oldtown,” he explained. “I purchased it during my last trip.” 

“That was months ago,” you pointed out. Had he . . .

“I stored it away for safekeeping,” he answered. “I was planning on gifting it to you on your name day, but . . . the situation called for it.”

You let out a deep breath. “It’s beautiful,” you marveled. Gently, your thumb ran over the bristles, over the small etching in the wood just beneath it: your name. 

And in that moment, you nearly chuckled at your own awe, at how you handled the brush so gently. How were you supposed to dirty something so priceless?

“Why give me this now, may I ask? I would assume that it’s in recompense for that charcoal breaking days ago, but this seems much too big a gift so something so simple,” you laughed. And though you didn’t want to, you forced yourself to put the brush down as softly as you could. Oberyn remained oddly quiet as you did so--but when you eventually looked at him again, you saw a small smile adorning his face. 

“You . . .” He swallowed.

You sobered almost immediately.

“I’ve always known that you’ve been treated unfairly. Life has dealt you bitter cards.” With a gentle hand, he reached down and touched the brush, running his fingers over the engraving on its ferrule once. Twice. A third time.

“Until yesterday, I wasn’t aware just how bitter those cards were.” 

You felt your throat grow thick. 

Though you tried not to acknowledge it, you knew his words were true. And sometimes you wished that you had gotten something better--that the man you were fated to marry all those years ago was good, that you never had to grovel and steal after fighting against your own blood--

You never would have met Oberyn, though, you thought. 

The evening grew quiet, then, and you simply watched as Oberyn continued to run his fingers over the brush. 

Life brought you to him. 

For some reason. 

Eventually, Oberyn released a heady breath. “I want you to know that you are safe here,” he promised. Your eyes flicked to his own, then, only to find that he was already staring at you. The intensity in his gaze, the emotion, flooded into you like the sea. 

“No matter what happens, I will protect you,” he whispered. 

The weight of those hit the ground like stone. 

For a moment, you simply sat there, your breathing heavy and your hands shaking as everything began to settle. You couldn’t find the words to respond--you didn’t think you ever would, either. 

He promised--he swore--to protect you. And for him, to make an oath . . .

Before you thought twice, you took his hand and raised it to your lips, pressing a kiss against his knuckles. His skin was warm, comforting, thrumming with a vibrancy that you wanted to drown yourself in--

When you opened your eyes, you saw his own burning into you. 

And you found that, though you wanted to shrink under his stare, you couldn’t look away.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

You didn’t release his hand.

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[darling-archeron]

this is as good a place to fall as any + feysand for the fic request thing? angst would be good (;

ask and you shall receive - i hope you like angst. I may have used this as personal catharsis and it came out as one of the rawest, and, in my opinion, most painful things I’ve ever written. Not super edited, but I hope you enjoy!  <333.

TW for minor mentions of suicide

Music in the Night

It was the end of another infinitely long day, and Feyre found herself on the roof of the townhouse. The same place she had spent lazy nights with Rhysand, curled up with the stars until dawn. They had once promised each other infinite nights like this, filled with love and whispered secrets and lazy touches.

This time, she was alone.

She had gone out into Velaris by herself today, walked the streets, and been with her people in a way that she hadn’t in years. It had left her bone-weary deep in her soul. After the war, when what was left of her family returned to Velaris, she had been too broken by her grief to mingle with her people. The only thing she was aware of was the emptiness of the void in her head where such life had once flowed. The funeral had been hell, numbness coating her mind and tongue when the priestess asked if she would say a few words.

After she had finally picked herself up, convinced herself to keep going, there was so much to be done. Simply going for a walk never seemed to make the list. Mor had kept Velaris running for years, but she didn’t rule the entire court. And Feyre had never run anything of the sort. It wasn’t long after he was gone that she realized how much Rhys had left to teach her, how much he had not known himself. It had been exhausting as she turned all her energy on fixing the Court instead of looking inward at the dark shards within herself.

 Learn as best as she could from Mor and Lucien what it took to rule, to heal rifts with the Hewn City, who barely recognized her as High Lady, and to Illyria, who only began to respect her once she showed what she was capable of. When they had time, she did physical training with Cassian. Continuing to explore the facets of her magic had been harder. The two beings who might have taught her something more about it were gone.

So for the most part, she gave herself over to her court. They deserved that much. It was nights like these when she allowed herself self-pitying, angry, sorrowful moments. Just her, the night sky, and a bottle of whiskey she had swiped from Rhys’s huge stash. The roof seemed as good a place to fall as any. To ask the Cauldron why so much of the good in her life had been taken. To ask why she always seemed to end up alone.

Because Rhys…Rhys had been taken from her. She had loved him with a passion and fury she knew had been called foolish. But the only foolish thing about their love was how she hadn’t seen the end coming, hadn’t realized that he would sacrifice everything he had to heal the cleaved Cauldron. And when Rhys was truly gone, and even trying to bring him back as he had done to her hadn’t worked – she didn’t reflect on those moments. Ever.

She had survived poverty, Amarantha, and being made, the Ouroboros, and the War. She had been born a fighter.

It hadn’t stopped her from reaching for a knife to turn on herself on that battlefield, in moments when everyone else was too distracted. Azriel had only just stopped her, and there were days she could still feel the sharp kiss of the blade on her chest.

Most of the time – most of the time she was glad she hadn’t done it.

A breeze came up, and Feyre shivered. The backs of her thighs were beginning to dig into the roof.

In the emptiness of the weeks that had followed, she found that she hated silence. Because there was never again going to be passed jokes and musings down that bridge of gold. Never again going to be music sent to her in her darkest moments.

The townhouse became emptier as well.

 Amren had sacrificed herself to end the war. Elain had eventually left Night to pursue a life of travel, slowly healing from the horrors she had witnessed. Lucien was building alliances on the continent, though only after he had been convinced that she wasn’t going to fall apart. Nesta…was complicated. She still lived in Velaris, off of accounts Feyre kept filled, but she barely saw her sister anymore. Feyre wasn’t sure which one of them was more broken, some days.

Mor needed out of Velaris too. Feyre knew she was losing her mind. Though no physical wards kept her here as they once had, she couldn’t abandon the duty she had. Because she didn’t think Feyre was strong enough.

Feyre still doubted herself every step of the way. Because in the end, she did blame herself. She had made a bad choice with what mattered the most, hadn’t seen that his final “I love you” was not a declaration, but a goodbye.

He had known what she would want to believe, apparently known her better than she had known him.

She had always been a fool for a happy ending. Had always wanted it for herself. Her mate had helped her believe that she deserved it until she saw it herself. She had been a dreamer in a Court of Dreams.

Feyre watched the city below, taking a swig of the whiskey. There was a revel in the streets a few blocks away, the beautiful, seductive music taking away the emptiness that lingered in her head.

The Night Court needed a strong leader. They deserved someone who dreamt of a better world, who wasn’t falling apart. And as much as she was unqualified, she knew she had to learn. And as much as she had wanted to let the world fall away as she descended into her grief – she had made a vow. To Rhysand, to her people, to herself. To deny that – it would make her an utter failure.

So, she had forced herself to become that person, and learn to lead, to play the games of Court. To heal wounds the war had ripped open. A leader with an iron heart and mask of steel.  

The one thing she couldn’t learn again was how to forgive. She couldn’t forgive Tamlin, or Hybern, or herself. No matter how much Mor and Elain beseeched her. Elain had dragged her to the same mind-healer that she had been seeing in Dawn. Not a daemati – but someone who focused on emotional and psychological wellness. After a few visits, she had stopped going.

She needed closure, Elain had told her. It was easy for her to say. Every inch of this place didn’t remind her of their father. How could you find closure when the wound was ripped open again every day?

Another swig of whiskey and the music grew louder. A sob hiccupped in her throat, and she pushed it down. She wasn’t drunk enough to stop caring yet, and if she started crying now she would never stop.

She wondered how the history books would be written, sometimes. Human and Fae alike. Would the fae praise how she had defeated Amarantha, or as time went on, would the ballads and stories be edited and brushed under the rug to hide how helpless the faeries had really been? Would they tell how she fought her way across that bloody plain, each swing of her sword for a better world?

Would the elegies they painted eulogize Rhysand properly?

Would they tell how she had let him die?

She shook her head violently, strands of hair shaking free from the tight braid she had pulled it back into. She had cut it to shoulder length a few weeks after the war – practically a cliché from one of the books she had read. Since then, she had never let it grow back out.

She wouldn’t let herself think of all she hadn’t done now. She had done that enough – days where nightmares tore her from sleep and she replayed those minutes on the battlefield over and over, trying to find a different way.

 Instead, she thought back to what that healer had told her at the Dawn Court. She had given Feyre breathing exercises she couldn’t remember now, and she had told her that it was okay to talk about them. It had all seemed so useless at the time.

Elain had found catharsis in it, though. She didn’t just talk about their father – she talked to him, she had confided.

Another swig of whiskey – longer, this time. It burned as it went down, and it made her buzzed enough to say what the hell.

“Rhys?” She whispered, so softly. She had never – never spoken to him like this. Screaming his name as she was torn from his arms in every last nightmare, yes. But this - she had always thought it would hurt too much.

“I hope that you’re happy, Rhys.” She knew that he thought he was Lord of Nightmares, that wherever he went after he died wouldn’t be pleasant. It was something she had been working to slowly changed his mind about, making him see that he wasn’t damned.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t stop you – didn’t realize until it was too late. I didn’t find any other way. I know – I know that you wouldn’t have had it any other way. That you didn’t want to stop me. But I’m so sorry and I will never stop regretting and hating myself for it –” Her words broke off with a sob as she finally let the tears come. “And if you can somehow hear this – I just need you to know that I will never stop loving you. And I’m trying my best to fill the void you left behind, to be the leader everyone needs me to be.” For a while, the only sound was her breathing and the distant music as her words were swallowed up by the night.

She sniffed a little. “Do you remember our last night up here? It was just a few days before we left. Did you know you wouldn’t be back?” Another long pause, like she was giving him time to reply. “I’m sure even then you were planning. But I just remember – we were up here, it was a night a lot like this. No wine or lingerie – it was just us, the stars, and the city. I fell asleep up here, in your arms. You told me stories of your adventures years ago. The time you and Azriel got lost in Malwich and – well, I never heard the end of it. I was so exhausted. Do you think Az would tell it to me if I asked him?”   

Silence echoed as the distant song wound down.

“I miss you.” She said quieter than ever, barely a breath. “You spent your last breaths telling me that you loved me…and I never said it back. Because I thought I would have a million more times to say it, and so you never heard it that final time even though I’m sure you knew –“ Snot plugged up her nose and she sniffed again, voice ugly and cracking. “I love you, Rhysand.”

She buried her head in her arms as the music slowly started up again. It slowly grew louder until she could make out a familiar tune.

Feyre could have laughed. It wasn’t the music Rhysand had sent her Under the Mountain. It was an echo of it, an answer to the original piece’s question. The haunting melody and drifting notes filled her head and her soul. They chased out the awful silence and made her feel new, if only for a moment.

She recalled back when she was human, laying in her cell as that music floated down. She had drifted somewhere in the clouds, seen faces she couldn’t make out. Just as it had been then – as she gazed out at the unclouded sky, she could have sworn she saw Rhysand peering back at her with love in his eyes – for just a moment.

Perhaps just a trick of her eyes, of a desperate soul. But as she gazed up at those bright stars, she didn’t stop the tears from falling.

I love you, Rhys. 

She stayed out there long after the music had died down until she could see a hint of dawn’s rosy hue rising over the Sidra. The memory of the song echoed in her head, keeping the silence at bay.

[brian-in-finance]

Bombs, Branagh and what I learned from the city hatred couldn't destroy: As director's elegy to his Belfast childhood is tipped to win an Oscar, RICHARD KAY recalls the memories of his own time living there

We might never have found it — or rather what’s left of it — but for Moyra, who came hobbling into view on a crutch.

‘Mountcollyer Street, you say,’ she murmured, reaching back through her memory.

‘Well, it was just about there,’ she said, pointing her stick at a playground where a young mum was quietly pushing her daughter on a swing.

Of the back-to-back Victorian terraces that once marched down this inner-city stretch of north Belfast there was barely a trace.

Some new homes had replaced them, others were bricked-up and abandoned, but the district is depopulated and much emptier than it was half a century ago.

The opening of Sir Kenneth Branagh’s film Belfast, an homage to his home city that is widely tipped for an Oscar, has suddenly placed this tough inner-city quarter on the path of a new tourist trail.

To the sites of some of the worst terrorist outrages and the chillingly garish murals of the Republican Falls Road and the Loyalist Shankill, the narrow back streets where the young Branagh grew up is now an essential addition.

Sir Kenneth Branagh's film Belfast, an homage to his home city that is widely tipped for an Oscar, tells the story of the beginning of the troubles through the eyes of a nine-year-old Protestant schoolboy. Pictured: British soldiers attempt to control a civil rights demonstration in Belfast in 1970

The film, seen through the eyes of a nine-year-old Protestant schoolboy, tells the story of the beginning of the Troubles.

It is a vivid account of families being burned out of their homes because of their religion, troops on the streets and how the Northern Ireland conflict that erupted in the summer of 1969 forced the fictional Branaghs to escape the sectarian storm for a new life in England.

It is, of course, Sir Kenneth’s own story. He, his older brother and parents settled far from the bombs and bullets in small-town Reading.

As I sat through a packed screening at the city’s Queen’s University film theatre, it was clear that this celluloid rite-of-passage movie had touched some emotional raw nerves in his home town. At its conclusion, everyone stood to applaud and I noticed several elderly and middle-aged viewers had tears in their eyes.

Watching the film — and the audience’s reaction — brought back memories of my own time living in the city, not all of them bad. The kindnesses of ordinary people and the dignity of those who had suffered the most grievous losses at the hands of the IRA and Loyalist gunmen.

For just over three years, I reported from Belfast for this newspaper, with a home in the heart of the city, and I often found myself in the same bleak brick-built terraces like those of the family in Branagh’s Belfast.

It is several decades since I arrived in the Province where so much is bookended by history and anniversary. There was one such landmark at the weekend: 50 years since Bloody Sunday, when Paratroopers in Londonderry fired on civil rights protesters, killing 13.

‘Senseless’ was an over-used word in Ulster, where the near-30 years of violence cost the lives of some 3,700 people. But the hatred and bigotry were real. Pictured: soldiers patrolling the streets of Belfast

So much has changed since I was first posted to a city that at night was empty and silent. Today, it is vibrant and humming with activity. Bars and restaurants that closed at dusk now stay open late into the night — and these days you can drive right through the city centre.

Security gates and steel bars that were installed to thwart the car bombs, turning the heart of Belfast into a pedestrian-only zone, have long gone. It was in Belfast that the term ‘ring of steel’ was first memorably used.

From the skies above there was the constant clatter of Army helicopters circling trouble hotspots with their high-definition cameras, spawning another familiar phrase — ‘spy in the sky’.

Violence could erupt anywhere, at any time. One of the saddest episodes came on a Sunday morning as the churches emptied around Easter 1984.

As they left Mass together arm in arm, Tom Travers, his wife Joan and their 22-year-old daughter Mary, a primary school teacher, were ambushed by an IRA gang who regarded Mr Travers, a magistrate, as a legitimate target.

In the hail of shots that met them, Mr Travers was struck six times, yet somehow survived. Mary was hit by a bullet through the spine, killing her almost instantly. But for a jammed gun, her mother would have died too.

Of all the heartbreaking stories I covered in those years, this is the one that has remained with me. It was not just the random pointlessness of another killing but the premeditated wickedness in which people could justify the death of a young woman on the cusp of life as a mere regrettable inconvenience.

And then there was the ordinariness of its location. Tree-lined Windsor Avenue was far removed from the ghettos of west Belfast where the IRA usually strutted. At one end there was a lawn tennis club and, unlike in Branagh’s film, here middle-class Catholic and Protestant families had continued to live side by side.

It was the part of Belfast that felt most like an English provincial city. Perhaps that explained why the murder gang employed a woman walking a Pomeranian dog as look-out.

I lived in the next road and when the gunmen ran for their getaway car it was down the alleyway that linked the two streets that they escaped.

‘Senseless’ was an over-used word in Ulster, where the near-30 years of violence cost the lives of some 3,700 people. But the hatred and bigotry were real.

Pictured: Cupar Street, Belfast, where a 9 ft wall was erected to separate unionists from nationalists. The wall had to be raised twice more because petrol bombs could still be hurled from one side to another

When the police did catch and put on trial many gunmen — and the old Royal Ulster Constabulary was remarkably successful in prosecuting terrorists — I was always struck how the consciences of these cowardly killers were untouched by so much as a hint of remorse.

It used to be said that the people of Northern Ireland loved everybody — apart from each other.

And it is why in Alexandra Park, close to his old home and where young Ken Branagh and his pals played, a 10 ft-high steel fence runs through the middle, dividing one of Belfast’s main public spaces into Catholic and Protestant zones. At nightfall, this was a dangerous part of town. A soldier on foot patrol was shot dead here, his body left for hours until the Army could safely retrieve it.

Not far away, on the Antrim Road, only a few months after the Branagh family left for Berkshire, the bodies of three Royal Highland Fusiliers were discovered dead in a ditch — two of them were brothers.

At that point in early 1971, only three soldiers had been killed since the Army deployed. These horrific murders changed everything. By the end of that year, 60 had been killed; by the end of 1972 another 149 were dead, along with 249 innocent civilians.

Those terrible days, of course, are history and the Province has enjoyed more than 20 years of peace.

And yet long after the IRA ceasefire and that of the Loyalist paramilitaries, these steel barricades separating unionist from nationalist are a symbol of the sectarian divisions that remain to this day.

On the sunny afternoon I visited, there were tourists with cameras slung around their necks marvelling at the so-called ‘Peace Wall’.

The most famous of these is again not far from where Branagh was brought up. It is on Cupar Way, an interface between the two communities where they started with a 9 ft wall, only to have to raise it twice more because petrol bombs could still be hurled from one side to another.

British troops search vehicles on the Belfast to Londonderry Road in Northern Ireland shortly before civil rights march and Bloody Sunday shootings on January 30, 1972

You don’t have to look far for signs of this sectarian bigotry. You can read it in the slogans and in the freshly painted graffiti.

‘KAH’, is plastered over the wall on the Catholic side of Alexandra Park. It stands for ‘Kill all Hanoverians’: that is, royalists or, in other words, Loyalists. A sense of history has always been necessary to navigate through Ulster. Daubed on the other side of the park was ‘KAT’ — ‘Kill all Taigs’ — a long-standing slur for Roman Catholics.

Other slogans are depressingly familiar from my time here — ‘Death to touts’, a universal description for informers.

Now the prisons have been emptied and the terrorists pardoned, so these days the ‘touts’ might inform on the drugs gangs that are run by former paramilitaries enforcing their thuggery through punishment beatings and kneecappings, just as they did years ago.

Of course, this is not the only side to life in Belfast. There’s the fabulous Titanic museum, one of the world’s leading visitor attractions, and the nearby Game Of Thrones film set. Many scenes of Line Of Duty were filmed in the city and its famous graffiti subway near the Albert Clock is on the tourist beat.

Together, they represent the resilience of Branagh’s old town — and he pays tribute to them in the opening sweep of the film.

But they are relatively new symbols of hope. The most famous has just marked its 50th birthday. It is the Europa, once the most bombed hotel in the world and for generations of reporters — including me when I first arrived — a home on the front line.

They stopped counting how many times it had been bombed when they reached 33 in its first 25 years.

British Army Soldiers man a roadblock on the Belfast-Londonderry road on the day of a civil rights march in Derry

It opened in 1971 and its timing could not have been worse. Even before it had served its first customer, an incendiary device was slipped into a roll of carpet due to be fitted.

One bomb was delivered by hand in a box with ‘IRA’ written on the side and brazenly dumped on the reception desk. Equally bold as brass, the then-manager Harper Brown courageously picked up the box and took it back outside.

Needless to say, it was brought back in again and this time detonated. In all those years, no one was ever killed and, though the repair bills ran into millions of pounds, it never closed.

Only once did the bombers succeed in putting the hotel — temporarily — out of business. The very last bomb, 1,000lb of explosive packed into a car, tore through the building in 1993 when it was already in receivership.

Within six months, it was open for business and a couple of years later hosted President Bill Clinton when he flew in to kick-start the peace process.

Ironically, the Covid-19 pandemic achieved what decades of IRA bombs failed to do — forcing the hotel to shut not once but three times.

A blue plaque at the hotel celebrates Clinton’s visit. If Kenneth Branagh’s film does triumph at the Academy Awards, then perhaps the city fathers will be finding a suitable gable end to put up another plaque — to Belfast’s most famous living actor. And Mountcollyer Street should be a lot easier to find.

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-10462125/RICHARD-KAY-Bombs-Branagh-learned-Belfast-city-hatred-destroy.html

Remember… the Covid-19 pandemic achieved what decades of IRA bombs failed to do — forcing the (Europa) hotel to shut not once but three times. — Daily Mail

[moomota]

I FOUND A SONG THAT IS BASICALLY SUNNY’S CHARACTER

its this  ,i tried posting this earlier but tumblr formatting sucks so ill try again, lyrics i found super close to sunnys character have short explanations in parentheses after them)

Thought cycle gusty a mind filled with hot air

Must I care for nothing more than myself?

Do I dare admit the fraught thoughts cavorting, resorting in inner-directed mourning (not just black space, but the entirety of dreamworld),

 for the part of me that was selfless but left without a warning

Well that’s what I said, but maybe it’s the fact that I detest, this obsession with myself that leaves a mess inside my head

Oh shit, I’m doing it again, repelling any potential friend (shutting out his friends), 

revealing my innate ability to never fully comprehend (him being unable to face his guilt), anything bigger than myself, but in the end I still pretend (staying in the dreamworld/not going out into the real world even when given the choice to go out)

Condescending anyone polite enough to choose to misspend their time watching me as I achieve, my secret social mission; To drain people with my boring stories and opinions (sunnys insecurities/thoughts that he is selfish; that he only goes to his friends and not in return)

To see the bigger picture; takes intelligence and wisdom, But I won’t see nothing but just myself in my vision (sunnys choice to close out everything outside his dreams in the real world)

I go outside, a blitz of faces unwilling to confess to any empathy, endlessly, incessantly declining any pleasantries

Heavily breathing, socially teething, I’m open like a vivisection

Intense tendency to dwell, seething over missed connections (not only over his late sister, but his old friend group as well). 

Infected by my perceptions that I’m a non-entity 

Project my insecurity until intensity is weaponry (his emotions and insecurities weaponizing into something that can cause harm, both in the dream world and in the real one, or his fight with basil in basils bedroom at night)

Grieving a heavenly fiction I perceived while I was dreaming. Awake! (his contrast between the waking world sunny vs omori)

Freezing, wheezing, fundamentally I’m still believing that

This is an elegy for concepts I conceived in deep sleep (all the ideas of the dreamworld, white space, black space)

And I helplessly watch them fade while I awake–I try and keep them alive (sunny trying to uphold the safeness/comfort it gives him to cope)

Incomparable with life but eventually they die (basil and mari constantly leading sunny to the truth)

And the brain I used to cultivate reveals my lovers were a lie   When inside my mind I find a way to replicate reality

Through lucid dreaming I decimate the limitations of actuality. Capacity practically eternal, mortality external (obviously sunny creating beings and interactions that are impossible, upholding the fanatical feeling to cope)

No God, but I investigate the blasphemous worship of the nocturnal

Internally existing without morality creates profanities without the travesty, and compared to the apathy of realness, I reveal my own insanity (the eventual reveal of black space(s))

The majesty of fantasy protects me from tragedy (need i explain?)

Normalities effect traject agony of rationality, which thankfully penetrates with no avail to my unreality

An elaborately designed, privately owned spiral galaxy (a world he only knows, a world he (sort of controls), a galaxy that he controls in his mind that bends to his will)

Financially I’m failing, naturally decaying (sunnys body in real life slowly becoming frailer)

Soon I’ll have no place safe to sleep If these bills still need paying

Displaying cravings with open eyes for something mind-expanding

For when I drift away I see the totality of understanding (bad ending)

[rhetoricandlogic]

An Elegy for the Rest of Us: A Psalm for the Wild-Built by Becky Chambers

Linda H. Codega

Tue Jul 13, 2021 10:00am

When the inevitable labor dystopia comes crashing down around our ears, I can only hope that the future humanity builds out of the rubble resembles the world in A Psalm for the Wild-Built.

This cozy novella follows Sibling Dex, a nonbinary tea monk as they journey through Panga. They have a cart, a full selection of herbs and tea accoutrement, pillows, and a kind ear to lend. They’re not necessarily a therapist, but slightly adjacent. A friendly face who’s willing to listen to your troubles, offer you a nice cuppa, and give you a chance to rest.

Dex’s whole job is to hold space for others. And while they find this important, as they travel their route, they eventually realize that they’re unhappy. The work is good work, but it’s not fulfilling. It’s not enough. They still want to hear crickets in the evening, they still want to feel something bigger.

In typical mid-to-late-twenties crises mode, they decide to head for a semi-mythical mountain hermitage in the wilds, abandoned before the end of the Factory Age. As far as off-the-cuff decisions go, it’s not the worst I’ve seen. During this absolutely fantastic display of a person experiencing an existential crises that they accidentally come into contact with a robot. The first robot any human has been in contact with in hundreds of years.

Robots, in Psalm, are the descendants of the factory machines who gained sentience and abandoned their posts. Their ascendancy into individual consciousness prompted the end of the Factory Age, and pushed humanity to change (by all measures, it seems, for the better). The robot community vowed to leave humans alone, but left a Promise—they will come back, but on their own terms. At the point that Dex meets this living machine, the robots are a fairy tale, more or less.

The robot that Dex runs into is Mosscap—a wild-built robot reconstructed from the older factory models. Mosscap is an emissary of the robots, sent to reestablish contact with humans, with the express purpose of asking humanity (in general) what they might be in need of. It’s unfortunate that Mosscap has met Dex first, as they have genuinely no clue what they want.

The story that comes out of this unlikely pairing; a dissatisfied tea monk searching for the sound of crickets at night and a sentient robot with a fondness for insects, is nothing short of wonderful. As the two creatures share desires, understandings, and their cultures, out comes a gentle peace within their companionship.

There’s a distance between Psalm and the real world in a way that a lot of post-apocalyptic fiction doesn’t grapple with. The worldbuilding in the piece is a tribute to the future we could have; the future that we might be working towards. It’s a slant omen, like a fairy tale. Descriptive moments of rest and abbreviated movement creates a coziness to the narrative. The focus isn’t on the dangers of living as we are now, but the metaphor is clear. Focusing on the story’s present moment, A Psalm for the Wild-Built cares most deeply about the relationship between Dex and Mosscap, the commune between two characters and the gaps in their knowledge. With the book speaking to us, and the main characters listening to others, this is a book about the necessary artistry of conversation.

Within this book are affirmations that in any other context might seem overly sentimental, but when presented as a matter of fact from a sentient robot, become weirdly resonant. There’s a particular moment when the pair are having a rather deep existential conversation when Dex asks Mosscap how they can deal with the possibility of their existence being meaningless. Mosscap responds, “Because I know that no matter what, I’m wonderful.”

It’s such a simple exchange, but the emotional weight of this in the book is really remarkable. So much of Psalm is a commentary on the anxieties of living in a world that expects productivity, when often we just need to sit down, listen, and perhaps have a cup of tea. The novella remarks on the overwhelming need for self-development and self-improvement in our contemporary society and asks what if we didn’t hold ourselves to these standards? What if we just existed and allowed who we are to be safe within our own selves.

Psalm asks, what if we chose to just be, without expectation. What do we gain when we realize, without conditions, that we are enough, that being alive is enough to be wonderful?

A Psalm for the Wild-Built exists in a wilderness of comfort. It is an elegy for the people that we might have been, and it’s a hopeful look towards the future, using modern anxieties as a way to create a remarkable intimacy between the reader and Sibling Dex. The inherent reliability of this novella in its voice, structure, and narrative choices will make it a standard in the idealized futurism of hopepunk stories.

[wistfulcynic]

The Bend of the Arc (4/ 4)

SUMMARY: Emma Swan hates Killian Jones at first sight. He's everything she despises in a man: arrogant, provocative, and a known criminal associate of the city’s most notorious gangster. She’s determined to put him behind bars, until a shocking event forces them together and Emma discovers that there’s a lot more to Killian than meets the eye.

-

THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone reading this story! I’ve been blown away by your amazing and insightful comments, and so touched. You are all thoroughly brilliant and I want to hug you. Contact-free internet hugs for all!

All the love always to @thisonesatellite​ for her ‘splaining, even the cold kind ❤️

Rating: M (smut and language)     Words: 5.8k (of 30k total)   Tags: Modern AU, enemies to lovers, bounty hunter!Emma, criminal!Killian, smut, bedsharing

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | On AO3

-

PART FOUR: 

It didn’t take long to prepare for their departure. Neither of them had come with any luggage; Killian simply packed his tuxedo and her dress and shoes into a large plastic bag and tossed it into the back of the Jeep. They had a quick breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen, quickly tidied the rest of the cottage and then were ready to go. 

Emma took a last look around as Killian reset the security system, trying to fix the little space in her memory. A heavy ache of sadness sat in her chest knowing that she would never see this place again, and Killian… she had no idea what might happen between them when they got back. What she even wanted to happen. 

The drive down to the lake was a silent one. Emma noticed that the path they took down the mountain was straighter than the one that had brought them up it, keeping mostly parallel to the meandering line described by the creek he’d shown her, the one she was to follow if she ever needed to find the lake again. 

The motorboat was precisely where they’d left it. Killian turned off the Jeep and tucked the keys beneath the visor, then fetched the jackets and life vests from the back as Emma grabbed the plastic bag with their clothes. She tossed it into the boat before putting on her jacket and vest and stepping aboard, with no need for Killian’s hand this time. Moments later they were underway, rounding the curve of the lake and heading back to the river that would lead them to the larger lake and the boat that had carried them to it, the one Killian claimed belonged to one of his employees. 

It too was right where they’d left it. Emma frowned as she removed her vest and jacket, handing them to Killian who boarded the larger boat with them tucked beneath his arm and stowed them in a compartment beneath the seating on the deck. 

“Don’t you worry, leaving things like this?” she asked. “A yacht, just sitting there, and the keys left inside the Jeep?” 

“Hardly anyone lives out here,” he replied, turning another key to start the boat’s engine. “And those who do keep to themselves. It’s why I chose this place.” 

Emma stayed on the deck of the boat as it purred down the skinny lake—which she soon realised was not a lake at all but a long and winding inlet that opened out into the sea. Land masses crowded the horizon, some clearly islands and others possibly part of the mainland split up by more inlets. Killian steered them gradually to their left, maintaining a more or less straight course in that direction until slowly the islands became less plentiful and a city began to resolve in a blue-grey haze before them. 

“You’d better get below,” Killian told her. “And stay quiet.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Remember that passport you don’t have?” 

“Oh.” 

She went below and curled up again in the bunk where she’d slept the night of their escape, but no sleep claimed her this time. Voices filtered down from above, muffled but recognisable as Killian’s and another that sounded like a woman. Their conversation was short and soon the boat was moving again. Emma waited another twenty minutes before venturing back onto the deck. 

“Aye, love, it’s clear,” Killian said with a smile when she poked her head through the small door. “We’re back in American waters.” 

“So,” she said, resuming her position on one of the padded benches, “you basically smuggled me into Canada,”  

“Basically.” 

He seemed disinclined to elaborate, tension creeping visibly into his posture as they drew nearer to the city.  Soon Emma began to recognise the skyline and about twenty minutes later they arrived back at the marina. 

Killian brought the boat into the mooring they’d taken it from and tossed the lines to a short, round man with a dark beard and an anxious disposition who appeared to be waiting for them. 

“Everything all right, Mr Jones?” he asked. 

“No problems, Smee,” Killian replied. “Thank you for the loan of her.” 

“Anytime, sir.” 

The man nodded to Emma as she debarked and gave her a nervous smile. She smiled back, as warmly as she could manage, then followed Killian across the lot to where his car was parked—another thing just as they’d left it, but with one addition. Graham was leaning against the hood with his arms crossed and his badge prominent, watching them approach with a hard expression. 

He and Killian shook hands, the kind of handshake men exchange when they’d prefer to exchange fists to the face, and then Graham turned to Emma. His eyes raked over her, taking in every detail, leaving her with the uncomfortable sensation that he could see everything she’d done over the past few days—that she had slept with Killian and how her feelings towards him had changed. It made her angry; it wasn’t Graham’s business who she fucked or how she felt about them, and she returned his appraisal with a cool stare. 

“Are you all right?” he asked her. 

“Fine,” she snapped. “Never better.” 

Graham shot Killian another dark look. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ve got a cruiser waiting to take us to the station.” 

“I’d prefer to drive myself, mate, if that’s all right,” Killian replied. 

“If you must,” said Graham. “But Emma comes with me.” 

“I’m going with Killian,” said Emma firmly. “And I’m stopping by my place first, to get a change of clothes. 

Graham’s eyes flitted from her to Killian and back again, his jaw clenching, and she wondered if he would pull rank. Finally he gave a short nod. “Fine. Be at the station in an hour.” 

He turned on his heel and headed for his cruiser, squealing out of the parking lot a minute later in a way that felt deliberate. Killian didn’t look at her as he got into his car and so she simply got in herself, hugging the plastic bag with their clothes tightly to her chest. 

Killian knew where she lived. Of course he did, thought Emma, just as she knew where he lived. He went straight to her apartment, parking in her usual space and wordlessly following her inside, where she retrieved her dress and shoes from the plastic bag and held it out to him. 

“Sit wherever,” she said. “I’ll just change quickly and be right back.” 

He nodded, taking the bag, and she retreated to her bedroom where she shed his clothes and replaced them with her own. As glad as she was to put on actual underwear and clothes that fit—and she was very, very glad for it—the ache in her chest throbbed again as she folded Killian’s jeans and t-shirt and rolled up his socks. She ran a brush through her hair and pulled it into a ponytail, and when she opened her closet to fetch her jacket she froze. 

Killian’s jacket was there beside it, the one he’d put around her shoulders the first night they met. The one she’d intentionally kept to fuel her anger and keep her determination to see justice done to him fresh and hot, and now—

Now it made her want to cry. 

Slowly she removed it from the hanger and held it to her cheek. It smelled like him, that warm, spicy scent that was so familiar now. Emma buried her face in it, breathing deeply and fighting back her tears. Then she placed it gently atop the pile of his clothes and put on her red leather. 

When she returned to her living room Killian was still standing where she’d left him, staring out the window with an expression she couldn’t read. He smiled when he saw her, a smile that started bright and quickly dimmed, one that seemed involuntary. 

“Well,” he said, waving his hand at her outfit. “That’s better, isn’t it?” 

“Much,” she replied, smiling back. “Um, here’s your clothes.” 

“Thanks.” He put them in the bag with his tuxedo. 

“And, uh, I should probably give this back too.” She held out his jacket. 

“Ah.” Killian stared at it, emotion flaring in his eyes but quickly quenched. “Er, yes, thanks.” He took the jacket, not looking at her. 

“Killian—” 

“We should probably get going. I wouldn’t want to face Graham’s wrath if we’re late.” 

“Yeah. But can we, um… can we just...” 

“What?” 

Talk, she wanted to say. Fix this, whatever this was that had been so fragile last night and felt shattered now. But she knew there wasn’t time and Killian’s face was shuttered again, carefully concealing all traces of the man she already missed. 

She put her hand on his arm and he caught his breath. “Emma,” he whispered, “I—”

She stepped closer and he swayed towards her, reaching up to stroke her cheek with trembling fingers that curled around the back of her head as she tilted it up. 

“I—” he tried again, then his lips were on hers, his arms closing tight around her. Emma whimpered and stood on her toes, pressing as close to him as she could get, her own arms twined around his neck and clinging like she never wanted to let go. 

She didn’t, but she couldn’t hold on to him, not when he was still keeping things from her. Not when she could never trust him. Emma had been down that road before and she knew where it led—jail time and a broken heart, and a son she would never know.  

Killian kissed her with a desperation that echoed in her soul, fingers tangled in her hair and clutching at her waist, mouth hot and demanding and achingly gentle, sweet and bitter, an elegy, an apology and a goodbye. 

As their lips parted he let his forehead rest on hers, his eyes closed. “We should go,” he said. 

Emma squeezed her own eyes shut, breathing him in. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m ready.”  

~

Graham was waiting for them at the station along with what seemed like half his precinct, sweeping Emma away while Killian was corralled by the others and leading her to an interview room like she wasn’t there all the time and didn’t know the way as well as he did. 

“Do you want anything to drink?” he asked her. “Coffee, or—” 

“I know what the coffee’s like in this place so I’ll pass, thanks.” 

Graham’s lip twitched. “Fair.” 

A knock sounded at the door and he opened it to admit his partner, a dark-haired man with a perpetually smug expression. “Emma, you remember August Booth?” he asked, cringing slightly when Emma and August turned to him with identical exasperated eye rolls. 

“Of course I remember August, he still owes me fifty bucks from the last poker night,” said Emma. “I know this case is a big deal, but can you please remember I’m your friend and not some stranger who needs to be handled with kid gloves?” 

“My friend,” Graham repeated. “Right.”  

August sat across from her and laid a clipboard and a small tape recorder on the table. “Emma, I need you to make an official statement of what you witnessed at Robert Gold’s mansion, do you consent?” he asked. 

Emma nodded.  

“And you consent to have your statement recorded?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good. Sign here.” 

She did, but before August could turn the recorder on, Graham spoke from the doorway. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Emma? You’ve had a stressful past few days, we can do it tomorrow—” 

“No,” said Emma firmly, wishing Killian were here and also wishing she didn’t wish it. “I want this over with and I want Gold to go down.” She nodded to August. “Let’s get started.” 

~

It took more than an hour, with Emma telling and retelling her story and August asking questions, pressing her for more details, for everything she could remember. When it was over she was exhausted and emotionally raw, with a pounding head and a fierce desire for a hot bath and a soft bed, and Killian. Maybe he would agree to stay with her tonight, she thought, rubbing her temples. Just for tonight. Just one more night.

She returned to the bullpen to find Graham waiting for her. 

“Everything go okay?” he asked. 

“Yeah, I think so. You’ll have to ask August for the details because my brain is mush, but… yeah.” 

Graham gave her a sort of half-hug, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck to massage it. “You did well.” 

 “I’m just glad it’s done.” 

“Gold’s been remanded without bail,” he informed her. “You should be safe enough to go home, though I’m placing a couple uniforms outside your door just in case. Is your car here?” 

“No.” 

“I’ll get them to drive you then, too.” 

Emma shook her head and pulled away. “That’s okay, Killian can—” 

“Killian’s gone,” Graham snapped, his face going dark. 

“What?” Her heart twisted, bent and folded itself into a tight knot of agony. 

“He left half an hour ago. Said to tell you goodbye, and he’s sorry.” Graham’s eyes flashed. “What does he have to be sorry for, Emma?” 

She shook her head. “Nothing.” 

He snorted. 

“Nothing like what you’re thinking,” she snapped. Anger surged within her, hot and cleansing, burning away the pain.   

“So you didn’t—” He made a vague gesture with his hand, scowl deepening, and oh, Emma relished this anger. 

“Didn’t what?” she asked with a tight, mocking smile. “Fuck him?” Graham winced, and her smile became a sneer. “Oh yeah, I definitely did that. And you know what? I’d do it again.” 

He clenched his fists, nostrils flaring. “So much for your high-and-mighty ideals about trusting criminals,” he spat. 

“I never said I trusted him.” Emma intended the words to sting but her voice rose on a wobble and she spun away, pushing and elbowing her way through the crowded bullpen towards the exit before Graham could see her tears. 

She was nearly there when his hand closed around her elbow. “Emma,” he said, softly and without rancour. “I’ll drive you home.” 

~

Graham pulled up in front of Emma’s apartment and turned off the engine. They sat in silence for a moment, she desperately clinging to the remnants of her anger and he staring at his hands. 

“Emma—” he began. 

“Why do you hate Killian?” The last of the anger slipped away as she spoke his name, leaving the hurt stronger in its absence, leaving her wanting only to curl into a ball and weep forever. 

Graham sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t hate him. Once I loved him like a brother.” He paused, his throat working. “Part of me still does.” 

“But then why—” 

“Because I don’t want to see you become just another woman he hurts!” Graham cried, twisting in his seat to face her. “Did he tell you about the others?” 

“He told me he’d hurt people—”

“Did he tell you he had an affair with Gold’s first wife?” 

“No, but—” 

“Gold found out and she turned up dead. Stab wound to the heart.” 

Emma’s own heart twisted even tighter. “That’s on Gold, not Killian,” she whispered.

"Maybe. But when Gold’s current wife got shot, that was Killian.” 

“He shot her?” Emma exclaimed. “I thought she was—”

“She survived,” Graham said harshly. “But Killian and Gold have a lot of ugly history and he had no right to bring you into that! I should never have allowed it.” 

“Graham—” 

“And then the way you were looking at him earlier—he’s not worth it, Emma! Whatever you think you feel for him, he’s not worth it.” Graham swallowed hard and turned back to face the steering wheel. “I’m not saying this out of jealousy.” His voice was low and rough. “I know that’s what you’re thinking, and I won’t deny that I wish there could be something between us. But I'd be happy just to see you happy, and Killian—all he’ll do is hurt you.”  

“He won’t,” she replied. Not intentionally, anyway. “He wouldn’t.”

Graham slammed his fists on the steering wheel. “For fuck’s sake!” he cried. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”   

“Every one.” Emma was surprised by how calm she felt, though the ache grew with every beat of her heart and tears hovered at the back of her throat. “I know how hard it was for Killian to lose your friendship, but it must have been even harder for you. Seeing what he became, knowing there was nothing you could do to stop it.” 

“I—” He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. It was.” 

“He hasn’t changed as much as you think. He’s still a good man at his core, despite everything." 

“Emma—” 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to—” her voice broke “—to see him again. I know I can’t trust him.” She put her hand on Graham’s and squeezed gently, leaning forward to catch his eye. “But there is one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty, and that is that Killian Jones would never, ever hurt me.” 

Graham stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “I hope you’re right,” he muttered. 

~

Gold pled guilty to Felix’s murder, along with a dozen other charges of money laundering, fraud, and larceny. His plea came as a surprise to the district attorney, who had offered him no deal. The case against him was solid and she was hoping to make a landmark of it, expecting Gold to use all the resources at his disposal to fight the charges. 

“So why didn’t he?” Emma asked Graham. 

“Once his wife found out what he’d been doing, she threatened to leave him if he didn’t confess everything and accept the consequences, no strings attached,” he replied.  

“Wow.” Emma gave a low whistle. “I think I like this woman.” 

When Gold was sentenced to life imprisonment with no possibility of parole—the district attorney could smell blood in the water and pushed for the maximum sentence—Emma was in the courtroom to witness it. She had testified before the grand jury, coolly recounting what she had witnessed in the gallery with her eyes on Gold the whole time, unflinching even under his icy, furious glare. She thought about Killian and how his staunch support had helped her through the worst of her trauma, had brought her to this place where she could stand strong, look evil in the eye and see justice done. 

You’re a tough lass, he’d said, and she was determined to live up to that.  

As the judge’s gavel fell, Emma was filled with a deep, primal satisfaction, and when Gold turned as he was being led away and his eyes found hers in the crowd, she couldn’t resist a smirk. This time at least there would be no escape from that justice. Not for Robert Gold. 

Killian wasn’t at the grand jury or the sentencing. She hadn’t really expected him to be, of course, but still she’d hoped… she’d hoped. 

Days passed and then weeks, weeks Emma thought would dull the ache in her chest and soothe away the itch beneath her skin, the one that urged her just to call him. But the time only weighed more heavily the longer it stretched, and with each day that went by the itch to call him grew both stronger and easier to resist. She knew his number, of course, and of course he must know she did. If he wanted to hear from her he would have said so. He would have left a message with Graham, or called her his damn self. She knew that he must have her number too. 

She went back to work, back to chasing criminals and deadbeats. The old thrill she felt at catching them was undiminished, but every time one spat at her or called her a cunt she couldn’t help remembering Killian when he’d been in their shoes, the challenge of sparring with him and how exhilarating it was, even when she’d hated him. 

Killian was rarely far from her thoughts. She thought of him when she was bored on stakeouts and found herself wishing for a book, when she ate a piece of the fruit she now found herself buying and when she put cinnamon creamer in her coffee. She thought of him when she slipped her fingers between her legs at night and when she cried herself to sleep afterwards. 

She thought of Killian every time she didn’t ask Graham if he’d heard from him, every time she resisted the urge to drive past his house and every time she bought a new romance novel, because damn it she was hooked on them now and she wasn’t giving them up just because every one reminded her of how damned much she missed Killian Jones. 

Feel what you’re feeling, Killian had said to her. It’s the only way to heal. 

Emma had a lot of un-felt feelings—more than a decade of them, from as far back as the day she’d refused to hold her baby though his newborn wails tore at her heart. She’d refused to feel the loss of her son or of his father, refused to mourn Neal or acknowledge the traces of love she still had for him. Refused to let anyone else get close enough to make her feel—until Killian smashed through the walls she’d built around her heart without even trying, catching her off guard with kindness and bone-deep decency from the last person on Earth she’d expected to show either. 

It made her wonder if she might have misjudged other people in her life and if maybe, possibly, letting some of those people in might not be so bad. As much as missing Killian hurt—and it hurt, with an agony that sank its claws into the very deepest depths of her—she couldn’t regret the time she’d spent with him. And maybe, she thought, possibly, that was what he’d meant by healing. Feeling her feelings didn’t lessen the pain of them, but it gave her the tools she needed to manage it. 

She felt guilty for giving up her baby. She felt stupid for letting Neal manipulate her but still sorry he’d died in the jail cell she’d put him in, sorry she’d never told him about their son. She felt angry at her own parents for abandoning her, and not even properly—not given her up for adoption just tossed her on the side of the road like a piece of trash. She felt weak for how hurt that made her feel and how worthless, and she felt angry at the system that allowed her to fall through the cracks of it, angry at a society that forced her to become hard just to hold on to herself. 

She felt. And then she began to heal.

~  

A month after the sentencing an envelope arrived in Emma’s mailbox. A plain manila one without much in the way of identifying markings but thick and heavy. She tossed it onto her kitchen table with the rest of the bills and junk and then promptly forgot about it, her mind all on the deadbeat father she was hunting—the one who owed over $80,000 in alimony and child support to his two ex-wives and the five kids they had between them—and there were few people Emma relished nailing more than a shitty-ass parent. 

When she got home that night it was late and she was tired, looking forward to some Chinese takeout or maybe just instant ramen and her bed. She tossed her keys at the table where they missed the little bowl she kept there to hold them, landing instead on the envelope. Emma frowned at it as she retrieved them, and after depositing them firmly in the bowl picked up the envelope and examined it. The postmark was local but there was no return address, no company name or any other information about the sender. 

Graham would tell her not to touch it. But even if there were any associates of Gold’s still lurking out there seeking revenge on her, Emma figured they’d just shoot her and not send mysterious envelopes through the mail. She sat down at the table and ripped it open, and instantly she was wide awake. 

Within the envelope were records, financial ones, page upon page of them. Business records, bank accounts, tax documents. All in the name of Killian Jones, and each one helpfully annotated with notes and arrows and little diagrams, so that even her inexpert eye could recognise the picture that they painted. 

Emma stared at them in shock. This was everything she had spent months looking for, the hidden money that lay behind his legitimate businesses. Offshore accounts, shell corporations, all so skilfully concealed that she could never have hoped to uncover them. This was what he had refused to tell her about at the cabin. 

The papers wrinkled beneath the pressure of her fingers as she realised what this meant. Killian had given her every scrap of evidence the police would need to pursue charges against him. She could take it to them now and he would be arrested, and she knew that if she chose to do that he would go quietly, with no complaints and no resentment against her. He wouldn’t try to run or use clever lawyers and legal tricks to escape the consequences. She could send him to jail, where they both knew he belonged. 

Or she could… not. 

Something at the bottom of the stack of papers caught her eye—another, slightly smaller envelope. Emma opened it somewhat warily and stared again, this time in astonishment. Inside were more documents but these ones contained no evidence of crime; very much the opposite, in fact. One of them gave details of a foundation that had been set up to provide free shelter, counselling, and legal services to help teenagers escape abusive homes, while another described a college scholarship fund for kids in the foster system. This included money for tutoring, application advice, and SAT/ACT prep courses that would put the foster kids on a more equal footing with wealthier ones whose parents could afford such things. 

There were others too, women’s shelters and free clinics, and Emma wondered how the hell Killian had managed to pay for all of this. He was rich, sure, but most of his assets were tied up in his businesses; this level of investment was well beyond what he could afford on what he had that was legal and liquid. 

Her answer came in the last document in the pile. Short and straightforward, it outlined the liquidation of every single thing he owned that wasn’t strictly aboveboard, and how that money had been funnelled into the charities he’d set up. Millions of dollars, just given away, leaving him with a decent income from his remaining concerns but nothing at all like the wealth he’d had before. And it was done so neatly, Emma realised, all but tied up with a pretty red bow. The charities were funded with money that was sparkling clean, laundered so well it would take experts years to sort out how he’d done it. She could still turn him in using the other evidence he’d given her, without endangering any of the good things he’d done with his dirty money. 

Killian had placed his fate entirely in her hands.

Emma laid the papers down on the table, let her head fall into those hands and sobbed. Her emotions, wild and confused for so long now, resolved themselves, solidified and crystallised into one shining and inescapable certainty. She was in love, for the second time in her life, and once again with a man on the wrong side of the law. It was history repeating itself, the one thing she’d sought to protect her heart against, but with two crucial differences: Killian was not Neal, and this time her eyes were wide fucking open. 

~

“William Smee?” 

The little man appeared at the railing of his boat, smiling much less nervously than at their first meeting and wearing a red knit cap that struck Emma as oddly whimsical. “Miss Swan, is it?” he called. 

“Yes.” 

“Come aboard.” 

It hadn’t taken long to find him. The owner of the boat Killian had borrowed was indeed one of his employees—his, never Pan’s. Though it seemed that Smee had once worked for Gold, until he’d messed up a job and nearly lost his life for it, until Killian had given him a reason to take on a different kind of employment. 

People who owe me considerable debts and loyalty, he’d said, and he’d said the man’s name as well, loudly and clearly enunciated and within her hearing.

Emma climbed up to the deck to find Smee waiting for her, still smiling, his expression polite and expectant. 

“How can I help you ma’am?” he asked. 

I’m pretty sure you know how, Emma thought, but she stated the obvious anyway. “I need you to tell me how to find the place where Killian moors his boat,” she said. “When he needs a bit of an escape.” 

Smee’s smile widened. “I’ll do you one better,” he said. “I’ll take you there.” 

~

Killian’s boat was there at the pier when they arrived, long and sleek and very unoccupied. Smee moored his own next to it, then turned to Emma with another smile and a proffered hand. 

“Is there anything more I can do for you, ma’am?” he asked. 

Emma took his hand and shook it firmly. “Nope, I can take it from here. But thank you.” 

“My pleasure,” said Smee, and handed her a life vest. “Take this too,” he advised. “Or Mr Jones will have my head.” 

Emma strapped the vest on securely before boarding the motorboat that was just where she expected to find it, though somewhat cleaner and with a newer engine than she recalled. It started up with a rumbling purr and Emma gripped the tiller carefully, steering the boat in a wide arc, less smoothly than Killian had but then she’d only done this once before—in an old boat belonging to August’s boyfriend’s cousin and for no longer than it took to master the basics. 

She aimed the boat as best she could for where she thought the river was, altering her course twice before she found it then nearly running aground on its narrow banks. But she stayed afloat and soon found herself emerging into the lake, rounding its curve and heading for the pier, pulling the motorboat up with what she thought was impressive smoothness and securing it to the piling, right next to another motorboat of a similar style. 

It took her a good fifteen minutes to locate the mouth of the stream, but once she had and had followed it a little ways up the mountain she spotted a Jeep parked along its banks. A newer model than Killian’s and in a different shade of green, but the keys were beneath the visor and Emma felt no trace of surprise at finding them there. 

She was better at driving cars than boats and it wasn’t hard to follow the path of the stream, a path she remembered quite well from her trip down it several months before. Soon she spotted the cottage off to her right and turned away from the stream, navigating carefully through the trees and into the little clearing. 

She got out of the Jeep and retrieved a large duffel bag from the back, withdrew from that the large manila envelope and a Zippo lighter and headed for the fire pit. Selecting a few from Killian’s store of seasoned logs, she arranged them in the pit as she had seen him do, tucking dry twigs in around them for kindling but adding no tinder. Instead she held the lighter to a corner of the envelope and watched it catch, watched the flames lick up and spread across it, devouring the papers inside. She held it up to the twigs until they caught fire then nestled it beneath them and the logs and watched the flames grow, leaping high in the air, the sparks rising up to meet the streaks of sunset just visible through the trees. 

“I hope you meant to do that, love, because I don’t have any other copies,” said a voice behind her, and though she was expecting it, waiting for it, longing for it, she still gave a little start at the sound. “Do you?” 

Emma turned, her heart in her throat, to see Killian standing just to the side of the porch, watching her with soft eyes and a heartbreaking smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she retorted. 

His smile widened. “I definitely would.”

Her feet carried her towards him, around the pit and across the small distance that separated them, then launched her into his arms. “No other copies,” she said. “Though I kept the papers in the smaller envelope. All of them but one.” 

He stroked her cheek, fingers tangling in her hair. “Emma, I’m sorry,” he murmured. 

“For what?” 

“Leaving you like that, at the station. I just—I couldn’t—” 

“You had things you needed to do,” she said. “And so did I. But we’ve done them now, right?” 

“Yes,” he said fiercely. “I swear to you, I—” 

“I believe you,” she interrupted. “I trust you.” 

He made a strangled noise, his eyes blazing with joy and awe and wonder. “You do?” he croaked. 

“Yeah.” She smiled softly. “And I love you.” 

“Bloody hell.” He pulled her closer, too roughly, his arms too tight around her, and buried his face in her hair. “I love you so much, Emma,” he whispered hoarsely. “But I wasn’t sure—I didn’t know—” 

“Shhh,” she soothed, stroking his head until he relaxed and loosened his hold on her, pulling back to wipe his eyes. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said. “Even after… after everything, I wasn’t sure you could take the risk. It’s been—well, it’s not been an easy past few weeks. Months, really.” 

“For me either,” she agreed. “But we both needed it, I think. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking actually and there’s so much I need to tell you. But first…” She draped her arms around his neck and gave him a saucy grin. 

“Mmmm?” he murmured, nuzzling at her cheek. “First what?” 

“First I’ve got a duffel bag full of marshmallows and chocolate and you, Killian Jones, are going to make a s’more. And eat it.” 

His chuckle sounded low in her ear, the voice that followed it light and happy. “For you, my love? Anything.” 

“Good,” said Emma, and kissed him. 

—

@thisonesatellite @ohmightydevviepuu @kmomof4​ @mariakov81​ @katie-dub​@spartanguard​ @darkcolinodonorgasm @courtorderedcake @squidvisious @cluttermind @teamhook @lfh1226-linda​ @shireness-says @stahlop

[mirage-krp]

The guardians welcome [ HA, WONYOUNG ] to the city of Jeonseol. She is [ A WITCH ] currently living in [ EMERALD ] and working as [ BARISTA ] at [ SECRET GARDEN ].

Welcome to Mirage! Please follow the admin twitter within 48 hours of your acceptance.

Faceclaim: Olivia Hye | LOONA

Name: Ha Wonyoung

Nickname(s): N/A

Age: 19

Date of birth: November 13, 2001

Species/myth/cryptid/etc:

Witch: Humans that are born with the ability to perform magic. There are many types of witches/wizards but Wonyoung’s species are those who need a wand to perform controlled magic. Her wand consist of silver-lime wood with a Veela-hair core, 11’ and is flexible.

Weaknesses:

A witches’ greatest weakness is herself. Magic ties into one’s emotions. However the caster feels determines how strong the spell/hex is. Therefore, emotions must be kept at bay or else accidental magic will occur.

Carrots are also another one of Wonyoung’s weakness. Her throat swells up and she develops a bad rash.

Favourite song or quote: Sugarplum Elegy - Niki

Residence: Emerald #3

Occupation: Secret Garden Barista

Personality:

personality traits: Articulate, absentminded, considerate, emotional, mystical, disciplined, fun-loving, gentle, loyal, peaceful, sophisticated, wise, complacent, seemingly one-dimensional, superstitious, perfectionistic, imaginative, helpful, elegant, self-critical, reserved, dreamy

likes: Writing poetry (especially haiku poem), exploring abandoned buildings, the colors white and green, learning new languages (she’s currently learning Mandarin), the sound of ocean waves, nail art, taking care of her succulent plants, giving and receiving massages, collecting seashells, baking cupcakes and cookies, hugging (especially taller people since she can bury her face just below their chin or in their chest), tarot card readings, lavender tea, thunder and lightning

dislikes: Mondays (even on the island those are the worst), being too early for a meeting or appointment, yoga or meditation (she just can’t stay still or focus long enough to enjoy it), puzzles, unnecessary competitiveness, carbonated drinks, having to stay inside, heights, fairytales (so unrealistic!), cold water, waking up late, tight-fitting clothes, surreal and abstract art, loud music (especially the sensation of heavy bass), dancing (because she’s horrible at it)

habits: Has a sing-song speech pattern when excited about something, her nose twitches whenever she’s frustrated or annoyed, bobbing her head while listening to music, sticking out her tongue whenever she’s concentrating, frequently gazes off into space, covering her mouth while chewing or laughing, crossing her legs when sitting, fiddling with jewelry if she’s wearing any

Background:

When Wonyoung was born, her family was doing well. Her mother was a succesful writer and her father owned his own restaurant. Somehow even with lives as busy as that, they managed to find enough time for their family. Wonyoung and her older brother were never abandoned or left alone. It wasn’t that difficult to arrange since their mother mostly worked from home, but at the same time she somehow managed to juggle writing a new book and taking care of two children. She was an admirable woman. Wonyoung’s father made sure to take enough time off so that his wife could rest and he could bond with the two children he had produced. He was as hard-working as he was loyal. If anyone would have been forced to imagine the perfect family, Wonyoung’s might have been the one to engrave itself into their minds.

Until the cold winter night of December 15th in 2014, a young Wonyoung was seated on the backseat of the car next to her brother. She had fallen asleep after visiting their grandparents.

Waking up felt like having a bucket of cold water dunked over her head. She was no longer in the car. She also wasn’t home. She was not in her own bedroom either. A hospital room had been there to greet her when she woke up. The panic that rose up from the pit of her stomach is a feeling that still haunts her to this day. A nurse had been kind enough to offer her a small cardboard container for the content of her stomach. Her older brother was soon allowed into her room. Apart from some cuts, bruises and a broken arm on her brother’s end, the two of them seemed to be alright. Wonyoung was given a brief explanation of what had happened; due to the cold weather the roads had become icy and dangerous yet their parents had decided to drive home. A second of her father not paying attention caused the car to meet a nearby tree, falling over and crushed the front half of the car. Her brother and herself were lucky to be spared from most damage, but her parents…

Wonyoung doesn’t recall much of the weeks that followed that moment. She does not remember the funeral. She doesn’t recall packing her belongings and moving in with her uncle - her mother’s younger brother - who lived in Tokyo, Japan. She couldn’t remember the last time she had attended school, the last time she had seen her friends, the last time she had smiled. She only left the house to visit her parents’ graves. Though slowly but surely, a sense of normality returned to her life. Wonyoung returned to her education and just focused on the things that were familiar to her. While she began to regain herself, it appeared her older brother just lost himself more and more. He wouldn’t often not come home for days and no matter how much their uncle scolded him for it, nothing seemed to help. The reply was always the same: “You’re not my father!” followed by the loud slamming of the front door echoing throughout the entire house.

The last time Wonyoung saw her older brother was two days after his eighteenth birthday, she had been sixteen at the time. It was the middle of the night and she woke up to use the bathroom. Only to find her brother snooping around the kitchen. She didn’t know what he was looking for, but when he spotted his younger sister in the doorway the look on his face could only leave her to make assumptions. He looked like he had been caught red-handed. His belongings were in bags on the kitchen table. Wonyoung knew her brother was leaving, running away, going wherever he wanted to. He was abandoning her. With a final hug, she returned to her room and just cried throughout the entire night.

With her brother’s disappearance, people quickly gathered around her and her uncle for support. Not wanting either of them to suffer more than they already had, police tried desperately to track down her brother but were incapable of finding anything for months.

For all that had happened to her, she managed to succeed in life to her best abilities. Applying for universities when the time came. Wonyoung’s urge to flee the place where her entire life had fallen apart still lingered. Her uncle was aware of this. It was why she had been allowed to apply for universities in other countries. She did not wish to return to the England and Japan had also become cursed in her point of view. Fortunately, a university in South Korea accepted her as a student with a scholarship. In Philosophy - to her own surprise and delight. To Wonyoung it was an excellent way to leave everything behind, she would make ends meet one way or another. It was now up to her to take care of herself.

Any wanted connections?: n/a

[ryanjdonovan]

DONOVAN’S OSCAR PROGNOSTICATION 2021

We all knew it was coming: The Oscar nominees are now almost literally handpicked by Netflix and Amazon. We thought it would be a few years away, but it's just one more piece of fallout from the pandemic. It won't be long now before I'm making my predictions for the Flixies or the Amazies. (By the way, streamers: I just want to watch the friggin' credits, why is that such a problem??)

In case you haven't been paying attention (and I'm pretty sure you haven't), Nomadland is going to win the big Oscars. Haven't seen Nomadland? Or even heard of it? Or any of the Oscar-nominated films? Or didn't even know the Oscars were happening this year? You're not alone. With no theaters this past year, the non-bingeable, non-Netflix-welcome-screen movies were pretty much an afterthought. (But if you asked the streaming services, the nominees this year each accounted for a billion new subscribers and topped the worldwide digital box office for months.)

Well, I'm here to tell you the Oscars are in fact happening, albeit a few months late. Fear not: my 22nd annual Oscar predictions will provide everything you need to know before the big night. (You don't even need to watch the movies themselves -- reading this article will take you just as long.)

BEST PICTURE:

SHOULD WIN: Minari WILL WIN: Nomadland GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Pieces Of A Woman INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Ma Rainey's Black Bottom

If you're a fan of capitalism, this is not the year for you. Nominees like Nomadland, Mank, Judas And The Black Messiah, The Trial Of The Chicago 7, Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, Hillbilly Elegy, Minari, and The White Tiger are all (to varying degrees) indictments of a capitalist system, or at the very least are suspicious of those who benefit from it, and focus on those left behind. It's certainly fertile ground for angst and high drama, if not belly laughs. (Don't get me started on the ironies of all these movies being distributed by billion-dollar conglomerates. The filmmakers, producers, and actors can tell you that the checks cash just fine.) Like Austin Powers said, "Finally those capitalist pigs will pay for their crimes, eh comrades?"

There is no way for me to talk about Nomadland, which will win Best Picture, without sounding like an a-hole. It's a gorgeous work of art, and a fascinating character study, but I struggled to connect to the story. (You should know that for me as a movie watcher, story is more engaging than artfulness or character. But hey, why can't we have all three?) I wanted to like it, I really did. I'm content to drift along with Fern, the resilient main character played naturally by Frances McDormand, but she has no true objective or antagonist. She's a nomad on the road, either searching or hiding, either with the world or against the world, we're not quite sure which. I thought it might be driving (literally) toward a bigger revelation or resolution, but no. (Same with life, I guess.) It's meandering, reticent, languorous, and ethereal (I'm trying really hard to avoid using the word "boring" here). This is all quite intentional, by the way -- the film moves at the pace of its protagonist, and the effect is palpable. (And don't worry, it's not lost on me that I'm watching this movie about people barely scraping by, on a large ultra-high-def TV on my comfy couch in my warm home under an electric blanket, using a streaming service that the movie's characters probably couldn't access or afford.) Am I wrong about all this? Of course I'm wrong. Every critic out there is doing backflips over this film. And not surprisingly, the movie's mortality themes are playing well with the Academy, whose average age and closeness to death are extremely high. (Like the nomad Swankie, they're all anxious about that final kayak ride down the River Styx.) But beware the movie whose 'user/audience score' is significantly lower than its 'critic score' -- it means that regular people are not quite buying it. For me, the biggest problem with slice-of-life films is that I don't really want to go to movies to experience regular life -- I have life for that. Then again, I'm also a superficial, materialistic a-hole. But you knew that already. (Added intrigue: Hulu, Nomadland's distributor, might score a Best Picture win before Amazon, and gives Amazon a subtle middle-finger in the movie with its depiction of seasonal workers.)

Remember when feel-good movies were a thing? It didn’t mean that there were no conflicts or problems for the characters, it just meant that they were enjoyable to watch, and you came out feeling good about humans. Minari is the rare feel-good Oscar movie, and my personal pick for what should win Best Picture. It easily might have been a tough sit based on the premise: A Korean family moves to rural Arkansas to start a farm, and must overcome a drought, financial calamity, a complete lack of agriculture experience, a crumbling marriage, the son's potentially-deadly heart condition, and a grandmother that drinks all their Mountain Dew. In keeping with Oscar tradition, it could have been a constant assault of upsetting scenes. But instead, it's a warm, sunny, optimistic, funny movie. The family faces struggles and hardships, to be sure, but the story is treated with positivity, not negativity; with a sense of community, not isolation; with an attitude of resolve, not blame. And they get through their problems with mutual support, togetherness, tenderness, humanity, and of course, love. (Not to mention grandma planting some weeds that may or may not miraculously heal physical and emotional wounds.) All these things combine to make it a more engaging experience for me than Nomadland. Not only do I wish this movie would win the Oscar, I wish I could give it a hug.

A lot of pundits think The Trial Of The Chicago 7 has the best chance to upset Nomadland. But I'm not seeing that happen. It was an early favorite and has been getting tons of nominations in the awards run-up, but it hasn't actually been winning much, and seems to be losing steam. (The lack of a Best Director nod is virtually a killer.) I think Minari has a small chance to sneak away with a victory, as it's gotten almost as much universal praise as Nomadland, but hasn't had the same audience. Judas And The Black Messiah is an interesting case, in that it's a late entry that had little early awareness (it didn't plan to be eligible until next year's Oscars), but it scooped several unexpected nominations. Debuting a contender late and taking advantage of recency bias has been a successful strategy in the past, so don't be surprised by a surprise. (Had Shaka King scored the last Director slot over Thomas Vinterberg, I think Judas would be a fairly legitimate threat.)

If you had asked me in September, I would have predicted that Mank would be the wire-to-wire favorite to win Best Picture. Aside from being a prestige David Fincher film (more on him later), it's a smorgasbord of Classic Tales of Hollywood. And the centerpiece couldn't be bolder: It's an homage to, a making of, a dissection of, and political dissertation on Citizen Kane -- only the most deified film of all time. Simply recite the synopsis, describe the film's 1940s black-and-white aesthetic, and mention Gary Oldman's name as the star, and just watch the Oscars come pouring in, right? Well, not quite. It netted 10 nominations, more than any other film, but it's looking like it might not win any of them, certainly not Best Picture. I don't think the film quite knows what it wants to be; at least, I'm not sure what it wants to be. Centered on Herman Mankiewicz, the man credited with co-writing Citizen Kane with Orson Welles, it's a distorted, polemical, impressionistic portrait of a man I barely even knew existed. Though Welles is only briefly portrayed in the film, it demystifies him a bit, suggesting that he's maybe not as responsible for this work of genius as we thought. If the film was framed as "Who actually wrote Citizen Kane?", it would be a little easier to get into. But it feels somewhat academic and circuitous (in a way that Kane itself doesn't). And while the script is clever, it's clever to the point of being confusing. Of course, a film of this pedigree invites a lot of scrutiny, maybe more than any other awards contender (or any film that actually got released this past year, period). It has a lot to appreciate, and surely would benefit from a second viewing. I also can't help but root for the fact that it's been Fincher's passion project for almost a quarter-century. (Then again, tell that to any indie filmmaker who spends their whole life on a single passion project that ends up getting completely ignored, and they’ll tell you where to shove your Fincher pity.) Ultimately, it's an admirable work, but if you're looking for a Rosebud, it's not there.

Promising Young Woman continues to defy expectations. Not only did it rack up six Oscar nominations, it's likely to win one or two of them, and for a while, was gaining on Nomadland for Best Picture. Now that the chips are falling into place, we know it won't win in this category, but it remains one of the most talked-about films of the season. What I like most about the film is not necessarily the literal story (I should have seen the main twist coming a mile away), but the way writer/director Emerald Fennell elevates it in an interesting way. Instead of showing the whole story, she starts her film at the end of a typical revenge thriller (several years after the incident and the legal aftermath). In fact, the victim is not even in the movie, and the victim's best friend is already far along on her path of retribution. (It also challenges the definition of "victim".) The film is not voyeuristically exciting in any way; it's unsettling, but also oddly charming in unexpected ways. The key for me is how it serves as a metaphor for the secrets people keep from loved ones and the toll that it takes on them, and the penances we give ourselves instead of allowing ourselves to heal. It also made me realize that movies could use more Juice Newton. (Paris Hilton, not so much.)

Sound Of Metal and The Father were probably the last two films to make the cut in this category, and are the least likely to win. Their best chances are in other categories. (Pro Tip: If you put the word "sound" in the title of your movie, there's a very good chance you'll win Best Sound.)

I don’t recommend Pieces Of A Woman to anyone who's pregnant, or partners of pregnant women, or anyone planning to have babies anytime in the future, or any partners of anyone planning to have babies anytime in the future, or people hoping to be grandparents anytime in the future, or doctors. (And I'm certain midwives are not giving this a ringing endorsement.) The film starts with an infant death, and then gets worse from there. It's not just an unpleasant experience, it's a series of unrelenting unpleasant experiences: Depression, extra-marital affairs, guilt, a domineering mother, lying, manipulative spouses, abandonment, feelings of inadequacy, sexual dysfunction, litigation, sibling jealousy, public shame, borderline domestic abuse, bribery, courtroom drama, financial problems, baseless blame, and drug addiction. And if that's not upsetting enough, they also manage to throw the Holocaust in there. (This should be a movie sub-genre: "Parade of Horrible Events". This fraternity would include: Manchester By The Sea, Mudbound, Uncut Gems, 12 Years A Slave, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, The Family Stone, and of course, The Revenant.) And then there are the characters. It would be one thing if these were ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances. But these are extraordinary a--holes making extraordinary circumstances much worse. It's literally laughable. If I didn't understand what the word 'melodramatic' meant before, I do now. I'm aware that this is based on the experiences of writing/directing spouses Kata Wéber and Kornél Mundruczó, and I don't mean to trivialize their pain or what they went through. Nobody should have to suffer that trauma. And I realize art is a healthy and oftentimes beautiful outlet for grief. But… did I mention the movie is unpleasant? There are certainly wonderful fragments and ideas in here; if the components added up to something moving, I would be much more receptive to it. If I were a snarky (okay, snarkier) reviewer, I might call it "Pieces Of A Better Movie".

Soul is a lovely and inspiring movie, but I'm at the point where I have to judge films by my experience while watching them with children. Try explaining this movie to a 6-year-old. Way too many existential/philosophical/theological questions. I guess it's good for parents who like to talk to their children, but if you're trying to keep your kid occupied and quiet (the reason screens were invented) so you can do something else, it's a bust. (It's no match for the hysterical self-explanatory antics of a certain motor-mouthed, overweight, black-and-white, martial-arts-fighting bear with a penchant for sitting on people's heads and, more importantly, keeping kids silently dumbstruck.) And: Did they have to make the entrance to the afterlife -- a giant bug zapper -- so terrifying? If that's how you get to heaven, what is the entrance to hell like??

BEST ACTOR:

SHOULD WIN: Chadwick Boseman (Ma Rainey's Black Bottom) WILL WIN: Chadwick Boseman (Ma Rainey's Black Bottom) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Pete Davidson (The King Of Staten Island) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Delroy Lindo (Da 5 Bloods)

This one hurts. I usually don't feel a connection to or an overabundance of sympathy for celebrities, but this one genuinely hurts. When Chadwick Boseman wins Best Actor (for Ma Rainey's Black Bottom), it will be a wonderful celebration, but also a painful reminder, not just of who he was, but of who he was yet to be. If ever there was a unanimous vote, this would be it. Before this movie, we had seen him play heroes and outsized personalities, but there had been nothing quite like his role as Levee, the gifted and demonized trumpet player in Ma Rainey's band. His brash, wounded performance is astonishing, revelatory. Since the film debuted after his passing, we can only watch it through the prism of his death. It's hard not to feel parallels: Levee is just starting to scratch the surface of his talent, giving us hints of his abilities with composition and brass before his breakdown; similarly, we have only gotten a taste of Boseman's range and depth. For both the character and the man, we're being deprived of the art he would have created. Boseman's passing makes the performance more resonant and unshakeable, but I think under different circumstances he would still be the front-runner in this race. The only difference would be, we'd assume this would be the first prize of many.

Anthony Hopkins picked an unusual time to go on a hot streak. He recently left a memorable impression on the Marvel Cinematic Universe as Odin, got an Emmy nomination for Westworld, and scored 2 Oscar nominations (after a 22-year drought) -- all after his 80th birthday. This year's nomination, for playing a man slipping into dementia in The Father, probably would have been a favorite to notch him his second Oscar in a different year. He seems like he should be a two-time winner, and we just don't know how many more chances he'll have. (I stand by my declaration that he should have won last year for The Two Popes, over Brad Pitt.) To those aforementioned aging Academy members who fear mortality and probably consider Hopkins a spry young man: Maybe you shouldn't watch this movie.

Riz Ahmed's performance in Sound Of Metal establishes the tone for the entire film, making the experience feel grounded and real. I appreciate how his outward, physical performance is very still, while his internal performance is frenetic, like there's a live wire in his head that he's trying to conceal from the world. His quietness leaves us with an uncertainty that feels like authentic; he's not going to tell us all the answers, because his character is figuring it out as he goes. Speaking of questions, I have a few about his band in the movie (before the hearing loss): Are they any good? What kind of living do they make? Is their cashflow net positive or negative? Are they considered successful (in whatever way you want to define that)? What is their ceiling, commercially and artistically? Are they one lucky break away from making it, or is it a lost cause? Most importantly, if Ahmed and fellow nominee LaKeith Stanfield (Judas And The Black Messiah) had a sad, doleful, wide-eyed staring contest, who would win?

Steven Yeun has been a recognizable face in film and TV (and a prolific voice actor) for a decade, but we haven't really seen him front and center until Minari. And after this bright, heartwarming turn, I think you can expect him to remain in the spotlight for the foreseeable future. His understated and remarkable performance carries this beautiful story of a family finding its path through a new way of life. Despite scant dialogue and minimal exposition, we seem to always know what his character is thinking -- that he's facing daunting odds but has a steel resolve. He and screen partner Yeri Han (who deserves as much credit as Yeun for this film) create one of the most tender crumbling marriages I've seen on screen in a long time. (Though a marriage counselor could have given his character some helpful "dos and don'ts" that might have saved him some headaches.)

What's more improbable, Mank's meandering, decades-long journey to the screen, or the fact that we're supposed to believe 63-year Gary Oldman as a man in his 30s and early 40s? Well, once his performance begins, it's so hammy that you forget all about the ridiculous age discrepancy. He's playing Herman Mankiewicz, whose bombastic writing and sozzled demeanor helped mold the script for Citizen Kane into the legend that it is. It's a bloviated, ostentatious, spectacular exhibition of affectation and panache that only Oldman could pull off. It's a lot of fun. (It must be exhausting to be his wife.) It’s as if Mank wrote the story of his own life... and gave himself the best part.

I'm naming Delroy Lindo for my snubbed choice, for his intense and crushing performance in Da 5 Bloods. I've been hoping he'd get an Oscar nomination for 20 years, and by all accounts, this was going to be his year. Even in the fall, after a slew of critics' awards, he was the odds-on favorite to win. So it was a disappointment that his name wasn't called when nominations were read. For now, he'll have to be content with being everyone's favorite never-nominated actor. (But here's to hoping The Harder They Fall is frickin' amazing, so he can end that drought next year.) There are plenty of honorable mentions this year: Adarsh Gourav (The White Tiger), Mads Mikkelsen (Another Round), and Kingsley Ben-Adir (One Night In Miami) come to mind. (By the way: How often do Kingsley Ben-Adir and Sir Ben Kingsley get each other's take-out orders switched?) But my runner-up is John David Washington (my snubbed pick two years ago), who undoubtedly became an A-List movie star in the past year… but not for the reason you think. Yes, Tenet was a blockbuster and the cinematic story of the summer, but he had special effects and storyline trickery supporting him. Instead, Malcolm And Marie is what stands out to me -- he has nothing but his performance (as abrasive as it is), and he still commands the screen and our attention. When he gets hold of a juicy monologue, he starts cooking… but when he starts dancing on the countertop? Look out.

BEST ACTRESS:

SHOULD WIN: Andra Day (The United States Vs. Billie Holiday) WILL WIN: Andra Day (The United States Vs. Billie Holiday) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Anya Taylor-Joy (Emma.) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Jessie Buckley (I'm Thinking of Ending Things)

Coming down to the wire, we've got a race where three women have a chance to win, and the favorite depends on who you ask and when you ask. Carey Mulligan, Viola Davis, and Andra Day have each won precursor awards, and seem to leapfrog each other daily. Mulligan has been picked by most prognosticators, with Davis right behind. But I'm going to put my untarnished reputation on the line and predict a long-shot upset for Day. (And when that doesn't happen, I'm going to say that I actually thought Mulligan or Davis were more likely.)

Maybe I'm picking Andra Day because she's also my personal favorite, for her star-making debut in The United States Vs. Billie Holiday. The movie itself is serviceable but not stellar (some of the scenes and dialogue are absurdly expository), but Day is an absolute dynamo as the Lady Day. The film is a fairly rounded picture of her life, including her drug abuse, health issues, singing the controversial-at-the-time civil-rights song "Strange Fruit", and an investigation by the U.S. government (hence the title) -- all of which is intriguing for those of us not familiar with her personal story. (I'm sure you'll be shocked to learn that, despite my curmudgeonly ways, I was not in fact alive in the 1940s.) Day has seemingly come out of nowhere, because there was no early hype about the film, and nobody even saw it until a few weeks ago (and even now, it hasn't been seen by nearly as many people as the other contenders). Known primarily as a singer before this (I'm a big fan), she literally transformed her voice (straining her vocal chords, taking up smoking) to capture Billie Holiday's unique vocals. The singing alone might be enough to get her a nomination, but it's the dramatic work that puts her ahead of the field. More than any other nominee, we really get the feeling that she's laying her soul bare onscreen. Even for a seasoned actress, the depth of this performance would be impressive. Her film doesn't have the popularity or momentum that Mulligan's or Davis's do, so she's heading into Oscar night as an underdog. But if voters judge the actresses strictly on performance, not on the movies themselves, she might just pull an upset. And, if you haven't heard Day sing outside this movie, do yourself a favor: Stop reading this article (you might want to do that anyway) and browse her catalogue -- she has the best voice of any contemporary singer, period. Forget Billie Eilish, why isn't Day singing the next James Bond song?

Carey Mulligan returns to the Oscar game for the first time in 11 years, for Promising Young Woman. (Is she bitter that her performance in An Education lost to Sandra Bullock in The Blind Side? Probably not as bitter as I am.) Promising Young Woman is getting a lot of attention and accolades, and much of it is due to Mulligan's strong turn as Cassandra, a woman on a revenge crusade that has taken over her life. It's a layered performance; we see a lot of Cassandra's facades, but we don't know if we ever see the real person. Her best friend's rape and subsequent suicide has left her stunted; by the time we meet Cassandra, she's literally and figuratively become someone else. As rough as it sounds, Mulligan is able to make it… well, 'fun' isn't the right word, but 'enjoyable'. We see Cassandra refusing to sit or be bullied; she has agency and kinetic energy in situations where many do not or cannot. Whether or not the film works rests largely on Mulligan's shoulders; it's a good thing she's such a talented actress, because not many could pull it off. The more people see the film, the more she's been picked to win the prize. Will she get enough support for a victory? (Ms. Bullock, you owe her a vote.)

Out of all the nominated performances this year, Viola Davis's is the most amusing. Playing the titular singer in Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, it's clear she's having blast. When she's onscreen, Davis owns every single inch of it. She doesn't just drink a bottle of Coke, she guzzles the whole thing with gusto and verve, serving notice that this is going to be the most entertaining consumption of soda you've ever seen. And so it is with the rest of the performance. (Though the lip-synching is not particularly believable; but then again, that didn't hurt Rami Malek in Bohemian Rhapsody.) It will be interesting to see what happens on Oscar night. She's been up and down in the predictions. She was down after losing the Golden Globe (it's taken us until now to realize the Globes are a waste of time??), but rebounded strongly with a Screen Actors Guild win. She is universally adored, but she's also won an Oscar already for Fences, so voters may not feel quite as compelled to give it to her overall.

And we haven't even talked about Frances McDormand in Nomadland yet. Early on, this category seemed like a sprint between McDormand and Davis. But when neither won the Golden Globe or Critics' Choice, it became anybody's race. As we near the end of the contest, McDormand has pretty clearly fallen toward the back. I don't think it's her performance; instead, she's been discounted due to her own victorious history. She's already got two Oscars (in 1997 for Fargo and 2018 for Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri); a third one would require extraordinary circumstances. By comparison, it took Meryl Streep 29 years (and a lot of Ls) after her second to get her third. But if McDormand hadn't just won for Three Billboards three years ago, I think she'd be a lock here; Nomadland may even be a superior performance. She's probably the only actor alive that could pull this off; if she gave up acting, this is how I assume she would be living in real life. It's remarkable how she internalizes everything, yet informs the viewer how she's feeling and what she's thinking with very few words, just her physicality. This project seems particularly challenging. Her character doesn't have the answers; she's searching, but she doesn't even know what for. "I'm not homeless. I'm just house-less. Not the same thing, right?" It's as if she's posing the question to herself, and she really doesn't know. She gets lonelier as the journey goes on, a sort-of self-imposed isolation, and the viewer really feels it. (What does she ultimately find? Well, that's one of the frustrating ambiguities of the film. Don't get me started.) No matter what happens in this category, what McDormand will find is Oscar gold: She's a producer on Nomadland, so she's a strong bet to walk away with a Best Picture statuette.

Saying Vanessa Kirby is the best thing in Pieces Of A Woman is a bit of a backhanded compliment. My distaste for the film was made pretty clear in the Best Picture section, and anybody acting opposite Shia LaBeouf is going to look like Streep. But Kirby is legitimately great, and I think a welcome surprise to those who know her from the Mission: Impossible and Fast & Furious franchises. (And how many fans of The Crown thought Kirby would beat Claire Foy to an Oscar nomination? Don't lie.) Kirby makes the most of her role as an unpleasant person in an unpleasant situation enduring a barrage of unpleasant events surrounded by really unpleasant people. (An infant tragedy is the least of their problems.) But ultimately the film fails her, and unfortunately I don't really believe what any character is doing in this movie. Her nomination has been bolstered by a whopper of an opening scene: a 24-minute single-shot of a childbirth that ends horrifically. But I can't help but feel like the shot comes off as gimmicky; the immediacy of the scene was effective, but the filmmakers seemed to choose stylistic camera movement and choreography over intimacy and realness. The scene may be emotionally truthful, but hoo-eey, Kirby is dialed up. (My personal favorite ridiculous scene? When she's on the subway, wistfully watching children giggling pleasantly and behaving like angels. Ahhh, seems so blissful. Have you ever taken kids on public transportation? They would be fighting, screaming, climbing over the seats, kicking her, throwing goldfish everywhere, getting yelled at by the parents, bumping into passengers, licking the handrails, wiping snot on seats, and saying inappropriate things to strangers. That's parenthood.)

When the movie gods decided to create a remake that would be the exact opposite of what I would like, they conjured up Emma.. (That's "Emma.", with a period at the end of the title. Seriously. It's a "period" piece. Get it?) Anya Taylor-Joy is undoubtedly talented, but she's a letdown as the fabled matchmaker. She also believes that she can bleed on cue. With regard to her climactic scene: "I was in the moment enough that my nose really started bleeding." Wow. No words. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but her performance actually makes me miss Gwyneth.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR:

SHOULD WIN: LaKeith Stanfield (Judas And The Black Messiah) WILL WIN: Daniel Kaluuya (Judas And The Black Messiah) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Shia LaBeouf (Pieces Of A Woman) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Glynn Turman (Ma Rainey's Black Bottom)

Can you have a movie with two main characters but no leading actors? If you're wondering why the two stars (and title characters) of Judas And The Black Messiah -- LaKeith Stanfieldand Daniel Kaluuya -- are both competing in the Supporting Actor category, congratulations, you're a human on planet Earth. That's Oscar politics for you, and it's nothing new. They are both unquestionably leads; nevertheless, the shift to Supporting has worked out well for both of them. The assumption was that Stanfield would campaign in the Lead category and Kaluuya in Supporting so as not to cannibalize each other's votes, and to have Kaluuya (the stronger awards bet) compete in the less crowded category. (It's been clear for half a year that Chadwick Boseman would be winning Best Actor.) Stanfield was considered an unrealistic shot to crack the nominees anyway (he was probably 8th for Best Actor, behind Delroy Lindo (Da 5 Bloods) and Tahar Rahim (The Mauritanian)). So when the nominations were read, it was a pleasant shock that he had been slotted in the Supporting Actor category. (And wouldn't you rather have him here than Jared Leto?)

But won't they split the vote, resulting in the very problem they were trying to avoid in the first place? As it turns out, no. Judging from other major awards, voters had made up their minds for Kaluuya long ago, so any votes to support this film will likely go to Kaluuya. It's not hard to see why: As Black Panther leader Fred Hampton, he's dynamic, steely, and charismatic. It's very different -- more confident, self-assured and domineering -- than we've seen him in other roles, like Get Out. (This movie is a like a mini-reunion of Get Out. Dang, now I want a sequel to Get Out.) But I'll be the dissenter, and cast my personal vote for Stanfield. I'm conflicted; they're a close 1-2. But for me, Stanfield's role (as an FBI informant infiltrating the Panthers) has more facets to play, and Stanfield's signature tenderness brings me into the character more. Plus, he also has the bigger challenge: he has to play the Judas (a role he initially didn't want). Like another character actually says to Stanfield in the movie: "This guy deserves an Academy Award."

Leslie Odom Jr.'s quest for an EGOT (Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, Tony) has hit a speed bump. Already armed with a G and a T, he was the presumptive favorite heading into the Golden Globes to collect more hardware, for playing singer Sam Cooke in One Night In Miami. But that was before anybody had seen Judas And The Black Messiah. As the lone acting nominee for Miami, he's got a lot of support from anyone looking to honor the film and its stellar cast. And as the singer, he gets to show off his lustrous Hamilton-honed pipes several times. In many ways, he's the most relatable character in Miami, the one that (despite Cooke's fame at the time) seems the most mortal. So though he'll lose Best Supporting Actor, fear not: He's the favorite to win Best Song, and keep the EGOT dream alive. (Unless… 12-time nominee Diane Warren finally gets the sympathy vote for her song for the little-seen The Life Ahead. Wait, you mean she didn't win for Mannequin's "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now"??)

Paul Raci is a fascinating nominee, for Sound of Metal. He was virtually unknown before this movie (best known as Eugene the Animal Control Guy on Parks And Recreation), but his background is intriguing. He's a Vietnam vet who started as a small theater actor in Chicago (he has a Jeff nomination!). With his upbringing as a hearing CODA (Child Of Deaf Adult), he's a frequent player in ASL theater and is the lead singer in an ASL metal band. (Am I the only one who was gotten CODA confused with ACOD (Adult Child Of Divorce)? Is there such a thing as ACODDA (Adult Child Of Deaf Divorced Adults)?) And in the understated role of Joe, who runs a facility for deaf people and serves as a guide for Riz Ahmed's character, he's fantastic. It literally seems like he's been preparing his whole life for the role, and it pays off. (Though upon further examination of his character… Joe seems like a benevolent, trustworthy guy with altruistic motivations, with a shelter focused on mental healing, addiction recovery, and self-sufficiency. But he also appears to foster an environment that isolates its members, severs contact with all loved ones, preys on those who are unstable to begin with, and convinces members that they will struggle if they leave the community. Ultimately Joe runs every aspect of members' lives, and in return expects unwavering devotion and complete submission to his methods. As soon as Ruben says one thing to challenge him, Joe accuses him of sounding like an addict, knowing it will trigger shame and self-doubt, in a clear effort to control his actions. Joe even slyly suggests that he personally knows how to reach heaven, "the kingdom of God". Is there a chance Joe is actually running a cult??)

They may have just picked a name out of a hat to see which member of The Trial Of The Chicago 7 ensemble would get an Oscar nomination (now these are all supporting actors), but however it happened, nomination day was a good day for Sacha Baron Cohen. (He also got a writing nod for Borat 2.) He is effective in the movie -- maybe the best of the bunch -- and it's a (slightly surprising) affirmation that he's a good actor in addition to being a talented performer. Is his performance actually worthy of an Oscar nomination? I'm fairly impressed (except for his I-love-you-too-man scene with the inert Eddie Redmayne, which plays cheap… but you can probably pin that one on Aaron Sorkin). But there are several other people I would have nominated over Cohen. For starters, my snubbed pick, Glynn Turman, is exceptional as a musician holding his own against Chadwick Boseman in Ma Rainey's Black Bottom. (It seems like just yesterday he was the colonel on A Different World, one of his 150+ acting credits.) Honorable mentions include 7-year-old Alan Kim (Minari), Clarke Peters (Da 5 Bloods), Charles Dance (Mank), and Arliss Howard (Mank).

Wow. Shia LaBeouf is not the only repellant part of Pieces Of A Woman, but he's probably the most repellant part. I'm sorry, but anything he does, or is involved in, instantly becomes less believable. At one point he seems to be trying to creepily make out with his wife… while she's actively pushing in labor. Then later, in a distressing "love" scene, he looks like someone who has never had consensual sex with a partner before; I know the film is going for emotional rawness, but it just looks like assault. Bottom line, I have no idea what he's doing in this movie. (And I guess I don't care what he's doing, as long as it's not another Indiana Jones movie.)

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS:

SHOULD WIN: Yuh-jung Youn (Minari) WILL WIN: Yuh-jung Youn (Minari) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Nicole Kidman (The Prom) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Ellen Burstyn (Pieces Of A Woman)

Oh, sweet revenge. Don't you just love a rematch? It was just two short years ago when Olivia Colman, in a flabbergasting upset, tearfully apologized to presumptive victor Glenn Close in her acceptance speech. (…Or did she condescendingly mock her? We can't be sure about anything in that speech.) Now they are both nominated again -- Colman for The Father, Close for Hillbilly Elegy -- and the bad blood between them couldn't be boiling hotter. Since there are no nominee lunches or in-person media parades this year, I'm assuming they drunk-Zoom each other at all hours and call one another every cruel British and American curse word in the book. Colman even reportedly tweeted, "Glenn, this will be your Hillbilly Elegy: You never won a dang Oscar." Nasty stuff, but nothing unusual during campaign season. Colman is facing a tough challenge (besides playing a woman whose father is in the grips dementia). Voters will be hard-pressed to hand her a victory again so soon (and without any losses). Additionally, she didn't even get nominated for a BAFTA award -- the British Oscar-equivalent -- on her home turf (and they nominate six actors in each category). (But, she would be quick to point out, Close didn't either.) All the talk around The Father is about Anthony Hopkins. Colman is facing extremely long odds.

Which seems to perfectly set up Close to swoop in for the kill. Six months ago, on paper this seemed like a slam dunk. The word was that Hillbilly Elegy featured two of the losing-est actors (Close and Amy Adams) in transformative roles in a heart-wrenching adaptation of a successful book. It was going to exorcise the demons for both of them. Then the movie debuted. And the response was lukewarm. But then the response to the response was harsh. People hated the movie, hated the performances, and hated the participants for shilling shameless Oscar bait. (If you think there's a different kind of Oscar bait, I'm afraid you haven't been paying attention.) The film was weirdly derided as political, and faced a sort of anti-Trump backlash (which I don't understand, considering the movie takes place in the 1990s and early 2010s, when Trump was just known for being an inept USFL football owner and a silly reality-TV host). Entertainment Weekly actually used these words in a single sentence to describe the film: "ham-handed", "smug", "Appalachian poverty porn", and "moralizing soap opera". (I guess people felt about this film the way I felt about A Star Is Born.) And no, the movie is not great; it fades soon after the credits roll. But Close is compelling; at the very least, she's working her tail off. (If you think she's just hamming it up in drag, stay tuned for the end-credits images of the real Mamaw. It's uncanny.) I think the voters really want her to win (but I thought the same thing two years ago). The question is: Do they want her to win for this movie? The answer increasingly seems to be No. The general feeling (which I agree with) is that the role feels a little lacking, and below Close's other lauded performances. People realize that if she wins, it may get dismissed as being a flimsy career-achievement award, which would tarnish it.

So, which one will claim victory this time, leaving the other groveling at her feet, Colman or Close? Neither, it turns out. In a shocking turn of events, Yuh-jung Youn has emerged as a favorite over both of them. (Fortunately, she's blocked Colman and Close on Zoom.) Calling Youn the heart of Minari would be trite. She is, but she's much more than that. She's the conduit for connection: to the children, between the parents, and to the audience. Before her arrival, it feels like there's something missing. (The young son has a heart condition, is constantly chugging Mountain Dew, and is hiding his wet underpants. And the dad thinks he doesn't need a babysitter?) It's when Youn enters the film that the film excels, and we start to feel like part of the family. She also challenges our (and her grandson's) ideas of what a grandmother is (including possibly having magical healing superpowers). A lot of people are looking for a way to reward this film, and this category is its best chance. Heck, even if voters only hear Youn's one line of English dialogue ("Ding-dong broken!" -- referring to her grandson's wiener), that could be enough to win.

Maybe the most curious nomination is for Maria Bakalova, starring in Borat Subsequent Moviefilm as the notorious Kazakh's daughter. A lot of things in the past year would have been impossible to predict, but an unknown Bulgarian actress stealing the spotlight and getting an Oscar nomination for a surprise-release Borat sequel would have to be near the top. And she's actually the only one in this category who's managed to score a nomination from every major organization. She won't win, but her performance (and memes) may live on the longest.

I must be missing something in Mank. (Granted, I haven't watched it the requisite four times in order to truly appreciate it, according to the Fincherists.) But I just don't understand what the fuss is about with Amanda Seyfried. She certainly plays her part well (as Marion Davies, the illicit love interest of William Randolph Hearst and the platonic love interest of Herman Mankiewicz), but I don't see how she elevates it or brings anything extraordinary to it. Her character plays a pivotal role in Citizen Kane (Davies was the inspiration for Kane's second wife), and I presume she's supposed to play a pivotal role in Mank's literary epiphany, but I fail to understand why. (Or maybe I failed to understand her Brooklyn accent.) But more than that, her narrative thread seems distressingly incomplete. She appears to be set up for a meaty final scene, but then her character simply exits, leaving Mankiewicz (and me) baffled. I've been more impressed by her work in other movies, like First Reformed. Of course, perhaps the most significant implication of Seyfried's nomination: Two of the Plastics now have Oscar nominations. (Gretchen, stop trying to make an Oscar nomination happen. It's not going to happen!)

Just in case there was any confusion, 88-year-old Ellen Burstyn is here to let us know she can still bring the thunder. Pieces Of A Woman is a mess, and her character is dubious, but she gets one powerhouse speech to shine and (somewhat) anchor the movie -- a declaration of strength, resilience, and survival. And she delivers a two-handed, rim-hanging, backboard-shattering jam. Oh, right, there's the woman who scored an Oscar, plus four other nominations, in a 9-year span in the 1970s. And who's been an Emmy fixture the past 15 years. And who has four more movies already in the works. Just another not-so-gentle reminder that she's one of the great actors of her generation. (Honorable Mentions go to The United States Vs. Billie Holiday's Da'Vine Joy Randolph, who continues her scene-stealing ways after Office Christmas Party and Dolemite Is My Name; and Dominique Fishback, whose performance adds emotional heft to Judas And The Black Messiah.)

BEST DIRECTOR:

SHOULD WIN: Chloé Zhao (Nomadland) WILL WIN: Chloé Zhao (Nomadland) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Ryan Murphy (The Prom) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Christopher Nolan (Tenet)

The second-most-certain thing this year is Chloé Zhao winning Best Director for Nomadland. She's dominated the narrative and the awards circuit this year; nobody else is close. In fact, she might win four Oscars, which would be a record for one person with a single film. (In 1954, Walt Disney was a quadruple winner for four different movies… but do short films really count?) Odds are that she'll win three, but if she wins Best Editing early in the night, the record will be hers. Historically joined at the hip, Best Director and Best Picture have surprisingly been split between different movies several times in recent years. The voters will align them this year, but I'm going to malign them. (Disalign? Unalign? Who am I kidding, I will malign them too.) As tepid as I am on Nomadland for Picture, Zhao is my Director choice. She is clearly a masterful artist and impressionistic storyteller. But more than that, she's able to conjure a mood and state of mind with her pseudo-documentary hybrid style. She gets us to feel what the character is feeling and put us right in the environment -- and makes it seem effortless. The film's long, languid takes allow us to breathe the air, drink in the scene, and live in the moment, unhurried. Zhao augments the nomadic quality of the film in every shot. But (oh, you knew there was a 'but'), on the down side, I also find the style to be a bit tedious and overdrawn at times. Because of my lack of investment, the film often struggles to keep my attention, or more accurately, my curiosity. And despite the film being touted as a tale of community and interconnectedness, it mostly suggests to me (via the main character) feelings of pain, loneliness, coldness, and sadness. But ultimately, I think those things speak more to the story than the directing. This will doubtless be a crowning a achievement for Zhao, but I'm more excited to see what the future will bring, and what she can do for a story that I'm invested in.

I was really close to picking Lee Isaac Chung for my Should Win, for his rich, captivating film, Minari. (Really close. You, the fortunate, insulated reader, will never truly know how much I agonize over this. Some suffer for art, I suffer for unsolicited criticism.) Honestly, I was tempted to give Chung a clean sweep of Picture, Director, and Screenplay; but instead I've opted to spread them around (I can play Academy politics all by myself). So many of the qualities of Zhao's film are present in Chung's film as well; his toolbox is just as full and varied. His quiet, atmospheric shots are unburdened by haste yet always nudging the story ahead. Chung draws us in, as another member of the Yi family, our hopes rising and falling with each challenge and trifle (and sexed chick) they face. There's a real confidence in his style; he knows how to best engage the audience for the specific journey. For me though, what I appreciate most is the warmth of his filmmaking; while the story has tribulations, the film itself is compassionate, never harsh or aggressive. That stands in stark contrast to Nomadland; the palette is one of the main things that sets them apart. Chung also scored points by showcasing the best accessory on the virtual Golden Globes telecast: a ridiculously adorable child. (Was that his own kid, or a rental? Only his publicist knows for sure.) Careful, I might accidentally talk myself into flipping my pick to Chung.

This was supposed to be his year. Goddammit, this was supposed to be his year! That was the sentiment from cinephiles all over the internet this year. Throw a rock in any direction and you'll hit a podcaster (and possibly me) ranting about how David Fincher was robbed in 2011 when he lost Best Director for The Social Network to Tom Hooper and The King's Speech. (Was the Academy justified? Since then, Fincher landed a third Oscar nomination, fourth Golden Globe nomination, and two Emmy wins; Hooper directed Cats.) In early winter, the pieces seemed to be lining up for a Fincher victory with Mank: a big, mainstream, Hollywood-y underdog story; an ode to the most revered film of all time, Citizen Kane; a scenery-chewing performance from beloved thesp Gary Oldman; a film that was more accessible (read: less weird and violent) than most of his other fare; and a passion project that he had been developing for decades, written by his late father. The only question was not whether the film could win all the Oscars, but whether it could cure pediatric cancer or pilot a rocket to Jupiter. But that was 2020… and we all know how that year went. Maybe it's the fatigue caused by the prolonged award campaign season, maybe it's the lack of theaters that would have showcased his visual marvel, or maybe it's the fact that the film didn't quiiiiiiite live up to the hype, but one thing is clear: Fincher is out of the race. I'll say what a lot of the other film snobs won't: This is probably not the film we want Fincher to win for anyway. We want him to win for something sharper, weirder, more incisive, and more upsetting; in short, something more Fincher-ish. Mank is fantastic, to be sure; and in (mostly) pulling it off, Fincher demonstrates his mastery of historical and contemporary cinema. But the hiccups are puzzling. The film is structured like Citizen Kane itself, which makes it at times equally difficult to engage in; but while Kane's flashbacks feel natural, a handful of Mank's feel shoehorned. The dialogue is in the style -- but not the pace -- of hard-boiled 1940s films, which alone is a recipe for difficult viewing; further peppering every retort with unnatural irony makes for wit but not necessarily comprehension. The Kane-esque echo effect doesn't help; neither do subtitles. (I tried.) While it turns out that it's not supposed to be his Oscar year after all, I commend Fincher on an effort like this -- the singular vision, the vigor, the risk -- even when I don't necessarily love the movie or connect with it. We need his art, we need his beautiful mess. (But next time maybe throw in a grisly murder, perverted romance, or crippling heartbreak… and acquire a charming child for the awards telecast.)

Emerald Fennell impressively scored a nomination for her first feature film, Promising Young Woman, an inventive genre-mashup of a Rape Revenge movie -- a new spin on a 1970s grindhouse staple. Like a lot of people, I don't quite know what to make of the movie (I don't think I've ever actually seen a Rape Revenge movie… though I've seen plenty of Dognapping Revenge movies). It's a film that could go badly a thousand different ways, but Fennell makes choices that keep it fresh and thoroughly watchable. The primary word that comes to mind is 'subversive'. From the candy coloring to the pop music to the meet-cute to the campy suspense, she toys with convention at every turn (in some cases more effectively than others). Even the support casting -- the kooky, on-the-nose (or 180-flipped) cameos spice up the movie, but also tend to undermine it and give it a B-movie vibe. (Do we really need Jennifer Coolidge and Max Greenfield doing what they do best, but not as well as they usually do it? Probably not. Do they make me chuckle? Yes.) The result is an oddly entertaining movie on a subject that is anything but. The patina of playfulness is helpful; if it was an avalanche of distressing, horrifying scenes, it could be a tortuous watch. All in all, it might be the most enjoyable Rape Revenge movie you'll ever see.

Perhaps the biggest surprise nominee in any category is Thomas Vinterberg, for the Danish film Another Round. (The lion's share of the Oscar buzz had been for star Mads Mikkelsen; the film is also up for Best International film.) This movie is in the grand tradition of celebrating alcohol because excessive drinking is awesome. And the Academy has recognized Vinterberg because he has so astutely captured how booze is a tasty balm for every wound -- an ancient and failsafe key to enlightenment and inner peace. Wait, what's that? I'm sorry… I'm being told that this movie is actually a cautionary tale. Hmmm. I guess I should have watched it sober. In light of that, I suppose the film is an interesting examination of middle-aged ennui and the tendency to overlook that which is right in front of you. (Anyone that has gotten this far in the article knows exactly what ennui is, and should have overlooked what was right in front of them.) It's also an unintentionally apt allegory for pandemic life: When it started, we began drinking a bit at home, enjoying Zoom happy hours, and generally having a good time; pretty soon we were day-drinking out of sheer boredom, trying to teach our home-schooled kids long division while buzzed, and it got very sad and depressing; now we're all pretty much ready to jump off the pier. In general, I like the film (though I prefer my mid-life drinking crises more in the mold of Old School), but the story and arc are fairly telegraphed. You mean their problems can't be fixed by increased alcohol consumption? The more you drink, the harder it is to control? Drinking at work as a teacher around minors might go awry? Instead of booze, have they tried rest, exercise, healthy eating, or appreciating the good things in their lives? (Who I am kidding, those are a waste of time.) Ultimately, there are several directors I would have chosen over Vinterberg (Christopher Nolan for Tenet, George C. Wolfe for Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, and Florian Zeller for The Father come to mind), but it's interesting to see the continuing trend of nominating non-American filmmakers in this category, as the Directors' branch of the Academy becomes increasingly international.

I want to talk about the ending of Another Round for a moment. If you didn't see the movie (and I'm betting you didn't), just skip this paragraph. Most of the reviews I've read online interpret the ending as a hopeful, happy one. I think that's crazy. The ending is a Trojan horse. It looks joyful, but just underneath lies tragedy: The trio resume drinking after they've seemingly hit rock bottom and lost their best friend to booze; they believe they're in control and having a good time when really they're spiraling into chaos; they think they've found a balance, when they're actually sliding endlessly further into alcoholism. They don't realize that they cannot enjoy life sober. I think one of the reasons why I like the movie so much is that it masks that ending as a "happy" one, much the way a drinker would see it when they don't realize there's a problem. The ending is denial. A lot of people have seen the final scene as uplifting and life-affirming (even Vinterberg seems to say this in interviews, which is puzzling), that the friends have come to terms with their drinking, and have found a way to drink in moderation and still invigorate their lives and celebrate the small things. I don't understand that take at all. I would buy it if they had found a way to celebrate life while sober. Instead, I think it's the surest sign that they are destroying their lives, because they don't even realize it's happening. It's the 'darkest timeline'. They ask themselves the wrong question, "What would Tommy do?", instead of "What would Tommy want us to do?", and we know exactly what Tommy would do because we see him drink himself to death. Martin has gotten a reconciliatory text from his wife, but just as he's about to go to her, he instead joins the party, quickly gets plastered, and literally goes off the deep end. What's truly heartbreaking is seeing that they've (gleefully and unknowingly) perpetuated the cycle, having encouraged the next generation to drink in order to cope and be "awakened to life". I think there are hints in the final song lyrics ("What a Life") and the movie's poster (the image of Mikkelsen recklessly chugging champagne in a blurry stupor is from the final scene). To me, the seemingly exuberant ending is a fallacy… and utterly tragic.

In a surprise move that everyone saw coming, I'm naming Christopher Nolan as my Snubbed choice, for his twisty, backwards-y spectacle, Tenet. Did I understand the movie? Of course. Oh, you didn't? Dummy.

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY:

SHOULD WIN: Derek Cianfrance, Abraham Marder, Darius Marder (Sound Of Metal) WILL WIN: Emerald Fennell (Promising Young Woman) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Aaron Abrams, Brendan Gall (The Lovebirds) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Sam Levinson (Malcolm And Marie)

Did his name have to be Ryan? No, that wasn't my biggest takeaway from the script for Emerald Fennell's Promising Young Woman. But it was a big one. As Carey Mulligan's chances fade a bit, Screenplay is the movie's strongest chance to strike gold, making a strong run in the precursory awards. The ending of the film has been pretty divisive, but I like that it's completely unexpected. Maybe it's contrived, but it's what makes the movie memorable for me, and separates it from other revenge thrillers. Or maybe it's inevitable, given the themes of the movie and the character pursuing her mission past the point of no return. Either way, did his name have to be Ryan? Unless Fennell's role (she's an actress, too) as Camilla Parker Bowles on The Crown accidentally embroils her in recent royal family controversies, she should be collecting this award on Oscar night.

Most of the praise for Sound Of Metal has been specifically for its sound design. But it starts with the script (written by director Darius Marder, along with Derek Cianfrance and Abraham Marder), which is the blueprint for the sound and experience of the movie. And it's my pick (by a hair) for best screenplay of the year. It has -- hey, whaddya know! -- an actual narrative, with a main character who has an objective and opposition. It's always impressive to me when a story has very little I can directly relate to, but it still manages to resonate, and strikes a tone that feels real. I also appreciate the skill in the writing -- it's minimalistic, yet thorough in the ways that matter. The film doesn't explain a lot or give us much exposition -- it doesn't lean on voice-over, window characters, or monologues. It's quiet. Which may seem obvious considering it's about a man losing his hearing, but even the man himself and the real world he lives in have a muted vibe (despite his mind being anything but calm). The film has also been lauded for its authentic portrayal of deaf people… but not for its authentic portrayal of audiologists. (I mean, how bad is Ruben's audiologist consultation, that he is in no way prepared for how things would sound after getting cochlear implants? I get more information from my dentist when getting a cavity filled.) Also: What does metal sound like? I still don't know.

Aaron Sorkin would seem like the obvious pick here, for The Trial Of The Chicago 7. It's the kind of sonorous, social-consciousness word-porn we've come to love and expect from him. But he's already got an Oscar (though most people assume he has three), and the fight-the-system theme isn't exactly unique to his script this year. Not surprisingly, the movie feels like a mash-up of The West Wing and A Few Good Men, complete with humorous exchanges of smug cleverness, heart-warming declarations of overly-simplified principle, and his own trademark Sorkin-esque version of facts. Sure, the story of the Chicago 7 is intriguing, but would I rather watch a movie about a Chicago 7-Eleven? It's tempting…

I've previously talked about the reasons I appreciated Minari so much (written by director Lee Isaac Chung). A lot of the sweetness of the film is present in the screenplay. He cleverly tells much of the story through the eyes of a 7-year-old boy, so it's told less fact-by-fact, and more through the filter of a child's memory. (Chung based the screenplay somewhat on his own experiences growing up.) Charming as it is, I can't help but view it through the filter of a parent's anxiety: 1) Is moving across the country to live in a small town where you don't know anyone, living in a trailer, and starting a farm with zero experience the best way to solve marital problems? 2) One of the main promotional photos for the movie is a of the little boy holding a stick. Am I crazy, or is that the same stick that the father was going to use to beat the boy when he disobeyed? Did the marketing person keep their job after that? 3) The friend's deadbeat dad leaves the kids alone overnight, presumably out carousing and drinking, then shows up at breakfast hammered, saying, "Tell your mom I was here all night." How many times can you get away with that? 4) When the boy cuts his foot, is it bad that I did not think of the wound or his safety, but about the blood getting on the carpet? 5) Why aren't these kids in school??

Perhaps the script (and movie) with the biggest head of steam coming into awards night is Judas And The Black Messiah, a late entry that has been picking up acolytes left and right. The film has been lauded for its approach to the story of Black Panther leader Fred Hampton -- by telling it as a gritty, 70s-style, cat-and-mouse thriller, from the perspective of the FBI informant sent to help stop him. Director Shaka King (who wrote the script with Will Berson, based on ideas from the Lucas Brothers) has said that structure, instead of a more traditional biopic style, helped get it made by a studio. Despite the inevitability of the ending, the dramatic conflict and ferocity of the performances make for a satisfyingly tense ride.

This is going to come back to bite me, but my snubbed pick is Malcolm And Marie (or, as it should have been called, Things You Shouldn't Say To Your Girlfriend At 2 AM When You're Drunk And She's In A Bad Mood). It's like a really long Bad Idea Jeans commercial. Now, I'm not necessarily recommending this movie. You should know that most critics and regular people hate it. It's two hours of a couple arguing. It's a rough ride. It's indulgent, overwrought, and well, chock-full of mental and emotional abuse. But (stay with me here), if you can get past all that, those elements have a purpose, and there is a point to the film. I think the key is that it's not intended to be literal. It's allegorical for how we talk to ourselves -- the internal conflict we have, when we wrestle with ideas that are hard to reconcile. It's also lyrical; there's an elegance in how the characters spew eloquent vitriol at each other and rhapsodize (okay, rant) about some opinions that seem dead-on and others that seem wildly inaccurate. In some ways, the words seem like the most important thing; but in other ways, I think the movie could work as a silent film. (Either way, it's inventive: It was the first major film to shoot completely during the pandemic, so it takes place in a single home, with 2 actors, in more-or-less real time.) Writer/director Sam Levinson poses interesting questions about storytelling and authorship: Sure, write what you know; but also, and maybe more interestingly, try to write (and learn) about what you don't know. (Case in point: I don’t really have any experience or expertise about the Oscars, yet here I am.) Levinson has gotten a lot of criticism for what appears to be his point of view. I think that's fair, but I also disagree. I believe it's a bit of a misdirection. I think he believes in both sides of the argument; he's been the irrational, emotional one, and the cool, calculating one. The characters are halves to a whole. There's also the frustration with how the couple end up. The film is ambiguous, but audiences seem to think they stay together. I think the girlfriend actually decides before the movie starts that she's leaving him, and this is their breakup. That's why she lets him say all the horrible things he does, because she knows he has to get it out -- it affirms what she already knows, and reinforces her decision. Did I sell you on the movie yet? No? Well, how about this: It's the best autobiographical movie that Burton and Taylor never made.

As an honorable mention, it would have been a nice story had Mank been nominated here, as it was written by David Fincher's father, Jack Fincher, over two decades ago. The elder Fincher was a life-long newspaper man, who had an affinity for 1930s/1940s cinema, a strong knowledge of Herman Mankiewicz, and a fascination with a famously-dissenting Pauline Kael article that disparaged Orson Welles's contributions to the Citizen Kane screenplay. David Fincher had hoped to get his passion project off the ground in the 90s, but hasn't been able to until now. A nomination would have been a touching tribute to his father, who died in 2003. (Another interesting connection: John Mankiewicz, Herman Mankiewicz's grandson, was an executive producer on David Fincher's House Of Cards.) Despite my frustrations with the overall movie, the script is slick, and analyzes some intriguing inside-the-snowglobe aspects of Citizen Kane. It's a crackling, showy piece that jauntily goes out of its way to flaunt its writerliness. (For you keen-eyed writers out there, you'll notice I just made up the word 'writerliness'.) It doesn’t necessarily require you to believe that Citizen Kane is the greatest film ever made, but a healthy sense of awe doesn’t hurt. (It also helps to have a working knowledge of the film's lore, pre-WWII Hollywood, and 1930s -- or some would say, 2020s -- California politics.) The script simultaneously adores and gives a middle finger to Hollywood. Isn’t that what art is supposed to do? (That's not a rhetorical question. I'm actually asking if art is supposed to do that. Because I don't know.)

I've picked The Lovebirds as my Gloriously Omitted choice, not because it's a bad movie, but because it's a missed opportunity. It should have been amazing. The premise, the trailer, the choice of leads, and the chemistry are all fantastic, and set lofty expectations. But the movie itself is just… underwhelming. Maybe hopes were too high, but it's not as clever, tight, or funny as I wanted it to be. The problem isn't the actors -- Issa Rae truly holds the screen, and Kumail Nanjiani is naturally funny (though his character doesn't stray far from previous ones). I think it's the script (from Aaron Abrams and Brendan Gall), which feels rushed and half-baked, like a collection of sketch ideas. It's as if the screenplay left chunks blank, with a note saying, "The actors will figure out something funny on set." For these actors, I'd rather see a taut thriller story, and let them imbue it with humor and humanity. Or better yet, let Rae and Nanjiani write it themselves next time.

BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY:

SHOULD WIN: Christopher Hampton, Florian Zeller (The Father) WILL WIN: Chloé Zhao (Nomadland) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Jane Goldman, Joe Shrapnel, Anna Waterhouse (Rebecca) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Ruben Santiago-Hudson (Ma Rainey's Black Bottom)

Adapted Screenplay is going to get swept up in the Nomadland tidal wave on Oscar night, but to me it's probably the film's weakest element. I've talked about my lack of connection to the story. I understand the opinion that it's resonant, but is it revelatory? I can certainly see how it would strike a stronger chord during the pandemic, when we are all isolated; it makes the main character's loneliness feel more real. We've all been living in Nomadland, and whether it's David Strathairn shattering our favorite plates, or our kids shattering our iPad, we're just about at wit's end. But Chloé Zhao's script also plays up the theme of community and interconnectedness, and I didn't really feel that. The main character seems to be closing herself off from connection (though the ending suggests a change that we never actually get to see). A red flag is a movie description that says, "It asks more questions than it answers." Ugh, that's tough. For me, narrative is king. I understand that the movie is literally about a drifter with no plan, and the structure of the film is supposed to make you feel unmoored, but a little plot direction would be nice. Then there's the emotional climax, when Bob the Nomad Guru comes to the rescue to explain the whole theme. He tells Frances McDormand (but really, us) that he gets through grief by helping other people: "For a long time, every day was, How can I be alive on this earth when he’s not? And I didn’t have an answer. But I realized I could honor him by serving people. It gives me a reason to go through the day. Some days that's all I've got." Hmmm, where I have I seen that exact sentiment expressed before? Oh yeah, an award-winning short film called Through The Trees. (Available now, for free on YouTube.)

Dementia Mystery Thriller… is that a movie genre? Well, it might be, after success of The Father (written by Christopher Hampton and Florian Zeller, adapted from Zeller's Tony-winning play). "Exciting" is hardly the word I would use to describe the horrible crumbling of the mind that is dementia, but in this movie, it weirdly fits. The film has a way of presenting the disorder in a unique manner, that goes a long way in conveying the helplessness and frustration of the victim. With copycat movies inevitable, I can almost see Christopher Nolan's version now: Demento, where a mumbling Tom Hardy (unrecognizable under heavy old-man makeup) kills his caregiver twice because he can't remember if he already killed her… or her identical twin. The big twist comes when he discovers whether he killed them in the past, or in the future, or if he's remembering the memory of someone else who killed them. The scenes of the movie play in a different random order every time, and the only score is the constant deafening sound of the old man's heartbeat. Marion Cotillard plays the twins -- apparently the only females in the universe -- using whatever accent she feels like, because she has limited, unrealistic dialogue, and has no compelling story or agency, or any useful traits for an actress whatsoever. Hardy's son may or may not be a British crime lord or an undercover MI6 agent, played by Michael Caine (digitally de-aged to look the age that Hardy actually is). An emaciated Christian Bale, who manages to lose 3 inches of height for the role, makes a cameo as Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Revolutionary practical effects include a life-size recreation of Westminster Abbey inside a zero-gravity chamber, for one massively-complicated but forgettable 5-second shot. It will only cost $723 million, and will go straight to HBO Max. I will name it the best film of 2022.

I may be picking The Father, but I'm rooting for The White Tiger, written and directed by Ramin Bahrani. Set in India in the recent past, it's a striking, chilling tale of what men may be willing to do (or forced to do) to escape poverty. Bahrani constructs a fiery examination of themes that never get old: power vs. agency, freedom vs. choice, complicity vs. culpability. His script uses a lot of devices that shouldn't work: excessive, expository voice-over; explicitly-stated metaphors; speaking directly to the audience; and on-the-nose correlations to current times. But the story and acting are strong enough to make these feel integral. Given the themes and foreign setting, it has the misfortune (or great fortune) of being an easy comparison to Parasite, last year's Oscar grand prize winner. But I find The White Tiger far more accessible and scrutable than Parasite (maybe partly due to the devices I mentioned). A win here would be a welcome surprise. By the way, Bahrani's first Oscar nomination is an interesting footnote to Hollywood lore: In the 2014 Roger Ebert documentary Life Itself, we learn that Ebert was given a legendary token by Laura Dern -- a puzzle that had been passed on from several film icons, with the understanding that each would pass it on to someone truly deserving. Dern had gotten it from revered acting teacher Lee Strasberg, and it originated when Alfred Hitchcock gave it to Marilyn Monroe years before. And now Ebert was giving it to Bahrani. 60 years of movie history, from Hitchcock to Bahrani, and into the future. (Good thing it's not at my house, we would have lost several pieces by now.)

Four of the most famous and popular men in the country walk into a bar… so shouldn't the patrons be freaking out more? One Night In Miami plays out a very intriguing hypothetical scenario: When Malcolm X, Muhammad Ali, Jim Brown, and Sam Cooke all met one night in 1964, what did they talk about? The compelling script (by Kemp Powers, based on his own play) and naturalistic direction (by Regina King) make for a highly enjoyable think-piece and character study. It's a daunting task, to say the least: Not only are they representing extremely visible and important figures, but two of the actors (Kingsley Ben-Adir as Malcolm X, Eli Goree as Ali) are reprising roles already played by Oscar-nominated performers (Denzel Washington, Will Smith) who may be more famous than the actual figures themselves. I guess my hang-up (besides the horrendous Johnny Carson impersonation) is, what are the stakes? Historically, we know the stakes for these four people, in the larger context of their lives and the civil rights movement. But in the film itself, in that single night, for these specific characterizations, what are the stakes? What are they each looking for that evening? I think the movie doesn't fully address this, structurally. Ultimately, due to their fame, we know where the characters' lives go from here -- how it "ends". While that makes it interesting culturally, it feels like it puts a ceiling on the movie in a way, like it's holding something back. With these outsized characters, plot-wise, I wanted a little bit more.

Released in October with almost no warning, Borat Subsequent Moviefilm either single-handedly swung the presidential election, or had no absolutely no impact whatsoever, depending on who you ask. It's a rare feat for an original movie and its sequel to both score Oscar nominations for screenplay; I can't think of another time it's ever happened for a comedy. The fact that it's even under consideration -- given its improvisational nature and whopping nine (nine!) screenwriters (I'm not going to name them all, I'm trying to keep this article brief) -- is fairly astonishing. Even more baffling still, it's been placed in the Adapted category instead of Original. (Pesky Academy rules: Any sequel is automatically defined as an adaptation of the original.) The movie itself is unfortunately a shell of the unrelentingly funny original (Sacha Baron Cohen looks more like a middle-aged man doing a mediocre Borat impression at this point). When the big night arrives, the film will either single-handedly swing the Oscar vote, or have absolutely no impact whatsoever, depending on who you ask.

One of the biggest surprises on nomination day was the exclusion of Ma Rainey's Black Bottom from Best Picture and Best Adapted Screenplay, assumed to be a lock in both categories. It was even thought to contend with Nomadland in this category (it would have gotten my vote, had they asked me). I think it was diminished by the perception of being a fairly straight recreation of August Wilson's play, which is a shame. The film version (written by Ruben Santiago-Hudson) makes wonderful use of the physical space, the confinement, the claustrophobia. And I'd say the movie feels more like an album than a play -- a collection of "songs" (monologues, exchanges, and actual songs), each with its own rhythm, beat, lyrics, and theme, but coming together as a cohesive piece. The composition is effective; it draws you in the way the best albums do, and challenges your brain to think one thing while your heart feels something else. (My only complaint is that I wanted more of Viola Davis and Chadwick Boseman together! Their personalities are electric, and their personas overtake the room. Their conflict is brief (it mostly flows over to conflicts with other characters), and I really wanted to see them alone, head-to-head and unbridled. I realize their distance is purposeful, and important thematically, but damn, it could have been a showdown for the ages. Just another reason to wonder… What might have been?)

The remake of Rebecca was written by a few people, including Joe Shrapnel, whose name may have been a bad harbinger for what was to become of this script. Keep it simple: Please leave Hitchcock alone.