#And unlike Bronte people actually like him

[roxannepolice]

Out of all the literary quotes that can be thrown at the Master and thoschei, this one from A hero of our time always struck me as a particularly accurate. Like, when the Master rushes over to keep the Doctor from falling in EoT, this is what popped up in my brain. Why?

Well, A hero of our time is up there with Shamela as earliest cases of recuntruction of a genre. Except where Shamela deconstructs stories that are generally regarded as sham - the mindbogglingly noble innocent girl "fixing" a guy, with none of the introspection to be found in Bronte sisters' works - A hero of our time deals with a more regarded - and objectively artisticly more meritorious - genre of byronic heroes. The main character, Grigory Pechorin, ticks all the boxes of a byronic hero - handsome, young, tragic, romantic, what have you - except unlike his predecessors like Byron's Giaour or Pushkin's Eugene Onegin (that Pechorin is a direct parody of, with both having river-based surnames)... he's aware he's a bastard. Like, there's always a part of him that can look at himself from outside and recognize that he's ruining himself and others, and that there are very easy ways to stop this. If you provided a critical analysis and called him a spoiled rich white boy who needs therapy, he'd be the first to agree. He's an homme fatal in the way of quality noir femmes fatales, who - again, in actually good noir films - strike the audience as much, much more than just sexy objects that can't control their sexuality and selfish impulses.

Which is why the above passage strikes the reader so hard. Yes, it's all written in a memoir convention, but we're still not at the point of deconstructing the peotic frames, what is written is to be taken at face value. And what we find is a flood of emotion, of deeply honest love and desperation that's hard to be brushed aside as a pose. And yet it's the pov character/main character that does so. He even goes for biologization of his state, dismissing it as possibly litte more than exhaustion. He recognizes spleen for a endocrinological imbalance that the name suggests.

The book is perfectly, openly unpreachy. There's no moral here to derive about how to live. It just presents the reader with a character that we are deeply confused about: he's clearly capable of deep, beautiful, noble emotions, yet chooses not to act on them, the moment a single physical obstacle (such horse dying from exhaustion) cuts the stream of consciousness. There's something no longer unsentimental as much as anti-sentimental about it. "People are, by nature, good, and if they just followed their natural empathy and feelings"- no, nothing good would come out of it, at least there's no guarantee.

And yet there's an honesty to it. An honesty that's specifically lacking in usual romantic heroes. There's an awareness that this level of dramaticness in life has to involve an element of cynically orchestrating it. And it's not the case of preachy "and therefore we should dismiss all delusions of such emotional rushes as fake", because there is no fakeness. It's the case of even manipulation being stragnely honest about itself, moreseo than truth could ever be. It appears to be saying "the only way to resolve the mystery of Mona Lisa's smile is to scratch all the paint off the beechwood, do you really think you'll find something truer underneath?". In a way, yes, wood was there beofre da Vinci, but I don't really think that's the reality we're looking for.

That's why when either fandom or the source material goes for getting to the Master "undearneath all performance" it strikes me as empty. No, it's not the Doctor knowing the truth of the Master, it's the case of the Master exposing truths about the Doctor.

Like Pechorin of byronic heroes.

[crescentpaws]

OK CAR RIDE QUESTIONS 4 U (you don’t have to answer all of them im just also bored rn)

do you like to listen to music/podcasts on a car journey?

if so any recs?

favourite gas station snack?

hmmm…. what do you think fintan would do on a road trip… he seems like a doritos guy 2 me…

GETTING OFF TOPIC. what’s the best fast food place/place for road trip lunch?

worst road trip Event that makes you wanna commit arson

(like him… IM GETTING OFF TOPIC !)

ok man i give up i canf think of anything else roadtrip related. do you have a favourite fintan line/moment?

do you think he qualifies as doomed by the narrative?

whats your ideal shannon-be-damned fintan endgame (purposely vague— death/redemption/yaoi/all at once/secret fifth thing whatever you desire)

whats the funniest theory you have for unravelled? personally ithink keefes gonna meet alvar at the pride parade

when you rotate fintan in your head is it like a smooth 3d animation or the pear wiggler or a washing machine or?

1. yes i am an avid music enjoyer

2. idk man i just listen to set it off

3. can’t go wrong with candy & potato chips

4. i dunno about snacks but. he would be the guy in the passenger seat that props his feet up on the dash…. but in an annoying & distracting way. if he had the back seat all to himself he would sprawl out dramatically. & if he was the one driving he would definitely do random swerves & sudden accelerations/breaks just to annoy other drivers/the other people in the car. he is an asshole.

also i think any elf on a road trip would be complaining “are we there yet” because they’re too used to light leaping and don’t know how to wait more than a few minutes to travel somewhere.

but fintan would definitely prefer car drives over plane flights…. specifically because he would find it agonizing to be that high up in the atmosphere (therefore closer to the sun & everblaze) without being able to use his ability. he would squeeze himself into the tiny plane bathroom and have a breakdown.

5. augh i don’t know….. i’m a picky eater so there’s not many places i’ll go tbh….

6. any bathroom inconveniences…. i will kill someone

8. fav fintan line has got to be “sorry i’m late. the security here is murder” bc he had no right to say that wtf 😭😭😭 actually worst person ever he sucks so much. other fav peace summit lines are “there’s no need to be offended. being superior isn’t all it’s cracked up to be” and “how predictable of you” because i love it when he is an arrogant sarcastic bitch.

top 3 fintan scenes are the peace summit, his memory break, and his healing i think (not in any particular order). but also i love his “surprise” when he reveals that he’s still alive in book 4 becahse WHY IS HE SUCH A SMUG LITTLE FUCKER. hate that bitch (i love him so much)

9. i think it depends on how you look at it. young baby councillor fintan is definitely doomed i think. but evil bitch neverseen fintan has deliberately chosen all his actions and therefore i think is more doomed by himself than the narrative if anything. obviously though the series hasn’t ended yet so. we’ll have to see.

10. ALL AT ONCE‼️💥💥 in all seriousness though i have conflicting opinions…. i wouldn’t like a redemption arc because i know all that would mean would be him helping out the main characters from within his prison…. and i am not content with him rotting in prison for all of eternity. but i KNOW if he breaks out the series will have to end with him dying… which i also don’t want…. but i’d be more ok with his death if it was actually intense and emotional and dramatic unlike literally all the other neverseen deaths so far……. i think bronte should kill him homoerotically i think that would be neat.

11. keefe gets rabies 🔥🔥 maybe he somehow gets a british accent also…. idk. also if i’m forced to read a whole keefe book he better mention fintan at least once… just for me…….. (i need him to recap his time in the neverseen pls that would actually make me excited to read the book)

12. low quality image of him spinning around like he’s on a spinny chair (but there is no chair & he is just floating)

[yeahthatswhatimtolkienabout]

Snippet of chapter 8!

it is coming out tomorrow, so here is a short snippet:

In the bookshop, Muriel was reading again. Over the last few days, they had devoured most of Dicken’s classics and tore apart the writings of the Bronte sisters. They were having a fabulous time, they got to read books, drink hot chocolate, and actually get to speak to people . Muriel liked talking to people, it wasn't something they were really allowed to do in the Up, so this made a delightful change.  Muriel turned the page of the book they were reading and rested their chin on their hand. This book was from the very back of the bookshop and was quite unlike anything they had read so far. This one was about the ‘traitor’ (though Muriel liked him too much to call him a traitor) Aziraphale and his grumpy friend, who was still asleep upstairs.

Muriel wondered absentmindedly whether they should do something about him, he had been sleeping for a while. They shrugged to themself, he would be fine. They turned another page, this book was very interesting, they read the next entry...

[team-council]

TW: SEMI-GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, SWEARING, INJURY, ABUSE

Evil Council AU! Part 1(??)Just in time for spooky month! I have a lot more to say than I thought so this doesn’t cover nearly the whole thing. Most of its very general save the parts with bronte (because I’m not capable of restraining myself)

Just a loose collection of ideas I’ve had floating around in my mind brain! Less ‘Evil Council’ and more of a ‘Role Swap’ AU if you want to get really particular. But I don’t. Could alternatively be called ‘Fallon Vacker Is A Piece Of Shit and Ruins Everything For Everyone’. The later half of this is Bronte-Centric and I don’t have any shame about that if I do a P2 it’ll mostly focus on everyone else.. probably…..no promises… also the tags have misc. ramblings I didn’t want to put here enjoy

- Starting the Evil Council AU of strong with some non council-related content here but it’s important to note that Sophie and Keefe kind of swap roles in this AU. Keefe is wholesale the moon lark- raised in the lost cities, brown eyes, teleports, alicorn blood, the whole shabang- and Sophie is… Well, this is where the ‘kind of’ comes in. She’s still the Neverseen’s anti-moonlark but rather than having been raised under the delusion of normalcy like Keefe she’s always known about the Neverseen and their plans for her. She fronts the facade of typical playful, sarcastic Sophie at Foxfire whilst spending all of her free time training to assume her rightful place as the Neverseen’s ultimate weapon.

- Kenric and Oralie are Sophie’s biological parents in this AU. They both resigned from their positions on the council to get married about :rolls dice: 70 something years pre-cannon. They come away from their time as councillors incredibly disillusioned with the state of their world, finding that regardless of the fact that they dedicated hundreds of years of their lives to bettering and protecting the Lost Cities virtually nothing has changed since they joined the council.

- Fallon Vacker’s totally epic evil schemes are already well underway by this point in time, but he sees an opportunity to gain valuable allies in the still wildly popular power couple that is Koralie, so he approaches them. And by them I mean Oralie. He’s off the council by this point but served *much* longer in this timeline, enough to spend at least a few years working alongside her and they’ve kept in contact. From what he suspects Kenric would be more proactive than her but would be more likely to try and alienate Oralie from their plans under the guise of protecting her- which won’t do, he wants them both involved.

- Seeing as he’s made his appearance I’ll now take some time to explain Fallon and his grand vision. I know some people speculate differently than I do, but for the sake of this AU elves have always maintained the facade of being a ‘peaceful’ species due to their fragile minds. Fallon’s spent he majority of his life on the council and in the nobility tap dancing around the real issues that face their world- whether it be humans, ogres, internal prejudices- and assigning asinine non-solutions to legitimate problems. The solution to the elven race’s terminal ineffectuality, he believes, is to shatter the illusion of peace they’ve manufactured so thoroughly that they’ll have no choice but to become stronger in order to survive. Like the Neverseen in the proper books he’s also like, a raving bigot and of course the end goal in all of this is elven supremacy- but in order for that to come about elves have to grow some balls. Also Fallon and whoever is taking Vespara’s place were experimenting on humans to replicate their indestructible minds, but also experimenting on other species as well. Specifically ogres since they seem to have a certain amount of telepathic skill.

- He doesn’t come out of the gate with any of this stuff though. Instead, when he approaches Oralie he softballs the idea of his rebellion to her. He recalls specific moments in her career when she was blocked from actually improving things, denied access to important history and information because it was deemed better forgotten, he has her relive every infuriating defeat she’s suffered throughout her entire career and then gently suggests that perhaps she can still do something despite no longer sitting on the council. She’s immediately intrigued but she can tell Fallon’s hiding something from her. She finds it ironic that even though he laments the state of Eternalia’s underhanded politics he’s still acting no better than an average nobleman. Fallon can tell Oralie’s figured him out before she’s had the chance to press him about it and decides to preempt her inevitable prying by testing the waters of her… moral flexibility. Being an empath he didn’t expect much of her mental fortitude, but to his delight she seems to be in agreement with him on the idea that elves have grown too unwilling to take action and that perhaps it’s time to abandon their ‘peace’ and reveal it for what it is: cowardice masquerading as benevolence. They have several conversations like this over the course of a year or so and Fallon finally comes clean about the entire plan to her. Oralie hesitates only briefly before agreeing to join the neverseen.

- Kenric is less enthused about the plan than Oralie is when she finally tells him. He dislikes the idea of working exclusively in shadow, but more than that he dislikes the idea of Oralie putting herself in such grave danger. He knows there’s no talking her out of it and before he’s even had the chance to decide whether or not he agrees with Fallon he’s come to accept that he will have to partake in his scheme if he’s to keep Oralie safe. After talking with Fallon and Oralie more extensively though he does come around, albeit more slowly, and once he does he’s even more excited about the idea than Oralie is and beings active work with the Neverseen- mostly gathering information, manipulating his social status and connections to access classified documents as well as any available information on the Black Swan.

- More important than any of that to Fallon, however, is the request he has for the pair. Now that he knows they’re on his side, implicated so thoroughly in his plans they’d rot in exile for treason if they betrayed him to the council, he asks them to submit their first child to him for genetic modification, to have it be the Neverseen’s penultimate weapon. Kenric and Oralie are appalled at first. The idea of using their own child as a pawn disturbs them, and rightfully so, but as Fallon explains what the modifications would entail they start to understand. He says he means only to strengthen her mind and ensure she has a couple of abilities that will be necessary for their war against the council, primarily inflicting (I made this AU before unlocked came out and since the reason for Keefe’s special ability or even how it fully works aren’t known I found it too much of a bother to rewrite this so that it takes inflicting’s place). They both tentatively agree, submitting their DNA to Fallon so that he and his team can handle the modifications. The process takes decades and during that time Kenric and Oralie find all of their guilt over the matter completely subsiding. They dig themselves deeper and deeper into their work with the Neverseen, watching with contempt as the Elven world spirals into inefficient madness around them.

- By the time Sophie’s born they’ve wholly given themselves to Fallon’s ideals. They’re prepared for war, prepared to make their only child an instrument of that war. She’s trained to fight, trained to resist pain, resist telepathic prodding, trained to analyze the weaknesses in other people and exploit them without mercy. The black swan won’t be very active until their Moonlark returns to its proverbial nest but even as a child Sophie’s warned of their existence, of the threat they pose to the Neverseen and the dogma she’s been fed. She’s told she will one day manifest an incredible gift and that she’ll have to use that power to wipe them out. Perhaps more so than any of her other training, the preparation of her mind for that moment is absolutely imperative. She was already designed with an infallible mind, but that of course has to be put to the test. Through out her childhood she is put through a series of experiences that escalate in the severity of their violence. At first she’s watching violence be done to an animal, then a person. Then she’s made to be the victim of violence. Then she’s forced to enact violence upon animals, and then finally another elf. She manifests as an inflictor, finally, during the last portion of her conditioning, losing herself in the brutalization of an elf she’s been told betrayed the organization.

- Oralie and Kenric have watched her progression with pride, joy even. Their daughter is remorseless. She’s capable. She’s efficient. She’s everything an elf hasn’t been in thousands of years. She will end an era of mock civility that has survived extinction events and countless wars. They don’t notice that she looks at them both with utter contempt when their backs are turned.

- So Sophie’s an inflictor, albeit with some adjustments made. Rather than targeting someone’s mind specifically she’s only capable of inflicting on a given radius around herself- the expanse of which grows as she harnesses her power. Anyone within her range will fall victim to a pain like they’ve never known. She’s incredibly violent, incredibly volatile, and desperately in need of training.

- So let’s talk about Bronte! Honestly, I agonized a little over what to do with him in this. The idea that I ended up going with is something of an… unconventional evil Bronte take? I almost felt like I was absolving him of responsibility by going the road I did, but at the same time I don’t think anyone’s convinced Bronte’s incapable of being a bad person. In another world- fuck, in Keeper’s proper cannon- he could easily find himself a self-aware, wholly responsible for his own actions villain. Thhhaaat said I felt like this AU didn’t have much of a need for another disillusioned former politician convinced they’re doing the right thing™️. Also, Fallon being who he is in this AU it seemed.. on brand that he’d show up yet again to make a mess of things.

- To being I should mention that Inflicting was banned instead of pyrokinesis in this AU not long after Bronte became an emissary- albeit not for the reasons you might suspect. Fallon had taken a particular interest in Bronte and his ability as soon as he manifested, watching from afar and occasionally arranging meetings where he would pry into the nature of his ability, the way he processed violence, and even provide encouragement and validation Bronte desperately needed. By the time that Bronte graduates from Foxfire Fallon’s already arranged for him to be a personal attendant of his and emissary soon after that. Bronte completely adores Fallon. He’s one of the only people that will acknowledge his ability without treating it as an affliction- if anything he seems excited to know more about it. Fallon sees his ability as a gift as opposed to a curse and Bronte in turn hates himself less for possessing it, eventually even coming to embrace his inflicting with enough coaxing. Bronte will do anything for Fallon’s continued approval and as such becomes an incredibly useful tool to him. He often dispatches Bronte to do his dirty work in regards to matters dealing with the nobility, the kidnapping of subjects for Nightfall, and other various problems. It doesn’t take long for Fallon’s enemies to realize that if he were to lose access to Bronte he’d lose a pretty substantial advantage as well. So they frame Bronte for an abuse of his power. Fallon attempts to protect him but inflicting has long been an idea that’s made everyone uneasy and they’re more than happy to sentence it and Bronte to the highest punishment elven society has to offer: being forgotten.

- Bronte is stripped of his title as an Emissary and is put on indefinite house arrest as punishment for the ‘assault’ he committed. While he formerly had an outlet for his ability in the form of assignments from Fallon he can now do nothing but let resentment and hate build in him without relief as he rots alone with only his spite for company. Due to the fact that Fallon constantly encouraged him to explore and use his ability in this AU Bronte never discovered a means of keeping his inflicting at bay. He never graduated beyond ‘being an irritable fuck who’s constantly on the verge of losing his shit’. Had it not been for the fact he kept up appearances for Fallon’s sake it’s very likely he would’ve been punished a lot sooner for a crime he *actually* committed. Anyways, by the time Fallon is able to see Bronte again he’s a complete fucking wreck. Reigning his ability in hasn’t even occurred to him. He feels slighted, scorned, ill-used and those emotions are only heightened by an ability that feeds off of them. He’s totally trashed his house and apparently every other living thing that’s attempted to come near him- he hasn’t been very kind to himself either. Fallon’s sure that when he approaches him he’ll be greeted with the full force of his inflicting, or at least a fist to his gut. He’s surprised to find that he’s met with neither. If anything, his presence seems to calm Bronte and they’re able to have a discussion. Rather than suggesting that Bronte control his ability, Fallon suggests that Bronte find another outlet for his violent urges. He posits that hand-to-hand combat might do the trick and arranges for him to meet with a goblin instructor on the matter. It’s a difficult idea to sell to the rest of the council, but Fallon assured them it’ll be a good means of keeping Bronte occupied and reduce the likelihood he’ll snap and hurt others- and more pressingly himself.

- Fallon doesn’t make this decision out of the goodness of his heart though. No, originally he saw the weapon he created Sophie to be in Bronte. He figures that if Bronte’s to be unable to assist him then he can at least be acquiring a useful skill in the meantime. And boy does Bronte set to acquiring. He takes to combat well if not a little too zealously, but it doesn’t satiate him in the way that Fallon had said it would. If anything, it makes things *worse*. He can wail away at as many training dummies as he wants, it’s not inflicting. It’s not draining all of his pent up, festering rage, only adding to it. By the time Bronte’s able to leave his house again and his supervision is relaxed he doesn’t even care what Fallon’s planning so long as he can fuck something up. Fallon’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth and obliges him, testing the extent of his newfound inhibition by ordering him to torture various prisoners of the Neverseen. At first Bronte finds himself satisfied to just unleash his ability on captives. After centuries of frustration and unvented rage releasing the unbridled force of his power is a euphoric experience. He’s spent years rotting in purposelessness and now finally has something that puts his skills and his time to use. The satisfaction, the bliss of it all is overwhelming. Whatever guilt he feels at hearing the agonized screams of his victims is washed away by a tide of long overdue relief.

- To Fallon’s intrigue, however, Bronte’s new position as torturer doesn’t satisfy him either. Inflicting, like pyrokinesis, seems to be more of a gluttonous creature in and of itself than a passive power that can be manipulated. But where the consuming nature of a pyrokinetic’s ability is lost in abstractions about the vague ‘nature of flames’ Fallon finds inflicting very easy to explain.

- One of Bronte’s charges is refusing to talk. They make a small jab at him, something juvenile, something stupid. It doesn’t really matter what they said. Fallon’s called to the scene and finds their captive simultaneously covering the floors, walls, ceiling, and Bronte. Fallon expects this to shatter even an inflictor’s mind, but his friend surprises him again by taking things in stride. For a while, anyways. It’s a month or so before another incident and in that time Fallon’s come to the conclusion that an inflictor’s mind is simply a naturally superior version of a humans, the perfect step 2 in elven evolution he was always striving to achieve with his research. It’s not a presumption he gets to hold on to for very long. The next time that Bronte mangles one of their ‘guests’ he doesn’t seem to recover so well. He’s not grieving though, not stewing in self loathing. No. He’s agitated. Fallon finds his moods to be increasingly more volatile. Sometimes he’ll maintain his cold, sarcastic demeanor but as soon as something displeases him slightly he’ll lose his shit, usually not calming down until Fallon’s soothed him or he’s done severe harm to someone else. Fallon’s still struggling to figure out what’s going on, but Bronte already knows. The first time he inflicted on someone after such a long hiatus he felt so… satisfied. But when he did it again that sense of fulfillment was nowhere near as great. Emotions started to build in him again, every minor annoyance compounding, silly little aggravations multiplied a thousand fold until he could see nothing but red. Brutalizing someone with his bare hands… it felt like that first time inflicting again. Satisfied. Relieved. He thought it was his answer. The next time he felt his anger piling high he went to marring his victim as he had the time before, horrified to find that this pleasure too had become dull to him. With no way to truly feel as if he’s dispelling his want of violence he becomes trapped in a downward spiral, a perpetual loss of control. He finds that it gets difficult to pay attention to things, that he can’t listen to anyone- save Fallon- speak to him without wanting to floss their teeth with their vocal chords. It gets to the point where he doesn’t even notice time passing all that much. All he desires is to have an enemy pointed out to him, to partake in whatever meager rush of dopamine ripping into somebody gives him at this point. Fallon decides that this is the true nature of an inflictor, the monkey’s paw-esque cost of their exceptional power. In order to keep the mind of the, for lack of a better term, ‘host’ from shattering under the weight of their power’s inherently violent nature the ability consumes it. True, the ‘host’ is no longer capable of caring for their victims but they are also no longer capable of caring for much of anything. By the time the process is complete what’s left of the inflictor is little more than a vessel of violence. It’s not the result Fallon was hoping for but he nevertheless thinks it’s comforting to know that elves *are* capable of violence.

- he decides the best thing to do from here on is to keep Bronte sedated or otherwise drugged when not in use. He does occasionally pay him visits just to be ‘social’. Bronte rarely says anything to him anymore but he’s always listening when he speaks.

- When Fallon creates sophie it’s with the intention that she be a compromise between Bronte’s power and a normal elves’ sanity. Unbeknownst to him, his design is imperfect. While she’s not prone to losing her whole self to her ability she will struggle with violent urges her whole life. Even if she’s incapable of breaking due to the guilt of her actions they still make her wonder just what kind of monster she really is.

- she doesn’t wonder anymore after she’s introduced to Bronte for the first time. He’s the personification of her urges. His hair’s long and matted. His nails are long, their undersides coated in thick clusters of rot. She can’t see much of his face except for a hellish, bloodshot eye. His stare is empty of everything except hatred and for the first time she feels as if she’s really looking at herself. Fallon has explained her situation to Bronte and up until seeing her he had thought he would test her limits as he’d asked. Test her limits and then go back to drifting between assignments. But when he sees her… Well, Fallon’s always had theories about why he did what he did. His ego likes to think Bronte was scared of being replaced by her, that he’d only ever lose control of Bronte if he were afraid of being cast aside again. The answer he likes less is just as plausible though. That Bronte saw in Sophie the potential to fall just as far as he had, and in a brief moment of awareness had.. done his best to prevent that from happening.

- Sophie spends months in the infirmary after Bronte attacks her. He’s broken her jaw, torn her stomach open with his hands, practically flattened her throat. For the first time in her life Sophie has a lot of private time to herself. For the first time in her life she considers what all of this has been for. If that creature is the incarnation of violence.. the culmination of everything Fallon aspires to, the ‘gift’ he wants to bestow upon elven kind… What was everything even for? That creature was farther from salvation than anything she’d ever known in her whole life. What good could possibly be done by bringing that darkness into the lives of ordinary people?

- She keeps these thoughts to herself though. The Neverseen is still all she’s known. She has no other support systems. It’s where her family is. She won’t give them up so easily. (and besides, who would welcome a monster into their ranks anyways?)

- During her recovery Sophie is allowed a break from training even after she’s no longer bound to the infirmary. Her injuries have been explained to Foxfire and all concerned authorities as the result of an accident at Havenfield. Jolie, who is alive and collaborating with the Neverseen, helped sell the story by claiming she was a witness and had invited Sophie over to help with animal care when some of the security systems failed and a few dinosaurs escaped. Grady and Edaline have left the property to Jolie and Brant in this AU is well and are taking (a very deserved) vacation somewhere. Brant is an emissary of the council and was personally trained by the still sitting Councillor Fintan but that’s for part 2.

- Anyways, when she returns to school she’s surprised to find that gossip isn’t so much focussed on her as it is a new student with peculiar brown eyes.

[crymeariveronceagain]

river's thoughts on Exile after reading it again.

what the actual frick was this book.

Alden Vacker you slick smarmy son of cerberus you can die by my blade <3

Alvar was very present in this book i was actually legitimately surprised by that. The first time I read it I barely remembered who Alvar was when he turned out to be Neverseen, but now I'm seeing all the little clues and things, as small as they are. However, it's all so subtle and hardly there at all that Alvar's either an Amazing Liar or his traitorhood was added spur of the moment and like me Shannon is a pantser of a writer.

Fitz Vacker is an entire jerk, and honestly he is so unlikeable in this book that there is no good reason that anyone should ever have shipped him with Sophie this early. Like, come on. We barely know the kid, at all, he's been a mostly background character, with Dex and Keefe taking the front positions in Sophie's mind, and what we do see is selfish, mean, and just generally nasty. Like. Kid. What?

Mr. Forkle.

Grady Ruewen is the best dad, and he just wants people to leave his 13 year old daughter alone, but they're not going to and they never will and this makes me sad because there is nothing this man would not do for his daughter.

Edaline went through some SERIOUS character growth in this holy SHOOT. She took leaps and bounds and she's doing so much better mentally I cannot even.

SOPHIE USED HER ONE QUESTION TO HELP HER DAD!!!! She had one question! One question about anything Black Swan! The people who created her! And what did she ask? Did you murder Jolie. For her parents. Oh my stars I'm never going to be over this. This is the sweetest thing.

Look, I get why people don't like Sophie. I get it, I do. But honestly, she is really just doing her best and people just keep trying to hurt her I don't know what else to ask of the actual child.

Councilor Bronte can die by my blade <3 And I'm coming for his kneecaps. This man deserves a tribunal for the crimes against Sophie. Just saying.

Council is heavily abusing their power. Also, so unoraganized? Like can y'all keep it together for ten seconds???

Ok but with my "Neverseen Alden" Headcanon, I'm undecided as to whether or not Alden actually suffered a mind break or not, through that looking glass. Like, if he didn't, and it was for some neferious gain, that makes sense. If he did, it makes less sense, but is still plausible, since the Neverseen are still just ordinary elves, and Prentice was Alden's friend. However, I will say. Alden needing to be repaired was the main catalyst for Sophie both breaking and being put back together, herself. If Alden hadn't broken, none of the events of the book would have happened. Her powers would be shrinking, and no one would know what was going on. Alden is the catalyst.

A Lodestar is a mirror that reflects pure light. If Keefe is the Lodestar, then he reflects all the goodness from the world around him. No, I do not take criticism of this interpretation.

Magnate Leto acting real sus. Like, Mr. Forkle, can you be ANY less obvious. Dude. Pull yourself together, you are a professional.

[sneezemonster15]

Calling bullshit on the opinion that Kishimoto doesn't know how to write romance.

The reason why this entire shipping business on Naruto has been going on for over a decade and still going strong, making fans go absolutely mindless, about a story which is not even about romance, about things that are so effective and impactful that the fans feel completely consumed with it, to the extent where they have almost completely defined their life and philosophies on its basis, is because Kishimoto can write a good fucking romance. And that's what he did. That's the reason why ships are fighting with each other, because it's not just about Naruto the manga or Naruto the series, it's about how they imagine their own romance, it's a deep, profound feeling. That's why they have strong motivations and convictions that drive their insight into the story. That's why there is so much polarity in Naruto fandom. They are ready to jump to protect their ship at a moment's notice because that's how much it means to them.

Are you telling me that it just happened on its own? Just happy coincidences and random factors?

No.

A lot, a lot of thought goes behind closed doors of the studios. I know this because I work in the business. The reason why I was so astounded with Naruto's story because it was actually a brave story. A brave concept. In a shonen. Because I am ready to bet a million dollars I don't have on the fact that Kishimoto knew what he was doing. Anyone who enjoys poetry, or literature, or drama can, if not approve, appreciate Naruto and Sasuke's story. Because it's that deep. Because it's that impactful. Because it's that dark. Because it's that tragic. Because it's that tender. Because it's that painful.

Because it's so...

(Applause.)

Romantic.

These are all the ingredients of a well written romance. This is the reason why I don't care about other ships because I know that SNS is not random or a projection. It's mindfully and carefully and even tenderly written and developed.

Kishimoto's projection? Oh sure. It stands to reason that someone from his real life affected and inspired his favourite character through and through. He did say that he based some characters on certain people from his own life. And he did base Naruto on his own self, if partly. And the reason why I am able to surmise that he could have had a real crush on someone like Sasuke in real life, is because how clearly and insightfully written and contrasted the two characters are. So nuanced. They are like poetry, that's why I am so dazzled with them. Their story is so beautifully shaped by their characters and growth that it creates a clear impression of who they really are in the story. Soulmates. That's the whole crux of the story. They are written out to be this literally 'once in several lifetimes' pairing that finally broke the bonds of hate with bonds of love and changed the entire world and as a result, grew themselves. This is reflected in themselves what with Sasuke being propelled with hate and Naruto with love and coming together finally in a world that they made happen, for each other. And all of their parts and counterparts with which they think and move and function are so well in sync with each other that they lock together perfectly, like two pieces in a two piece puzzle box.

To say that this intricately and intelligently and tenderly written story is just like, an accident, my lord no!

No. The content that is finally syndicated on screens all over the world, especially with the type of response Naruto has enjoyed, and believe me when I say this, everything goes through many levels of scrutiny during production; to the extent of why would this camera angle work better than all the other angles, here's a flowchart and analysis of all of them and let's spend three days on deciding it while the producers are going crazy frustrated with fanatic creatives. This is a very common thing to happen in most serious studios.

Naruto stood out at the time it came out and reached a much larger audience for several reasons. But one of them was that it got the right exposure and was shown to critics outside of Japan, who could appreciate and admire it's cinematic beauty and this reached a different subset of audience. This extra effort is not consistent but it shines at so many places, because it's just good storytelling technically and aesthetically. And the reason why Naruto and Sasuke stand smack dab in the middle of that storytelling, is because Kishimoto told their story with so much feeling, it literally shows. The nuance is just crazy. Note that I am saying nuance and not subtext, even though it's there in heaps. But I want to make a distinction clearly. Like I can write pages and pages over it. Anyway, their story stands out because the nuances are so well defined and mindfully drawn by Kishi, that one can't help but wonder if Kishi actually experienced them. And they are just small things but still get a lot of exposure in the manga and anime. And because they are so small but clearly noticeable, it makes us stop in our tracks and think. And the thing is Kishimoto could have easily done without them and it would have made everything still seem undisturbed but he chose Not to. That kind of decision is a direct result of deep understanding, feeling and thinking in terms of forming a certain visual approach and meaning. The visual language Kishi has used to show their chemistry, their bond, their need for each other, is so tangible, like you could cut it with a knife, that it makes one feel something is right below the surface, simmering and about to explode, but you can't put your finger on what it exactly is. Until you start to think. And it takes some time.

You think that kind of writing is random? Are you out of your mind?

No, Kishi is a maniac. He pulled something that was not easy at all. He is a genius. He is also sadistic because he knows he didn't give us a resolution. Resolution is cathartic to viewers and the reason that nobody got any with Naruto and still not getting any from Boruto is making everyone go crazy. Fifteen years is a long time man. And I can bet my other non existent one million dollars on it. He owns a lot of rights over Naruto franchise, I don't think he can be cowed down to such an extent even by the studio. Kishi fought studios for a few significant scenes of Naruto and Sasuke, he is not unfeeling about them.

Maybe I am being a mere deductionist but more often than not, deduction is right. It's a valid form of acquiring knowledge. Sherlock is right more times than he is not.

Anyway, my point is, Kishi can write romance. Kishi can write very good romance. He could have chosen to remove some tropes and make Naruto and Sasuke either just brotherly or friendly. But he chose not to. A lot of people think that they are platonic. And I think I know why. But I don't. They are not platonic. They seem like they feel physically aware of each other, acutely so. they just don't know what it is. Maybe Sasuke does, Naruto doesn't. Kishi used also such common tropes to show this element, but just because it is in shonen and between two boys, y'all won't believe it. Don't you feel that palpable feeling, the simmering tension and emotion when they fight at the valley of the end both times? And it makes you think maybe it's just you, and what you are thinking can't be true because this is shonen and it would mean they are gay, let me tell you, no it's not you. It is Kishi. And it takes skill to write. Something like this is almost always used as a trope of unaddressed sexual tension in media. Pick any romantic drama of this genre, where 'hate turned to love' or 'two unlikely people who fall in love' and you would find it in almost every single one of them.

Why do you think Kishi designed it that way? You think with all the detail (action moves are literally inspired by real life martial arts, lighting, sound, editing, dialogues that sound like out of a Bronte novel), that was him just playing innocent?

No. No. No. And No!

He wrote SNS throughout Naruto and Shippuden and is still doing something of an extension of it that has made Boruto a weird and uncomfortable to watch family drama.

[sometimesitrytowritethings]

Home

A great big special thank you to @peachy-mags for the full version of the fantastic companion artwork for this piece! (https://peachy-mags.tumblr.com/post/654049235542622208/)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 13.2k

Warnings:  Smut, Swearing, Canon-typical violence

Summary: After years of service to Angelo Bronte, who would have thought that the arrival of little Jack Marston could change your life forever?

Notes: My submission for @rdrbigbang! Be sure to check out the AMAZING companion art for this fic from @peachy-mags!

-----

Another beautiful morning in Saint Denis. You breathed in deeply, reveling in the calm peace that so rarely enveloped the town. There was a slight nip in the air that you knew would fade away as the morning drew on, the sun rising and casting everything in a pale-yellow light, before the city itself awakened. It was your favorite time of day.

A cup of coffee steamed in your hands as you slowly made your way through the gardens at Angelo Bronte’s mansion. One of the perks of being a live-in servant, you supposed, was unfettered access to the (admittedly slightly ostentatious) statue garden out back - given that Signor Bronte himself wasn’t occupying the space. After a few minutes of slow, calm pacing, you found yourself standing in front of a marble statue of some Roman goddess, Aphrodite?, and taking a sip of your coffee. 

It was hot and bitter, the perfect juxtaposition to the cool morning that you would allow yourself to enjoy for a few moments longer. Soon, you would need to make your way inside and ready the table for breakfast, but for now you could enjoy this moment. This peace.

Unfortunately, that peace was almost immediately broken by the sound of terrified cries coming from inside the house. It was not all that uncommon to hear screams and sobs from inside the building, due to the scrupulous nature of your employer, but these sounded different. Almost childlike.

Curious, you made your way back indoors, trying your best to steady your pace so as not to draw unwanted attention. Setting the coffee cup in the kitchen next to the large washbasin, you nodded to the cook, Giovanni, before opening the door to the servant’s stairwell. 

The crying was louder here. Anguished and frightened sobs broken only occasionally by cries for “Mama”. 

So it was a child?

Quietly, you crept up the creaky stairs to the hallway, where several of Bronte’s more scrupulous henchmen, Gene, Alfonso and Irvin, were gathered around a door. The crying was even louder now, and most certainly coming from the room where the henchmen were standing guard. Above the desperate sobs, you could just make out the sounds of your employer trying to shush the child, albeit unsuccessfully.

“Now, now, my boy,” he soothed, his accent unmistakable. “There’s no need to be upset, I’m sure your family will come after you soon enough.” The boy continued to cry for his mother in between sobs. Signor Bronte’s tactic wasn’t exactly working.

The men standing guard had spotted you, and closed their ranks tighter. You knew how this went - you were never allowed to see Bronte’s victims. In fact, as far as you were supposed to know, Bronte participated in no underhanded dealings whatsoever. Which was, of course, completely wrong, and you had figured that out long ago. But for the most part, you tried your best to ignore the dealings - for the sake of keeping yourself alive.

But this was a child.

You had to do something. 

Carefully, you moved closer to the line of henchmen standing in front of the door. They were larger than you, Signor Bronte had a habit of finding and employing practical giants to act as his henchmen, but they were also silent.

“Signor Bronte?” you called, standing nearly face-to-chest with one of the large men. “Is everything alright? Can I be of service?”

The men in front of you reddened, irritated at your immunity to their intimidation tactics. They stayed silent, however, and maintained their position as a wall of flesh between you and the crying child in the room. 

After just a few moments, you heard your name being called with a familiar Italian lilt . “Come in, come in. We could use your help,” he hailed for you over the steady sobs from the room. 

The three men at the door reluctantly parted to let you enter the brightly lit room. A fire was burning low in the hearth, likely more of a symbol of comfort than to actually provide any heat, and your boss sat on the side of a large, gaudy bed. 

The boss of the largest crime syndicate in San Denis was a feared man, but if you met him in the street, you would never know. He was small, with a prominent nose and dark eyes that never overlooked anything. At home, his dark was hair slicked back under a floral headband, and his red housecoat opened in the front to reveal an unbuttoned white collared shirt. To anyone who didn’t know him, he could have passed as any rich, european immigrant.

But you knew better. In the middle of the luxurious home, beneath the extravagance of his clothing, sat a cunning, intelligent man who had clawed his way up from hell itself. He was cutthroat, manipulative, and would not hesitate to sell out his closest comrade for a step up the ladder. Knowing this, it didn’t surprise you to see a small boy curled up on the large, gaudy bed, his clothes muddied and his light brown hair in tangles. He couldn’t have been older than four or five, and was screaming adamantly for his mother. 

Instinctually, you rushed to the bed and sat next to him, taking the spot that had been occupied by your boss. “Now, my dear,” he said as he stood, clearing his throat and adjusting his housecoat, “this young man is Jack, and he will be staying with us for a while.” You looked sympathetically at the boy, still sobbing and curled up in front of you, before giving your boss a solemn nod. 

You hated this; seeing the boy in such a familiar state. A state that you, yourself, had been in for years upon your arrival in San Denis. Hopefully his parents, unlike yours, could pay off whatever debt they had soon. “If you could stop his screams, I would appreciate it. He’s giving me a headache,” Signor Bronte continued, reaching up to massage the bridge of his nose with one hand as he headed toward the door. “Get him some breakfast. I’m sure he hasn’t been fed since those hillbillies in Rhodes took him.”

Without another word, he walked from the room and the three henchmen followed closely behind him. As he entered the hallway, you could hear him speaking to them in Italian, “Let’s hope these bastards come for him soon. I want to have the little shit out of here as soon as possible.”

The door closed behind them, and you were left in the room with the poor, frightened child. You sighed and slowly moved closer to the curled up figure on the bed. Making sure you were as gentle as possible, you reached out to place a hand on his tiny shoulder. “Jack?...” you said his name, low and calm, as if you were trying to tame a spooked horse. He curled even further into himself, but you noticed his sobs had started to die down to exhausted whimpers. “Jack?” you tried again, pulling your hand back to yourself and placing it in your lap. Calmly, you gave him your name before continuing, “I’m very sorry about all of this, Jack. I know it’s very scary…. I-”

What could you tell him? That you had been in the same situation when you were just a few years older? That your parents had never been able to come back for you? That you had spent the majority of your life in service to Angelo Bronte, notorious mafioso, in order to pay a massive debt that had been racked up by your father when you were eight?

No. He didn’t need to know those things. He didn’t need to know the likely reality of his situation.

It was rare that Signor Bronte dealt in child kidnappings, but when he did? The poor kids were lucky if their parents were able to retrieve them.

“I’m sure your ma and pa will show up for you soon,” you soothed, hoping it was the truth.

The poor boy, whose sobs had now turned into quiet sniffles, stayed curled up with his back to you, unmoving. You reached out a hand gently, brushing his dirty hair away from his forehead, only for him to flinch from your touch. You couldn’t blame him. 

“Alright, Jack,” you said quietly, standing from the bed. A nearby armchair held a throw blanket that you spread gently over him. “Why don’t you get some rest, I’ll bring you some water and some soup in a bit, I’m sure you’re starving.” The floor creaked beneath your feet as you made your way to the door. He didn’t move. He didn’t look up at you. He just stayed on the bed, a shaking, sniffling bundle. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Sighing, you stepped out of the room and into the hallway, making sure to lock the door behind you. You didn’t think he would run away, he seemed far too exhausted and overwhelmed for that, but you have seen desperate people do crazier things. The least you could do was make sure he wasn’t accidentally hurt trying to make his way past Gene, Alfonso and Irvin trying to escape.

You made your way quickly back to the servants stairwell and down to the kitchen, where Giovanni was waiting for you with bated breath. A joyous, loving man, an immigrant from Italy alongside Angelo Bronte several decades ago, Giovanni was one of your closest friends - possibly the next thing to family that you had had since coming here. Over the years, he had taught you as much as he could about Italian cuisine, all the while boasting about the restaurant that he would surely open one day. 

At first, you had scoffed. Hardly anyone in Angelo Bronte’s service managed to leave and start their own life. And, with as much as Signor Bronte boasted about Giovanni’s food, it wasn’t likely that he would be let out of his repayment contract that easily. 

Hardly anyone actively sought out Angelo Bronte as an employer. In fact, you suspected that the only actual well-paid employees were the contract killers he sometimes took out to keep his hands clean - but again, you weren’t supposed to know that. The rest of you were given room and board and a pittance of a salary, in exchange for paying off whatever debt was owed to Signor Bronte. For you, it was your father’s sizable gambling debts. For Giovanni, it was the cost of keeping his nieces and nephews alive after their father, his brother, had suddenly passed. Bail, loans, gambling - every one of his employees had a past, and every single one of them owed their future to Angelo Bronte.

“And, my dear, what is the news?” he asked, turning from the freshly baked bread that he had just taken out of the oven to face you. 

You gave him a somber smile and picked up a slice of tomato from the cutting board in the center of the kitchen island. “A boy,” you explained, leaning against the island and taking a bite of the vegetable. You glanced over at the washbasin and saw your coffee cup had been cleaned. Giovanni was a saint. “Maybe four or five? Small, either way. I…” you trailed off, but the both of you knew what was going through your mind. You felt bad for him, you didn’t think he deserved this.

Giovanni nodded, and turned to the stove. “Well, my dear, let’s give the boy a warm welcome, shall we?” he responded before pulling a large pot from the back of the stove and looking inside. “We have some leftover minestrone from yesterday, why don’t you warm some up for him while I finish Signor Bronte’s breakfast? There’s some stale bread in the pantry you can add to it. I’ll call in Anne to set the table,” he handed you a wooden spoon and was out the kitchen door, where you heard him calling for the older woman.

Your smile was significantly less downtrodden after speaking to the man, but you still could feel anxious, worried butterflies in your stomach as you collected a bowl, spoon and glass. After a quick glance around the room to make sure no one was watching, you also slipped a small chocolate bar into your apron pocket, hoping it would help cheer the boy up, even a little. Within just a few minutes, you were headed back up the creaky stairs to the room where Jack was housed, hot soup and cool water in hand, and armed with a secret chocolate bar.

Quietly, you opened the door, balancing the soup and a glass of water with your left arm as you entered. The room was silent now, except for the low breathing of the boy on the bed. If it weren’t for his red-puffy eyes and the chapped rings around his nostrils, he would have seemed peaceful. Like nothing was wrong at all.

You stood for a moment, looking at the poor boy. Should you wake him? He was bound to be starving, but you were sure he was exhausted as well. You hesitated, but decided against it. You could leave the soup and water on the bedside table and check on him throughout the day - he deserved his rest.

Slowly, quietly, you crept across the room to the side of the bed and set the soup and water down, followed by the chocolate bar. You glanced quickly at him, relieved he didn’t wake, before making your way back to the door.

Just as you were about to leave and go about your duties for the morning, you heard a small cough and a hoarse, timid voice from the bed. “Wait…” he said. You turned to see the boy propped up on his arms, looking at you with puffy, shining eyes. “Please don’t leave me.”

Looking at him made you want to cry. How could anyone hurt someone so small, so fragile, so helpless? How could someone be so cruel as to take him away from his family and thrust him into this god awful world?

He was already so exhausted, so frightened, so sad, you couldn’t leave him to sort his feelings out on his own.  You could convince Anna and Giovanni to take your duties for the day. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nodded at him and moved back toward the bed to sit with him. “I won’t.”

---

Slowly, Jack began to settle in. Although he was still obviously upset, the boy proved to be far more flexible and resilient than you had expected from someone so young. Whether from his natural resilience or from your constant reassurance that his parents must be doing everything in their power to get him back, you weren’t entirely certain. You spent plenty of time with him, making sure he was doing alright, and eventually he chose to sleep on a small cot in the servants quarters, next to your bed. 

He was prone to constant chatter during the day, and you soon learned quite a lot about him and his family. He apparently had plenty of aunts and uncles, who all moved together around the country. They had been down near Blackwater for a long time, where Jack had apparently left his favorite storybook, but then something brought them north to a small ghost town “with lots of snow, it was real cold!”. Luckily, they hadn’t been there long before heading south again to “a place by a river with lots and lots of trees” where, notably, his Uncle Arthur had taken him fishing. Most recently, they had moved down to Lemoyne, once again near a river, but this time Jack described it as “really hot and nothing ever dries and it always smells like fish.”

An accurate description if you had ever heard one.

In the meantime, although he wouldn’t talk much to the others, most of them couldn’t help but dote on him. Giovanni had a habit of slipping him sweets throughout the day. Anna and the other maids would occasionally bring him books or toys that they had found around town - he was amassing quite a collection. And from Signor Bronte himself, Jack received a brand new outfit made from the finest cotton. You suspected it was most likely to keep the worn rags out of the man’s sight than to actually please Jack.

But, despite the gifts and the treats from the others, Jack clung to you. On laundry days, he would help sort and fold. When cooking, he would clean the vegetables without a second thought. During cleaning, he happily carried supplies around after you, handing you what you needed whenever asked. Although you had told him multiple times that he was more than welcome to sit and read his new book, he preferred staying by your side. 

Almost as if he was afraid that, if left alone, he would be taken again.

And at night, it always came to a head. In the dark and left with no distractions, you could hear his whimpers from the cot next to yours. You could hear his murmurs and quiet cries for “Mama” as he dreamt. And it hurt. You couldn’t bear to see him so miserable.

After the third or fourth night, you reached down and brushed the hair from his head. “Jack?” you whispered, looking at the small boy with all the affection of a loving mother. “It’s going to be alright, I promise.”

He didn’t wake. Instead, he sleepily lifted his hand to yours, and held it in his until the sun rose.

--

The first few weeks went by similarly. Working during the day, with Jack at your side, helping you out as much as a child could, and comforting the poor child during the night with reassuring words. Soon, the reassurance and affirmations turned into stories -  tales about dragons and castles, about magic and the sea. 

About two weeks into his stay, you spent the day preparing for a large feast alongside Giovanni, Anna and with plenty of help from Jack. 

“You didn’t finish your story last night,” he said, pounding away at a ball of bread dough with his tiny fists. 

“Oh yes I did,” you teased, looking the boy dead in the eye with a grin. “You were just too sleepy and fell asleep before the end.” As you joked, you set down the knife and pushed aside the tomato you had been chopping to poke him lightly in the side.

His joyous laughter lit up his face. “Hey!” he whined in between bouts of giggles. “That tickles!”

“I know, silly,” you returned not relenting your tickle torture. “That’s the point!” You did acquiesce after just a few moments though, not wanting to actually cause him any pain.

“Alright you two, calm down, now,” came Anna’s voice from across the room. She was a lovely, portly older woman, with graying hair and a smile to light up a room. If Giovanni had been your father figure since coming here, she certainly took the place of your mother. “We’ve got plenty to prepare for tonight. Signor Bronte is having the Mayor over to talk about his party.”

You let your giggles die down, and nudged the red-faced child next to you. “Now look what you’ve done, Jackie,” you teased softly, ruffling his hair before going back to chopping vegetables.

“Nuh uh,” he responded, giving the bread dough a thorough punch before looking up at you again with a childish grin. He had lost a tooth recently, which only made it all the more adorable. “Can you tell me the end of the story?” he asked after another moment, turning back to the mound of dough on the table. “It was so good, I wanna hear the end. Pretty please?”

A chuckle escaped your lips. “Alright, alright,” you chided, picking up yet another tomato. It wasn’t a particularly good story, just a thinly veiled version of… well, you didn’t want to dwell on that, but if he wanted to hear it, you would oblige. “Where were we?”

“Hmmm…” he mused, stopping kneading the dough for just a second to recall. “Well, the king and queen had just sent the princess to talk to the mean dragon, and then he caught her in a trap, remember?”

“That’s the beginning of the story, Jack.”

“Well, that’s as far as I remember,” his giggles echoed through the room and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Alright, fine,” you feigned irritation that he definitely could see right through. “Well, the princess had been caught in a trap by the mean dragon, but he didn’t hurt her. He… he just wouldn’t let her go home. He wouldn’t let her see the king and queen again so she could be happy.

“‘Your king and queen need to send a knight to come get you,’ the dragon told the princess. ‘Little girls cannot roam the forest on their own.’

“And so, the princess waited, and waited and waited and waited. She learned to read, and write, and she even learned to speak Dragon, which were talents unheard of for princesses in those days. 

“She had lots of friends who came and went, and even though she couldn’t go back to the king and queen, she... she wasn’t so lonely… and she learned to find happiness in the small things, like the smell of coffee in the morning, or turning the page of a brand new book, or even the glow of the sunrise on spring dew. 

“After a while, she finally realised that she didn’t need the king and queen to be happy. She could make her own happiness… And she did…” you trailed off at the end, returning your focus once again to the vegetables. The other two adults in the room remained silent. You couldn’t have been more blatantly obvious. “The end.”

Jack was quiet for a moment as well, hands stilled on the dough as he looked at the ceiling in thought. “That wasn’t a very good ending,” he said quietly, looking up at you.

You had been caught.

“The princess should have run away, or she should have asked one of her friends to take her when they were leaving,” he continued, determined.

You chuckled solemnly. “You’re probably right, Jack,” you murmured. “I think she was just… scared. The world was dark and scary for her, and she weren’t a very brave princess, and she was worried about what would happen to the king and queen if she left.”

“But that’s not true,” he interjected, throwing one final punch at the bread dough before Anna came to collect it from him. “She was real brave! She lived with a dragon! And dragons are real scary!” He was handed another mound of dough which he immediately proceeded to punch with all his might. “And maybe some of her friends come back to save her! Maybe she helped lots of people while they were living with the dragon, and then they come back to help her! That would be an even better ending!”

Another chuckle. He was far too adorable and far too naive for this house. “Maybe, Jack,” you responded, plastering a knowing smile to your lips. “That would be a good ending.” Clearing your throat, you wiped your hands on your apron and turned to face the small boy. “Alright now, you. Finish up with that bread and then we can get cleaned up for lunch. I think Giovanni is making us spaghetti.”

---

The hot water splashed out of the bucket, spraying suds across the floor. Jack giggled and picked up a handful, blowing it in your direction.

You couldn’t help but laugh. The kid sure did know how to make even the most boring of chores into a game. Looking around first to make sure no one caught you messing around, you picked up a handful of bubbles and plopped them onto his head. This brought out a shrieking laugh from the boy. He really was settling in. For better or worse, at least he seemed to be happier. 

Finally, you told him gently that you needed to finish the laundry, and then the two of you could go outside for a walk. This, somehow, convinced him to calm down, left playing with the bubbles and giggling to himself until he was interrupted by a voice calling your name from the hall.

Signor Bronte.

“Get these men drinks,” you heard, his spoken Italian echoing across the hall.

Immediately, you put the wash down and wiped your hands on your dirtied apron before hustling to the liquor cabinet. “Wait here, Jack. I’ll just bring the whisky out and be right back,” you instructed, quickly gathering six whisky glasses and a serving tray.

This had been your job for years, you could practically do it blindfolded. As one of the youngest servants in the house, Signor Bronte tended to like to have you wait on his more esteemed guests. It was degrading, but it kept you in his good graces. You had seen enough servants come and go to know that complaining about your role would get you nowhere. Or worse.

Quickly, you pulled a decanter from the cabinet, and left the room with the tray full of glasses in your hands. Already in the hallway, you could hear the conversation between the men in the room. “Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan, John Marston,” introduced one of the strangers, his voice confident.

You brushed past Irvin, who was standing guard at the entrance, into extravagant parlour. Upon entering the room, you could immediately see that these were not the typical guests that Signor Bronte would waste his good whisky on, but you hardly had time to look at them individually. They seemed dirty, rough, and completely out of place in the richly-decorated parlour. 

“The pleasure is mine, all mine, please,” he said, summoning you forward. You warily step between the chairs to place the tray on the table and pour the glasses, handing them to each man in turn. First, to a tall, thin man with dark hair and a frustrated scowl etched into his face. Next, a muscular man with light brown hair and bright teal eyes, and finally, another dark-haired man, his hair slick with pomade and dressed in clothing that looked like it used to be expensive. 

“So, can my friend have his son?” says one of the men - the one who had introduced them all earlier. You nearly froze. Can my friend have his son?

Jack. 

It took you just a moment to gather your wits before you turned to your boss, handing him the last glass. He took it with a nod to you and a chuckle, before looking back at the men in front of him. “Of course, of course!” he grinned, taking a sip of the whisky. You immediately got yourself out of the way, standing behind the couch in case you were needed for anything else, as you had been taught. “But… should I be out of pocket over a misunderstanding? Of course I know you would not want that…”

“No,” answered the man, slightly reluctantly. You noted that none of the other men had yet spoken, this must be their leader.

Bronte seemed satisfied with their response, choosing to ignore the reluctance with a jovial laugh. “No, no no. So, how about this? You perform a simple job for me and you get your son back,” he explained, rubbing his hands together like the villain he was.

Finally, one of the other men spoke.“What is it?” the larger of the two groaned, beginning to stand up, as if he knew he would be assigned to this task.

Bronte, of course, made light of the situation, waving his hands through the air as he spoke, “A couple of people have taken to grave robbing in the cemetery.”

“That is a fine place for it, the best,” joked the leader. You cringed, but Signor Bronte seemed to enjoy it.

Your boss burst out laughing, from the gut this time. “I love this guy, don’t you love him?” he laughed, looking at you. You nodded, plastering a smile to your face until he turned back to the other man. “I love you!” He paused for a moment to pour himself another glass of whisky before continuing his explanation. “See they’ve taken not only to desecrating the dead, but they've done so without paying a tribute to the living. Thing is, they see my men, of course, they run a mile. So maybe you two head off, huh?” he said, indicating to the men on the couch before pouring yet another glass of whisky and handing it to the group’s leader. “And you, Mr. Van der Linde? Why don’t you tell me more about my manners?” he finished speaking and held up the glass to the other man, Mr. van der Linde, for a toast as the other two men stood to leave the room. “Salute.”

“Salute,” parroted Mr. van der Linde, clinking his glass with your boss’s. The other two men exited the room, as your boss and Mr. van der Linde continued conversing. Their laughter was real, but something in the room was tense, fake. Two men cut from the same cloth, both trying to one-up the other without making it completely obvious.

You had seen this enough times to know that this would only end badly for at least one of them - if not both.

The hour dragged on, as you stood in the corner, ready to jump into service if need be. Your mind drifted to Jack - now sitting alone in the washroom - and that you would soon be saying goodbye.

It was bittersweet, this feeling that came over you. You wanted him to be happy, to be home with his family, of course, but over the course of the last few weeks, he had wormed his way into your heart. He was the family, the son, that you would never have. And it broke your heart to have to let him go.

But you knew better. You couldn’t keep him here. Not for you. It was better if he were able to go home, to see his mother and his family, to see his dog that he missed so much. That was the life he needed, the life he deserved.

You felt the tears well in your eyes as you stood, waiting for your orders. A little over three hours had passed, and the men were still away. Signor Bronte and Mr. van der Linde were well into their cups, and you were not surprised in the least when your boss stood and unceremoniously sent his guest on his way.

“And the boy?” asked Mr. van der Linde, standing from his position on the couch and reaching out a hand to shake.

Signor Bronte took it, gave it a quick shake and began to stagger out of the room. “Yes, yes,” he slurred, turning to you on his way. “Bring him down, would you?”

“Yes, Signore,” you nodded, looking from your boss to the other man. It was really happening. It was really time to say goodbye.

--

To say Jack was excited at the news was putting it lightly. He had nearly bounced with joy when you had told him that his Pa was here to pick him up. You had led him down the stairs and out the front door to where Mr. van der Linde was waiting patiently. Jack nearly tackled him to the ground in his excitement.

“Uncle Dutch!” he called, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist. 

A loud, barking laugh left the man as he patted Jack’s head. “Well hello there, son,” he said, a smile on his face. “It’s good to see you again. We’ve missed you around camp.”

You smiled, looking at the two of them. This was the right thing to do. But then, Jack did something wholly unexpected. He led Dutch to you, and introduced you.

“She’s been real nice since I got here,” he explained to the older man. “She told me stories and brought me candy, and today she even put bubbles on my head!” his excited giggles echoed across the yard.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Dutch said, looking you up and down before reaching out for your hand, which he then pulled to his lips in a theatrical show of chivalry. “And thank you so much for taking such good care of our boy.”

You plastered another smile to your face and gently pulled your hand away, wary of potentially offending the well-armed man. “Of course,” you responded. “I was happy to-” you were cut off by the well-timed sound of horse hooves on the cobblestones, and a loud, rough voice ringing in your ears.

“Like I said, we’ll see where we’re at once we got Jack,” said one of the men from earlier as their horses came to a halt in front of the gate. They dismounted and were immediately let in by one of the front guards. 

Upon their arrival, Dutch seemed to immediately forget your existence, instead striding towards the two men with an exasperated, “Well, you took your time.”

And then there was Jack, nearly bursting with excitement at the sight of the men, he couldn’t wait until they were through the gate before he ran to them with a cry of, “Pa!”

The sight warmed your heart. Jack was quickly picked up and clutched to the chest of the taller, dark-haired man as the other moved past you to hand something to the guards. “I’m so glad to see you!” he said, rubbing the back of Jack’s head and holding him close. 

However, Jack, completely oblivious to the nature of the situation, wiggled free of his father’s arms and, instead, grabbed his hand and pulled the man in your direction. “Pa, come here, come here, you have to meet my friend!” he said, voice loud and excited, as he introduced you to his father. “She’s been helping me since I got here. She tells the best stories!”

The man looked down at Jack with a loving smile and then up to you. “That so?” he asked the boy, reaching out to shake your hand. “John Marston.” 

You took his and introduced yourself as Jack rambled on, “Yeah! And she taught me how to make bread real good, want to see?”

“Sure, you can show us when we get back to camp,” John acquiesced, still holding tight to the boy’s hand, who then proceeded to drag the two of you over to the one man you did not yet have a name for.

“Uncle Arthur!” he called. The man, having dropped off whatever he had needed to give Signor Bronte, was leaning against a column and smoking. “You have to meet my friend too.”

“Is that right?” he said, smiling at Jack. He pushed himself off the column and snubbed his cigarette on his boot, moving toward the three of you. “Nice to meet you, miss,” for the third time that night, a hand was held out.

You shook it and introduced yourself, “It’s nice to meet you too.” 

John, looking both relieved and exhausted, heaved Jack back into his arms. “Thank you for taking care of him, I-”

Immediately, you stopped him. “It weren’t no problem, really. He’s a lovely boy,” you explained, once again trying to stop the tears from welling up in your eyes. Taking care of Jack had easily been one of the highlights of your life. Having someone need you, someone that loved talking to you, someone who was simply excited to be around you - it was such a drastic change from how you had lived for so long. And, even if you would never experience it again, you wouldn’t trade the last few weeks for the world.

John nodded, you didn’t have to explain any further. “Comeon, Jack, your ma’s been worried sick.” Jack nodded to his father enthusiastically, a grin on his face, before turning and surprising you with a big hug.

You bent over to hug him back, patting him on his head when you heard your name. “You’re coming with us, right?” he asked, his tiny face buried in your dress. You looked around at the others, Arthur had paused in his tracks, John was frozen in place, Dutch was stopped near the gate. No one said anything for a moment.

You don’t know how to break it to him.

So, you pull his face from your skirt and kiss him gently on the forehead, a bittersweet smile on your lips. “I’m real sorry, Jack,” you say, looking him in the eye, “but not this time.” You felt tempted to say something like I promise I’ll write or You can come see me any time but you knew both of these things weren’t true. He would get home to his family, and in a few days you would just be a stranger from his childhood. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stood again, ruffling his hair and turning him to face his father. “Now, you go on back to your family, alright? Teach them how to make some good bread, like I showed you.”

His head was shaking as he looked back up at you, tears welling in his big brown eyes. “But…”

This hurt. More than saying goodbye to a child you had only known for a few weeks should. “I know, but…” you started, still not entirely sure how to explain yourself. “I have to stay here. This… this is my home.” You pull him to you once again in a tight hug and place a kiss on the top of his head. “You be good for your parents, alright?”

You can feel him nod under your chin, but he does not respond. It’s easy to tell that this is a new feeling for him - being so happy and so sad all at once. You wished you could tell him that its only temporary, and he will never have these conflicting feelings again. You wished you could have gone with him, broken free of Angelo Bronte and this life. There were so many things you wished you could do at that moment, but you couldn’t. Or you wouldn’t.

With a light sob, Jack wraps his arms around you one final time until he is gently pulled away by his father. “Comeon, son. We should get going.”

They walked to the gate together, John’s hand on his son’s back, leading the way. Jack was hoisted high onto a horse, and you could vaguely hear them talking to him, trying to cheer him up. “We have a new camp set up, Jack, you’re going to love it,” says Dutch before they ride off down the street.

Finally, you allow your tears to fall.

“Goodbye, Jack.”

---

The days pass slowly after Jack’s goodbye. There is little entertainment to pass the time. No dumb jokes, no begging for stories. It was exactly as it was before. Still, it felt like something was missing.

Early in the morning, a few days later, you walked around the house as usual, coffee in hand. You mused over the tasks for the days ahead: the Governor's garden party was in about a week, so it was time to start preparing. Clothes needed to be pressed, shoes to be shined, and, most importantly, mounds of food needed to be cooked.

Giovanni’s cooking was, although rarely shared outside of Signor Bronte’s home, lauded as some of the best in town. So, of course, Angelo Bronte’s personal chef would be graciously catering the meal.

It was supposed to be a sign of generosity, you theorised, but in reality it was all a show to keep Signor Bronte in the San Denis elite’s good graces - and to worm his way into another favor from the mayor.

You chuckled lightly to yourself as you paced slowly around the perfectly manicured gardens. Marble statues, imported from Italy, gazed down at you, unmoving. Quietly, you began to hum a short tune, not noticing the figure at the fence across from you. 

“Mornin’,” he called, his voice low and gruff, just as it had been when you had first met him.

You look up from the grass to the man, in surprise. He was leaning aginst the fence, patiently smoking a cigarette, and waiting. For you? “Ah, good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you call, making your way to him. He stubs out his cigarette on his boot and turns to fully face you. Only now, in the morning sunlight and away from the stress of Angelo Bronte, do you notice how attractive he is. Light brown hair framed an unshaven face, a strong jawline, light smattering of chest hair showing through the top of his unbuttoned collar. “It’s lovely to see you again. How is Jack doing?”

Arthur smiles at you, and the sun suddenly seems slightly brighter. “Boah’s doin’ good,” he says, leaning forward on the fence, one arm above his head to balance himself. “He’s happy to be home.”

You shoot him a small, bittersweet smile before turning your gaze to your coffee. “Good, I’m glad.”

“Misses you, though,” he continues, once he realises you aren’t going to say anything more. You look up at him, and notice he is fishing something out of his satchel. A small, folded piece of paper is passed through the bars of the fence, and you gently pluck it from his hand. “Sent this. Special delivery.”

You gently unfold the paper, and see a row of several stick figures, several people and what looks to be a dog, standing in front of some trees under a sunny sky. Under each of the figures, you can see several names scribbled in an adult’s hand.

Pa, Ma, Jack, Cain, Uncle Arthur… and you.

“Been told to tell you,” he continues, reaching through the fence with the hand that had been keeping him balanced and pointed at the figures on the paper. “That’s you… with us…”

You laugh lightly, glancing from the paper to the eyes of the man in front of you. A handsome teal, complimented by his, admittedly dirty, blue shirt. How had you not noticed him before? “This is real sweet of him, thank you,” you breathe, slightly softer than you had intended. You turn again to look at the drawing, hoping he didn’t notice the blush that had suddenly stained your cheeks.

The two of you stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the sun rise above the horizon. “You could come with us, you know,” he said after a minute, pulling another cigarette from his satchel and lighting it. “The boah would shoa be happy to have you ‘round.”

You smile at the thought. Waking up in the fresh air, telling Jack stories, getting to know his family. It would be lovely. But at the end of the day, it was easier said than done. “That… that’s a nice dream,” you told him, smiling. 

He huffed, and took a long drag from his cigarette. “It’s true,” he tells you, leaning against the fence once more. “The life… well it ain’t pretty. Sure as hell not as pretty as livin’ in a mansion. But it’s free. You ain’t gotta answer to no one you don’t want.”

You scoffed and found yourself kicking at the grass beneath your feet. It would surely be better than what you had here. Hell, it would be easy enough to walk through the gates with the intention to never come back. And, what was even keeping you here? Your family? You hadn’t seen them in years. Giovanni? Anna? They would both leave if they could. 

But, you knew it wasn’t possible. You’ve seen this kind of thing before. One of your fellow servants found a means of escape, only to be back within a week. If they weren’t found and killed onsight. Angelo Bronte had eyes in every corner. Flies on every wall. He would find you.

“I… I wish I could.”

--

You went to bed late that evening, your conversation with Arthur resounding in your head. You could come with us, you know. The boy would sure be happy to have you around. The thought had even permeated your dreams, enveloping you in a fantasy world. A beautiful campsite by a river, a group of people, happy, laughing, free. Jack and Arthur and John and Dutch, and even Giovanni and Anna. They were all there, and they were all happy.

But, of course, the threat lingered. What had started as a beautiful dream quickly turned sour as Angelo Bronte entered the scene, scaring away your friends, capturing you and dragging you back to San Denis, into a mansion that looked more like a prison with every step. You would never escape him. You could never be free.

You had woken early in the morning, covered in sweat and sheets kicked from the bed. Breathing heavily, you glanced at the clock in the corner of the room. It was early, but not early enough to warrant going back to sleep. Groaning, you stepped quietly from your bed and pulled on your dressing gown. Your morning ritual would begin earlier today.

The air was crisp, but your coffee was hot - the perfect combination for waking a person up in the morning. The birds sang in their early morning chorus as the slowly rising sun cast everything in a calm, light blue. It was earlier than you had been up in ages, and you were fully prepared to sit in the garden, alone, and bask in the peacefulness. 

To your surprise, however, the increasingly-familiar smell of cigarette smoke and campfire reached you. You turned to the fence, the same place as the day prior, to be greeted by the rugged cowboy, leaning casually against the railing. Tired as you were, you couldn’t keep the smile from lighting up your face. 

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you say, making your way over to him, coffee cradled in both hands. You took a sip, thinking that you may need to start making two cups if this becomes a habit. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. How’s Jack?”

Arthur’s grin immediately made your stomach flip. “Mornin’, miss,” he responded, tipping his hat to you. He lazilly flicked the butt of his cigarette to the ground before leaning against the fence again, his arm above his head, like he had done the day before. “Boah’s doin’ good. Still talkin’ ‘bout you.” His grin never left his face as he looked at you. 

You cleared your throat and maintained eye contact even though you were sure you could feel the blush spreading across your cheeks. “Well, ain’t he a sweetheart?” you tease, only partially talking about Jack.

He chuckled and reached into his bag, mirroring his actions from the day prior. “I been asked to deliver this,” he said, pulling out a string of slightly crumpled red flowers from his bag. They were strung together, tied at the stems, into a long, vibrant necklace. 

You gingerly took the necklace from him with a smile, examining it. Wild yarrow.  “Oh, it’s beautiful,” you respond, pulling it over your head before striking a cheesy pose for the man in front of you. “How do I look?”

God, you could look at his smile all day. “Gorgeous,” he responds, only slightly teasing, and you are suddenly struck with a feeling of giddy embarrassment. It was rare that you got on with someone this well, this quickly. But with Arthur Morgan, despite his rough exterior, you felt strangely comfortable. 

The two of you stood together, talking through the morning sunrise until you were very nearly late for work. When the sun was almost fully above the horizon, you found yourself giggling and dashing into the house, with one last glance to the cowboy at the fence, eyes shining.

And so it went.

For the next week, like clockwork, you would wake, go for your walk, and meet Arthur Morgan at the fence. Gifts, supposedly all from Jack, were exchanged - a nice rock, a beautiful notebook, a seashell, a fountain pen - and you sent your fair share of notes back, including candy for the boy, and a (stolen) flask of good whisky for your postman.

Soon enough, you found yourself gladly waking earlier in the morning - butterflies in your stomach as you made your way outside to greet him. Your mood was better, despite Jack’s farewell only a week ago, and even your colleagues had taken notice.

“What’s got you walking around here all smiles lately?” Anna had asked on the morning before the Mayor’s garden party, as you sat together, adding finishing touches to several large pies that were to go into the oven. 

You scoffed, still unable to wipe the smile from your face, and looked at her over the stack of pans in front of you. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you responded. “Now don’t distract yourself with me, we need to get this all ready to take this afternoon.” Your chiding didn’t deter her, as she continued pestering you the rest of the day.

Her teasing had very little effect on your mood, however, despite the large amount of work ahead of you. And, so, the day passed quickly, in anticipation of the coming evening. It was well known throughout San Denis that Angelo Bronte had one of the best chef’s in town under his employ, so the household staff was asked to provide a portion of the catering. It was a massive, and time consuming project, but it was well worth the work. 

You finally had the opportunity to get out of the house, even if it were for just an evening, which would be an incredible change of pace. Almost before you could even gather your bearings, you were slipping into your best uniform, and were on your way to the even larger home.

You had been to the Mayor’s home a handful of times, but it still left you in awe. If you had thought that Angelo Bronte lived in the lap of luxury, but this home was somehow even more opulent. Marble pillars, statues lining the hallways, mahogany floors, golden chandeliers, art on every wall. You had to make a conscious effort to not allow your jaw to drop as you walked through the hallways to the kitchen. There was no time to dawdle, guests would be arriving shortly.

With an unintentional grunt, you hoisted the box of chopped vegetables you were carrying onto a table, and got to work helping Giovanni finish up a large pot of étouffée. It took some time, but after some significant effort from yourself, Giovanni, and Anna, as well as plenty of help from the Mayor’s own servants, the food was served and guests were mingling in the garden.

You leaned carefully against a counter and wiped sweat from your brow. Cooking for upwards of 100 people was exhausting, not to mention that the kitchen was absolutely scalding. You could use a large glass of water and a breath of fresh air.

Nodding at your colleagues, you told them as much before stepping into the hallway and taking a deep breath of the cooler air. If you were lucky, no one would be on the upstairs balcony, and you could head out and watch the fireworks for a few minutes. As you made your way to the back staircase, hoping that the balcony would be empty, you spotted a flash of a black tuxedo and familiar light brown hair in front of you.

Arthur Morgan. Now what was he doing here?

With a smirk, you carefully followed him up the stairs, catching a further glimpse of him as he entered the first door on the second floor. You hadn’t been up here before, but with the way he was walking, you could be sure that he wasn’t sneaking off to the toilet.

Glancing around, you saw no one else in the hallway. 

Good. 

Slowly, carefully, you pushed open the door to what appeared to be an office. And there, in all his glory, was Arthur Morgan, rummaging through the Mayor’s desk. As you snuck in and quietly closed the door behind you, he slipped a small stack of papers into his tuxedo jacket. 

You took a moment to look over him. Damn, he cleaned up well. A recent haircut, clean shaven, and a brand new tuxedo made him look like an entirely new man. Not that you had any problem with the bearded, dirt-covered version of him that had been meeting you all week.

“You ain’t supposed to be here,” you said quietly, startling him. He turned to you, wide-eyed, his hand instinctively flying to where his pistol was usually holstered. He was red in the face, adrenaline pumping, and you had to admit that it was a very good decision to not allow weapons at this party.

Upon seeing you, however, he noticeably relaxed. Face still red, he glanced quickly around the room before moving toward you, a predator stalking its prey. “Could say the same to you,” he whispered, voice low, as he backed you slowly toward the door.

That familiar feeling of butterflies in your stomach rose again as he neared, but you held your chin high in defiance - and then you did something even you didn’t quite expect. You kissed him.

Lunged would be a more accurate description. You closed the distance between the two of you in a second, lips crashing with his. You had only known him for a week, but somehow it felt like you had been wanting to do this your entire life. 

After a moment of shock, he returned the kiss, lips frantically moving with yours as he wrapped his hands around your body. He was warm and strong, and smelled of campfire and cologne and you wanted to get lost in him. You wanted to lose yourself with him. Reaching up, you ran your fingers through his hair until you reached the base of his neck, pulling him closer to you.

He moved with you, slowly, steps matching yours, until your back was flush against the door. For only a moment, he pulled away. You heard the light click of a key and he was on you again, hands fluttering over your hips as he began to work his lips down your jawline. You had to swallow the moan threatening to spill from your lips as you pulled him impossibly closer, fingers toying with the ends of his hair. Then you pulled.

He leaned back with a guttural groan, following your hands as you gently pulled at the hairs on the nape of his neck. His cheeks were flushed, hair mussed, and he looked absolutely gorgeous. You couldn’t help yourself as you pulled him back to you, wrapping your arms around his neck and crashing your lips to his.

The taste of him, the feel of him, it was overwhelming and you wished you could be surrounded by him like this for the rest of your life. Silently, lips still on yours, he turned the two of you so that your back was against the nearby bookshelf. You lifted a leg and wrapped it around his, grinding into him without breaking your kiss. 

Before you knew what was happening, his hands moved from your hips to pull up the skirt of your dress and finger the waistband of your bloomers. A nip at the bottom of your lip brought out a groan from you as he slowly made his way into your underclothes, exploring until he found your core. 

Gently, he toyed with your lower lips, ghosting his fingers along the outside teasingly. If you were in any other state of mind, you would have been embarrassed about the way your hips began moving - wantonly, desperately, trying to maneuver his exploratory fingers exactly where you wanted them.

But Arthur Morgan was apparently not feeling cooperative. He pulled away from your kiss and brought his hand out of your bloomers at the same time, leading you to throw your head back against the bookshelf with a desperate groan.

The twinkle in his eyes matched the mischievous smirk on his face as he looked down at you, your breathing heavy, cheeks flushed. The cocky bastard knew exactly what he was doing, and he was enjoying this. This torment.

 With a sudden burst of courage that you didn’t know you had in you, you found yourself pushing him backward. Hands on his chest, you led him roughly to the mayor’s desk, and lunged. Lips crashed once again with his, the taste of whisky and tobacco overwhelming you once again. Your fingers toyed with his tuxedo jacket before slipping underneath and sliding it from his shoulders.

As good as he looked in this outfit, he was far too clothed for your taste.

Next came his vest, unbuttoned with help from him as you both lost your patience. You peeled his suspenders off until they hung loosely at his sides, and finally all that stood between you and his bare chest was his shirt. He yanked it roughly from his pants, the two of you unbuttoning it as quickly as your shaking fingers allowed, and flung it across the room before leaning in for another desperate kiss. 

As his lips met yours once again, you felt him push you back toward the bookshelf as he untied your apron to pull it over your head. Next, his fingers unbuttoned the high collar of your dress, quickly followed quickly by his lips as he placed kisses and nips on your flushed skin. He trailed ever downward - to your collarbone, to your cleavage - drawing moans from your parted lips.

Desperately, you reached for his face and pulled him back up to you, caressing the smooth shaven skin as you kissed. Once satisfied, your hands wandered downward, toying with the hair splayed across the hot, hard panes of his chest. Slowly, teasingly, you followed the path of his hair with your fingers until you reached the top of his pants, and his breath hitched in your mouth. 

Your kiss slowed and turned into a peck as you undid the button and pushed his pants down, revealing muscular thighs framing a growing bulge hidden under his underclothes.  Pushing down the thin cotton finally revealed his swollen member, which you took gently into your hand as you pulled him in for another heated kiss.

He groaned into your mouth, growing impossibly harder with each stroke, until he pulled away to look you into the eye. His face was flushed, his hair in shambles, and you swore you had never seen anything so beautiful in your entire life. You nodded, and allowed him to hoist up your skirt and slide into you through the slit in your bloomers.

In unison, groans left both of your mouths. You were balanced precariously on a bookshelf, your leg wrapped around his waist as he sank into you, head thrown back in pleasure. Once he gathered his bearings, he slowly, torturously slowly, began to move. 

He thrust in and out, in and out, his face buried into your shoulder. Each thrust was paired with a small grunt and a gasp from you. You reveled in the feeling, the warmth, the intensity. 

His hands gripped your hips through the fabric of your dress, pulling you closer to him with each thrust. You wrapped your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him up to you. Your lips met, tongues entangled as tiny gasps swelled up from your throat. It was all you could do to keep in the loud moan that was threatening to spill from your lips.

With each thrust, the bookshelves shook, sending a few trinkets to the carpeted floor with a light thump. You should be more careful. The thought echoed in your mind for only a second before it was whisked away by another thrust that shook you to the core. 

As he grew closer and closer to completion, his thrusts became faster, more frantic, and you found yourself clutching the edges of the shelf for balance. 

Finally, he pulled one of his hands from your hip and wormed it between your bodies to find the place where he had teased you so well before. And then he pressed. And rubbed. And stroked. And finally, in a glaring flash of white before your eyes, you found yourself biting down on his shoulder to keep from screaming his name. Your body shook, your breathing came in harsh gasps, until you could finally open your eyes.

Not a second later, Arthur took a few final thrusts and pulled out of you, stroking his member once, twice, and then spilling himself on the floor with a series of loud gasps. A shaky breath followed as he fell onto you, his head balancing on your chest to catch his breath.

Finally, there was silence, only broken occasionally by a heaving breath. The two of you huddled together against the bookshelves, clinging to each other until you could regain your balance.

You found yourself leaning hard against the shelf behind you, running your fingers through Arthur’s mussed hair. “Those last few gifts… the journal, the pen… those weren’t from Jack, were they?” you asked after a moment, breaking the silence.

A low chuckle came from Arthur, still bent forward with his head balanced on your chest. “I s’pose I’ve been caught again…”

--

The party ended with a spectacular fireworks show, which you and Arthur watched together, now fully clothed and hidden from sight on the empty balcony. Shortly after the last firework had lit up the night sky, he left you with a lingering kiss that you swore you felt on your lips for the rest of the evening.

To say your head was in the clouds would have been putting it lightly. You would have never expected such a rough, dirty man to be your knight in shining armor, but here you were. 

Your good mood carried over through the party cleanup, into the night, and even on into the morning during your daily walk. Glancing at the gate where he usually stood, you were slightly disheartened to see his spot empty. Your smile faltered for just a moment, before you reasoned with yourself. He was probably just tired, or hungover, and just because he had showed up every day for the last week and a half did not mean he could keep up that habit forever. 

So, you sat and waited for nearly a half an hour at your normal meeting spot, before heading back inside only slightly disheartened. He had a life outside of meeting you, you reminded yourself, it was unfair to assume he would be there every day when he had never promised this.

Despite your disappointment, your good mood persisted through the day. Through stained laundry, through dusting and mopping, through cleaning a massive pile of cooking dishes from the night before - you couldn’t have wiped the smile off of your face.

And then he didn’t show up again. And again. And again.

For over a week, you missed Arthur’s presence on your morning walks. You found yourself waiting at the fence each day, coffee and the morning paper in hand to pass the time, only to end up disappointed once again. At the very least, there seemed to be a lot of dramatic news to report that week - a trolley station robbery ending with a crashed trolly on main street, a wealthy man on a steamboat robbed for all he was worth - but that information only helped pass the time you spent waiting for him.

Outside of your morning walks, your mood slowly soured. Maybe Arthur had gotten what he wanted. Maybe the dirty, lecherous outlaw’s only goal was to bed you and be on his way. Maybe Jack had forgotten you completely, and with nothing new to deliver, so had Arthur.

You took to writing angrily in the journal he had gotten you, having no other reasonable outlet for your emotions. Originally, you had wanted to toss the damn thing into the fire, but - without someone to vent to, without someone who could understand the depths of your frustration - it seemed like such a waste. Instead, you chose to use the gift for its intended purpose, and wrote down all of your frustrations toward the man who had gifted it to you, before stuffing it underneath your pillow and falling asleep for the night.

There it lay, throughout the day and night until you finally did see Arthur Morgan again. A loud crash, followed by gunshots and yelling in Italian and English from the back gardens, met your ears as you cleaned up after dinner with Anna and Giovanni.

“We’re comin’ for you, Bronte! Send out every man you got!”

The three of you had no guns, and even if you had it sounded less like a gunfight and more like a massacre. Quickly, you locked the doors, hoping that it would be enough to deter the intruders. And then, huddled together out of sight with your friends, you waited.

The back door was kicked open with a gunshot and a loud bang. More gunshots, screams, and crashes echoed through the hallway and into the kitchen. You heard the yells get closer, before the kitchen door was shot and forcefully kicked open. 

This was it, this would be your end.

Only, it wasn’t.

Standing in the doorframe was none other than Arthur Morgan, shotgun in hand, eyes frantic… until he caught sight of you. 

“Comeon,” he said, rushing over to where the three of you were huddled together and pulling you up by the arm. “You three gotta get outta here,” he ordered, gruffly, hurriedly, as he opened one of the larger windows. “We only came from the back, so head to the front and go somewhere safe.”

Giovanni and Anna looked from each other to you, and then to the open window, hesitant. Another volley of gunfire reached your ears from inside the house. There was no time for debate. “Go ahead,” you told them. “We can trust him.” 

That (plus another few rounds of gunfire in quick succession) was all it took. Giovanni nodded to you, grabbed Anna by the forearm, and they were out the window and running across the lawn to safety. You breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to Arthur. There was so much you wanted to say, so much you wanted to ask, but there was no time. 

As if sensing your hesitation, he took you by the shoulders and pulled you in for a hug. “Go,” he said, face buried into your hair. “Get to the Fontana, I’ll meet you there when this is over.” You could have sworn you felt a light kiss atop your head before he pressed a crumpled ten dollar bill into your palm and lightly pushed you in the direction of the open window. “Get outta here.”

You nodded, mouthing a quick “thank you” before climbing through the window. In the distance, you could see Anna and Giovanni, silhouetted against the night sky. They were running as fast as they could, to safety, and you felt a pang in your chest. They had been the closest thing you had had to a family for so long. The three of you had been forced together by fate, and had come out a team. But… where would you end up if you followed them? 

Likely back in the service of another rich man. But, maybe it would be better. Maybe the freedom you found yourself longing for was to be found in the familiar, the known. Could you really abandon your friends, your way of life, for the promise of a man you had known for little more than a few weeks?

Quickly, you glanced in the opposite direction, toward the city. Toward the Fontana. Toward the promise of freedom. The clock was ticking, you needed to decide. Now.

Torn between what was and what could be, you took a deep breath and took the advice of a child who was far too wise for his age. You ran toward the Fontana. You ran as fast as you could to a new life.

The sound of gunfire and screams followed you to the gates, where it then became overwhelmed by the shouts and sirens of incoming police. Luckily, you were able to slip outside of the gate and get partially down the street before they stopped in front of the house.

Bowing your head, you quickly made your way down the cobblestone street and into the city, away from the violence. By the time you reached the Fontana Theater, the gunshots had all but faded into the hustle and bustle of the city center, and you became acutely aware of how much you didn’t belong. It had been years since you had been anywhere outside of Signore Bronte’s mansion other than the grocery and occasional trip to the tailors. It had been even longer since the last time you had been to a Magic Lantern Theater. And you knew, with your hair mussed and maid’s uniform, you must stick out like a sore thumb.

Luckily, if your memory served, the theater should be dark enough that no one would notice. You slowed your pace, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, and proceeded to the ticket counter, purchasing one ticket to the three upcoming shows. That should be more than enough time, you hoped. 

You entered the dimly lit room and practically collapsed into one of the seats. Now that you had managed to escape, now that you were in relative safety, the adrenaline you had felt earlier had completely vanished. You were exhausted. You were confused. You were scared. 

Now, you could only wait, and hope that Arthur would be back for you as promised.

In front of you, the film started with a flicker. The recorded voice of a man telling the story of several forest animals as a series of images were projected onto the screen. The room was silent, except for the recording, and you found yourself struggling to keep your eyes open.

What must have been a few hours later, you were shaken awake by an unfamiliar man. You were startled for only a minute before you realised that he was the same man who had sold you the tickets earlier. “That’s the last showing for the day, miss,” he was saying, quietly, pulling his hand away from your shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be on your way, now.” 

You blinked and looked around the room, now flooded with light. It was empty except for the two of you. “What… what time is it?” you stammered, voice cracking lightly.

“‘Bout 11:30,” he responded, looking quickly to his pocket watch to confirm. You had been asleep for a solid 4 hours, and Arthur hadn’t yet arrived. “You should get on home.”

Home. Where was that? 

You stood, nodding abashedly at the man. “Thank you,” you murmured before making your way out of the theater and into the dark streets. 

It was quiet, the same kind of quiet you had grown so used to on your morning walks. However, instead of finding it calm and refreshing, you found yourself longing for the noisy streets. The hustle and bustle of San Denis that would overpower your thoughts, that would drown out your anxieties. 

Instead, you were alone, left to mull over your current situation on the steps of the theater. The long, dark tendrils of doubt crept into your mind as you waited. Did you make the right choice? Did Arthur abandon you? Was all of this some horrible trick? Tears spilled silently from your eyes as you waited. Exhausted. Frustrated. Sad. The only thing to break you out of your thought spiral was the occasional drunk would wander by, heading home for the evening.

Eventually, the ground where you sat grew cold, and you found yourself falling asleep against the wall of the theater, huddled up like an abandoned animal. You could sleep here tonight, in case he did show up, and head … somewhere … in the morning. A hotel, maybe? A workhouse? You didn’t know where, but that was a thought for the morning.

It was only when the steady clip-clop clip-clop of horse hooves made their way down the dark street that you willed yourself to look up. Coming slowly into view through the darkness was a lone rider on a horse. He looked exhausted, frustrated, as he stopped his horse in front of the theater and dismounted, glancing around the area until he spotted you.

You stood on legs that were strangely both stiff and shaky and made your way over to him, where he pulled you into a tight hug. 

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled, once again burying his face in your hair. “Didn’t mean to leave you so long.” You nodded against his chest, gripping at the fabric of his shirt as tears of relief threatened to spill. “Let’s get you home.”

--

The ride went by in a blur. Not that you were moving fast, but rather because you were so exhausted that everything was a bit of a haze. You must have arrived at the large, dilapidated mansion early into the morning, before anyone was up to disturb you, because you could not remember the journey into Arthur’s bed for the life of you.

There was no crunch of the grass as you slid off the saddle, no creek of the stairs, no groan of the bed as the two of you lay down together. Nothing. All you could remember was that you were here. You were safe. You were home. 

You awoke around midday, sunlight streaming through the broken windows of a small-rundown room overlooking the swamps of Lemoyne. It was sweltering hot, but you found yourself cuddling closer into the strong arms that were wrapped around you. The scent of the swamps mixed with whisky and tobacco, campfire and gunsmoke, as you nuzzled into his chest.

He was breathing deeply, soundly, as you lifted your head from his chest to look around. The room itself was old and dilapidated, it would barely serve as a shelter during any storms that may strike. In the far corner stood an old shelf, filled with photos and trinkets. Next to it, a small table with a map, and across from that, a larger table, stacked to the brim with weapons and ammunition. 

Arthur’s room. 

You stood, intending to make your way over to examine the trinkets across the room, but were instead gently pulled back to bed by the man behind you. “Mornin’,” he grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes as he held you close.

You acquiesced, leaning back into him and basking in his presence. “Mornin’, Mr. Morgan,” you whispered back to him, gazing over his face. His eyes were still closed, but he couldn’t keep a small smile from forming as you spoke. Gently, you brushed hair away from his forehead and planted a light kiss to the revealed skin. “Thank you.”

He chuckled, finally opening his eyes to look at you. You could have melted in the soft, loving look that came your way. “Nothin’ to thank me for,” he said, reaching up to run his thumb along your cheek in admiration. “Just needed to get you out alive, is all.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I feel like that deserves thanks.”

A scoff came from the man beside you. “Nah, it was all selfish, really,” he explained, his gaze travelling over every inch of your face as if he were committing it to memory. “I just wanted to keep you ‘round.” With that, he planted a quick kiss on your lips and sat up, turning to his satchel that had been tossed to the floor by the bed. “It weren’t pretty last night… ‘n’ I’m glad I got to you before it got worse.”

“What happened?” you asked, watching as he pulled the satchel to him and began to rifle through it.

“Bronte… well he done his best to screw us over,” he explained. “Set some traps for us… ‘n’ Dutch made sure he paid for it.” You figured you knew what he meant, but let him continue anyway. “Bastard’s dead - some poor alligator’s breakfast.” 

To your surprise, you felt incredibly conflicted. The man had essentially kept you hostage for the last few years, but he had at least taken care of you. He had by no means been a good person, but… you had grown some sort of strange affinity for him over the years. And yet, you didn’t find yourself shedding a tear for him. If anything, it was like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, like you could finally breathe freely after so long. 

You didn’t know what to say.

“I did manage to get hold of these, though,” he said, pulling several items from his satchel. You gasped when you saw them, and felt the tears that wouldn’t fall for Bronte begin to well up. In Arthur’s hands were a child’s drawing, a flower crown, a very special rock, a beautiful journal, and a fountain pen. 

Now, the tears did fall as you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him. “Thank you, Arthur,” you said, burying your face into his neck. “Thank you so incredibly much.”

With a small chuckle, he set the momentos down on his lap, and wrapped his arms around you as well. “‘Course.”

The two of you stayed like that, reveling in each other’s embrace, for a few perfect, blissful minutes. So this is what it felt like to be wanted. This is what it felt like to have someone really, truly care about you. This is the feeling you had been waiting for for so long.

It wasn’t a minute later before there was a tentative knock on your door, and Arthur pulled himself away from the hug. “I think someone might be excited to see you,” he said, nodding toward the door.

You looked over, calling for the visitor to come in. As the door swung open, you were greeted with the sound of your name excitedly being called, and the sight of a child, red with excitement, standing in the doorway. Jack. “You’re here! You’re really here!” he exclaimed, darting over to you and jumping into your arms. He was followed by a smiling, dark-haired woman, and a man who you recognised as John. “I knew it! I knew you would come live with us!” 

“Of course, Jack,” you childed, squeezing him tight. “I could never leave you.”

He squeezed you back, before pulling away and grabbing your forearm to lead you out of the room. “Come on!” he said, leading you forward. “You have to meet the rest of our family!”

[iamthenightcolormeblack]

My Experience with Jane Austen Part 1

Books I've Read:

Pride and Prejudice (read in 2016)

Sense and Sensibility (read in 2017)

Northanger Abbey (read around 2017)

Emma (read in 2017)

Persuasion (read in March 2021)

***I tried reading Mansfield Park before Emma but I couldn't get past the first few pages.

Favorite books: Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion. The relationships are the most well-developed in these two novels, plus Persuasion is probably Austen's most romantic novel as the protagonist learns to follow her heart.

Pride and Prejudice is one of my favorites (duh!) because it has all the elements of Austen's novels (love/marriage, strong female heroines, social criticism, comic relief). Darcy/Elizabeth are clearly equals and have a revolutionary (for the time) belief that marriages need to be based on love and respect. Plus they do grow and change and I like the emphasis on personal growth as necessary for their marriage to thrive. The unfortunate thing is that this book is so popular that it has become a cliche (the "I hate you" then "I love you" oversimplification). Plus because it has lots of adaptations done for it sometimes I don't know if my perception of the story is really based on the actual book or the adaptations.

Persuasion is very underrated (heck, it might even beat Pride and Prejudice in terms of romance). It was quite easy to read compared with Austen's other novels and I love how Anne starts to stand up for herself while supporting everyone even when they treat her like a doormat. She's an interesting character because she has to live with the regret of her choice not to marry Wentworth. What moves me is that this woman who according to the marriage market would be "past her prime" becomes more beautiful as she gets a second chance at following her heart. Plus Wentworth's love letter is the best: "You pierce my soul. I am half-agony, half-hope."

Least favorite books: Sense and Sensibility and Emma. Perhaps they'll do better on a reread but they're still not my favorites.

Elinor is my favorite character because she's strong and puts others before herself, but the book isn't my favorite because I don't believe in the Marianne/Colonel Brandon relationship. I remember being disturbed when reading the part where Colonel Brandon first notices Marianne; specifically that Marianne reminded him of his ward’s daughter. The two aren't together very often and unlike Darcy/Elizabeth don't have lots of conversations, so it was unconvincing that they would fall in love. Plus the age difference where he is "middle-aged" at 35 years old and she's 17 didn't help (yes I know Jane/Rochester from Jane Eyre have a similar wide age difference but that relationship is well developed and Bronte takes pains to emphasize that they are equals). Finally, the book isn't very easy to like if you don't know about the historical/literary context: it's basically a lot of waiting and desperation and uneventful trips back and forth from London. It really brings home how depressing Regency life could be for women.

Not much happens in Emma apart from "spoiled rich girl learns to be nice to less fortunate (compared to herself) people." When Emma does realize she loves Knightley, it's only because she'll lose him (and she's pretty much been taking him for granted throughout the book as she concocts her schemes), not very romantic. Knightley seems to be rather paternal in a way because until he declares his feelings for her (which started at 13, way to go!) he's always trying to teach her a lesson. He's like Emma's second father (because her father is a bit of a neglectful parent) and it seems patronizing because even though it's hard to like her, she has a lot of self-confidence and knows her own mind. While she does need to be humbled at times, as a modern reader it's hard to reconcile this with 21st century values.

Adaptations I've seen:

Pride and Prejudice: 1940 movie, 1980 miniseries, 1995 miniseries (my favorite), 2005 movie, Bride and Prejudice (2004)

Sense and Sensibility: 1995 movie (love that one), 2008 miniseries

Northanger Abbey 2007

Emma: 1996 movie with Gwyneth Paltrow, 2020 movie

Persuasion 1995

[where-theres-smoak-2]

Ben and Jessie said their homework was to watch "Jane Eyre" together. You definitely saw them use Jane and Mr. Rochester's love-hate dynamic as a blueprint for S&B's Darklina. The similarities are strong. Also, I think the comparison helps certain haters remember just how complicated an antihero/antagonist/villain Edward Rochester is just like Aleksander. Charlotte Bronte wrote a very 'toxic' male character by modern standards, yet nobody whines about it unlike Darklina. Go figure...😑🙄😪

I haven't ever actually watched Jane Eyre I am ashamed to say. I will though at some point especially if there are similarities to darklina lol. I can believe people don't whine about it as much as they do with darklina though. I have noticed that there seems to be an unusual amount of hate towards darklina's relationship and the darkling himself compared to other villains and questionable relationships. Its like the whole immortal thing, so many other fantasy relationships have this aspect to them yet I never saw anyone sit and go 'eww that age gap' until darklina. Also you have villains like Magneto or Loki who have sympathetic backstories and who people love and strive to understand despite the bad things they've done and yet despite the darkling being very similar to these other characters people hate him and will judge the fans of the character and say the fans are just making excuses for him. Maybe I've been looking in the wrong place but I've never seen that argument used for fans of Magneto, nobody claims its just excuses they tend to accept that magneto is a sympathetic character and that is what lead him down the path he took. I just don't understand what it is about the darkling and darklina that make the antis so vehement in their hatred of him/them, I've never seen anything quite like it before.

[bookwyrminspiration]

completely random thought, but due to a very weird series of specific headcanons i have and names in keeper (specifically bronte's name being linked to thunder + the headcanon that inflicting occurs only in half-humans and presents itself differently in each (and bronte's primary way of inflicting is actually environmental damage instead of attacking a specific target's psyche)) i have decided that whenever bronte looses control of his inflicting (or stops holding back) there is a sound not unlike thunder (i...i think brontide is the word? which is pretty neat coincidence, huh) that rings out. and because i feel like its weird that the council are just called by their first names ive decided the have titles and bronte's would translate to someting akin to "thunderbringer" (or, alternatively, something akin to "earthshaker" (although more eloquently put) because, again, the way he uses his inflicting manifests in damage to the surrounding area and he's destroyed pretty big amounts of land before).

thank you for your time, and i hope you have enjoyed this entirely useless headcanon

- pyro

oo this is really cool! i will say one of my first thoughts when you said inflicting only occurs in half-humans was wondering how Sophie was half-human, whether her unknown father is human or if her incubation within her human mother affected her or something.

i must shamefully admit I don't think i've ever fully read your half-human headcanons, but is there a relation between being half human and being able to handle guilt that allows inflicting to form and for an "elf" to hurt another person? at least that's the explanation in my head at the moment. don't mind me, i'll just have to go scrolling through your blog later

note: perhaps councillors are only referred to by their first name because they had to give up any connection to people that might influence their decisions (like having kids/a family) so they had to drop their family names. it was an association to people who could affect their choices, so now they're only themselves, only their first name. just a thought

i thoroughly enjoy this headcanon, pyro! you saying he does damage to the environment--you mean he inflicts on all things, not just people? and that him inflicting on objects and inanimate stuff (like the ground) that cannot feel emotion, it manifests as physical destruction instead? this is how my brain is understanding it but if i'm wrong please correct me.

i'm just imagining him on like a battlefield, standing stoic, his enemies before him confident they'll get him, underestimating the "thunderbringer" or whatever name you decide on, when suddenly there's a smell of ozone in the air and they start to get lightheaded and this faint but building rumbling starts to sound out, building in intensity until the ground beneath them starts crumbling and shattered and then it hits them

yea i don't think they'd win against him

this is so cool i'd love to hear more about it if you wanted to share!

[gatorkid509]

Time of Another Demon Kid, this time in a sitting pose, something I was mulling over due to the JCA OCs I had drawn previously were all standing, but I think it fit's this OC well, plus it's nice to do a different pose. Meet Brontes, son of Tchang Zu and Freyja and younger brother of @amnshe-wolf's Elysia.( Also the first Demon Kid to not have a Chinese name) Here's a small bio about him. Born and raise by the very militaristic Tchang Zu, Brontes was wild one growing up, especially when he started pulling pranks with his sister. He loved pulling complex pranks on his family, and his family usually laughed at them, however, his dad was not very pleased. Due to pranks being his late mother Freyja's favorite activity, Tchang Zu does not like Brontes and Elysia's pranks and tried to distance them from pulling pranks with other hobbies and training them to be strong warriors like him. For Brontes, this meant having to train like a warrior every single day to be a powerful demon, as well as having to act like a proper soldier. But Brontes hated it as he wanted to continue pulling pranks and being his own demon instead of a almost carbon copy of his dad, so he'd often avoided training and go play pranks on his sister and his family, much to Tchang Zu's annoyance. After his dad and the rest of his aunts and uncles were trapped in the Netherworld, he and his sister were put in a pocket dimension with the rest of his cousins by the 8 immortals. When they were finally freed into the modern world by Drago, Brontes was amazed by the modern world and quickly adapted to it thanks to the Ice Crew showing him, leading him getting some earrings, changing his hairstyle and learning how to skateboard and play video games. He is well known for " barrowing" or two of the Talismans, mainly using time for fun.

Like always, I'm pretty proud of how well he turned out, but it was pretty hard coming up with a design for a child of a Thunder Demon and a Dark Elf OC, mainly because I had to figure out how to combine Tchang Zu's reptilian features and Freyja's elf features without making it look weird. I knew I wanted Brontes to have his mom's elf ears as I saw many next gen kids of Tchang Zu ether wearing a helmet like Moheart7 's Volteer and PowerMaster17 's Voltscar or having his hair cover up the sides of his head like KendraEevee 's Raiden, so it's clear to me that a lot of people don't like Tchang Zu's hippo like ears, and I'm one of them, so elf ears with spacer and hoop earrings it is. I also had trouble with his hair as I couldn't figure out what color the shaven part of his undercut is suppose to be against his blue skin, so I just went for a gold color. For his clothes, I took inspiration from the Pokémon Electivire for both the t-shirt design and the colors, along with the sweatband on his left arm having Electivire index number 466, his yin yang bracelet was mainly added because I thought it looked cool and the yin yang symbol is pretty popular with teens. I had a lot of trouble for his legs as I was debating if I should give him shorts with greaves like his dad or just a pair of pants, and I decided to screw it and go with a pair of shorts over leggings, it looks pretty off but if the male protagonist from Pokémon Black & White 2 can rock the look, so can Brontes. Plus, I can see Brontes actually liking the shorts over leggings look while his family and friends thinking " Seriously dude?". And yes, the reason I put him in a sitting position is because I wanted him to sit on a storm cloud!! Tchang Zu was shown riding on a storm cloud in the episode The Eighth Door, meaning generating storm clouds is one of his abilities, which makes since as he is the thunder demon And also yes, Brontes has 2 tails, that's because male Dark Elves have 2 tails unlike female Dark Elves, and and while regular male Dark Elves do have fur on their tails, Brontes doesn't due to being half demon. And yes, they are based on Electivire's tails. I didn't make a symbol for him like I did for Ping, the simple reason for why is.... I forgot. So all and all, I think I did a pretty good job. 4 Demon Kids down!!! 4 to go!!! We're at the half way point!!! And so I think that it, tell me what you think. I used this stock photo from AdorkaStock on DA for his body.

[jadelotusflower]

Roundup: August 2021

This month: Jane Eyre, Wide Sargasso Sea, Don’t Call it a Cult, The Secret Garden, Showbiz Kids, Masters of the Universe: Revelation, Lucifer.

Reading Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte) - I’ve been meaning to read the Wide Sargasso Sea for a long, long time, but first I thought I’d revisit the source material. I find my opinion hasn’t much changed - I still love the prose, still love Jane as a character, and still find Rochester extremely unappealing. The section with Jane at school is the most engaging for me, and her early time as a governess at Thornfield, but as soon as Rochester shows up I just find him so irritating I have no idea why Jane loves him so much (other than he was the first man to ever show her a scrap of attention). I mean, I know to an extent - I've read the Takes, and part of fiction is accepting what you want for the character as a reader and what they want for themselves can be two different things, and that's not the fault of the text. I can be satisfied by the ending because Jane gets what she wants, I just can’t help but wonder about a Jane who was found by John Eyre before she went to Thornfield, or who took her inheritance and made her own way after Moor House. Byronic heroes just aren't my thing I guess ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Wide Sargasso Sea (Jean Rhys) - The first Mrs Rochester of Jane Eyre strikes an uneasy tone to a modern reader; she does not utter a word in the novel, is depicted as animalistic and almost demonic, her story only told in a self-serving manner by Rochester, and conveniently disposed of so Jane can return to claim him. Rhys reimagines Bertha as Antoinette, a “white Creole” of Jamaica in a postcolonial take on the racial/social prejudices and hierarchy only hinted at in Eyre, where Bertha being Creole primarily an aspect of her Otherness, and in which Rochester describes himself as being desired as a husband because he was "of good race" . In Sea, although Antoinette is white (passing, perhaps), he sees her "not English or European either" and this contributes to his rejection of her (and perhaps his willingness to believe she is mad). The novel is surprisingly short - it skips over the meeting and courtship of Antoinette and Rochester (tellingly unnamed in the novel) entirely, jumping directly from her childhood/coming of age to the couple already married, and over much of Bertha's (renamed by Rochester) sad life in the attic. Still, there's a density to the writing, much is implied beyond the sparse use of words and recurring imagery - subjugation, reflection, and of course, fire - when freed slaves (Rhys changes the timeframe to after the passing of the Emancipation Act of 1833) set fire to Antoinette's family plantation, a pet parrot whose wings have been clipped by her English step-father Mason, cannot flee and falls to a fiery doom, in a grim omen of Bertha's fate. It did, however, leave me wanting more - I understand Rhys' stylistic choices and restraint, but in her effort to give voice to the voiceless, Antoinette/Bertha remains somewhat an enigma. Don’t Call it a Cult: Keith Raniere and the women of NXIVM (Sarah Berman) - I continue to be disturbed but intrigued by the NXIVM case, not only because of my abhorrence of MLMs/pyramid schemes, but my bafflement as to how this thoroughly unremarkable man was able to hold sway over so many women. My mild criticism of the two documentaries on this subject was that they tended to jump around in time so you never really got a good idea of what happened when. This book provides a well researched, detailed summary of events and linear chronology of Raniere’s perverse pathology reaching all the way back to childhood, and so is both an excellent supplement to the already informed, and broad overview to those new to the case. Berman is a Vancouver-based journalist who was present at Raniere’s trial and gives insight into witness testimony, supported by her own interviews and extensive research. There's less of a focus on the sensationalised celebrity members, with greater emphasis on the lesser known victims - including the three Mexican sisters who were all abused by Raniere, one of whom was kept confined to a room for years. It's difficult reading, consolation being the

knowledge that Raniere is rotting in prison and that his crimes finally caught up with him. Watching The Secret Garden (dir. Marc Munden) - Spoilers, if one needs a spoiler warning for a 110 year old novel. One of those stories that is adapted every generation, and generally I have no problem with this, since new adaptations can often bring something new or be a different take on old material (see Little Women 2019). But a part of me can’t help feel why bother with this when the perfect 1993 version exists. There is an Attempt at something new with this film, moving the setting forward to 1947 (Mary’s parents having died during the Partition), and turning the garden from a small walled secret to a mystical, huge wonderland full of ferns and flowers and endless sun. But in doing so, the central metaphor is lost - rather than Mary discovering something abandoned and run wild, gently bringing it back to life with love and care, she merely discovers a magical place that requires no effort on her part. There’s also less of a character arc for Mary, remaining unpleasant far into the proceedings, forcing Colin to visit the garden instead of it being his true wish, and generally succeeding by imposing her will on everyone else. In many ways she’s more like Burnett's other child heroine Sarah Crewe - the film opens I’m with her telling stories to her doll including Ramayana, which is eerily reminiscent of Alfonso Cuaron's (also perfect) 1995 adaptation of A Little Princess. But I suppose a sliver of credit where it's due - Julie Walters' Mrs Medlock is less of an antagonist, with Colin Firth's Lord Craven being Mary's primary obstacle. There's also a subplot with Mary's mother's depression following the death of her sister being the reason for her neglect (and Merlin alum Rupert Young shows up briefly as Mary's father) but like shifting the time period, there just doesn't seem to be a point to it. The climax of the film involves the Manor burning down (writer Jack Thorne stealing from Rebecca too, lol), with Mary and Craven have a very calm conversation as fire and smoke surrounds them. It’s all very bizarre, but also…rather dull? Don't bother with this, just watch the 1993 film again. Showbiz Kids (dir. Alex Winter) - a really interesting documentary on the titular subject - Winter was himself a child actor on Broadway before his film career kicked off in The Lost Boys and Bill and Ted, and has been able to assemble a broad range of interview subjects - Mara Wilson, Evan Rachel Wood, Wil Wheaton, Jada Pinkett Smith among others - former child actors, those still in the business, and some up and comers like Disney star Cameron Boyce (who I was sad to see in the coda has passed away). We also follow two young hopefuls - Marc, attending acting classes and auditioning in pilot season, yet to book a job but his parents are invested in "his" dream, and Demi, already established on Broadway but having to start to make choices between a career and a childhood. There's no voiceover, no expert opinions in this, letting the actors speak for themselves, but there is a telling juxtaposition of Marc returning home, jobless but having fun in the pool with his friends, while Demi has to cancel the summer camp she had been so looking forward to because she has booked a new role. The film is fairly even handed, but ultimately I took away that there just seems to be more harm than not in this industry, and abuses of many kinds. It does make you wonder about the ethics of child acting, at least in the current system where the cautionary tales are plentiful. Masters of the Universe: Revelation (episodes 1-5) - Mild spoilers I guess? I was never really into He-Man as a kid, other than the Secret of the Sword movie, so most of the in jokes and references in this went over my head. I have to admit, it was actually seeing all the outrage that made me want to check this out and see what all the complaining was about. I actually…really enjoyed it?!? I’m sympathetic to the complaints of a bait and switch (creators really need to learn to say

“just wait and see”), but other than that in my view the rest seemed completely unfounded. Adam/He-Man being killed in the first episode and the impact that has on Eternia and those left behind is actually a really interesting premise. This isn’t a TLJ situation; in contrast everyone (except Evil-Lyn) is always going on about how much they miss Adam, and the whole point of the first arc is him coming back. There’s also a nice little detail of Adam in Preternia (heroes heaven) choosing to remain as he is rather than as He-Man where all his predecessors have chosen their “ultimate” forms. I love him and his Magical Girl transformation. As for Teela - female characters can’t win, it seems. If they are perfect, they’re Mary Sues, if they have flaws, they’re unlikeable. Teela is Going Through things and is on a journey, but I often feel (and it seems the case here) that people confuse a character arc with author intent. No! Just because a character says/does something it doesn't mean you're supposed to agree with them! Some of Teela's actions may be petty and her demeanor less than sweet, but people make bad choices as a response to grief, and I actually thought her anger over Adam never telling her his secret and how that manifested was a pretty interesting take. I'll be interested to see the next half of the season, and ignore the ragebait youtube commentary. One more thing - Evil-Lyn (perfectly voiced by Lena Headey) was an absolute delight. Lucifer (season 5 part 2): They’ve basically given up on the procedural side of things by now and are leaning heavily into the mythology, which works for me since the case of the week is always the least interesting part of any show. It also struck me this season that there’s gender parity in the main cast (Lucifer, Amenadiel, Dan and then Chloe, Maze, Ella, Linda) - and actually, that’s more women than men. How often does that happen?!? I can’t say I’m particularly engaged with the Lucifer/Chloe pairing, but am happy to go along with it since that’s where the whole plot revolves. The best scenes for me this season were with God’s Dysfunctional Family, even if the lead up to the finale felt rushed (I understand the need to wrap things up in case of cancellation but still). I would have liked to see more of the sibling dynamics between the angels and less romantic drama, but hey. The character death got me, as well. I didn't see it coming and I didn't realise how much I had enjoyed that character until they were gone and well...it got me. I see the last season is coming soon, I'm not exactly sure where they can go from here, but looking forward to it nonetheless. Writing I was actually quite sick this month with a throat infection, so wasn't in the best frame of mind to get anything finished like I had planned to. I'm going to hold off posting the word count this month and roll it over to September when hopefully I've actually posted things.

[scarfacemarston]

Do you think it's possible that Dutch was mentally ill?

I know I’m going to get crap for this, but I really don’t care. I’ve been posting stuff pissing people off since I joined the fandom. lol It would take a real psychologist to sit down and analyze Dutch so I’m being an armchair psychologist.. He definitely has narcissistic tendencies. No doubt about that at all. That doesn’t mean he has the disorder though. He can’t stand anyone undermining his authority and takes it as a serious threat when he does. Look at how he treats John and Abigail. He also is very testy whenever Hosea tries to confront him, even if it is in a very calm manner. Lenny can get away with it because he’s intelligent and realizes that if he acts entirely humble and gives Dutch the chance to think he’s right, then Dutch won’t bother him. Look at how he yells at Sean for not being “Cheerful” enough. Or at Clements Point when Dutch won’t allow John to leave until he says “Yes, Dutch”. One of his main reasons to go after Bronte is because he himself was insulted. As for the Grays and Braithwaites, that was his and Hosea’s arrogance. They were definitely humbled after that. His relationship with the gang is complicated because I do think he cared for them for the most part, but I think part of him also loved the attention he received. There is also the argument that he is more upset that Anabelle was taken away from him than her actual death. He does have a savior complex. I do think the trolley incident might have affected him, but not drastically as people to seem to think. Arthur and John both argue whether this was Dutch all along or not. RDR 1 John accepts that this was the Dutch he knew. He just woke up. Abigail points this out in the game as well and this was well before RDR 2 came out. Too many people don’t account for the first game. It came out first. It gives everyone a lot of these hints.    Dutch was acting more violent and unpredictable before starting the game at least with the Blackwater incident. Javier says so.  Plus, I know tons of people who have had concussions. It’s very common. My dad has had so many, he’s become a meme. Dark, I know. :( I can tell you he sure hasn’t acted that way.   Also, many people who have other traumatic brain injuries don’t become violent or unstable. Some do, but most don’t. So it’s not impossible, but again, it’s very unlikely that caused all of the issues. I personally don't like the mental illness narrative. Too many people use that to absolve him of his actions. No. That’s not fair at all to those who mental illness. Is it possible that he does? Maybe. I don’t know except for what I wrote above, but that doesn’t excuse his actions even if it is mental illness.  Dutch is a complex character for sure. 

[letteredlettered]

i love the way you write more than i do any other writer, of fic or otherwise. do you have any particular writing inspo that’s shaped the way you write? like any books, shows, etc? thanks!

Thank you so much! This is such an amazing thing to say. I’m so glad you feel this way and thought to tell me so.

I wrote about my influences, but it got long, so here is a cut:

Here are some early influences:

-Christy, by Catherine Marshall. This was the first book I ever wrote fanfic for. I was in 4th grade. I was upset with the ending. I wanted so desperately for the book to continue that I studied the writing a lot so that what I wrote would feel like the book. I don’t actually know that it’s particularly well written, but I learned SPAG, show-don’t-tell, and dialogue tags from it.

-Mists of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley. We’ve learned some bad stuff about MZB over the years, but when I was in 7th grade, I was obsessed with this book. I thought a lot about how she constructed her characters by putting the plot together and I studied the writing style. I can’t say that this book is particularly well written either, but I learned about POV and character voices from it.

-Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte. I was absolutely obsessed with this book for years. I cannot even calculate the way in which this book influence both me as a person and my writing. As far as writing, I was particularly influenced by the themes and the syntax.

-Robin McKinley. I used to love this author devoutly. I didn’t “study” her books as much as the other ones, but I always wanted to sound like her. I think I was very influenced by her subject matter and tone.

When I got older, I started to look back on books I’d read and use them as ways to create certain voices. Here are a few I turn to:

-Jane Austen. I would go to her for syntax, word choice, simplicity and clarity of phrasing, and humor. I think unconsciously, she influenced a lot of what I do in terms of the reader and the author sharing things that the main character doesn’t exactly see themselves.

-Toni Morrison. I learned a lot about lyricism from her, but one of my favorite techniques of hers is switching between highly literary and super colloquial language, sometimes in the same sentence. Morrison also consistently reminds me that there is not a General Audience. Instead, there is you. Just you, reading these words, wherever you are, and I’m writing for you, and not for anyone else. I think about that all the time.

-Borges. I think about him a lot when I need very striking word choice. He’s a lot like Jane Austen in that he can describe something quite precisely in a way that feels quite light and amusing, but unlike Jane Austen it feels staggeringly literary and elevated. I think about that a lot--how to be pretentious but still be comprehended.

-Arrows of the Queen, by Mercedes Lackey. Whenever I get too pretentious and stop writing things I like, I read this book. It is not well written. It is the tween fantasy of so many of us who loved horses and wanted to be magic. I use it to remind myself that you don’t have to sound smart or write what other people want. If your id wants it, you’re still okay if you give it exactly what it wants.

In later years, I started to watch more TV. You can’t get things like style and voice for prose from TV, but they can be great for dialogue and very instructional on how to put plots together. Here are some shows I think about all the time:

-Avatar the Last Airbender: This show has a lot of archetypal characters that manage to not feel cliche even though they’re archetypal. It also has fairly tight plots, many of which are episodic but fit extremely neatly into larger arcs. This is hard to do and can be great for taking apart the pieces and looking at how they work.

-Buffy the Vampire Slayer: I mentioned this in another post, but I took notes on this show to see how jokes were constructed. It’s also quite useful for sharp, fast-paced dialogue.

Gilmore Girls: I’ve only ever used this exclusively for sharp, fast-paced dialogue.

Lastly, I could not conclude this post without mentioning that I’ve been very influenced by fanfic over the years and things I’ve read online. Some of these have been more influential to me than anything else:

mistful. This writer no longer has fic online, but this is where I learn how a tight 3rd POV can reveal things to the reader that the viewpoint character does not see. The lightness of her writing also helped me to finally say goodbye to my overly chunky prose, which did no service to the character-driven stories I tend to prefer. I also learned to write attraction from her.

kita. I started reading kita’s fic when I was in a post-modernist literature class. While I was reading kita, I was reading Gravity’s Rainbow. Kita’s writing is the opposite of mine, usually dense and heavy without much dialogue. She did a lot of experimental stuff, some of which worked for me and some of which did it, but it gave me the bravery to try a lot of things I otherwise never would have done.

lynnenne. Lynnenne has a deft, clean style that you don’t notice at first but can really pack a punch when it needs to. She has a great sense of rhythm. The biggest influence she had on me is she beta’ed a fic once and just started chopping out sentences. It was strange to have things I thought were good deleted, and see that through the deletion, the rest became more powerful. I became a huge fan of hardcore editing after that.

Luckily I have @icmezzo, who deserves mention as a fantastic beta who literally made me kill darlings. Literally. She made me cut the word darling.

refur. Refur’s SPN fic is still one of the most shockingly good things I’ve ever read. I think of them as someone who taught me some things about parentheses.

Captive Prince. This is not a fanfic! This is an original novel, by C.S. Pacat, but I first began reading online. Their sharp, clean style is something I really admire. The most important thing I learned from them was the value of the word “said.”

I’ve read and seen a lot of other things that have influenced me over the years, but these are the things that always come to mind when I think about what shaped my writing.

[my-swan-song]

Screw it. 25, Emery × Bronte.

Oh, I’m actually converting people. I didn’t expect this.

Prompt: “Do not. Tempt. Me.”

***

"What the hell, Emery?" Bronte yelled from the couch.

"Ah, so you saw the groupchat?" Emery tried to hide his smile behind his hand. He leaned against the kitchen counter.

"Why would you send that?"

"I thought you looked cute," Emery shrugged. 

Bronte held up his phone with the picture that Emery had sent on the groupchat. "You thought a picture of me drooling while asleep would be cute?"

"Yeah.," Emery laughed a little. "You posted that video of me playing the guitar. It's payback."

"Except unlike that video I don't look good in the picture."

"You thought I looked good in the video?" Emery teased. 

"Shut up."

"You look like you want to punch me right now," Emery said.

"Do not. Tempt. Me."

"I won't. I won't." Emery scrolled through his camera roll and found a picture of Bronte with cat ears on. He sent it to a group chat with him, Bronte, Oralie, and Kenric. 

Bronte's phone buzzed. 

Emery watched as Bronte picked it up, and tried to hide his amusement.

Bronte looked at his phone for less than two seconds before he glared. "Emery I swear—.”

Note: I know this isn’t my best writing, but I wanted to give you something since I went on strike right before I got this request and I’m currently on hiatus. And I’m really sorry about the typos. I’m not in the headspace to edit anything right now.

Taglist:  @imaramennoodle @linhamon-roll @an-absolute-travesty @hyperlollypop @midnightbunnyy @bronte-deserves-better @alicat-the-empath @we-have-no-bananas-today @rainbowtay-11 @dragonwinnie let me know if you’d like to be added or removed

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[imissthembutitwasntadisaster]

1, 2, And 7 for the bookish asks!

1. Which book would you consider the best book you’ve ever read and why?

I am ONCE AGAIN plugging The Defence by Vladamir Nabokov.  I am BEGGING you to read it, please, please.  It is incredible.  The writing is amazing, it’s gorgeous and lush and the descriptions are perfect and the characters are fleshed out and wonderful and it has an unreliable narrator that’s so good that I won’t spoil it but we were halfway through the bit where he had clearly become unreliable when I suddenly realised that what he was saying didn’t necessarily add up.  It took me such a long time to realise and then I did and it felt like such a moment of clarity! And more than any other book I’ve read, it felt immersive.  The real world felt false and hazy after reading it.  It was perfect.  Please, please read it, it has so much of my heart there’s none left to protest. 

2. Are you an Austen person or a Bronte person? 

I was born into an Austen family, so my loyalties must that way lie.  To be honest, I’ve never read Wuthering Hights or anything by Anne, but I have read Jane Eyre.  I didn’t mind it, but I didn’t love it either.  Austen I will always love, in part because of childhood attachment (P&P was that book I read when I was too young to understand half the language or plot, and every time I read it I understood slightly more.  Also the 1995 mini-series had an immense effect on me), but also in part because she’s funny and wonderful and believes in justice but also in love. 

7. Have you ever despised something you have read? 

Over the summer, I read The Sun Also Rises.  I should read some Hemmingway, I thought.  He’s a marvelous writer I’ve been told, I thought.  It will be cultural, I thought. 

My dear, it was not. 

I have no time for Hemmingway’s characters.  All they do is amble aimlessly around various parts of Europe, becoming convinced that they will be happier in other parts of Europe, yet when they arrive there they are equally unhappy because in truth they have brought their aimless lack of goals and gumption with them.  So they drink with people they don’t particularly care for and they have sex with women they don’t really like while thinking about the woman they do actually like, who wears trousers and is “mannish” to show that she is in fact an all right woman, unlike all other women.  Side note, Hemmingway could not write women to save his life, his presentation of them filled me with genuine rage.  There is no drive, no essence, no believe in the future, there is merely futile smoking in the hot evenings, too languid and hot to ever do anything worthwhile or even enjoyable.  The world, for his characters, is filled with only ever-constant melancholy and listlessness, and they believe it to be the fault of the world, and not of them.  They do nothing of worth, they say nothing of worth, they think nothing of worth, and any man who could invent such characters and storylines, in my mind, possessed nothing of worth either!  I despise both him and his characters, and want nothing to do with any of them.  If I met them at a social event, I would tell merry stories at their expense to my loved ones on the way home, and their terrible, terrible personalities would become a family joke for years after.  Everything about it was despicable. 

However, he did have two pages which were quite a lovely description of the Spanish countryside.  Those were acceptable. 

Thank you!!! These were delightful, and I am always willing to talk about how much I love The Defence and how much I hate Hemmingway. 

Book Asks