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seimeinotaka · 4 years ago

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Rêverie (An OberonXGudako fic)

MASSIVE LOSTBELT 6 SPOILERS INCLUDING OBERON'S PROFILE AND BOND CE

Summary: Oberon has been unexpectedly summoned to Chaldea. He wonders why he is even there as he reminisces what happened in Avalon Le Fae. But it seems Ritsuka isn't leaving him alone, much to his annoyance.

Thanks to jellyfishy for beta-reading this!

Once again, the story has major spoilers for LB6, Oberon's profile and Bond CE, as well as important plot points of Solomon, LB1 and LB5.

There's implied one-sided love, mentions of heavy topics such as loss, and mentions of deceased characters.

"Master, Master, you've gotten better at this!"

"Thank you, Gogh! I've been practicing a lot using the tips you and Oui gave me. Even Jeanne Alter praised my background, hehe!"

"Hey, I said it was passable. Pas-sa-ble!"

Ritsuka Fujimaru has been drawing something in the cafeteria, surrounded by many servants that come and go. No one asks what she is doing, they all seem to know or if they don’t, they don’t bother to ask.

It is so bothersome. Annoying.

So many people surrounding her, like an ultraviolet lamp that attracts all the bugs. Never mind that they end up getting zapped the moment they ever dare to touch it.

The people, the sound, the merriment, it all annoys Oberon, who only watches in silence as he eats some ice cream with melon.

To be able to smile like that, even after discarding all of those stories...Oberon doesn't hide a crooked smile. In the end, the lostbelts are no more than faint dreams doomed to end, forgotten by the winners, the panhuman history citizens. Ritsuka Fujimaru isn't different. For her, it's like reading the doujin the swimsuit berserker is making. Once the pages are closed, the story ends and it ceases to exist. She can choose to forget.

Truly detestable.

Oberon stares and then walks away, just as Ritsuka lifts her face. She looks around, the feeling of being watched faintly breaking her concentration.

But in the end he doesn't say a word as he leaves.

“Hey, you keep looking at Master!” Jeanne Alter slams her hands on the table where Oberon is sitting. Said Master is working again, too enthralled talking with Gogh to notice Jeanne Alter slipping away to talk to him.

“Does it bother if I do?” He gives her a crooked smile as she huffs and scowls. Though of course her face turns slightly pink.

“Tch, of course not! It's just your stare is getting on my nerves! Wouldn't you get distracted if someone is looking at you intensely?”

“I am a creation, not a creator. I wouldn't understand what you're saying. Besides, I wasn’t looking at her or you anyway,” he says mockingly.

“Hmph, whatever you say. Leave when Master is drawing, what she is doing is very important and I won't let you make it messy.”

“Hah, a page of your little comic? As if you need a lot of care. But fret not, I am certain that with your keen insight and guidance it will be something so memorable, up to the level of the famous writers here in Chaldea.”

“You bug...Bring it, I will burn you to a crisp! Moths do like fire, don't they? Surely you will feel at home then!” Jeanne Alter laughs. “I'll let you know that it is something so impressive that it would make you cry, if you're capable of that anyway.”

Though her Saint Graph right now is one of a Berserker, it seems the insight of the Avenger still exists deep within. After all, only those who are similar can recognize each other. Fake recognizes fake. Emptiness recognizes emptiness. Hate can only recognize hate.

Though come to think about it, Ritsuka has always been writing, he noticed she kept a small book on her, during quiet times. Perhaps a diary of sorts. It wouldn’t be surprising, to record everything she has experienced, as the writer of the winning history.

When we die, we'll become like those stories. Our lives are stories that might be discussed and forgotten, so it's not that different from your midsummer night dream.

A dream you forget once you wake up from your slumber.

“You're a tsundere,” Ritsuka says flatly as she rests her chin on her hand. She even dares to give Oberon a shrug and a smile, as if she can tell the truth between the lies.

“Ah, you're annoying.”

“That's exactly what I'm talking about, hehe!”

An obnoxious smile continues to be on her face, and he simply looks at her with unveiled disgust and apathy.

“Why am I even here?”

“Well, you answered the call, so you can only blame yourself for that.”

“What.”

“The rayshift system call can be refused. That's an inescapable truth. You lie a lot but there are some truths in your words. Or actions in this case. You wanted to be in Chaldea, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

“Ah there it is, your virtuous nature shining through. One day you'll be fooled by someone who is pretending to be your ally...ah, my bad, that has already happened, isn't that right? Maybe you should learn your lesson.”

“Ah, yes. But it doesn't change that you are here. And because you lie often, that means I can just take it whatever way I like. You'll just deny it even if I'm right. But you can't deny we get along pretty well!”

“We do not!”

“See, that's a lie!”

“Ah, I'm going to the cafeteria! Don't follow me!”

Yet we thrive on dreams, don’t we?

“How long do you think I've been in this business? Have you interacted already with some of the servants here? I can tell you don’t mind my company.”

“I quit, I'll break the contract!”

“So, one cube or two?” Ritsuka dares to offer him the sugar cube container, even holding some tongs, just to put the amount he requests in his cup.

“You really want a poisoned tea, right, wonderful Master?~”

Even if they are something that doesn’t exist, we yearn for them, even to make them a reality. No matter how impossible. No matter how painful.

That is why we can never get rid of them.

Even if we forget once the veil of dawn has ended, something of it remains.

“There's so much that is subjective. For example, you were Artoria's Merlin, weren't you? For a moment you were Merlin, that was her truth. There's different Merlins, I mean we have different Artorias here from different eras and classes. You were a different Merlin than the one I know.”

Ritsuka is busy trying different colors. Oui and Gogh got into a discussion on how to best get the tones she was aiming for, and they even went to do some research on their own. The reds of a forest seem familiar yet not quite right, not that Oberon was looking at the notebook.

It has to have a dreamlike feeling, that’s what she wanted, but that’s not easy to pour into a painting.

“What we see as a lie or as truth, it changes with our perception. Your lies and my truths might be different, but it's ok. In the end we have only one perspective. That's why lies and truths can mix, that's why contradictions exist. I mean, that is why you are here.”

“Here's some advice from the bottom of my heart, don't quit your day job, Master. Stick to the world saving and leave the philosophical dissertation to virtually anyone else.”

In the end, does the truth really matter?

Something that can change when you close your eyes. Something that is as fleeting as a moth's life.

Would anything change in the grand scheme of things?

To protect Ritsuka, Chaldea forged a story, one where Romani Archaman was at fault for everything that happened.

To the world that is on the verge of disappearing, that became the truth.

To everyone in Chaldea, the truth is that this girl worked harder than anyone to protect this world.

That was what Sherlock Holmes said once they met. Oberon didn’t like him, but in a way he seems familiar. Holmes is a great detective, but since he keeps everything to himself, he might be wrong the entire time until the last minute.

So it’s not like Oberon can take him that seriously.

Even so, he told him the story of the great journey before Panhuman History was at risk by the Alien God. A story of which he was somehow aware, but it seems different when it is told by someone else.

To Oberon, it was a story of selfish survival. A fitting story of those who fight in the mud to continue existing.

To Holmes, it was a story of humanity bravely fighting to avoid destruction. An unlikely event that might have inspired others. Or rather, that is how the Leonardo Da Vinci from that time would have framed it, since Holmes isn’t an author and the current Da Vinci is someone different now.

The events are there, what changes is our perception of them. Perhaps this is where truths and lies take root, the lie of today becomes the truth of tomorrow.

The lie allows the fake existence to continue even when the dream has already ended.

But in the end, everything will fade, so nothing really matters.

"Well, I don't know if it has a meaning, but doesn't that mean you can give it your own? Just like how I can take your lies the way I want."

"Aren't you a simplistic one? No, perhaps it is that kind of thinking that has let you get this far. What a naive Master Chaldea has. Though it helps you accomplish your goals. "

He is not sure why they are taking tea while chatting, but here he is. Perhaps it is to hide his annoyance, the Master won’t stop until she gets what she wants anyway, so he is just avoiding a pointless squabble.

"You can think whatever you want~ and in any case, even if the feelings of today will be nothing in the future, that doesn't mean they are worthless. Because they affect the you of today and that is the moment when you are alive.”

The joy of living, that is something Oberon can’t understand nor tolerate. It angers him.

Of course, he is an entity of the abyss so how could he comprehend that?

The will of self-destruction, the cessation of existence. That something is so fundamentally wrong that it must wiped out, for there is no way to fix something that crooked.

Faerie Britain wished for him because it had to be wiped away from all records, because it had no way of being salvaged.

Therefore, he can only listen to those words.

(Perhaps it is the envy of not having something? Perhaps it is the bitterness of no longer having something to do, to dream for? Or simple ennui that no matter what, in the end it doesn’t matter?)

Ritsuka ignores his silence, as she continues.

“I don't know but for someone who likes stories you don't seem like you're actually enjoying them.”

“Would you enjoy a story where you fade away like everyone in the lostbelts you have erased? Ah, my bad. Surely, as the winner you can afford to disregard those stories. Silly me, of course you would be able to believe that as the victor you can claim to be the true history. Panhuman history is in the end mankind's right path, after all, and everything else can fade into the abyss.”

Her smile is complex, almost a facade. From one angle it looks like a forlorn frown, from the other a faint smile. She plays with the spoon on her table.

"Hmmm, I wonder..."

Dr. Roman, we finally beat the British Lostbelt. It was unlike any other places we were, and I keep thinking of Percival's words...

I wish you were still here.

The sacrifice of someone can mean the whole world for a single person. The sacrifices of millions can become a mere statistic, a simple cold number to show how bad an event was. In the end, it doesn't matter.

What was once lost will never come back.

The void left in one's soul will never heal, it only becomes more bearable with time.

But even so, that lingering pain is the proof that someone was alive, that they left a mark on the others they met as one looks at the twinkling stars and reminisces of the never-happening-again past.

“Did you know the true opposite of love isn't hate but indifference?”

“Haaah? Perhaps you didn't think so but I was being honest about my suggestion. Thinking too much will only hurt your head. You should only focus on what's in front of you.”

“Whether you love or hate, you end up putting a lot of attention to the object of your affections, but if you're indifferent to it, it ceases to exist. Perhaps your hatred of everything is because there's something you cannot afford to lose.”

Titania was the wife of Oberon in Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream. She was the only one who could accept the king's eccentric personality.

But in reality, she was just a creation for the story, a being who was never real.

Of course, there isn't a person like that in the world.

Someone who accepts a hollow entity like me.

“I don’t know, if Arjuna Alter was able to come to terms with his own humanity, well...nevermind. I was just thinking aloud.”

(Ideals are just that.

A concept not belonging to this world.

It is when you reconcile with the flawed reality that you can grasp your happiness, the one you have.)

“Heh-Hahahaha, that's rich, Master!”

This is so sickening.

Only Titania could have loved(tolerated) such an unpleasant existence. Only Titania could have loved(tolerated) a being born of hate, a destructive force whose only purpose is to rend everything to ashes.

But the fact is, Titania doesn't exist. This means no one could accept someone like him.

That is the unpleasant truth.

That is why people are entranced(poisoned) by falsehoods, lies to sweeten the body and protect the soul. It's a sweet elixir to hide from the harsh reality, the ultimate end of the journey of everyone, a pointless, worthless life. Because at the end of the dream, no matter what one has accomplished, it doesn't change the finale of this story and it is doomed to be forgotten.

Just as the one princess from before, who also fell in love with the Fairy King. The one who tried to give fire to his cold body. But he didn't notice this, not even when her snow body had ceased to move, a protection of love.

So in the end, if it's not acknowledged, it is the same as it never had happened.

“Tell me, does it matter to you? Are you going to tell me you know how I feel? That you understand what I'm going through? Come on, tell me your important story, that everything is going to be alright as long as I'm not alone-”

“I can't. I don't know how you feel. Even if we had suffered the same, I wouldn't know how you feel.”

Her words or her smile, the same as before. He doesn’t know which but it cuts him short.

“All I know is the pain of losing someone important to me, but that's not what you're feeling, right?”

The Titania I wish for doesn't exist in this world. The Faerie Britain that gave birth to me no longer exists, even if I have accomplished my goal.

I am merely a dream whose purpose has been fulfilled and thus, the curtain shall be down as I exit the stage.

The things I yearn for are merely dreams. Even so, I hope, because I saw it existed for someone else. For another Oberon, not the one I am.

The illusion of happiness, the hope of a love.

I don't know how it is to not be Oberon, the lying king. The king without any other purpose. The villain that has exited the stage having won, but now even that victory is pointless.

Then, why am I still here?

“For what it's worth, I like you. You're nice company, lies and all.”

“You’re an odd one.”

“I've been told that often.”

“It's not a compliment, you have no taste.”

“You know, for Panhuman history I am the hero, ensuring our world survives. But to everyone else from every lostbelt erased...I am the worst of the worst, the villain that destroys their world.”

Ritsuka traces the notebook on her hands. The contents of the rest could be disclosed but Oberon doesn’t open any of the other pile of notebooks, so they all lie on her bed.

“Patxi cursed me for showing him a world that he thought was happier than his.”

Tears fell from her eyes as she smiled weakly. “I wonder if that was ever the right choice.”

“Panhuman history isn't the perfect utopia you can imagine. Humans seek hatred and war, there's suffering and agony. While some can lead happy lives, there's so many who can't even enjoy a warm meal or think of a future. Kirshtaria saw that, he wanted to make a better world because ours was so imperfect.”

“Why are we still going?”

“Why was ours the correct one?”

“Even now, I don't know. And I'm not sure if I'll ever know. Any justification might seem a rationalization, something to feel less guilty for killing all those people.”

“That is why I cannot forget, I cannot let the history of those lostbelts be erased. Even if I'm the only one who remembers,” her grip on the notebook tightened, “I can never forget them.”

Like a dream, one time Oberon caught sight of what she was drawing, finally reaching the dreamy red hue she long sought, depicting the autumn forest Oberon knew and hated.

The words depicting what happened in Faerie Britain, the stories of Artoria, Morgan, of Barghest, Baobhan Sith and Melusine, of Aurora, of Mike, of Ector, of Knocknarea, of him.

“Even if the rest of the world forgets, I cannot. That's why I want to record as much as I can. I caused them to disappear, remembering all of them is the least I can do.”

“That's guilt for you.”

“...Yes, I can't deny that. I've caused many people to suffer, that is why I cannot stop.”

“You're an idiot. Pursuing a fleeting dream that will only cause you to hurt, as your heart tears itself apart with these thorns you surround yourself with.”

“I guess. But someone has to do it right? But even so…

“I enjoy the moments with everyone here in Chaldea and I can say I'm happy.

But I also feel deep sadness for everything that I have done and continue to do.”

There are many contradicting truths, woven into each other.

Like overlapping threads in a beautiful(horrible) story.

“I could think Panhuman history is the correct one because it was there. There was a reason why it was chosen.”

“And if there isn't? If there is truly no meaning to your journey? That the reason your world was chosen was a mere whim of fate, a sudden lucky roll of the dice? That there is nothing special to your world that makes you worthy of the title of proper human history?”

“Then I guess I will have to make it so that there is one.”

“And if you can't?”

“Just because I can't doesn't mean I shouldn't try.”

“Trying doesn't mean you will succeed. Morgan tried her hardest, but in the end, she still failed, crumbling in despair as her Faerie kingdom burnt to ashes.”

“Well, that will come bite me when the time comes, but for now, that’s all I can do, right?”

In the end, as long as it entertains, does it matter?

What is the purpose of a story? To bring joy(tears)? To break one from that moment of boredom, of despair, and heal the soul even if just a little?

And in the end, does it even matter?

“I like this Saint Graph more.”

It’s been a long time since he has donned the clothes as King Oberon. Once the façade was over, once he could ascend, he has never worn anything but the colors of the depths of the abyss. Anyone else would think they are unsightly, hateful, depressing.

After all, the warmth of King Oberon’s butterfly wings makes children smile, makes people trust him. His monstruous limbs right now are not enchanting.

“I thought you were a butterfly girl. And I have been wearing these ever since, why are you even saying this up until now?”

“I just wanted to say that. I like the fluffy cape and the butterfly wings, but you sound less pained right now. And this outfit is cool too.”

In the end, perhaps Titania isn't meant to be someone who brings the sun to your eyes, with laughter so contagious that she makes the bitterness of a day go away. She's not a neverending warmth on a cold winter, nor a guiding bright star up in the dark sky. She's not the simple to your complicated, the light to your dark, the smile to your frown, the opposite of your miserable existence that brings joy to your life. An illogical being that accepts you in spite of your incompatibility.

Was I wrong all along?

A companion when watching a wonderful(decadent) play.

Someone who walks by your side in a crumbling world.

Someone whose company makes the poison more bearable and hell, tolerable.

Someone who simply loves me for who I am. Who gazed at the abyss, saw the void yet didn't run away.

Ah, this is so laughable, an amateur terrible tragicomedy, a hideous play with no sickeningly sweet ending.

(Perhaps it is because Titania is a wretched creature herself. Or perhaps because Titania's wings have been torn off that she understands a small fragment of you. Even if true understanding is a lie, a pipe dream. Titania has seen her own hell and can sympathize with yours, with the emptiness and resentment you hold. Not fearing it, not judging it. Just accepting you as the flawed existence you are.

If that is the case, then there is nothing beautiful about Titania.)

But even so...

"...You are..."

"Did you say something?"

"No, nevermind."

Ritsuka smiles as Oberon looks away. He grumbles about the cramped space as he hoards the bed, swatting a mosquito away while she writes in her diary. The boring stories she writes that he doesn't care about even if his fingers have traced those letters.

But even so, he stays.

Ah, love is a bothersome thing.

Thank you for reading!

Now, OH BOY WHERE TO BEGIN. Title comes from Debussy's Rêverie. I wanted to play with it, seeing that Oberon's Bond CE is called Pavane for a Dead Princess, which is the title of a melody by Ravel. I am sure it is no coincidence. Both Ravel and Debussy were considered the cornerstones of Impressionism in music, however, they both HATED being labeled like that.

Pavane for a Dead Princess is one of Ravel's solo compositions for the piano. However, unlike what the title implies, Ravel specifically said that it wasn't meant to be a melody of a funeral, but he wanted to evoke the idea of a princess dancing to the pavane. However, some people didn't really listen to him. So in this case, I think that rather than to see Oberon's CE as a funeral to Blanca, it is a way to celebrate her story, even if it didn't end on the happier note we would have wished. You can listen to it here

Now Rêverie is by Debussy and it's meant to feel like a dream, hence the name. The melody became a massive hit, though Debussy later hated this piece because he felt that he had written better pieces but this one was the one that made him famous. Since it was written when he was young, he felt he was still lacking a lot, but the melody became one of his most popular compositions nonetheless. I think that story ties nicely with what we perceive vs what others perceive. You can listen to it here

Now onto the actual fic, I had this vague idea when part 3 was released, especially after all the spoilers about Oberon's true identity. I really wanted to get him, and I was super lucky. In between getting him, his profile and bond lines being translated, I just got possessed to write this as a way to honor and thank him for coming home AND to give him a sort of happy ending after Avalon.

Oberon in that bed is thanks to that comic on Twitter where he is eating chips without any care and the kind reminder of his voice lines that in spite of him constantly complaining, he spends an awful lot of time on our room. Hehehe.

Best of luck if you are pulling for him! And once again, thank you for reading!

#fate grand order #ritsuka fujimaru #obeguda #fgo oberon #oberon vortigern #fgo

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pinkoptics · 4 years ago

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AU-gust 2021 Prompts

3. Hipsters / 16. Hippies

Erik detests hipsters and hippies and, to be honest, isn’t even sure what the difference is, nor does he particularly care. The things he will do for Charles…

Modern AU. Still have powers. Grumpy Erik. Adorable Charles. Meet Cute. Silliness.

3392 Words

Erik hated everything about this place.

Absolutely everything.

He could write a dissertation on its failings, which were abundant.

Its first sin was being directly across from his apartment building. When he looked out his window, he saw it. When he stepped out of the lobby doors, he saw it. When he pulled his car out of the parking garage, he saw it. It was an unavoidable part of every single day of his life.

Its second sin was what it had replaced. Previously, there had been a diner. A kosher diner. A diner that had tasted like his childhood. It had been a hole in the wall, never looked quite clean, but the coffee had been strong enough to caffeinate an elephant and the food almost as good as his mama’s. Most people had passed it by. Just another slightly dingy New York eatery that you didn’t give a second thought. Quiet. A refuge for those in the know. Then came the hipster gentrification, ruining not only his precious diner, but the neighbourhood in general.

Its third sin was its name. Plant. In and of itself the name ‘Plant’ was harmless, inoffensive. Just a word. It conjured images of a vegan eatery, bistro, restaurant, or maybe if taken 100% literally, a store that sold plants. All of which would have been fine. He had nothing against plants and, sure, he ate meat (kosher meat), but happily ate vegetarian dishes as well. But no, it was not a plant store or even a vegan eatery, it was a vegan coffeehouse. Coffee came from plants, Erik knew this, so the name passed on that technicality, but it did not scream ‘coffee.’ Why not ‘Bean’ if it needed to conform to the trendy one-word-naming that had for reasons unknown come with the gentrification. It was couched between ‘Table’ (a restaurant) and ‘Sweat’ (a boutique gym). Plant did not equal coffee, and that knowledge crawled under his skin every time he saw the stylized lettering.

Its fourth sin was the coffee. Erik wasn’t particularly picky about his brew, whether at home or out. Cheap diner swill, the finest Italian espresso, the Keurig at the office, the ridiculously expensive machine that produced the perfect cappuccino at Emma’s apartment, whatever. Plant’s beans were fine as beans went, the roast satisfactory, but then ruined with its accompaniments. They carried a variety of ‘mylks.’ Yes, with a ‘y’. He preferred lattes, and would have been fine with oat or almond— if only it was spelled with a fucking ‘i’. Every time he saw the pretentious letter, he felt the urge to take a sharpie and commit as many acts of misdemeanour graffiti as necessary until all the ‘y’s were gone.

Its fifth sin was its staff. He could have tolerated their always sunny dispositions (even if it were literally impossible for any customer service employee to be that happy all the time). He could have tolerated their ridiculous hipster (or was it hippy?) apparel, moustaches, beards and hairstyles (what was even the difference between the two?). What he could not handle was the way they called him ‘friend.’ Every. Single. Time. He could count his friends on one hand and none of them worked at Plant. Their ‘peace, love and joy’ vibe made him grind his teeth and wish he had a mutation that would allow him to send them back to the 1960s.

And yet…

“Good morning friend! Amazing day, right?” It was, in fact, pouring so hard the streets were borderline flooding. “Usual? Or do you want to try—”

Erik had long ago learned to immediately tune out the suggestions, but was sure he caught the word ‘sage.’ Who in their right fucking mind wanted sage in their coffee? Yes, he was inside the loathed establishment wasting precious brain cells wondering why anyone felt the need to mess with the simple perfection that was coffee and milk. Yes, he was there often enough that the employees knew him on sight. Yes, he had a usual order.

It wasn’t his fault.

It really wasn’t.

It was the fault of a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

This shouldn’t have been the case. The whole thing was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. The entire story more at home on the W Network or Hallmark, than in his very real, not-a-rom-com, life. And yet, here he was, having his 24th latte with mylk in a row and questioning his very sanity.

It had all started, just over a month ago, directly in front of Plant. To this day, Erik wasn’t sure whose fault it had been. He’d been on his phone, eviscerating a junior partner for a monstrous fuck up, and so livid that he was not at all paying attention to his surroundings. The blue-eyed man he’d run into, however, had claimed equal distraction, so perhaps the blame rested on both of their shoulders.

They had crashed into each other— papers flew, his phone flipped through the air and they ended up in a heap on the sidewalk, Erik atop the smaller frame beneath him. Already late for work, already pissed off with the junior partner beyond reason, Erik had been ready to re-direct his anger and tear whoever it was a new one, when the aforementioned blue eyes had arrested the words in his throat. He had admitted this to no one. Hell, he barely admitted it in the sanctity of his own mind because he was not a 12 year old girl, but a senior partner in one of the most prestigious architecture firms in New York. He did not go soft over a pair of gorgeous eyes (except, apparently, that he did), particularly when he hadn’t even seen the face that went with the eyes, which could have been grotesquely unattractive (it wasn’t).

The mouth that went with the eyes was absurdly red and absurdly kissable. The face angelic. To his eternal, internal embarrassment he had thought that exact word— angelic. He wished he could have blamed his temporary insanity on hitting his head, but having fallen on top, he couldn’t. If anyone had a concussion it was the ocean-eyed, ruby-lipped angel man. The ruby lips had spluttered apologies in a gorgeous British accent (not something Erik had until now found to be a turn on) as they scrambled off each other, righting clothes and belongings.

“Your phone!” the man had moaned. “Is it all right?”

The screen did appear to have a crack, but in another moment of lunacy, Erik pocketed it before the Angel could see and muttered something about it being fine. Instead, Erik helped him to collect the papers that had fluttered every which way, including the road, where they were already being demolished by a steady stream of vehicles.

“I hope those weren’t important.”

The man laughed, it was a very nice sound. “Not as such, no. I’m sure my students will be delighted to hear that their papers were torn asunder. They already mock me for printing them at all. I could mark them on my laptop like a proper 21st century individual, but there’s something about the feel of paper and pen that I just cannot let go of. It’s— and, as I go on and see your expression, I realize a simple ‘no’ likely would have sufficed.”

What did he see in Erik’s expression? A man besotted? Enamoured? Smitten? Any other number of words he had never used in regard to himself or anyone else in his entire life? Fuck. Erik tried to school has face into its usual disdain for the world and ninety-nine percent of the people in it, but if he was as in control of his facial muscles as he was of his thoughts, he knew he was failing miserably.

Erik handed him the last of the papers they could possibly retrieve. “I agree— about the pen and paper, I mean.” He did. As incredible as design software was these days, he always started on paper. The precision needed to draw the perfect straight lines and angles of a new building gave him a feeling of immense satisfaction in a way little else did.

“Oh, well, glad I’m not the only one who hasn’t forsaken the old ways.”

His smile.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Erik cleared his throat. “Let me buy you a coffee.”

Had he just said that?

Traitorous voice.

Was he gesturing at Plant?

Traitorous body.

He’d never been inside. On principle. Apparently, principle flew out the window for charming British men with cornflower (cornflower?!) blue eyes. The man blinked those eyes, as though not expecting the kindness.

Erik gestured at the papers. “I’ve clearly set your work back and I’ve ruined your—” cardigan. Erik blinked as his clothes came into focus. The man he was suddenly, desperately, attracted to was wearing a baggy, grandpa cardigan. Erik began to wonder if he had never woken up that morning. Maybe he was still in bed, across the street. Maybe this was a fever dream.

“Oh! I’ve dozens more just like it. It’s nothing.” He swatted ineffectually at the dirt covering one sleeve.

“Please.”

The man cocked his head. “Well… all right.”

So Erik had. In the end it had been a tea, not coffee. Earl grey with mylk. The interaction had ended there, awkwardly. Most likely his own fault. He didn’t do flirting with random strangers he’d just plowed into on the street. He didn’t generally do flirting at all. Moreover, he was now very late and had the junior partner’s fuck ups to fix before this afternoon’s meeting with their client. So, he’d left, stumbling over his goodbyes.

The day that followed hadn’t afforded much opportunity to think on the chance encounter. Not with employees to castrate and clients to placate. It wasn’t until he was home, looking out the bank of front windows at Plant that his thoughts drifted back to Blue Eyes. Which was, unfortunately, what he had christened him in his head because he’d never gotten the man’s name. Erik had gone to bed, mind clouded with thoughts, dreamt of him, and woken up with those same thoughts. Emma had always said his was one of the most disciplined minds she had ever encountered.

So much for that.

It was only a complete loss of that discipline that could possibly explain why he’d unnecessarily crossed the street the next morning and entered the obnoxious establishment for a second time, without even a moment’s hesitation. His eyes had immediately scanned for a mop of just overlong brown hair (yes, he’d noted that too, as well as just how much he wanted to run his hands through it). When they’d landed upon said hair, curling delightfully upon Blue Eyes’ forehead, Erik had been genuinely surprised. This clearly made the man a Plant regular, which should have been a point against him — a massive point — yet here Erik was, seeking him out regardless. Blue Eyes had looked up at him then, gifting him with a smile and acknowledging him with a nod, before returning to a set of what Erik had to guess were re-printed term papers.

Such was the story of how Erik had become a regular customer with a regular order.

Most days Blue Eyes was there before he came in, sometimes working on laptop or in a notebook, other times reading a book or a journal. Erik had caught a title once — The Oxford Journal of Genetics — which led him to conclude, that along with clearly being a professor, this proved the man must have a brain to back up the looks. Another point in his favour, as Erik had no patience for stupidity, no matter how pretty a package it came in.

Erik’s day was such that he usually needed to take his order to go. The few days where he could scrape together a few extra minutes, he grabbed his own table. He hadn’t once attempted to kid himself that it was because he enjoyed the ambience— that level of denial would have been absurd. No, it was clearly so he could spend a few extra minutes trying to stare, in a way that wasn’t blatantly obvious, at his… crush. Crush. He might as well think the word because that’s what it was. Only days after meeting him, Erik had caught himself, pen poised, about to doodle hearts on his notepad at a meeting. The mental pinch and knowing look Emma had sent his way had made him extra testy for the rest of the day. The wide berth everyone but Emma had given him was a testament to that.

And yet…

He never approached Blue Eyes. They exchanged nods, occasional hellos, but never anything more. Out of all of his out of character behaviour — and there was a lot of it at this point — this rattled him most. Erik had a reputation in professional and personal circles. He was confident, forbidding, occasionally arrogant, and brazen in pursuing designs no one else thought possible to execute. Erik went after what he wanted in life with borderline fanaticism.

He did not sit and observe from afar, mentally warring with himself, while also berating himself, for not having the balls to ask to join him, or buy him another tea, or inquire as to what he was reading. There were any number of conversational openings, but 24th latte in, he still hadn’t taken any of them. With each passing day the side of him that decided against it (or ‘chickened out’ as the nastier part of his mind supplied) became stronger and stronger. Blue Eyes hadn’t engaged with him either. Maybe he wasn’t gay. Maybe Erik wasn’t his type. Maybe he was already in a relationship. The chances that he was being just as melodramatic as Erik was being in his own head seemed slim. So, Erik continued to act foolish — alternately wondering how long he would continue to do so and how good a kisser Blue Eyes might be with lips like that.

It was on latte #26 that everything changed— no thanks to Erik.

He had decided to sit at a table that day and engage in his usual ‘I’m staring but I’m not staring’ routine. He was in the ‘not-staring’ portion, scrolling through his emails without really paying attention to any of them, when he was startled out of it by the chair across from him suddenly becoming occupied.

Blue Eyes.

“I can’t take it anymore.”

“Wha—”

“You come in here every day. Every day. Sometimes you stay, sometimes you don’t. It’s baffling because there is one thing I know for certain— you hate it here. No, you loathe it. And, there are literally dozens of other coffee houses within walking distance. You clearly don’t belong—” Blue Eyes gestured up and down at what was likely Erik’s three piece suit, then at Plant in general, where there wasn’t a single person so much as sporting dress pants. Erik counted at least two man buns, one head of dreadlocks and a form of baggy pants Erik didn’t even have a name for. “—and I am fascinated by things that don’t belong. Things that don’t make sense. Puzzles. You don’t make sense. There is no way the coffee is that good. And yet, here you are. Oh! Where are my manners? I’m Charles.”

Blue Eyes — no, Charles — extended his hand across the table and, reflexively, Erik took it, shaking it gingerly.

Charles laughed. “I don’t bite. I entirely talk too much, ask anyone, but I don’t bite.”

Erik rather wished that he did.

“How did you— my suit?”

Thankfully, Charles seemed to follow his meaning. “Oh no, the suit is only corroborating evidence. As is the way you look down your nose at everything in here. It’s your mind.” Charles tapped his temple. “Telepath. I swear to you I haven’t dug any deeper than the surface swirl of utter distaste for this establishment. Then I’d know, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t be here asking.”

Telepath. Blue E— Charles was a mutant. Erik was fairly certain his knees went a little weak. Good thing they were sitting. However… what on earth could he say? ‘I’ve essentially been stalking you’ hardly seemed like an opener that was going to get him where he wanted to be. Erik cleared his throat, buying time, as those keen eyes continued to look at him expectantly. While Erik wasn’t verbose, he also never found himself at a loss for words, except for here and now, where the truth was exceptionally embarrassing.

His pause, it seemed, went on too long because Charles jumped back into the fray. “Good lord, I’ve ambushed you, haven’t I? Clearly, you don’t have to answer the mad man who mowed you down on the sidewalk and then ambushed the peaceful solitude of your morning coffee. I apologize and will bugger right off if you tell me to. However, if it helps any, I don’t like it here either. It’s trying too bloody hard to be ‘on trend,’ isn’t it? For a cultural subset who pride themselves on not being pretentious they’ve entirely failed, haven’t they? And, I’m English, I know pretentious.” He laughed self-depreciatingly at that.

A beat for his mind to catch up to the second verbal barrage and Erik finally had a response. “If you like it as little as I do, then why are you here?”

Charles’ mouth formed a perfect little ‘o’ of surprise. He scratched the back of his neck and, for a moment, looked everywhere but Erik. “Blast. I’m caught, aren’t I?”

His cheeks reddened adorably. Since when did Erik find anything adorable? Since now, apparently. This man broke all of his rules.

Charles gave an adorable (christ) little shrug of his shoulders. “I suppose I best come clean.” He looked Erik squarely in the eye. “You’re gorgeous. You bought me tea. I came back thinking I’d ask you out. But you’re so… I lost my nerve. Have been doing the same daily ever since.”

“I’m so… ?”

The cheeks reddened further.

“Entirely too gorgeous for me.” Charles gestured at today’s grandfatherly cardigan. “Besides that—”

“You’re perfect.”

Fucking hell. When had his mind decided to say things without his permission?

It produced another, adorable, surprised little ‘o’. “I’m sorry— What?”

In for a penny…

“I had never set foot in Plant before we crashed into each other. Never would have because I do hate everything about it. Everything except you, who I thought were a regular—”

“I thought you were a regular.”

“— and wanted to ask you out.”

“I’d never been here before ei— you wanted to ask me out?”

They stopped, collective words sinking into respective minds.

Charles threw his head back, laughing. “If I didn’t know better—“ He tapped his temple again. “— I’d think you’re having me on.”

His laughter was infectious and Erik found he was smiling despite himself. He gave his own little shrug. “I don’t lie.”

“No, you don’t, do you? I can’t believe we both—”

“Me either.”

“This is too much. Wait… Why are we still here?”

“I’m sorry?”

Charles leaned forward and plucked Erik’s latte with oat mylk from his hand. “Can I buy you a coffee? A real coffee? Where they know how to spell the word milk? At the cafe I actually frequented before I began co-starring with you in a romcom so terrible my sister wouldn’t even watch it?”

He was already standing up, as if assured Erik would say yes, which every single bone in his body was blaring loudly for him to do. It didn’t seem to matter to any part of him that he would be blowing off work, a thought he discarded as quickly as it appeared. Just another out of character thing to add to the list. He followed. “I’m Erik, by the way.”

Charles looked back, as he collected his belongings, and grinned sheepishly. “I know.”

That was the last time Erik set foot in Plant until exactly a year later. He ordered latte #27 with Blue-Eyed Charles on his arm, after having crossed the street from their apartment, to celebrate their first anniversary. As Charles smiled at him over his Earl Gray with mylk, Erik found he couldn’t quite hate the damned coffee shop as much as he had before.

#cherik #cherik fanfic #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #pinkoptics fic #au_gust #augustwritingchallenge

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aroaceconfessions · 4 years ago

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Sorry, vent incoming:

I'm greysexual but not out to anyone (and most of the time I get away with saying I'm a happy single and if someone right should happen to cross my path that's nice too). Anyway, because of research for my masters I needed to contact an expert and my friends were all like "Oooh, you should date! Same interests and all!" for months. When I finally spoke to the bloke on the phone, I was so amazed by how calm he made me feel (I detest phone calls with strangers) and by his extensive knowledge that I now have a crush on him. Watching documentaries he featured in didn't help either... who would have thought... He's cute... But he lives in a different country, doesn't even know what I look like, and for all that I know he could be taken or not interested in women or both. Also he's so busy atm that he doesn't even find the time for some more questions regarding my dissertation topic, so no chance of another talk haha. Is it normal to automatically feel like this is doomed and I should quash these feelings before I get caught up too much? This is only the second crush in my life and the first one was 9 years ago and nothing came of it...

#greysexual #graysexual #greyasexual #grayasexual #grey-asexual #gray-asexual #aspec

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commonpigeon · 4 years ago

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new cobra kai and witcher out this month plus i have two assignments and need to start my dissertation AND ill be staying with my parents who i detest. im about to become so unbearable

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annecoulmanross · 5 years ago

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A Re(sponse)-Re-Re-Review, Re: The Terror (2018)

I’ve recently read through all of the gorgeous review posts of The Terror (2018) from @rhavewellyarnbag and I just want to say that I think they’re incredibly beautiful and thoughtful responses to this show – all three amazing rounds of them.

I started out simply collecting quotes that were amusing to me, but my notes document very quickly became full of my own responses and confessions. Basically, I ended up making my own response/review of the whole thing, which is what you’ll find in this post.

So, thank you @rhavewellyarnbag for your many insightful thoughts about this show and my responses are below the cut! (Also, your repeated efforts to drive Goodsir to the hospital are a truly noble service, and bring me comfort in these dark times.)

01x01 – “Go For Broke” (One, Two, and Three)

“Ciaran Hinds looks like a grand old walrus.”

This was the line that made me realize I needed to start keeping track of quotes that made me laugh like a seal barking.

“‘You should cherish that man.’ I cherish that fucking line of dialog. I don’t even mean it in a filthy way. That line is so goddamn sweet, I could punch myself in the face.”

Amongst all the beautiful content produced about this show, almost nothing will ever surpass, for me, this description of this line of dialogue paired with that post about “Idiot Boat Caesar, who knows a slow-burn when he sees one.” Sir John has an astonishing capacity to be truly warm on rare occasions, and this is one of the few scenes in which we really get to see James experience that warmth, both genuinely and, here, in the form of a truly gentle, well-meant rebuke that probably cuts James far more than we see.

“This is an interesting scene with the diving suit. This could potentially go very badly. The man in the suit may be dispatched by the mysterious horror following them, or, in order not to give it away, and to show a scientific curiosity, he may die of decompression of the suit.”

Fun fact: one of my great-grandfathers apparently died of decompression from using an early-model diving suit. I learned this when I was word-vomiting to my mother about The Terror. I am now even more terrified of historical diving suits. All diving suits, really.

“If James’ characterization plays around with gender, it does so in this sense: James is constantly acted upon, by the bullet that wounded him, by the disease that fells him, by others’ opinions of him.”

Watch me attempt to cite your reviews of the The Terror in a dissertation, because everything about this description is exactly the gender framework around which I’ve draped the two historical men with whom I’ve fallen in love, one being my actual subject of research, the other being James Fitzjames.

“I’ve previously compared James’ bravery, his very person, to a woman’s beauty: bestowed upon her, not earned; understood to be temporary; dependent upon others’ admiring, desiring of it. Does James exist when no one is around to observe him?”

I adore everything about this description and also it makes me cry.

“There are a great deal of unfortunate classical references in this episode.”

This is my entire mood about The Terror, always. The nods to Philoctetes and Medea as components of the Argonaut myth that Sir John invokes are also distinctly worth exploring in this context, though I’m not going to do so here because the Argonautica (broadly speaking) is not my speciality.

01x02 – “Gore” (One, Two, and Three)

“James and Sir John are about the same height. They look not dissimilar, which James probably liked.”

Oh James.

“Strangely, [Sir John] doesn’t seem particularly pleased with James, who adores him.”

It’s true, and it’s quite painful. I don’t think Sir John is a good role model for James, but it doesn’t lessen the fact that I know James is perceptive enough to know that he’s not being adored in return, and that’s a brutal thing to know.

“You don’t have to be a drunk redheaded sea captain to see that James is empty, hollow, aching, desperate to be the things he tells you he is, desperate to see himself reflected back at himself. Desperate to be loved.”

I have a type, and this is it, apparently.

“Goodsir is a character from another sort of work, entirely. That’s its own kind of tragedy, the tragic juxtaposition. Goodsir is a sweet, gentle, utterly ordinary little pudding, an incidental character plucked from a more innocent narrative, and he’s no-doubt going to die horribly.”

This is the early impression of Goodsir, before any of us see what’s beneath Goodsir’s surface, but it’s also not wrong at all. In another sort of work (perhaps, as noted, a work by Jane Austen), Goodsir is (uniquely, among these men, perhaps) capable of living a sweet, gentle, utterly ordinary little life, with a more innocent narrative.

“It’s strongly implied that Irving’s imagination is so open that he has to work to close it.”

That’s certainly true of the historical Irving, as I read it. I have many more complex thoughts and feelings about Irving now than I did after just watching the series through the first time, but I’m not sure whether that’s because his story-line is actually rich, or because I’ve come to like him separately. (Unlike, for instance, Fitzjames, whom I have come to adore separately, but I can safely say does also have a rich story-line in these ten episodes.) The real Irving is more elusive than I think I at least gave him credit for originally.

“Oh, James Fitzjames, you overly-familiar little strumpet, you.”

I’m sobbing.

“Scurvy doesn’t care what kind of person you are.”

In many ways this is true, because we do see scurvy acting indiscriminately on different men, here, without a care for age or station or morality. But also scurvy, in this narrative, attacks most vividly those with some sort of previous wound that the scurvy can reopen. Notably James, but also Morfin, whose flogging-scars we never see but can assume from his conversation (also, for that matter, Jopson, who, historically, had a major scar on his leg, of unknown origin). Scurvy may not truly care what kind of person you are, but if you’ve led a dangerous life, scurvy has one more way to hurt you.

“Who among us has not been desperate to discuss our interests, to the point where there is almost a flirtatious edge to the broaching of the topic? One must be careful, so as not to give away too much, both for the gentle handling that one’s interests require, and for the sake of not alienating some poor rando who made the mistake of asking a bland, vague question simply to be polite.”

Ah, so I see you understand, then. I’ve taken to apologizing in advance of discussing the gorier elements of the Franklin expedition, as though I’ve exposed myself in public. (But seriously, this is the most excellent description of the discomforting feeling of very more obsessed with something than is socially acceptable.)

01x03 – “The Ladder” (One, Two, and Three)

“John Ross is the Jacob Marley figure, I take it.”

The beginning of many intriguing resonances between this show and Dickens’s Christmas Carol, and I think, one of the most elegant. The actor who plays John Ross would be an excellent Jacob Marley.

“Jopson would not talk about Francis’ drinking! You take that back, Gibson.”

This is what I adore about Thomas “Mr. Hears Everything” Jopson – he’ll only ever tell things about others to Francis; he’d never tell things about Francis to others. That’s a moral compass upon which we can unerringly rely, and one that is in no way affected by the magnetic changes at either pole.

“The spyglass sticks to the skin above Francis’ eye, as though it wished to force him not to look away.”

This is an amazing take, especially re: the way spyglasses are used to show foresight and the future in this show. Francis is forced to know look at what is coming for them, the future that waits ahead, hungrily salivating for his men.

“James is completely shattered, but he looks luminously beautiful.”

He does, doesn’t he?

01x04 – “Punished As A Boy” (One, Two, and Three)

“Lady Jane’s response is: ‘Fuck you. I know Charles Dickens.’”

Much as I detest Dickens, and much as I have my own problems with Lady Jane, she is never anything less than badass, particularly here.

“Lady Jane, clad in burgundy, ‘the wine-dark sea,’ stands between Francis and Sophia.”

Oh good god that’s it, though? It was through Lady Jane that I first found the Franklin Expedition, oh, four years ago (it feels like four hundred), and the first thing I ever said about the matter was “I’m confident that she knew Greek.” I’ve never been able to prove it, but she writes, in her letters, like someone who reads Greek. Lady Jane is well and truly our Homeric Hera. Brilliant and vengeful and matronly and brutal. I do adore her.

“Of course Goodsir’s never been lashed. He’s a nice man. He’s probably had the opposite of a flogging. People probably throw roses at him when he walks down the street. I know I would.”

I’d be happy to attend this rose-throwing Goodsir-parade. I already have a bad habit of bringing roses to the pseudo-graves of historical men whom I love; we can add Goodsir to the list without too much hassle.

01x05 – “First Shot’s A Winner, Lads” (One, Two, and Three)

“[Re: James and “Your nails are a terror, Mr. Wentzall]…the checking of collars and fingernails is a very maternal duty.”

I love spotting feminine traits in James, but what I’m getting out of this is actually imagining James’s adoptive mother Louisa Coningham examining the fingernails of a very young James. It’s an adorable, if slightly tragic, image.

“Irving doesn’t seem like a hard man, but like a man trying desperately to be hard, and often failing. He should have forgotten about the navy, stayed on land, gone to France and become an early Impressionist painter.”

This fantastic description of Irving makes it even more tragic that he DID try to forget about the navy and stay on land, and it didn’t work. Canon divergence AU where Irving moved to France instead of Australia?

“We’re told, repeatedly, including by Goodsir, himself, that Goodsir isn’t a doctor. It’s a fundamental misunderstanding: people think they know who Goodsir is, or who he wishes to be, but Goodsir has no desire to be anything but what he is. Perhaps appropriately, it’s Hickey who recognizes and names Goodsir (“You’re an anatomist.”) One may say that Hickey ‘reads’ Goodsir. Though, Hickey’s understanding is, as it often is, flawed. He may know what Goodsir is, but he doesn’t know who Goodsir is.”

I very genuinely wonder – did Goodsir want to be thought of as a doctor, by any of them? What were Goodsir’s thoughts and preferences on the matter?

01x06 – “A Mercy” (One, Two, and Three)

“What Sir John left them was a means of dissembling, a facade. Cheer in a cheerless time, which holds the dangerous allure of forgetting.”

This is perfect, because Carnevale, at its center, is “the dangerous allure of forgetting,” in no small part because, structurally, Carnevale fills the role of the Homeric island of the lotus-eaters. (It is also a labyrinth, though, and that’s an interesting doubling.)

“The half masks in the trunk have the semblance of the faces of dead men we’ve seen. The creature has the habit or practice of biting a man’s head in two, or biting off part of the cranium.”

I had never noticed this but it’s entirely true.

“Francis is bracketed by Thomas’, neither one of them a doubter.”

I will SCREAM

“‘I don’t like to hear a woman laughing now.’ I suppose it’s fortunate that Jopson’s professional life allows him to be around men, exclusively. What would Jopson have done later in life? Marriage is obviously out of the question if women’s mirth causes him such distress. Would he have stayed on boats? Francis promotes him to lieutenant, but would that have made him happy? He has a love of, an instinct for caring for others that obviously can’t be transposed onto a marriage, both because of Jopson’s limits and because of Victorian gender roles. The best possible course for Jopson would have been valet, a gentleman’s gentleman. His rank and background would have made him an asset, and no more devoted valet would there have been.”

The fanfic writes itself. (I have nothing to say yet, I just adore this speculation; more below, though.)

“The drop of blood falling from James’ hairline onto the mask’s cheek to make a kind of morbid beauty spot is a gorgeous image, like a piece of decadent poetry.”

I personally find James unbearably beautiful, and the whole extended sequence with the dress and the drinking and the blood dripping is so subtle and lovely and I think, like with poetry, what we get out of it is never simple.

“James is dressed as Britannia. Which makes James mother to them all.”

Though I, selfishly, would have loved to see James in something more scandalous than his Britannia costume, I think it’s symbolically the best possible choice for him. This is an outfit that is technically crossdressing, but it’s very subtle thanks to the choices James makes – we don’t see any dramatic woman’s wig or other feminine elements. This is an outfit that reminds the men of home; reminds James of home, and of his adoptive mother, whose poetry was full to the brim and spilling with Britannia.

“Blanky looks great. I wonder if the visual reference to the Ghost of Christmas Present is intentional.”

I’ve always assumed he was meant to be Bacchus, but of course the Ghost of Christmas Present has more than a little Bacchus in him also. All of these Christmas Carol overlaps are exceedingly interesting – John Ross’s Marley warning Franklin’s Scrooge, and now the Ghost of Blanky Present reminding Crozier that others are – for good or ill – having fun without him.

“One may imagine that Edward has disguised himself as someone who enjoys parties.”

OH GOD.

01x07 – “Horrible From Supper” (One, Two, and Three)

“Hickey can’t move on from humiliation, because he would see that as more humiliation. Keeping the humiliation alive in his mind is the only way to gain some mastery over it. He holds the wound open, so that no one can deny that it’s a wound, that it happened, that it mattered, that he matters, but it means that he can never heal, never be whole. Scurvy.”

The Hickey/Fitzjames parallels are STRONG here. Also, this resonates really well with a conversation I had with a friend about Eleanor Guthrie from Black Sails – she’s unable to move past being hurt and I just can’t fault her for it, even as her stubbornness just hurts her more. And I feel that sympathy for James, too – he’s bottled up so much hurt inside, and it has kept hurting him his entire life. If Hickey didn’t “hold the would open” by, you know, making wounds in other people, literally, I’d probably even feel bad for him.

“There is an emotional and psychological toll, which Francis tries desperately to reduce by keeping the men together, reinforcing the bonds between them, persistently humanizing them.”

The Jopson’s promotion scene warms me on cold nights. That’s all.

“Jopson’s role is the opposite of Lady Silence’s: the fact of her gender alters nothing about it; Jopson’s informs it. Make Jopson female, and he clearly functions as Francis’ wife. If Jopson is male, though, what is he? A paid servant, in the literal sense, but his obvious pleasure at caring for Francis long ago eroded the patina of duty. I think we can safely say that Jopson loves Francis, loves and cares deeply for him. Is invested in Francis’ safety, well-being, happiness. Enjoys the details of his service to Francis, beyond the enjoyment of a job well-done. Add a sexual component, and it becomes a marriage. Leave it out, and the relationship is something else. Drop Jopson into a marriage with a woman, and he becomes a husband. Leave him with Francis, and he remains Francis’ wife.”

This is what I find so fascinating about Jopson – everything about his identity has the potential to be contingent, to change, but as the expedition’s tragedy unfolds, we see all of the possible threads of Jopson’s future cut off, one by one. From the beginning, Jopson can’t be female, and thus can’t serve a wifely role in British society, even though he’s clearly fit for it. We learn that Jopson has some very specific PTSD triggers related to women that might prevent him from ever being married to one, even if he wanted to be. Jopson seems to wish to continue serving Francis in perpetuity, to continue being as close to a wife as Francis will ever have, but Francis, sober, no longer needs the same kind of care that Jopson used to provide, and, eventually, Jopson becomes unable to care for Francis at all, so that Francis has to care for him. Jopson is all change, all tragedy.

“I would like to thank the director, cinematographer, anybody else who may be responsible for that stunning shot of James in profile. James really is beautiful, even, maybe particularly, at this stage of his infirmity. I’ve said it at other times, but there’s something, well, I suppose, romantic about his illness, because he is young, and beautiful, and heroic, so desperate to be loved, and so loved, in the end.”

*sighs* I’m not okay about James.

01x08 – “Terror Camp Clear” (One, Two, and Three)

“I don’t know how I didn’t notice before, but James is a leggy creature.”

I will still treasure the term “a leggy creature” when I am in my grave.

“Sir John was not a top, and I know that for a fact, because I just got Lady Jane on the Ouija board, and she told me.”

I WILL SCREAM.

“[Francis] doesn’t look on James as a sick person in need of careful handling. There’s no sense of the separation necessary for pity between Francis and James. He is this way toward James because he cares about James.”

I know we all joke about the quote “it’s rotten work” / “not to me, not if it’s you,” but this is what that quote has always meant to me (the Anne Carson of it, that is, not the original Greek). Caring for someone via pity, via distance, takes effort, is painful, is rotten, even though it is sometimes worth it. Caring for someone via care, via love may still take effort, and may still even be painful, but there is no separation, no alienation, from the service of providing care. That’s where Francis’s tenderness comes from, I think. That closeness.

“James, you big, beautiful racehorse. Even chapped and cracked, he’s radiantly beautiful. He has such a warm quality.”

In the confessional spirit of this review, I will admit: I find James more attractive than I am capable of expressing. The interesting thing, to me, is that I don’t have the same response at all to Tobias Menzies or to any other character I’ve seen him play. He’s a great actor, certainly, but he doesn’t do it for me. But James does. I’m still puzzling this out.

“James’ bravery is treated somewhat like a woman’s beauty, in that he believes it to be conditional, temporary. It’s dependent on others’ appreciation of it; when he’s alone, James doesn’t feel brave.”

I will say, admitting that it’s probably James’ femininity that is attractive to me gets you a long way toward understanding why I do find him so terribly appealing.

“Oh, please, baby Jesus, don’t let Jopson flip. Jopson’s one of the few things I have left to hang onto, here.”

Jopson will never flip, such that Jopson’s death really is the point of no return, here. He’ll die before he flips. (Notably, it’s important to be clear that by “flip,” I mean turn his loyalties away from Crozier. I have reconciled myself to the idea that, though Jopson is upright and innocent in a way even my James isn’t, he is capable of violence and even unjustified, offensive violence. But only ever in the service of his captain.) And again here, Jopson very well might not be immune to the seduction Hickey’s definitely attempting, but bending to Hickey’s wiles means betraying Crozier, and that’s an impossibility for Jopson.

“Bridgens, who’s a cozy old piece of furniture…”

….and Henry Peglar would like to sit on him. (I get it Henry, I do.)

01x09 – “The C, the C, the Open C” (One, Two, and Three)

“Oh, Bridgens. Where’s Henry? Where did Henry go?”

I think a real triumph of this show is getting you to know, by this point, that when you see Bridgens, you should ALWAYS ask yourself, “Where’s Henry?” Because yeah, “They are each other’s loved one,” and there can’t be either one of them without the other. Bridgens knows this, and makes himself into a memorial for Henry. The only kind of monument Henry Peglar can ever have: Bridgens, with his own body, preserves Peglar’s words for the future, for us. I’m just going to cry for Bridgens and for Peglar for a minute, that’s all. Please excuse me.

“Hartnell watches Bridgens pick up Peglar, Peglar’s arm around Bridgens like, ‘… Wait a minute…’ Hartnell also misses Hickey’s innuendo about Armitage. Tom Hartnell tragically has no gay-dar.”

Oh precious Hartnell. This lack of gay-dar is part of why Hartnell had to get written out of what I’m currently writing (I’m sorry Hartnell! It’s not you it’s me.)

“There’s something of a horrible wooing about it: Goodsir, like an unwilling bride, forcibly taken from his own people by unscrupulous men, installed in as luxurious surroundings as can be had, with his trousseau, for the purpose of catering to an unspeakable hunger. His innocence is taken from him, and he’s turned against himself. His body is stripped naked and consumed.”

(a) What a horrible and horribly accurate description. (b) This is another one of those places where this show is unafraid to place male characters into narrative metaphors of womanhood. For me, the most vivid is always Jopson, but Goodsir is also often made to face this sort of feminine role, and for Goodsir it’s so much more often about violence and shame.

“James says “I’m not Christ,” before he tells Francis to feed the men his body. It seems like something of a non sequitur, until one imagines James’ train of thought. As the impulse to give his body to the men occurred to him, so may have also come a last flicker of self-mockery: “What, James, do you think you’re Christ, now?” So that his announcement that he’s not Christ comes in response to this: he knows who he is, and who he isn’t. Finally, he knows this.”

I think that’s exactly what went through James’s head. And more than that, I think back on that beautiful gif-set that placed James’s “I’m not Christ” beside Francis’s “Like Christ, but with more nails.” Francis, whose self-hatred is clear and undisguised, begins to heal by recognizing what is Christ-like in himself: his suffering, and the compassion that is borne from the suffering. James, whose self-hatred is buried under masks and lies and stories and gilded dresses, begins to heal by admitting what is not Christ-like about him: his mortality, his humanity; and that doesn’t make James any lesser, and James finally, finally begins to see so.

“Can’t Jopson’s story end differently, this time?”

That’s what hurts. In no version of this story that happens with Hickey AND the Tuunbaq AND the inevitable deaths of 129 men, should James die any different, or Goodsir, or Bridgens. If they were going to die, they should do so showing bravery and brotherhood; agency and defiance; commitment and love. There are other men who deserved so much better than the ignoble deaths they got (Irving comes to mind) but Jopson is the warmest light and receives the coldest death. There’s no reason for his story NOT to end differently, except for the sheer narrative cruelty of it all. The Terror is brilliant because it knows to reserve this sort of agony for the worst possible gut-punch. Any more than one, or maybe two, utterly, pointlessly cruel deaths, and we would be immunized. But we have no immunity to prepare us for the dizzying nausea of Jopson’s death.

“The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death. Death, ultimately, isn’t mysterious. Whatever might happen to one afterwards is immaterial to the living, still bound to this plane of existence. One may fear it, but once it happens, it’s over. Love is a way of life, though. It changes over time. It changes the person who feels it, and the person they feel it for. Both Francis and Jopson were changed by their love for each other. Jopson goes to one mystery still in the grip of the other: it’s Francis he sees, reaches for, cannot touch.”

Jopson’s death is still haunting me. It’s like Tantalus, all that food that would save Jopson’s life, if only he could eat it, and yet he crawls right past, toward Crozier. What does that say about Jopson? The way the world tortures him is to hold Crozier just outside of his reach – what on earth is Jopson being punished for? (These aren’t intelligible thoughts anymore; I’m just broken-hearted for my boy.)

“In a narrative that encourages empathy for everyone and everything from a colonial expedition to a monkey to an eldritch monstrosity that rips men’s heads off, why should Hickey be exempt?”

A beautiful way of putting it. I’m still working through my initial disgust at Hickey, but intellectually, I can’t help but agree.

01x10 – “We Are Gone” (One, Two, and Three)

“…the experience of being through so much with these characters that I care about so much has been like living several lifetimes.”

My mother, who has not yet watched this show, told me recently that she thinks these characters have become my family. In part, this is due to the historical research I’ve been doing on the real men of the Franklin expedition, but the show played its own large role in making me fall in love with these men, making me desperate to live as many lifetimes with them as possible.

“Why does Goodsir do it, though? He seems to have made up his mind before Francis appears, and with Francis comes the hope that Edward will rescue them. If anything, Francis’ presence makes Goodsir more resolute.”

As another dear friend said, Goodsir definitely had the plan in mind before Francis showed up, but the plan needed a trigger: it needed Francis, a good man worth dying for. Someone for Goodsir to look at and say, “Maybe my actions will help this man.”

“I think I just confessed to being in love with a man who doesn’t exist.”

Ahh, this lovely club. Even the men I’m in love with who actually lived two thousand years ago don’t really exist, at least not in the way I love them.

“The Terror is like a play put on by a theater company that has no female actors, so all of the men must play female roles…without any women to place in certain contexts – caretaker; lover; victim; object of desire – those dramas necessarily play out on the bodies of the men.”

Watch this space. The Terror is a classical Greek tragedy, and I can prove it.

The description of Goodsir’s preparation for death is richer and more complete than anything I will ever write. GO READ IT.

I also think it’s fascinating to see this scene through the eyes of a reviewer who readily admits “This is an unusual case. I like Goodsir. I don’t usually like the men I’m looking at. I care for Goodsir.” I confess that, though I also like and care for Goodsir, when I am looking at “eroticized male bodies” in media, I only really “feel at home in a text” when I also like and care for those men. If a male character is too morally objectionable to me, I find no erotic appeal to viewing him, because I am so distracted by my own sense of his evils. I simply cannot find anything to pull me, aesthetically or sexually, to someone like Hickey. (I can never find anything sensually appealing about Hickey/Tozer, for instance.) I am pulled to James, in contrast, because he is beautiful to me visually, and because his life (as far as I can see) shows me a person who cared, who tried, who loved. Who is worthy of my care and trust. And though I don’t think I’m in love with Goodsir in the same way than I am with James, I care deeply for Goodsir and thus can find the appeal in watching him, visually.

“‘There is wonder here.’/ ‘Then, there will be the angels.’ The first thing angels ever tell any human being who beholds them is not to be afraid. Wonder isn’t always delightful, isn’t always something that humans can understand, or possibly, even, survive.”

Fear is something I don’t often enough examine closely with this show, though it is so terribly central. “Be not afraid” and “We have too much fear.” How can one dispel fear? Wonder obviously isn’t enough; wonder might even make it worse. Being told not to fear rarely works out so well for those visited by angels. I think, sometimes, that all we can do is – as Peglar does – admit to those we love that we have too much fear, and hope that they can help us carry it.

I can’t NOT give you the end of the first round of these reviews, because, like the description of Goodsir’s preparations, it’s literature:

“The Terror, a show taking place one hundred, sixty years ago, manages to be timely without even trying. Lead poisoning. Environmental catastrophe. The baggage of colonialism. The treatment of indigenous people by white people. Information and misinformation. What it means to be a leader. What it means to be in a marriage. The role of women in society. Gay marriage. Income inequality. Ethical consumption. Consumerism. Members of the armed forces working far from home. Mental health. Addiction. All of these fit neatly into what can also be taken at face value, a well-constructed and -acted tale of adventure and loss set in a faraway place and time. The Terror never tries to force meaning on the viewer, never struggles under the weight of its lofty aspirations- because it has no aspirations. It’s an utterly guileless production, seeking nothing but to present its characters and situations honestly. In doing such a simple thing, it has created the world.”

And, finally, I leave you with: “I’m not looking for a way out. I just want more time with the characters. I don’t want to leave them.” To me, this gives an answer to David Solway’s question “Do you have a tolerance for ongoing narratives which generally turn out to be the same narrative?” And that answer is “yes.” I think there’s a tolerance – or, even, a hunger – for ongoing narratives that turn out to be the same narrative, in this fandom, because why would anyone want a way out anymore, if it means the end of our time with these characters?

I know I don’t.

“The end of The Terror isn’t a sad end, nor is it a hopeful one. It’s not even properly an end, because we know what comes next. What comes next? Well, we do.”

#thank you op for the reviews #everyone else go read them if you haven't #what an unending gift this show is #a ship is its captain's confessor #long post #the terror #the terror amc #terrorposting

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i-made-this-for-my-uni-class · 5 years ago

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How does Tumblr function as a digital community?

Tumblr as a community has evolved, for better and for worse, due to the management changes and core features the website has experienced over the span of the past decade. From its foundations, Tumblr has catered to those who are “increasingly moored from the cultural mainstream” (Neagle, 2017, pp.11). As a combined result of both platform mechanics and the platform’s “alternative” audience, Tumblr users have garnered infamy for their attachments to “fandoms” as well as their homogenous “extrême-gauche” political views.

In 2007, Tumblr was founded by David Karp with the intention of it being a “tumblelogging/microblogging” platform as no others shone at this time (Rioja, 2020). Originally, this attracted artists, writers and various bloggers into the community of Tumblr. Due to its niche, non-commercialised, and NSFW-friendly nature, Tumblr also garnered a lot of attention from “alternative” users, or users that did not quite fit in with the mainstream community of platforms such as Twitter or Facebook and desired a more “liberating” platform. As Tumblr began to integrate “popular tags” and “recommended blogs to follow” on their interface, subcultures began to sprout, alongside passionate users with various interests to share in those communities. This is how subculture and “fandom” behaviour thrived on Tumblr more so than other social media platforms. Fans of certain books, video games, anime, LGBTQ+ people, etc. have all flourished from these features.

How Tumblr typically looked around its peak popularity (around 2012-2013.) Source: https://bookendeavors.wordpress.com/2013/05/14/getting-tumblr-a-beginners-guide/

Political opinion and intrinsic values are extremely homogenous within Tumblr, which is the result of a couple of the website’s characteristics:

The marginalised youth are the most vocal and common user on the website (Cho, 2015a; Renninger, 2015; Thelandersson, 2013; Warfield, 2016), whom of which will support their fellow “mutuals”; and

The plethora of features Tumblr has that encourages anonymity meant that users could,without consequence, attack or threaten vocal users with conflicting opinions to theirs.

With anonymous “asks” integrated as a feature, fandom personas (i.e. character roleplay tumblr accounts are a popular subseries of blog-genre) were gratified (Renninger, 2015), and the reblog feature was limitless in content’s spread, Tumblr granted its users a double edged sword: though it was ultimately freeing to sever a user’s ties from a professional or physical appearance, it could also prove to have vicious and hostile potential (example here and here). Those who held conflicting opinions to a sub-community’s norms would be either shunned or inclined to remain silent. These factors moulded Tumblr to have its infamous “panopticon” culture, where a Tumblr user grows accustomed to policing themselves in fear of an offended observer publicly shaming them. (Neagle, 2017, pp.12) (McMullan, 2015).

Tumblr’s website is largely at war with its own community as the platform fades into obscurity. As website ownership flung from independence to a multitude of corporations, Tumblr saw the need to adapt to a more advertiser-friendly landscape. Because of Tumblr’s frequented polarising and NSFW content, the website created a distaste for brands to advertise and thus the website favoured the profit potential of Tumblr having more of a “family-friendly” attitude, choosing money over their loyal customer base by censoring NSFW content entirely. This action, in accordance with various unpolished features over the years, resulted in the general Tumblr community to detest the platform (seen here and here) and its ownership as no recent update is seen to favour the user, only the investors. A renaissance of inside-joke memes regarding the website’s fallacy erupted (examples here, here and here) as the community withered.

Source: https://www.reddit.com/r/dataisbeautiful/comments/af9rwu/oc_a_year_of_tumblr_activity_before_and_after_the/

Once independent and NSFW-friendly, Tumblr had matured from their fundamental nature in the hopes of granting advertiser favour. Though as website traffic dimished (NSFW being a key contributor to Tumblr’s popularity), so too did the attraction of the website as a profitable digital billboard (Fiegerman, 2017). As Tumblr becomes less and less popular, many of its users migrate to more cooperative platforms (e.g. writers to Twitter, aesthetic blogs to Instagram).Those that remain cling solely to the unique community Tumblr fostered rather than the potential the website has for self-expression.

References:

Cho, A. (2015). Queer reverb: Tumblr, affect, time. In K. Hillis, S. Paasonen, & M. Petit (Eds.), Networked affect (p. 57). Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.

Fiegerman, Seth (2016). "Yahoo 'screws it up,' writes down $482 million of Tumblr". CNNMoney.

Keller, J. (2019), “Oh, She’s a Tumblr Feminist”: Exploring the Platform Vernacular of Girls’ Social Media Feminisms, Social Media + Society Volume: 5 issue: 3.

Liao, Shannon (2019). "After the porn ban, Tumblr users have ditched the platform as promised". The Verge.

Nagle, A (2017), Kill All Normies : Online Culture Wars From 4Chan And Tumblr To Trump And The Alt-Right, John Hunt Publishing, Ropley.

Renninger, B. (2015). “Where I can be myself. . . what I can speak my mind”: Networked counterpublics in a polymedia environment. New Media & Society, 17, 1513–1529.

Thelandersson, F. (2013). Tumblr feminism: Third-wave subjectivities in practice (Unpublished MA dissertation). New York University, New York.

Warfield, K. (2016). Reblogging someone’s selfies is seen as a really nice thing to do: Spatiality and emplacement within non-dominant platform vernacular on Tumblr. Paper presented at the Association of Internet Researchers Conference, Berlin, Germany.

#tumblr synopsis #week 5 #mda20009

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evalinkatrineberg · 5 years ago

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Harald

A/N: A quick fic about Evalin’s father, aka a compilation of ideas that came to me during long workouts when I let my mind wander. Read if you want to find out what’s in the attic.

A boy of nine years leaned over the railing of the ship deck, the breeze blowing his short-cropped blonde hair every which way as he watched the horizon with wide eyes. He was raised around these boats. They were just as much a part of his family as his parents were, and as his cousins and their parents as well. The ships were his father’s pride and joy, secondary only to the boy himself.

It was his father that approached him now, placing a large, calloused hand on the boy’s shoulder as he, too, scanned the horizon. Turning to the boy, he asked, “Harald, ka du se?” Harald, what do you see? His father had always spoken a very strange dialect of Swendish, with an accent thicker than the butter cookies the boy’s grandmother always made around Jul. The boy kind of enjoyed listening to his father speak, though. It was a nice reminder that while the once separate countries his father and mother had been born in were now united as one nation, the unique quirks of each region remained in tact so long as the people held on to them.

“Eg se havet.” I see the ocean. It was true. The ocean expanded onwards, seemingly endless as the sun reached the lowest point on the horizon it would touch for the next twenty-four hours. It didn’t set in the summer up here, in the town of his father’s birth, where they always spent their summers in the little cabin that felt more like home than the well-kept house in Stockholm ever did. The boy’s mother loved their home in the southern part of their country - it was where she was born, after all - but the boy much preferred his father’s hometown, and he had a sneaking suspicion that his mother’s preference lied there too, though she was far too stubborn to ever admit it.

The boy’s father shook his head. “Du se ikkje hardt nokka, Harald. Ka vi se på e fremtida.”

You’re not looking hard enough, Harald. What we’re looking at is the future.

The words had stuck with the boy ever since they had first been said to him that windy summer night.

The boy was now fourteen years old, watching his parents pace circles around each other from their living room to their kitchen and back again. Their house in Stockholm with the garden his mother tended to in the front yard and miniature models of old ships in glass bottles inside every room had never felt so small to him. He knew he should be asleep, and yet, there was no way he could let sleep take him with his parents being so loud. So he sat in the stairwell, just above the curve in the staircase, behind the wall, so that his parents wouldn't see him. Not that they seemed to be paying that much attention to anything besides themselves anyway, but the boy figured he was better safe than sorry.

“I won’t stand for it!” His father’s voice boomed through the house, his words echoing off the portraits on the walls and rattling the fancy wine glasses that sat atop the cabinets in the kitchen. Why he was yelling in English, the boy didn’t know. He knew for a fact that his father detested the English language, in part due to the strong northern Swendish accent that lingered in his father’s voice whenever he spoke it, and in part because his father blamed a lot of his work troubles on the actions of English-speaking countries. Maybe he was speaking English so the boy wouldn’t understand what he was saying, in case he was in an ear shot. That was a foolish decision, though. The boy had started learning English in school at the age of six, and in all honesty, spoke it better than both of his parents.

“What’s your plan then, Edvard?” His mother spoke in English as well, her voice tinged with worry and frustration. Her English was less accented than the boy’s father’s, but it was still clear she was not a native speaker. That was fine, though. They rarely needed to use English outside of work, and as long as they could get their point across, that was good enough.

“You’re not going to like it.” His father shook his head, averting his gaze downwards, unable to meet the boy’s mother’s eyes.

“Edvard?” The boy’s father’s name sounded more like a warning on his mother’s lips than anything else.

“We have to leave, Amalia.”

Whatever his mother had been holding, she dropped. The boy only knew because he heard the object shatter as it made contact with the ground, which prompted the boy to jerk backwards, bracing his arms on the carpeted step behind him.

“Fetta!” The boy winced as his mother’s Swendish curse reached his ears. There was a noise that sounded kind of like a cabinet being opened, followed by something scraping against the floor. His mother must have been cleaning up whatever she had dropped. The boy hoped it wasn’t something important to her. “What happened today?”

“I spoke to him, finally, about the issues I have with the way he is using the ships and technologies I invented and helped build,” his father began to explain. The boy was pretty sure the “him” that his father referred to was either a royal advisor, or the King of Swendway himself. His father was the head engineer of the Swendish Royal Navy, after all - a fact that made the boy’s chest swell with pride as he walked down the streets besides his father.

“I said my piece,” his father continued, “and was told my opinion was irrelevant.”

The boy could hear his mother take one heavy breath. “So they won’t stop, then.”

He was pretty sure his father was shaking his head, probably still looking down, but the boy was too afraid to lean forwards and check. “No, they won’t. So I told them that if I’m so irrelevant, then they can do this without me.”

Another sharp inhale from his mother. “You quit?”

“I took all of my plans and drawings from my office. When they arrive tomorrow, the only thing they will find on my desk is my note of resignation.”

“Oh, Edvard.” The despair in his mother’s voice prompted the boy to lean forwards, watching as his mother hung her head, her eyes scrunched close as if she could force her tears to stay inside. “What are we going to do now?”

“We move. We sell this house - we can keep the cabin in Tromsø, to visit over the summers, maybe - and move to another country. Maybe Illéa, maybe France - wherever you want to go, kjæreste.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” his mother managed to get out, her voice strangled. The boy began to sneak down from his hiding spot, the need to comfort his mother overwhelming any common sense that had held him rooted in his spot before. “Our family and friends are here. Harald’s school is here, his friends and cousins -”

“Don’t worry about me,” the boy reassured her. Both of his parents’ heads whipped around towards him then, their eyes wide. “I can finish my schooling anywhere. I can go to university in whichever country we move to. I’ll be okay.”

His father nodded once at the boy before turning to face the boy’s mother again. “I have enough money saved to retire, and we’ll have more once we sell the house. We can settle down somewhere - you can still teach chemistry there. It will all be okay.”

The boy turned his attention to his mother, who was nodding, clasping his father’s hands so tightly her knuckles were white. She looked up and took a shaky breath as she blinked a few times, and then responded, “Yeah, okay.” She still didn’t sound very convinced. “Illéa. We shall go to Illéa. I know somebody there who can help me get a job.”

A small smile found its place on his father’s face as he looked at the boy’s mother, his eyes shining with an emotion the boy didn’t quite recognize. “See? It will all work out.”

The boy was now a man of twenty-eight years old, conducting research for his PhD dissertation in a town called Winston-Salem in the province of Carolina. He had decided to determine if different genres of music stimulated human brain activity in different manners. Why he had chosen this, he wasn’t sure, but something in his gut had tugged him in this direction, and he had learned over the years to listen to that instinct. It hadn’t failed him yet, so why should it fail him now?

The door to the small room Harald had found himself in creaked open, and in walked a petite blonde girl. She didn’t look to be more than fifteen, but Harald knew there was no way someone so young would have been let into this building to begin with. He also couldn’t deny that the girl was quite pretty, despite or perhaps because of her young appearance. The fact that he was even thinking about how pleasing her appearance was concerned him, and he decided it was something he would have to reflect upon as soon as he got the chance. These thoughts of his were simply unacceptable. The problem was clear-cut and dry, with an obvious solution, just as he liked it.

The girl’s cheeks were red as she set the case she carried down next to the doorway, looking up at Harald as soon as the black, rectangular case made contact with the floor. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she began. She had the typical Carolina accent that Harald had become so accustomed to the past thirteen years that he had lived there, her words leaving her mouth in the breathless rush of someone who had run a few blocks to make it to her destination as quickly as possible.

Harald frowned. This girl shouldn’t be here to begin with, if she was as young as she looked. “No, I’m sorry, miss,” he replied, shaking his head. “Participants in this experiment must be at least eighteen years of age.”

Now it was the girl’s turn to frown, her eyebrows furrowing as she narrowed her eyes at Harald. It wasn’t quite a look that could kill, but a look that could seriously injure, certainly. “I think one of us must be mistaken.” She shook her head, a small smile forming on her face then. Her tone was light, like a breeze on a warm summer evening. “For strarters, I’m twenty-two years old, and I’m not here to participate in your experiment. I’m Holly Piper, the violinist you hired.” She extended her hand towards him then, which Harald stiffly shook as he looked into the girl’s - no, the woman’s - wide, brown eyes. “Pleased to meet you.”

It would make sense that she was the violinist, now that he thought about it. Her violin was probably what was in the box on the floor, then. “Ah, sorry for the confusion, ma’am.”

“No worries,” she responded with a laugh, waving her right hand through the air dismissively. “I’m flattered you thought I was so young, honestly!”

Over the next few days Harald had come to the conclusion that it was a damn good thing that Holly was in fact twenty-two, because he found himself becoming quite fond of the young woman. He began taking his lunch breaks with her, listening intently to her stories about her family, her life, how she had come to hear about his experiment, reveling in how she threw her head back whenever she laughed - the picture of carefree, youthful beauty. What most amazed him, however, was her music. Holly had a magical way of making her violin emit beautiful notes and chords that Harald had not previously known existed. He was infatuated with her. There was no denying it.

The last day of his trials, the rain was coming down in buckets, drenching everything that was brave enough to be outside for more than one second. It was typical of it to rain almost daily during the spring and summer in Carolina, as Harald had learned over the course of the past thirteen years, but this storm was different. Usually, the storms started late in the afternoon, and lasted only about an hour or so, before pittering out and dissipating before sunset. This storm, however, had started early in the morning, the first crack of thunder cutting through the humid air just as Holly entered the testing room one last time. By the time the two of them were leaving in the evening, the rain had not stopped, or even slowed.

Holly let out a shuddering breath as she took in the sight of the outdoors, squaring her shoulders as she came to a stop in the lobby. Turning to Harald, she plastered the fakest smile he had ever seen on her face, and said, “Can’t wait to walk home in this!”

He frowned. “You can’t walk home in this. It’s not safe.” His eyes darted towards the door, then to the car keys in his hand, and then back to her. “Let me drive you home?”

She shook her head, her cheeks turning red in the dim lighting of the lobby. “I couldn’t possibly accept,” she stammered out, “I-I live on the outskirts of town, and my parents -”

“It’s no bother,” he reassured her, cutting her off. “I can’t in good conscience let you walk home in this, so I’ll either wait it out here with you, or drive you home. Whichever you’re more comfortable with.” Perhaps he was a little too straightforward, or a little too blunt. Perhaps he was both. He had heard as much before. It was a cultural difference between Illéa and Swendway, for sure, and one of the things he missed the most about the country he had grown up in.

“Are you sure?” Holly’s gaze softened, and she bit the corner of her lip as she looked up at Harald.

He offered her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Yes.”

The drive to her house was quite short, actually. She really didn’t live that far from where Harald himself lived at that point in time. Once he had made the decision to go to grad school in Winston-Salem, he had signed a lease on a small house on the edges of the town, along with some of his friends in his PhD program. They had chosen it based on price, rather than for its location, though that fact had never bothered Harald in the slightest. It was a house, sure, but it wasn’t his home.

He hadn’t felt at home in many years.

“This is it,” Holly said quietly as Harald’s car approached a small, white, one-story house with a driveway that contained no cars. He pulled into the empty driveway, frowning over at Holly as she began to unbuckle her seatbelt and reach for the door handle.

“Wait,” he began, his hesitation and reservations evident in his voice.

“Hmm?” Holly leaned back in her seat a bit, dropping her hand from the door handle as she turned to look at Harald over her shoulder.

It was now or never, he decided, feeling the same instinct in his gut that hadn’t failed him yet. “Will you go on a date with me?”

At that, she let out a wry laugh, slumping back in her seat entirely, her head rolling up towards the ceiling. “You know, I was really hoping you were more than just another Three with a savior complex.”

“Pardon?” Harald furrowed his brows as he narrowed his eyes at Holly. The numbers, and the Caste System of Illéa as a whole still confused him, if he was being honest. It all seemed so arbitrary to him. He had only really began to ponder its existence when he had been applying to colleges, and his guidance counselor had told him a list of programs he could apply to as a Three. The concept of his career options being limited by a number seemed rather outlandish, in his opinion. His parents never referred to themselves as Threes, even though their entire family was, apparently, so Harald had never adopted the label, either. Holly was a Five, if he remembered correctly. That was the caste of artists and musicians, so that would make sense. “I’m not super familiar with how the Caste System works, I’m afraid,” he explained. “Am I not allowed to ask you on a date?”

Holly looked back at him then, inclining her head slightly to the right. “I thought you had a hint of an accent.” Of course her ears - tuned for music, for the slightest shift in tone or register - had picked that up. “German?”

“Swendish,” he corrected.

She hummed thoughtfully, a small, close-lipped smile forming on her face. Maybe that was a good sign. All he hoped was that he hadn’t offended her too much. “That makes sense,” she admitted, looking him up and down once before grabbing the car door handle once again. “I’m free this Tuesday, if you want to pick me up around six o’clock.”

Without even waiting to hear his response, she hopped out of the car, closing the door softly behind her.

He picked her up at six o’clock that Tuesday.

A year later, they were married.

Harald was forty-seven years old now, and the father of five beautiful children. “Happy accidents,” is what Holly had started calling them. They hadn’t been trying for children, but they hadn’t exactly been taking preventative measures either. So, some kids had happened. It wasn’t that unexpected, at least not to him, and certainly not unwelcome, but after their youngest, he and Holly had agreed that enough was enough. There were only so many beds they could fit into their two-story home in Knoxville, where they now lived and worked.

Their oldest was a girl named Lydia, now twelve years old. She was the spitting image of Holly, both in looks and in personality. She had taken after her mother’s love of music - the only one of their kids to do so, thus far - and was entirely sweet smiles with a hint of mischief. Staying out of trouble wasn’t necessarily one of her talents, but all she did, even if it could grow irritating, was mildly endearing, in the way that everything a child does is kind of cute. Her carefree nature never failed to surprise Harald, who had been led to believe that the oldest child was supposed to be the most mature, and the most responsible. Lydia must have missed that memo.

Second was Gabriel, a rebel in and of his own right. At eleven years old, it was becoming clear that he was interested in the sciences, and yet every time Harald attempted to sit down with him and talk to him about what he was studying in school, the boy made a point to mention how whatever topic he was studying was superior to Harald’s own field of study. It was kind of entertaining, if he was being honest. Gabriel would go places in life, there was no doubt about that. With his strong will and sharp mind, he could be successful in anything he decided to study, which was a relief to Harald. As long as Gabriel - as all of his children - were happy, he was content.

Third was Sam, now nine years old, eighteen days away from turning ten. He liked to work with his hands. Harald often caught the boy tying twigs together with twine, or setting up obstacle courses for ping pong balls inside the house on snowy days when school was cancelled. He always offered to help Sam out, giving him guidance whenever needed, though the boy’s need for assistance was declining with each passing day. Sam was clearly an engineer like his grandfather, a fact that never failed to make Harald proud. He knew it made his own father proud as well, though the man would never admit that he played favorites with his grandchildren.

Similarly, Harald would never admit that he played favorites with his own children, but his fourth child, Evalin, did hold a special place in his heart. The girl was nothing short of a miracle in his eyes. Born very prematurely, the midwife at the hospital had informed Harald and Holly that the girl only had about a fifty percent chance of surviving. The sound that had left Holly’s mouth when that was said nearly broke Harald. Evalin had pulled through, somehow, and suffered very few of the potential developmental complications the hospital staff had warned them about. The only big one Harald had noticed thus far was that the girl’s eyesight was terrible. The glasses she already wore at the age of eight were some of the thickest he’d ever seen. She’d also taken an interest in Harald’s own field of study - biology - which he supposed could be part of the reason he might favor her, as well. She was a very bright girl with a thirst for knowledge, and already a hard worker. Plus, she absorbed information like a sponge. He very rarely had to tell her anything twice.

The couple’s last child was a boy named Randall, who was now four years old. After Evalin having been born so early, Holly’s pregnancy with Randall had been the most nerve wracking nine months of Harald’s life, but luckily both mother and child had made it through without any complications. Randall was a sweet boy, and very curious about the world around him, but also certainly the quietest of all of the children. Harald had to admit he had a soft spot for Randall as well. He wasn’t sure what the boy was going to be like when he got older, but Harald sure hoped Randall managed to remain just as sweet and innocent as he was right at that moment.

Even though the world around them wasn’t innocent.

That fact was the reason that Harald was holed up in his study on New Years Eve with his father. Harald’s parents had recently retired to the province of Sota, notorious for its large Swendish population, insisting that they felt more at home there than they had ever felt in Carolina. They still went back to Tromsø every summer, now bringing their grandchildren along with them. Harald’s father insisted that any grandkid of his would know how to sail and how to swim, and his mother simply wanted her grandkids to be exposed to cultures outside of the one they were growing up in, in order to expand their worldview. Both were valid points, in Harald’s opinion. His parents still came to Carolina for the winter holidays, though. He suspected it was in part to avoid the heavy snows common in Sota this time of the year, but it had come to his attention now that they might have ulterior motives in visiting this year.

Harald’s father slammed a large box down on Harald’s desk, the thump rattling everything else that sat atop the hardwood surface.

Harald simply raised his eyes at his father, looking up from the papers that were now covered by the box. “Ka e ho?” What is that?

“Prosjektene mine.” He cleared his throat. “Heimefra.” My projects. From home.

Harald had a gut feeling that his father didn’t mean Sota. Pushing his chair back, he rose to his feet and began examining the box, feeling around the edges. If these were his father’s designs from all those years ago, then they were invaluable, especially if they fell into the hands of influential people. “Korfor?” Why?

“They are safer with you,” his father explained, switching to English, speaking in a low voice. “Less likely to be looked for here, less likely to be found here.”

Harald could only nod, eyeing the box warily as the wheels in his mind began turning in an attempt to figure out where to best keep the box. His study wasn’t ideal - the kids barged in too often, especially in the winter, when snowy weather sometimes kept them home from school. The bedroom he shared with Holly wouldn’t work either. Knowing Holly, she’d likely stay awake the whole night every night that that box was in their room, which wouldn’t end happily for any parties involved. That left him with only a few options.

“Loftet,” he decided finally, pointing one finger upwards towards the ceiling of his house. The attic. It was an almost perfect spot. Sure, the box wouldn’t exactly be hidden, but nobody could get into the attic unnoticed. It was only accessible by a door in the ceiling of the upstairs hallway that had to be pulled down. Attached to the other side of the door was a ladder, that also had to be pulled down, in order for someone to climb into the attic. The entire system was made of wood that creaked like mad, which would give away any intruders or snooping children before they even got close to the box itself.

Harald’s father nodded as another voice floated up the stairs. Lydia, calling for them to come down, lest they miss the countdown into the new year. With a quick gesture towards the door, and a mental note to put the box in the attic as soon as the countdown was over, Harald and his father exited the study, making their way towards the stairs. A momentary glance over the banister revealed all five of his children looking up at him expectantly, little Randall situated on his mother’s hip, Lydia and Evalin holding hands and practically bouncing with excitement, Gabriel flicking Sam’s head whenever he thought their mother wasn’t looking. For them, Harald would do anything, no matter whether or not keeping this box in his attic sat right with him.

Clutching the banister reminded him of a different railing he had once held, the wind ruffling his hair, the small of the sea filling the air around him.

What we’re looking at is the future.

What a bright future that was.

“Proctor knows what’s in the attic.”

Those were the last words Evalin had said to him before she had left, whisked off to live out her childhood dream of meeting and falling in love with the prince. Harald would never describe his daughter as silly, but the entire situation was kind of fantastical, he had to admit. Yet, he had spent the majority of his life succeeding in part due to an inexplicable gut instinct that never failed to tug him down the right path, and he was willing to bet that was the same feeling Evalin had felt when Lydia had read out the application to her when it had arrived in the mail.

Of all the events Harald had predicted in the weeks leading up to Evalin’s departure, one of his colleagues threatening him or his family had not been on the list. Then again, it was Janine Proctor. The woman was ruthless, even by Harald’s standards, which was noted by other students. Their reviews of her almost made him pity her, and he had read the RateMyProfessor reviews about himself. So maybe he should have seen this coming. That didn’t change the fact that Proctor shouldn’t have involved his children in any problem she herself had with him.

Thus he found himself walking into her laboratory the next morning, not having even put his bag down in his own office yet. “Janine,” he said by way of greeting, staring at his colleague’s back as she herself stared at the screen of her computer.

She spun around, a smile dripping in a sickly sweet combination of poison and honey filling her face as she realized who was in her lab. “Harald!” The woman leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs and clasping her hands on her lap. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Evalin told me what you said to her.” There was no point in wasting time with niceties. He had come here to do one thing, and one thing only, and that was to say his piece.

“Ah, I see.” Her smile deepened as she pushed her chair over towards her desk, leaning her elbows on it once she reached it. Placing her head in her hands, she continued, “I don’t suppose you’ve come to me to confess the truth of your father’s complicated past, then.”

Who did this woman think she was? It had mystified him how Evalin had always spoken so highly of her, but then again, the younger of his two daughters could befriend a brick wall if she tried hard enough. He clenched his jaw, staring down at the woman in front of him. Janine Proctor. Renowned researcher, tenured professor, and well respected by any biologist worth their weight in pennies. He had other words he could use to describe her, but he decided it was best to refrain from doing so.

“I came to tell you that if you ever attempt to bring my family into the middle of any of your schemes again, I will not rest until you are brought to justice.” Having made his point, he turned on his heel, walking towards the door.

His hand had barely gripped the door handle when he heard a laugh float through the air behind him. “I look forward to seeing your restless spirit wander these halls in the future then, Harald.”

“She looks absolutely radiant,” Holly sighed as a picture of Evalin crossed the screen.

She did, Harald had to admit. Her hair was shining, the gold tones catching in the light, reminding him of how the waves of the ocean used to shimmer in the sunset. There was a broad smile on her face, as if she was laughing at something. She had to be happy then. That was good. That was all Harald could ask for - had hoped for - for any of his children.

“She’d make a beautiful queen,” Holly continued, a dreamy expression on her face as she stared at the television.

“She would,” Lydia agreed, pointing a finger at the prince as his picture floated across the screen. “It’s too bad he’s a dick.”

“Lydia!” Holly admonished, turning to glare at her.

Harald had heard the story of his daughter’s first date with the prince from Lydia, secondhand. He really hoped his older daughter had embellished some of the details she had shared, as she was prone to do, but he had to admit, he didn’t have high hopes for the quality of this prince’s personality. Something about him had always looked empty, or off, to Harald. Then again, he had never actually met the man, so who was he to make a snap judgement like that? It was nothing more than a gut reaction.

“It’s true, mother,” Lydia retorted, rolling her eyes and grabbing a few pieces of popcorn before fixing Holly with another glare.

Holly just shook her head. “Your sister still shouldn’t have been so short with him. The man likely leads a high-stress life. She has to understand that.”

“Oh, come on!” At Lydia’s outburst, Harald’s three sons squirmed on the couch, looking between the two women in the house. Harald was inclined to follow suit in their reaction. He loved his wife and oldest daughter dearly, but it was kind of ironic that they were arguing about Evalin’s supposedly short temper, to say the least. “You cannot tell me that if Father had said the same things to you that Arin said to Evalin, that you wouldn’t have gotten snippy with him!”

“She has a point there,” Harald had to admit, trying to break the staring contest now occurring between his daughter and his wife. “You got snippy with me when all I did was ask you out.”

Lydia’s eyebrows shot up so quickly that Harald almost thought they would fly right off her face. Both she and Holly turned to look at him now, Lydia triumphant, head held high, and Holly angry, eyes narrowed. “I would hardly say I was snippy,” the latter argued.

“You told me I had a savior complex,” Harald recalled, chuckling at the memory. That spunk was one of his favorite things about his wife. He was of the opinion that she should be proud that their daughters had inherited it.

Holly only sighed while Lydia laughed, both turning back to the television. Even with them done bickering, it still felt like there was something fundamental missing from their home. The now empty spot where Evalin usually sat on the couch was impossible not to notice, eating up the light that usually surrounded it like a black hole. Harald constantly had to remind himself that his younger daughter was doing great things, doing what she felt she had to, and that she was tough. She’d be okay. She was looking at the future.

Or perhaps she was the future.

What a beautiful future that would be.

#selectionoc

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heartofhryule · 7 years ago

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Breath of the Wild: Captured Memories - Chapter 7

Preface and Disclaimer; First and foremost; SPOILER WARNINGS. If you have not played The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, or completed the Captured Memories Quest and want to stay unspoilered for it, DO NOT READ. Keep Reading link provided for that reason.

So I am writing these as I play through BotW for the first time - which means they probably won’t be ‘one-a-day’ consistent - I have finally gotten all of the memories, but not yet gone for the final fight at Hyrule Castle. #Soon. I will post them as I can though! Promise! I also plan to include links to the cutscene for you to watch at the bottom, if so desired - at least for the ones I can find. Any other warnings that become necessary, I will add for content as I go. For now, enjoy! [All Chapters here for your reading enjoyment.]

Y’all… Dammit Salty Bird. I got irritated all over again rewatching the scenes to get the dialog for Revali’s scenes. He’s SUCH a well written character... and I hate him. Well, hate is strong. But I really, really dislike him a lot. Even when he “gets better” he’s still a !@#%%^&^er. But, I like this chapter, and I hope you will too. Chapter 7 - Revali’s Flap

The Rito Village, and land surrounding, was genuinely breathtaking. The wood and canvas huts that served as both homes and shops were built around the landscape’s large peaks of sandstone. This design allowed wind to blow through the village unhindered without disrupting structural integrity. At this altitude and in the region, Link was chilled. Pretty much constantly. But, he’d bought some new armor from the nice Rito vendor in trade for some amber and a few sapphires he’d found. Now he was nice and toasty warm.

Sitting by the cooking pot inside a part of the village’s inn, Link stared into the fire as his dinner marinated. He’d been here before. He could feel it, and this was not a place soon forgotten. It might have been if it was the first place he’d come, but even then the striking beauty of the land, difference in architecture, and the colorful individuality of its inhabitants were like nothing else in all of Hyrule.

Maybe that was the opinion of an ignorant Hylian child that he had once been. He had grown up in and around the Zora Domain in the Lanayru Province. This knowledge was coming back to him slowly, and explained why he’d gone there first. It also meant the Zora had never seemed odd to him, though consequently neither had they seemed particularly awe inspiring in a long, long while. The Rito however, were a different story.

Ladelling out his dinner from the pot, simmered fruit for the moment as he was cold, tired and in need of foraging for some supplies, Link leaned back against the solid wood support beam of the hut. Simmered fruit made him think of his mother - now that he remembered her face. She made the best, and had taught him long ago. It always made him feel better.

He needed that right now. There was a long way to go for him to find all the locations in Zelda’s album, and take back control of two more Divine Beasts from Ganon. He was tired, and had only arrived less than an hour before, deciding that he was going to eat something before speaking with the Tribe Chief. In the sky overhead, Vah Medoh let out a shrill and bone chilling cry. The enormous ancient technology flew overhead in the shape of a bird, stone and metal kept aloft by gigantic propellers and magic. Glancing up, and giving a good, long look at the Calamitous energies pulsing through the construct, Link ate his simmered fruit quickly.

No rest for the weary, as it were.

After eating, he asked directions to speak with the Rito Chief and had the oddest interaction. It was as though the Chief could tell he was the fallen hero, but couldn’t accept it. Link had stopped bothering to try and explain it to people months ago at this point. He was told of Teba, and that perhaps the warrior could help him, if nothing else the Chief was worried.

But it was the following conversation with Teba’s wife that ignited something in Link. She showed him Revali’s Landing, a flight platform just outside her home named for the Champion of the Rito from a century ago. Looking at it, Link was taken by a memory.

***

Standing out on the center of the flight platform, Link craned his neck and shielded his eyes to look up at the impressive Vah Medoh high above him. It truly was an impressive piece of ancient technology, and he’d listened intently to Zelda lament at great length that she would never be able to set foot on such a marvel. The sky was the clearest blue surrounding the Divine Beast, and wind cool despite the sun’s warmth. But then, it was always cool in the Hebra region.

Just as Link had the thought he should probably go find the Rito Champion, as that was whom he had climbed the peaks to see on behalf of Zelda, the wind picked up. At first it was small, but it rapidly build to a steady cyclonic breeze that seemed to come from beneath the platform.

In the blink of an eye and the flash of dark grey feathers, the Rito Champion appeared from below. Shooting up into the air high above, Revali spread his charcoal and white feathered wings, gliding down to a light and graceful landing before Link.

“Impressive, I know,” the Rito archer said in his normal, smug tenor. “Very few can achieve mastery of the sky. Yet I have made an art of creating an updraft that allows me to soar. It’s considered to be quite the masterpiece of aerial techniques, even among the Rito.” Revali turned to pose dramatically, one wing lifted where he was backlit by the sun in the beautiful day.

Link managed to not roll his eyes at Revali’s grandiloquence, giving him a tight-lipped smile. Revali didn’t like him - Link knew this. The Rito felt within his superior self image that he should have been the Princess’s appointed knight as he was clearly the most capable and worthy of the Champions. Clearly.

Though the Rito had never said those words exactly, it was the undertone of every word, sneer, snort and action the Champion took while in Link’s presence to date. Somehow the Hylian knight had a feeling this interaction would be no different.

Link found Revali cutting him a sharp look, speaking again before the knight could give a syllable of proper greeting. “With the proper utilization of my superior skills, I see no reason why we couldn’t easily dispense with Ganon,” be boasted with a bow. Hopping down from the railing on which he’d perched, Revali tucked his wings behind his back as if about to give a dissertation (which Link had no doubt he was going to do just that). Strolling forward, Revali’s expression was one of barely contained detestation. “Now then, my ability to explored the firmament is certainly of note… But let’s not- and pardon me for being so blunt-” he said as his tone changed from fairly condescending to outright patronizing, “Let’s not forget the fact that I am the most skilled archer of all the Rito.”

“Oh here we go,” Link muttered to himself into the wind.

“Yet despite these truths, it seems I have been tapped to merely assist you. All because you happen to have that little darkness sealing sword on your back. I mean, it’s just… asinine.” The only thing that prevented Link from drawing his sword then and there and teaching this megalomaniac of a Rito a lesson, was self control. As Revali’s red-feather rimmed, green eyes cut snidely to him, Link crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. The absurdity of this entire monologue was as laughable as it was insulting. Clearly, Revali liked hear the sound of his own voice.

“Unless,” the Rito Champion added after a moment, “You think you can prove me wrong?” He took one large step closer to Link. The bird man who was a good head taller than the Hylian leaned in, beak to nose and invading Link’s personal space aggressively. “Maybe, we should just settle this one on one.”

Link opened his mouth to say that he had no problem with Revali… not until this conversation at least, but the archer turned away and continued his drama. “But where?” he asked the wind, one wing crossed his chest as the other pretended to stroke his beak in thought. “Oh, I know! How’bout up there?!”

With a grand sweep of one wing, Revali motioned to the sky, where Vah Medoh was soaring past, making its rounds. “Oh! You must pardon me,” Revali chuckled, his tone even more supercilious than before, “I forgot you have no way of making it up to that Divine Beast on your own.” The last words were spoken with actual open aggression as the Champion spread his wings sharply, and took to the skies, leaving Link behind on the platform.

As Revali grew smaller towards Vah Medoh, and the vision began to fade, the Rito’s parting jab echoed the skies. “Good luck sealing the Darkness!”

***

As he came back to himself, Link was being stared at oddly by Teba’s concerned wife. Apparently she’d asked if he was alright, while he’d been lost to the past. “Oh, I’m sorry, yes - thank you ma’am.”

Giving him an uncertain look, she touched a delicate wing to her beak. “If you’re sure… you seemed… angry? Irritated at least. Are you well?”

Cracking his neck at the legitimate frustration Revali’s personality had left him with, he nodded. “It was… just not a pleasant memory, ma’am. Sorry to space out like that- but I promise, I will find your husband, and bring him back alive.

“Oh thank you!” she said sincerely. “Please… be safe.”

---

The knight held his shoulder and looked around the topside of Vah Medoh. The Windblight Ganon creature that had held control of Vah Medoh for so long was gone, fallen to the Master Sword. Well the Master Sword, and a not insignificant amount of bomb arrows.

Staring at the Main Control panel ten yards from where he stood, injured and exhausted, Link smirked to himself. He should just sit down, right here, and bake some apples to eat so he could regain a bit of his strength. It had been a hard fight! It had taken a lot out of him! And Revali could sit around and complain all he wanted, since there wasn’t anything the spirit of the Rito Champion could do about it.

He deserved as much for the prickly and haughty manner in which he’d been speaking while Link tried to subvert Ganon’s corruption. Though the change in tone as the hylian’s repeated successes went on had not gone unnoticed by the knight.

No, No Link wouldn’t keep him waiting… that would have been cruel. With a sigh, Link closed the distance between himself and the Main Controls, setting the Shiekah slate on the tablet as he had so many times elsewhere. The bulb, large as a room and intricate with ancient energy, changed from orange to blue, and pulsed once… twice… three times as Vah Medoh was not returned to control of the Champions.

“Well I’ll be plucked,” Revali’s echoic, ethereal voice said from behind him, “You defeated him, eh?” Link cut his eyes over his shoulder and turned around, braced for a potentially long and self absorbed speech. There Revali stood, incorporeal as both Daruk and Mipha had been, green spirit fire dancing around him where he had just landed. Spreading his wings wide, Revali seemed reserved… for Revali. “Who would have thought?”

Looking at each other a long moment, Link felt… differently than he had before. Mipha and Daruk had been his friends, people he cared a great deal for. Revali and he had not been friend, and even actively disliked one another a century ago. And yet, there was still a sadness in Link’s heart, seeing the Rito Champion’s spirit.

Noting that the archer dropped his gaze and looked away before he spoke, the Rito’s next words were surprising to the hylian. “Well done.”

But Revali continued, and the moment was over. “I suppose I should thank you now that my spirit is free. This returns Medoh to its rightful owner.” With a grand gesture to the sky of one wing, Revali straightened, clearly meaning himself. “Hmph,” he added with a callous expression. “Don’t preen yourself just for doing our job.”

Link pressed his lips together and raised one eyebrow. “Oh yes. We could never have that from any Champion,” he mumbled sardonically. If Revali heard, he didn’t show it.

“I do suppose you’ve proven your value as a warrior. A warrior worthy of my unique ability. The sacred skill that I have dubbed Revali’s Gale!” Despite the posing and flapping of wings, Link forgave the Champion’s drama in the face of the nicest thing Revali had ever said about or to him.

With yet another set of dramatic movements, Revali’s spirit summoned and sent an orb of green spirit energy hurtling at Link, and as it entered him body, a familiar, strong whirlwind kicked up, lifting Link from his feet and tossing him into the air quite unexpectedly. With a flip and twist, Link landed without injury on one knee, and looked back up to the Rito… in gratitude.

“It’s now time to move on and start making preparations for Medoh’s strike on Ganon. But,” Rivalli gave a small smirk, “Only if you think you’ll still need my help while fighting inside Hyrule Castle.” It wasn’t an apology, but even a small admission that he’d been wrong so long ago was enough to inspire forgiveness entirely in Link’s heart. Revali quickly ruined the moment again by added, “Feel free to thank me now.”

Rolling his eyes, Link noticed the now familiar gold light that meant his time on the Divine Beast was over, and was shocked to hear Revali say, “Or.. .nevermind. Just go. Your job is far from finished you know.” The Rito Champion was glancing at him sidelong. Finally turning away and lifting his beak to the sun, Link was fading away already when he heard the final words of his old self appointed rival.

“The Princess has been waiting an awful long time.” Revali’s Flap - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=doMVZikgnNE Freeing Vah Medoh - https://youtu.be/uxP8BqemAvc?t=1413

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lesfeldickbiblestudy · 2 years ago

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Through the Bible with Les Feldick LESSON 1 * PART 4 * BOOK 67 BUT GOD! (Where Sin Abounded) – Part 4 Rom. 5:20, Rom. 6:22, I Cor. 1:23, I Cor. 1:27 Okay, we’re still on the “But Now’s, But God, But – whatever.” In our last program, we just got started with the next one that we want to look at. It’s in I Corinthians chapter 1 and I’m heading down to verse 23 where Paul said, “But we preach Christ crucified.” You know, this is the thing that I cannot comprehend, and I still run into it all the time. Why do people detest Paul and his epistles? And if they don’t detest him, they at least ignore him. Why? In fact, we were just talking about it at break time. Why is Christendom so adamantly against Paul’s gospel of salvation? Paul isn’t elevating himself. He’s lifting up the crucified and resurrected Christ. I just can’t comprehend it. But it’s evident almost everywhere we go. All right, back to I Corinthians chapter 1 and we might as well retrace our steps in the closing minute of our last program. Let’s go down to verse 17 where, contrary to John the Baptist who was sent to baptize the Jews with “the baptism of repentance,” Paul goes on the other side of the coin and says: I Corinthians 1:17a “For Christ (Not some man, not some organization, but Christ Himself) sent me not to baptize, but to preach the gospel:…” Now, isn’t that simple? To preach the gospel of salvation, and that’s all it takes. Because when the gospel of salvation that Paul preached takes a hold of people, it transforms lives. All right, so he was sent to-- I Corinthians 1:17b “…preach the gospel: not with wisdom of words,…” Not as a showoff order, not as a pulpit pounding preacher. I think Paul simply laid out the truth in language that anyone could understand. In fact, on our Aegean cruise, Bill, didn’t you appreciate when the fellow dramatized Paul? I was really impressed with the young man. He was dressed as Paul probably was dressed and believe it or not, in one of his dissertations, he quoted almost, not quite, but almost verbatim all of I and II Timothy. It was like a sermon. I mean, I just soaked it up. Well, same way here. I don’t think Paul ranted and raved at people. I don’t think he tried to show his intelligence. He didn’t try to show people how much more intellectual capacity he had. He simply got down on the ordinary man’s level and preached the gospel that “Jesus died for our sins, was buried, and rose again.” All right, now let’s read on. Verse 18, this is why he preached the gospel. I Corinthians 1:18 “For the preaching of the cross (the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ) is to them that perish (the lost world, it’s a bunch of) foolishness; but unto us who are saved it is the power of God.” And as I mentioned in my closing remarks in the last half-hour, the power that it took to save every one of us in this room; the power that it took to save all of you out there in television; it was a power exhibition. How all of the forces of sin and death and Satan were broken when He brought us into salvation. All right, now let’s read on in verse 19. I Corinthians 1:19-20 “For it is written, (Now, he goes back to the Old Testament.) I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and will bring to nothing the understanding of the prudent. 20. Where is the wise? where is the scribe? where is the disputer of this world? Hath not God made foolish the wisdom of this world?” Now again, Bill, I’m picking on him because I know he was along on the cruise with us. You remember at Mars Hill, Bill, there was only one big bronze plaque, and it wasn’t to any of the Athenian philosophers. It wasn’t to Archimedes. It wasn’t to Homer. It wasn’t to any of the others. Who was it to? Paul. Here’s this brass plaque commemorating that it was on this Mars Hill where the Apostle Paul confronted the intellectuals of his day. Whenever you read these verses, this is what you have to understand. All of the intellectual big-wigs of Athens came to nothing.

They aren’t even remembered by the secular world for tourist’s sake on Mars Hill. But here’s this bronze plaque commemorating the Apostle Paul. This is exactly what I think he’s referring to. I Corinthians 1:21a “For after that in the wisdom of God the world by wisdom knew not God,” Now, I’ve got to think. Let’s go back to Romans, and I think it’s in chapter 1. Romans chapter 1 verses 21 and 22. Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t ridicule educated people. That’s not the point. The only time I make it a point of ridicule, is when they think their education is superior to the Word of God. Yes, then I ridicule it, because they don’t know what they’re doing. And that’s what Paul is referring to. How the philosophers that he confronted on Mars Hill were so arrogant that they looked down at the little Apostle who was God’s instrument for that day and what did they call him? A babbler. Today, we’d almost say “somebody who wasn’t all there.” That’s how they looked down at him. All right, but look what the Apostle is led to write. Romans 1:21-22 “Because that, when they knew God, (In other words, conscience had made the presence of God known to them.) they glorified him not as God, neither were thankful; but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened. (Now look at it.) 22. Professing themselves to be wise, they became (What?) fools.” Fools. Why? Because they’re putting the intellectual things of this world above the things of the Creator Himself. And listen, they’re just as guilty today as they were in Paul’s day, or in the days of the flood, or as far back as you want to go. All right, back to I Corinthians, again, chapter 1 verse 21. I Corinthians 1:21 “For after that in the wisdom of God the world by wisdom knew not God, (Because they got puffed up in their own self importance.) it pleased God by the foolishness (That is in the eyes of the world.) ofpreaching (or proclaiming the Gospel) to save them that believe.” And again, like I did in the last taping, can you add anything in there? Is there anything else in there? Does it say to them that believe and are baptized? No. Does it say to them that believe and join the church? No. Believe and whatever else you can think of? No. It’s not there. And I use the example of plain arithmetic. If you’ve got a one digit number, we’ll say five (5), and you put a plus zero (0), what’s the answer? It’s still five. That’s plain arithmetic. Five plus nothing is five. The gospel of salvation plus nothing is still the gospel! You can’t add anything to it. Reading on in verse 22. I Corinthians 1:22a “For the Jews require a sign,…” Now, think about that for a moment? When did signs become a part of the spiritual life of Israel? When? Way down in Egypt! Now, think a minute. What kind of signs did God use for the Jews in Egypt? Well, you remember when Moses came and had to prove that he was God’s messenger, what did he do? He threw the rod on the ground, and it became a serpent. He put his hand in his breast, and it became leprous. He put it back in and took it out and it was perfectly whole. Now, what were those? Those were signs to prove that Moses was God’s instrument. All right, they came to the Red Sea. What happened? It opened up by the power of God. What was it? It was a sign to Israel that they were now under the power and control of the Creator. So, all the way up through Israel’s history, it’s the revelation of the power of God through miraculous signs and wonders. But, it hit a crescendo, when? When Jesus began His earthly ministry. The very first miracle, what was it? Transforming water into the best wine that they had ever seen, heard of, or tasted. For what purpose? Again, just like with Moses, to prove to Israel who He was. So, the Jews were just saturated with that concept, you’ve got to show me a miracle or I can’t believe. Well, God did, over and over and over. All right, so now Paul is rehearsing that.

“The Jews require a sign.” Those are not empty words. It was a fact of life. They did. But, now look at the next part of the verse. I Corinthians 1:22b “…and the Greeks (Gentiles, they don’t look for miracles, they’re all hung up on what?) they seek after wisdom.” Philosophy. Now again, I’ll take you, in your mind, back to Paul in Athens. My, it tells you as plain as day that those philosophers gather up there on Mars Hill, overlooking the city of Athens, for one purpose. What was it? To tell anything new that they had heard or seen that would add to their wisdom. That’s all they were concerned about – wisdom. Earthly wisdom. Man’s wisdom. All right, so you’ve got the two concepts now. Israel is constantly looking for a sign or a miracle to prove God’s existence or His presence. On the other hand, the pagan Gentile was looking for wisdom. Got the picture. All right, now we’re ready to go on, verse 23. I Corinthians 1:23a “But (Paul says we don’t pay any mind to either one of them. We’re not here proclaiming miracles and signs and wonders. We’re not here proclaiming our intelligence in the affairs of humanity.) we preach Christ crucified, unto the Jews (Who are looking for a miracle, he became what?) a stumbling block,…” A stumbling block. Now remember, the Scripture also refers to Christ as the chief cornerstone. The analogy is that as the builders were building the Temple and the cornerstone came in – I’ve got to watch my grammar, I’ve got English professors watching me – as they saw these stones come in, here came one they didn’t know what to do with. So, what did they do with it? They cast it aside. Well, the symbolism was that when Christ, who is symbolically the chief cornerstone, when He came, they cast Him aside in the same way. They didn’t know what to do with Him. They cast Him aside, and He became a what? “A stumbling stone.” Okay, that’s all the analogy that’s brought in here? I Corinthians 1:23 “But we preach Christ crucified, (buried and risen from the dead) unto the Jews a stumblingblock, and unto the Greeks foolishness;” They stumbled over who He really was. The Greeks look at the preaching of the cross as a bunch of what? Foolishness. Now, do you see the two different concepts? The Jews looked at Christ crucified as a stumbling block, something cast aside for which they didn’t know how to use or wear. The Gentile, on the other hand, cast it aside because it was just a bunch of foolishness. It didn’t fit their philosophy. Oh, but now I love the next verse. Here’s the frosting on the cake, if I may use that expression. I Corinthians 1:24 “But unto them who are called, (that is into salvation, the believers) both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God,…” Now, the power is a reference to the what? The miracles. Now, I’ve got to take this slowly, or you’re going to miss it. Christ, as the power of God, was evidenced in Israel’s miracles. The greatest one, I think, was the Red Sea. What a miracle that the Red Sea opened up wide enough for the children of Israel to come through in a matter of hours. Water piled up miles down this way and miles up this way. What a miracle! The power of God! But now look, as a believer, you have that same power! It’s within us. And it’s going to culminate in eternal life in His presence for eternity. All right, now look at the other side of the coin. I Corinthians 1:24b “…both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God, and the wisdom of God.” To us, Christ is the power of God. He’s the miracle working God, but He’s also what the intellectual was looking for, and that was what? Wisdom. Now, turn with me to II Peter. I wanted to get there all afternoon, and here’s my opening. II Peter chapter 3, now we’ve used these verses over and over. Primarily I use them to confirm Paul’s authority as an apostle of the Gentiles, and that not just part of his writing, but every last word of it is Scripture. And we know from other portions of Scripture that Scripture is inspired of God.

So, when Paul says something like “my gospel,” was that his idea? No. That’s expressly what the Holy Spirit wanted him to say. Turn to II Peter 3 verses 15 and 16. Now, this is Peter writing at the end of his life. He’s probably martyred in a matter of weeks or days after he finishes this letter. I think I mentioned in one of my recent programs, have you ever stopped to think, and I’m going to keep reminding people, I tell them on the phone over and over – have you ever stopped to think that everything that needed to be done before the temple would be destroyed was accomplished within a year or two of the temple destruction. Just think about that. These little epistles at the end, I mean II Timothy and II Peter, were written just before Paul was martyred and just before Peter was martyred, which was probably about 68 or 69 AD. When was the temple destroyed? - 70AD - If you really think about that, everything was now in place for the removal of the temple and all the ramifications of the Law and Judaism and what Israel lived for. But before it disappeared, everything was in place. Okay, now Peter writes, again probably just a year or two before the temple is destroyed, and look what he says in verse 15. II Peter 3:15a “And account (or understand) that the longsuffering (the patience) of our Lord is salvation;…” Well, that’s what we’ve been talking about all afternoon. How Paul is showing how God wants all to be saved. He didn’t just die for a few, He died for all. Okay, so His patience is salvation. Now watch it. II Peter 3:15b “…even as our beloved brother Paul also according to the (What? This is what brought me here. What’s the word?) wisdom (Not men’s wisdom. Not his rabbinical education. But those revelations from the ascended Lord and his inspired writings in his epistles and then people scorn it? I feel for them. My, I’d hate to be in their shoes at the judgment seat. But here it is. Peter says you go to our beloved brother Paul.) according to the wisdom given unto him (Well, from whom? From the Ascended Lord.) hath written unto you;” Now, Peter is writing to Jews, and if he’s referring to a letter that Paul had written to them, then that tells me Paul wrote Hebrews, even though there are a lot of arguments otherwise. I say, hey, Scripture says Paul wrote it, because there is no evidence of any other writing. So, he must be referring to the Book of Hebrews. All right, so he says, “According to the wisdom given unto him, he has written unto you.” Now, look at verse 16. For you out there that may have some friends that detest Paul and think he shouldn’t even be in our Bible, show them this verse. II Peter 3:16a “As also in all his epistles, (That’s Romans through Philemon.) speaking in them of these things; (Salvation - as we’ve been seeing all afternoon.) in which (That is Paul’s epistles now.) are some things hard to be understood, (Peter had a hard time comprehending the grace of God for, especially, Gentiles.) which they who are unlearned and unstable wrest (twist),…” And I’m even going to say, they go further than that. They reject it. II Peter 3:16b “…they who are unlearned and unstable twist, as they do also the other scriptures,…” Now, what does that tell you? That Paul’s epistles are Scripture, just like all the rest of the Bible. Don’t ever let anyone say it shouldn’t be in our Bible, because Peter says everything that Paul wrote is Scripture. That’s where I adamantly stand. II Peter 3:16c “…they twist, as they do also the other scriptures, (But when they do, what’s their end result?) unto their own destruction.” They’d better wake up before it’s too late. Okay, let’s come back to I Corinthians again, verse 24. I haven’t gotten down to the one I wanted. I want to do that before we close. I Corinthians 1:24b-26 “But unto them which are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God, and the wisdom of God. 25. Because the foolishness of God (So far as man is concerned.

) is wiser than men; and the weakness of God is stronger than men. 26. For ye see your calling, brethren, how that not many wise men after the flesh, (Not the high IQ’s of 200 plus. They’re very rarely called.) not many mighty,(That’s why you don’t find royalty in the ministry very often, do you? Of course not. That’s beneath them.) not many noble, are called: They’re not the kind that God calls, but here it comes now. I Corinthians 1:27 “But God (Who deals in areas totally different than humans do) hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty;” Do you see what that’s saying? I don’t have to comment on it. All I have to do is read it to you. “But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world.” The things that the world ridicules, that’s what God uses. And what does he use them for? To confound those who are ridiculing it. That’s what it amounts to. Only God can do that. Then he goes on to say, “He’s chosen the weak things.” He doesn’t use military might. He doesn’t use political parties. He doesn’t use great outpourings of earthly power. He uses the weak things. You know, even his twelve disciples, if you like to go back to His earthly ministry, did He go into the Temple and pick out twelve of the strongest and mightiest priests in the priesthood? No. He goes up to Galilee and chooses twelve common fishermen, and so forth, who probably barely had enough education to read. They didn’t go through colleges in those days if they were fisherman. But see, that’s where the Lord chose even the Twelve. In fact, Paul is probably the exception. He was an educated man. He sat at the feet of Gamaliel, one of the chief rabbis of Israel. But all the rest of God’s servants were common, ordinary people. It was that that He used to confound the wise. All right, let’s read on. He just keeps multiplying this whole concept. I Corinthians 1:28 “And (He takes) the base things of the world, (The things that the world won’t even give a second look.) and things which are despised, hath God chosen, yea, and things which are not, to bring to nothing things that are:” Oh, I know we don’t see it that way. It doesn’t look like Christianity is making any impact on the world, and we’re not. But on the other hand, when a true believer enters into this, he knows what Paul’s talking about. The true believer has an understanding of Scripture that the intellectuals of this world will never understand. All right, why has God chosen to do it in this particular way? The next verse gives the answer. I Corinthians 1:29 “That no flesh (that no individual) should glory in God’s presence.” So, God uses the humble things of this world so that you and I can never exalt what we’re doing before God. Never. We are just fortunate to be the clay in the Master’s hand, and that’s all we are. But don’t ever forget what the Master can do with the clay.

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cheaters-never-prosper-orlk · 3 years ago

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cheaters never prosper origin

⭐ ⏩⏩⏩️ DOWNLOAD MOD - LINK 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 IF I ever lose enough weight to show off my belly I'll. hishersandmine Real men realize that cheaters will never prosper & that if they take the time to. Cheaters do prosper, I guess I will never take them seriously again. in a full season should never be in playoffs, but this was a different year. This dissertation brings together Spanish, Cuban, and Puerto Rican novels written in the late 19th century, a period covering the Revolution and the. So the semantic origin of the Arabic word (( crime" is any deed that is detested. Now as all the laws of Islam are. Ayyan Mani appears to be just another man in Mumbai, stranded in the rot of a good marriage, an unremarkable life and a dead-end job as personal assistant to an. Ever wily and ambitious, Ayyan weaves two plots: the first to cheer up his in the universe and by that to prove the origin and nature of life here. time (1,) tell (1,) doth (1,) never (1,) twill (65) benedick (64) begins (64) meaning (64) became (24) bohemia (24) prosper (24). The album's title is an acronym for "SOL," meaning sun in Spanish - and the Cheaters never win, and winners never cheat. Cheaters never prosper. issues april never users complete forgot handling origin knew

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phantom-ellie · 3 years ago

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ofmd12verse Day 1 (slam): wait until you hear about my life as an accountant

This is a slam poem that I wrote and recorded for day 1 of the OFMD poetry challenge. It is cringe, but at least it's free?

Interior crocodile, alligator

I drive a Chevrolet… calculator

You can call me Jeff, Jeff the accountant,

A veritable fountain

Of figures and numbers, my countenance

It’s fancy, high-class

Your rich ass can’t cope with the great sass

First pass: an explanation

I’m here for my consultation

Some social navigation

A trading of reputation

I’ve brought a friend with me

For your consideration

Godfrey Thornrose

Killer legs underneath those panty-hose

He’s a fancy man, he has a fancy ship

And his occupation?

It’s a real trip

Phrenologist, sometime sociologist

Probably needs a therapist

You don’t need the dissertation

Yeah, it’s true he sometimes calls me Id

But if you try the same?

You may be did

You’re welcome for that grand illumination

And so it is with great resignation

That I tell you about myself and my station

Born on a beach, or so the stories say

Went through hell, accountant school,

I was no fool, I was the master,

I counted faster, preventing payroll disasters

Outlasted everyone else, became the best

Multi-talented, handsome, dressed to impress

In need of my services? Make your choice

I’ll blow your damn mind, then I’ll send you the invoice

It’s no complication

I understand your abject fascination

With my supreme dedication

But please, please:

Calm your excitation

I promise there’s enough of Jeff to go around

“Oh Jeff, would you summer in Paris?

Of course you would, you disgust me, Jeff.

Summering in Paris is so gauche

I detest the French

Even though I have a French accent

Even though I’m Prussian”

I killed a Prussian once

Don’t make it twice

I’ll use whatever fork I want

And you’d better play nice

Secrets, you all have them, you freaks

Oh là là, you think you’re si chics

All critique and no technique

But I know the truth

Vous n'êtes pas enfants uniques

You all with your wigs

Too much lipstick on too many pigs

Being subjected to you is the true degradation

You lack class, you lack brains, education

And while I’m amused by your passive aggressive communication

I think it’s time to end this bad conversation

#ofmd12verse #ofmddecembverse #ellie12verse #edward teach #jeff the accountant #slam poem #ofmd poetry #ellie ofmd poetry #cross posted on ao3 #ofmd fanfic #our flag means death fanfic

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theteaisaddictive · 7 years ago

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🔥 St John Rivers.

ok, so aside from me hating him so so much because he’s the fucking worst (seriously, this guy tries to manipulate jane into going to india with him by exploiting her faith, how are we all gung-ho for dragging my problematic fave rochy to hell and back but not this guy???), i feel like in most adaptations (i.e. the 2011 and 2006 adaptations, since they’re the only two i’ve seen which apply here), the filmmakers go for ‘repressed vicar trying to berate our Modern Woman Jane with Religion when she’s far too Modern and Proto-Feminist to need That’, when, like. guys. the author was a minister’s daughter and rochester’s redemption is explicitly tied to his becoming a true christian and not just going to church three times a year, it’s not exactly a faithful adaptation.

(i also have feelings about aoje!st. john, who was called . .. . simon??? sheesh i need a rewatch he wasn’t a minister at all, but a doctor. jane was still a christian, but she was also a former nurse who had retrained as a tutor, so there was a similar kind of dynamic if i remember correctly. although, simon was much less of a dick overall and was actually pretty nice, as far as i recall)

in support of this, i am going to copy+paste the relevant section from a dissertation i did in advanced higher english under the cut. now, when i say ‘dissertation’, what i really mean is 4.5k of close reading which only cites two secondary sources, because i was only 17 at the time. but i think this is relevant. and also i’m eternally frustrated about this.

fair warning – this is almost 1k long, but it’s all of my religion section about jane eyre and it all felt pretty relevant. also, the ‘lucy’ and ‘madame beck’ referred to are from ‘villette’; my dissertation was contrasting treatment of women and religion between the two.

(oh and besides all of that st. john’s also a freaking moron who can’t even spell ‘hindustani’ correctly like jesus dude you’re not only learning the language but teaching somebody else as well, get your head out your fucking arse)

[…]

This religious conflictis similar to the one that Jane in JaneEyre faces. However, Jane’s struggle is more personal than Lucy’s as shestruggles against different creeds of the same Protestant belief, and has toface the opposing ideals of Mr. Brocklehurst, St. John Rivers and Mr.Rochester. Her own sense of morality with regard to the Bible is instilled intoher by Helen Burns, who introduces her to Christianity and urges her “to endurepatiently a smart which nobody feels but yourself.”[1] However,Jane is often pressured by the men around her to change her creed to one thatthey find more suitable. This illustrates the role women had in society as themajor men in Jane’s life all seem to think they know what is best for Janebetter than she does. This is similar to the experiences of many women of thetime, as they were often seen as incapable of making important decisions withouta man to help them. In Jane’s first exchange with Mr. Brocklehurst, when sheremarks that she personally does not find Psalms interesting, Brocklehursttells her

“This proves that you have a wicked heart; andyou must pray to God to change it: to give you a new and clean one: to takeaway your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.”[2]

Jane also disagrees with St. John Rivers on thecorrect way to fulfil Christian duties, for he believes

“that the more acrid and unreclaimed the soilwhere the Christian labourer’s task of tillage is appointed him […] thehigher the honour.”[3]

St. John’s metaphor of an empty field connotesboth simple farming life, the kind he grew up alongside and which he detestsfor its boredom, and adventures on unnamed shores which explorers often claimfor themselves, the kind of stirring, interesting life St. John dreams of andis so disgusted by. His vision of correct Christian duty is to work steadilyand hard at what he has a talent for because it is his duty, not necessarilybecause he enjoys it. In the same vein, he continually urges Jane to follow hisexample. If he had his way, Jane would never have a moment’s idle rest, so thatshe always turns:

“to profit the talents which God has committedto [her] keeping, and of which He will surely one day demand a strict account.”[4]

Jane’s battles against St. John and Brocklehurstecho Lucy’s struggles with alienation from Madame Beck’s pensionnat. Both Jane and Lucy struggle with opposing views onChristianity and religion to the people around them at critical stages in theirlife, although Lucy is often more vocal about her qualms with Catholicism.

Jane also struggles withMr. Rochester’s irreligious values, especially with regard to the potential shehad to become his mistress. Rochester is without doubt unchristian in hisactions, whether it is his several affairs with foreign mistresses or hisattempts to make Jane wild with jealousy by cruelly pretending to be in lovewith Blanche. He also has a fundamental difference in his belief of Christiandoctrine, as he believes his attempted bigamy “will expiate at God’s tribunal [.. .] my Maker sanctions what I do.”[5]Jane begins to let her religion fall by the wayside in the days of theirengagement, as she “could not, in those days, see God for His creature: of whomI had made an idol.”[6] Thismakes her struggle with her Christianity all the more difficult when the timecomes. Jane’s conflict is between her values and her desires, and she is awareof God’s judgement of her desire to be with Rochester almost immediately. Janesays her hopes of a happily married life are utterly destroyed

“– struck with a subtle doom, such as, in onenight, fell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt,”[7]

However when she does decide to “keep the lawgiven by God; sanctioned by man,”[8]Jane’s main struggle is over. This suggests that Brontë herself believes thatfollowing the Bible is always the right thing to do, and this is reflected bothin Jane Eyre through Jane’s strugglewith Rochester, and in Villettethrough Lucy’s struggle against Catholicism. Her difficulties with her romanticinterest differ from Lucy’s, as Jane and Rochester only really disagree aboutreligion at the climax of the novel, whereas Lucy and M. Paul have arguments continuallythroughout Villette, with theirdisagreements coming to breaking point in the last few chapters. However, theirresolutions are similar, as the men in their lives eventually learn to accepttheir faiths.

Jane advises Rochesterto “trust in God and yourself. Believe in heaven. Hope to meet again there,”[9]and when they are reunited at the end of the novel, Rochester has begun “toexperience remorse, repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my Maker.”[10]His acceptance of Christianity marks the end of Jane’s struggle with him, andthis is signified by her emotion at hearing Rochester call to her at theRivers’ house, as

“the wondrous shock of feeling had come like theearthquake which shook the foundations of Paul and Silas’s prison.”[11]

Thissecond Biblical reference symbolises that Jane and Rochester’s union,previously cursed by God for Rochester’s bigamy, is blessed both because theyare free to marry each other, and because their previous inequalities have beenerased by Jane’s inheritance. While some women had a social status thatequalled or exceeded Jane’s at the end of the novel, their lack of politicaland social empowerment meant that society’s expectations of them were verylimiting; for example, women were not allowed to vote and so had no input increating the laws which directly affected them. However, an ending where thefemale character has her agency preserved throughout, and achieves independencefrom a man in the 1800s was practically revolutionary.

[1] Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre, Amazon, p 39

[2] Jane Eyre, p 23

[3] Jane Eyre, p 259

[4]Jane Eyre, p286

[5]Jane Eyre, p186

[6] Jane Eyre, p 200

[7] Jane Eyre, p 216

[8] Jane Eyre, p 232

[9] Jane Eyre, p 231

[10] Jane Eyre, p 328

[11] Jane Eyre, p 308

#asks #cinderellasfella #jane eyre #sorry i just kind of leapt head-first into this #but i will never not care about jane eyre

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