#i love painfully bitter halloweens. its how halloween should be

[butchyena]

its snowing outsiiiiide

[highway-to-helltalia]

When October Ends (NorBela)

For @hetalia-writers-monthly

I didn’t think I’d have time to do anything this month, but I had an idea today and wrote it this afternoon, sorry it’s a bit last minute. I tried to make this kind of fit with all the prompts 

Word count: 1380

AO3

A last gasp of cold wind slipped through the window as Even pulled it closed. He loved to study with it open and feel the breath of nature drift through his room while he worked, but as winter drew near the biting chill from outside began to make his fingers numb and his pale cheeks as cold as ice.

He turned, ready to take a much-needed sip of his steaming black coffee, only to find that the mug was no longer on his desk where he left it. Closing his eyes for a second, he sighed. “Larysa.” He was met with no response, and his small bedroom was empty apart from himself, but he still folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Put it back.”

A giggle rang through the room. “You have hands, don’t you?”

“And you seem perfectly capable of moving my stuff across the room without them.” Even grumbled, though he picked the mug up from his bedside table and took a long sip. He moved the cup away from his face just in time to see his pen fly across the room towards his wardrobe. “This isn’t funny,” he grumbled. He reluctantly placed his coffee back on its coaster, and cast a quick glance back towards it as he stretched to take the pen from the top of the wardrobe.

“Then why are you smiling?”

Even raised a hand to his face, and ran his fingers over his lips to find that they were in fact quirked up at the corner. He tried to make his face return to his usual blank expression as he turned back to his desk, where Larysa now perched with her legs crossed and a smirk on her face. He could still see his textbook through her translucent form, but the words were as blurred as his thoughts.

“Are you blushing?” She twirled a lock of long blond hair around her finger.

“No,” Even mumbled into his hand. “The cold just makes my cheeks go red.”

Larysa raised an eyebrow. “Sure…”

“Anyway, I really need to do some work now.” He waved a dismissive hand, catching the bow which held her hair back. It was just as intangible as Larysa herself, and wobbled like a mirage as his hand passed through it.  

“Come on,” Larysa whined, and he felt a familiar cold sensation as she rested her chin on his shoulder. “We’ve only got a few days left.”

Even turned to look into her unearthly purple eyes, and sighed. He wanted to stroke the stray strand of blond hair that was obscuring them away. He wanted to caress her cheek, but he could not. He could never touch her, could only see her for a month every year. Once Halloween passed, she would fade again in a matter of days, and he wouldn’t see her again until the start of October next year. “Fine,” he said softly.

The creak of the door was the only thing that alerted them to it opening, and Larysa’s eyes widened as she quickly disappeared.

“Hey Even, who were you talking to?” Vlad asked, striding into the room to sink into a soft white beanbag in the corner.

“Just mumbling to myself,” Even said, turning back to his textbook in case his annoyance showed on his face. As much as he loved his friends, sometimes he preferred to spend time with his undead housemate rather than his living ones.

“Alright then, you do you,” Vlad smirked, his tone teasingly condescending. “Anyway, D&D starts in fifteen minutes, Arthur told me to come and get you.”

Even blinked in surprise. “Oh, it’s Saturday already?”

“Yep, has been for a good few hours. Good thing I came up here.” Vlad laughed. “Anyway, we should probably get going or Arthur will have our heads.”

“Yeah,” Even chuckled. As he followed Vlad out of the room, he turned back and saw Larysa in the corner of his room. She waved to him, and he smiled back, ducking his head and hurrying out as a blush crept back onto his cheeks.

  Sparks danced into the air, winking out against the inky night sky. Even watched them as he leaned back on the log they’d dragged over to their makeshift bonfire. Though the sounds of firework displays raging on rang out in the distance, their bonfire was slowly dying down. He leant his head on Vlad’s soft brown hair as his friend leaned on his shoulder.

“You’re freezing, Even,” his friend complained in a sleepy murmur.

“So are you,” Even retorted, lightly nudging him in the ribs.

“Shall we cuddle up to Arthur instead? He’s the only warm one here,” Vlad smirked.

“You certainly shan’t,” Arthur snapped, his cheeks flaming as bright as the bonfire. “If you’re that cold, shall we head in and watch a film?”

“Sounds good.” Vlad stretched as he stood up. “Even, you coming.”

Even opened his mouth to respond, when he saw a face through the flickering flames. “Actually, I’ll stay out here for a few more minutes.”

“Alright then, mate,” Arthur shrugged. “Join us whenever.”

Once he saw the back door close, he turned with a soft smile to the girl he knew would be sitting by his side. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Larysa smiled back at him. In the dimming firelight, her faintness was painfully obvious; the warm light shone right through her. As she looked away from him, hair falling over her face, Even could tell something was up. Her entire demeanour seemed more closed off and reserved than usual.

“Is something wrong?” He asked, edging closer to her.

Larysa shook her head, but she still kept her head down. “I’m going to fade soon,” she mumbled.

“I know,” Even nodded sadly. “But I’ll see you next year.”

When she shook her head again, her movements were slower. “No…” She turned to him, her face etched with sorrow. “No, you won’t. I think I’m going to fade… for good.”

Even stared, his heart thudding as the words sank in. He felt numb, and heard his next words as if they were spoken by someone else. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just… I thought about it, but I didn’t want to put a downer on our last days together.” Larysa offered him a weak smile.

“Don’t say that. You’ll come back next year,” he insisted. He felt so petulant and childish, but he couldn’t lose Larysa.

“I might.” She shrugged, looking into the flames. “Or I might not.” Her form was starting to flicker like the bonfire itself.

“You can’t…” he murmured, his voice quavering.

Larysa reached out a hand to cover his. “Even, I’ve already stayed for longer than I should. It’s about time I let go.”

Even wanted to tell her no. He wanted to scream and howl in protest, at the unfairness of it all. How he’d met the perfect girl years after she had passed on, how just when he’d found happiness she was being taken from him by the cruel winds of fate. But his voice was choked, and all he could utter were muffled sobs as he clutched desperately to a hand that wasn’t there.

“Hey…” Larysa’s voice was as calm as ever. “Hey… it’ll be ok. You will be ok. These past three Octobers have been the best time of my unlife. Just breathe now, make the most of your own life. You shouldn’t waste time crying over a dead girl you never even knew.” She laughed with more melancholy than humour.

“But I do know you,” he whispered as a tear dropped off the end of his nose. It fell through the chipped purple nail varnish that Larysa always wore, and splashed onto the back of his hand. Through his tears, he could barely see the outline of her, but her purple eyes sparkled in the firelight, locking with his as her body faded away. “Larysa, I…” He took in a breath, his lips trembling as he watched her disappear into the night. The comforting frosty presence of her hand on his was replaced by the bitter night air. He brought his hands to his face, closing his eyes as he whispered the words he’d wanted to say to the girl who was no longer there. “I love you.”

[livlepretre]

God I wanna pick at your brain so much. Its made me cry so many times that I don't even mind anymore. Okay, so, which is the strongest character you've come across in books/movies/shows? And what was the moment that you fell in love with Elena as a character? Also, which incident made you disappointed in her within the first 4 seasons, if any? Please humor me. You've made me discover my hidden interviewer... ❤

Pick away! And 💙💙💙your tears are watering the fic, thank you, it needs them to grow 

Hmmmm I think I’d have to go with Rand al’Thor from the Wheel of Time book series for the first question (soon to be a tv show if covid ever allows them to finish filming season 1!). Rand’s role in the book series is very much so the “chosen one” storyline, which is terribly fun to read but completely horrific and soul-scouring for him to experience, but what really gets me about his character is the emotional depths that the writer plumbs with him. I tend to gravitate toward stories about depression-- not surprising, I’ve had some serious bouts with it myself over the past 15 years-- and there’s just something about the intimacy of Rand’s emotional portrait as he spirals and burns-- his depression, his trauma and ptsd, the friendships that wither and the ones that turn out to be so profound and deep that they will not abandon him, even at the bitter end, the terrible anxiety and stress and anger and all of those things Rand feels that boil along... really truly awful things happen to Rand, and Rand does really truly awful things himself, but I suppose that what I love the very most, and the reason I’m so often misty-eyed whenever I read about Rand in the later books in the series is that there’s this thread of hope-- sometimes so thin it can be totally overlooked-- that runs through the whole thing. Hope that he will prevail, that he will make it over the finish line. Hope that he can figure out how to be a good man (again?). Hope that he will forgive himself. Rand really embodies the mantra that I told myself so often in my darkest times: when you can’t hold on, hold on-- and I can’t recommend going on that journey with him enough. (also in other news he’s a hero that hits all of my villain kinks so I am    L I V I N G for that)

Had to think about this for a bit with Elena-- because the thing is, there were definitely moments where I liked her a lot in season 1-- honestly I usually can’t be compelled to watch a show or read a book unless the main character is my favorite/I at least like them a lot, since, you know, we have to spend most of our time with them-- I really liked her when she slapped Damon during the Halloween party, I really liked her when she drank at the bar with Bree, I really liked her during the whole “steal the grimoire!” and 50′s dance arc. Like I mentioned above, I tend to be really sympathetic to characters who are depressed, and characters who are grieving, so it’s possible I was really predisposed to empathize with her. I think the moment I LOVED her though was in Let The Right One In, when Damon told her to wait in the car and then Elena completely disobeyed him and snuck into the house and saved Stefan herself. That was the first hint that Elena was willing to take HUGE risks, and that she had this uncanny bravery that bordered on suicidal and also it was a stunning display of her loyalty and her love. So, that entire thing just S E N T me. 

The disappointed question is really hard, because so long as the writing is good, I tend to really enjoy it when characters do bad or uncomfortable things-- things which in real life of course would have me on the war path, but which I tend to revel in when I’m watching. For example, if I were to try to judge Elena not as a tv show character but as a person, then definitely the whole thing with Damon would be a disappointment-- she should have wanted nothing to do with him after the way he used Caroline in season 1, and of course, the fact that he’s unstable to the nth degree-- but it’s a vampire tv show and so I have always understood the Damon/Elena thing as embodying the storyline of being seduced into darkness/metaphorical death, and yes, it’s terrible terrible terrible, but Elena is pretty much defenseless against it as a young orphan girl with no parents to guide her or offer her support, and no friends truly capable of it because they are also still kids (and because honestly a 26 year old aunt unused to laying down the law is not a sufficient substitute no matter how hard she tries). There’s a narrative reason why Elena is an orphan and it’s to make her vulnerable to Damon (and to Stefan, whom I think is pretty much as bad, he just pretends he isn’t for his own piece of mind). So, even when she falls in love with Damon, I’m not disappointed-- it’s the storyline I was watching and expecting because it’s a vampire tv show and that is what I signed up for. (I would say I was disappointed in the tv show for failing to make it as disturbing as it should have been though) 

So I think my only real source of disappointment in Elena is in season 4 onwards when basically she drops Stefan off of her romantic radar as soon as she decides they’re breaking up. This was my biggest problem with TVD in general, and where whatever was holding the increasingly fragile storytelling together really started to fall apart. For years I had chomped at the bit for Delena, but I didn’t want just “Damon and Elena get together and that’s that!” I wanted a reversal of the Stefan/Elena/Damon love triangle wherein Damon and Elena would be together but that tension and longing and understanding with Stefan would still exist and make Delena maybe untenable the way that Stelena had been. The show was really built on the complication of not just having a love triangle with both brothers in love with the unfortunately polyamorous girl, but with the brothers having their own relationship to deal with. The problem with knocking the Stefan/Elena leg off of the triangle is that it just made the Damon/Stefan leg shakier and it made the Damon/Elena leg much more boring than it needed to be. 

I guess I do have disappointment in the writing for Elena from the time she is turned into a vampire onward. When she was human, the writers made a huge effort to think of ways to make her a power broker in the group-- she was always negotiating, tricking, daggering, pulling dangerous stunts like slitting her own throat or stabbing herself or falling backwards off of those bleachers in order to trick her adversaries and win. The best thing about Elena was that she had this cunning mind and a ruthless streak that was shockingly cruel and balanced so well against her loving and kind nature. When she became a vampire, they just started having her use super speed and super strength to solve all of her problems instead of having her outwit her opponents and that was dull as dishwater. 

Also I’ve mentioned this before but I am dreadfully disappointed in her grasp of history (but that could be the school system’s fault, they jump all over the place in history class without any rhyme or reason as far as I can tell). I die a little bit inside whenever I have to hear her describe 1492!Katerina as “the sweet peasant girl.” Like, I’m sorry, Elena, how does a sweet peasant girl in 1492 find the resources and connections to travel all the way to England to cover up her scandalous pregnancy? It seems more likely that Katherine’s father was a land owner of some wealth or connection, and it frankly just embarrasses me so much to think of Elijah hearing her say this. (like, this isn’t having a problem with the idea of Katherine as a peasant, it’s just that she so obviously wasn’t that it just comes across as so painfully absurd and ignorant and also weirdly belittling of the peasants, like, oh, this sweet peasant girl, so innocent! so naive to the ways of the world! give! me! a! break!) 

[timeagainreviews]

My Series 10 Rewatch: The Husbands of River Song

One of the beautiful aspects of starting this blog has been the opportunity to revisit old episodes. The title of this blog "Time and Time Again," isn’t just a reference both to Twin Peaks and Doctor Who, but also a raison d'être. The hope is that repeat viewings will bring forth new insights. Things I loathed previously may seem charming in hindsight. Things I initially adored may begin to show cracks in their facade. Some records take a few listens until we discover their greatness. Sometimes art requires consideration.

I mention this because our first review for the series 10 retrospective is for "The Husbands of River Song," an episode of which I detested. It's important to give this context as my opinion of it has indeed mellowed over time. I will endeavour to highlight this shift in perspective as memory permits. Before the other day, I hadn't watched this episode since it first aired on Christmas of 2015. What then can nearly half a decade add to the experience?

It should be noted that I have never been a big fan of Doctor Who Christmas specials. It would be quicker to count the reasons I like them, or in this case, the reason. That being, it's more Doctor Who. Other than that, I find the whole Christmas theme to be hokey. Growing up, I was a Halloween kid. I really don't like Christmas all that much, so an entire episode themed around it is not my idea of a good time. Even worse is when the villains themselves have Christmassy gimmicks like Santa robots or evil snowmen. I suppose in some ways, it's in the Christmas spirit for the Doctor to die and regenerate on Christmas, as they so often do. The concept of birth and renewal are a big part of the holiday. But if I was known to die a lot on Christmas, I might use my time machine to skip it every year.

Landing his TARDIS on Christmas Day, in the year 5343 is Peter Capaldi as the Twelfth Doctor. The planet, Mendorax Dellora, is one of Steven Moffat's usual Christmas village planets, stuck somewhere in a vortex of quaint sentiment. The Doctor appears to have about as much Christmas spirit as I do. Having just lost Clara both in spirit and memory, he's reverted to the Doctor's most worrisome state- hermitic and bitter. Not even the TARDIS' holographically generated reindeer antlers can bring out the holiday cheer. It's a visit from Nardole, a nebbish sort of man, that brings the Doctor out of his slump. Mistaking him for a surgeon, he leads the Doctor to what appears to be a crash-landed saucer. The obscene redness of its exterior against the plain backdrop gave me the strangest pangs of the circus tent from "Killer Klowns from Outer Space." Just throwing that out there.

From the outset, Peter Capaldi is at his most charming. I've never actually covered a Twelfth Doctor story before now, so I would like to mention how much I adore his performance as the Doctor. I know he gets a lot of flack from certain fans (see: dipshit morons with no class), but I think he's brilliant. Right away his banter with Nardole is apparent. It's easy to see why someone may have watched Capaldi and Matt Lucas interacting and thought "There's something here." Lucas' history in comedy gives him great timing as the foil to the Twelfth Doctor's eccentricity.

However, it won't be Nardole filling the role of co-star for long. As the Doctor enters the ship of King Hydroflax, he is greeted by the familiar face of River Song. As I have mentioned previously, I have issues with the way River's story plays out, but by this point in the show, I had grown to love her. Which is why this episode pains me so much. The problems inherent in having the Doctor and River's relationship play out like two ships in the night are at their worst in this episode, but I'll get to that in due time.

The King Hydroflax, played with great relish by Greg Davies is a mere head atop a giant robot body, painted in the same garish red as the flying saucer. River, acting very unlike herself, is practically prostrating herself in front of the vain king. Furthermore, she doesn't seem to recognise the Doctor's new face at all. Even more disturbing to the Doctor is the fact that River appears to be married to the king tyrant, talking about him as some sort of cherished lover. After analysing his new patient, the Doctor discovers a foreign body lodged into Hydroflax's skull. All the while, the king's loyal subjects watch a live feed of the operation, booing the Doctor when he refuses to placate the ego of their leader. It's an idea that has become painfully more believable in the years since airing.

The Doctor and River go into another room of the ship where River explains that the foreign body is, in fact, the most valuable diamond in the universe known as the Halassi Androvar. Somewhat to the Doctor's relief, he discovers that River's love for the king has been a ruse to recover the diamond for the Halassi people, from whom it was stolen. Much like the Doctor has turned into a bitter hermit, loneliness has brought out River's more sadistic nature as she takes to the idea of killing Hyrdroflax for the diamond in stride. Less enthusiastic of the idea than even the Doctor is the emperor himself, who has somehow managed to eavesdrop on two Time Lords while walking around in a massive robotic body. This kind of logic will continue throughout the night.

The king is much displeased with learning that his new wife is some renegade archaeologist with a sonic trowel. Taunting the pair, he removes his head from his robot body, leading River to improvise. Holding his head hostage at trowelpoint, River improvises and takes the entire head in a duffel bag. River's other husband, a beautiful but submissive man named Ramone, teleports her and the Doctor to safety with the head in tow. Meanwhile, Hyrdoflax's body sets about taking on a new head in the form of poor Nardole. It’s worth noting that River wiping Ramone’s mind of any knowledge that they were married is a bit creepy. There are implications involved that kind of gross me out.

The Doctor, having just met Ramone, is taken aback after having met yet another of River's husbands. Beginning to feel like a bit of an afterthought the Doctor takes small potshots at River's sense of loyalty, while also fishing for clues that he may or may not have ever meant something to her. For all this episode does to highlight the Doctor and River's secret feelings for one another, it does a piss poor job of actually staying true to River's character in one key manner. Throughout a majority of the episode, River fails repeatedly to recognise the Doctor for who he is.

Moffat tries somewhat to cover his tracks by making it look as though River only knows of twelve previous regenerations, including the War Doctor. In what looks like one of the cheapest props of the episode, she even has a little fold-out wallet with all of the Doctors' pictures. Knowing that the Eleventh Doctor was the end of his regeneration cycle, she never even considers the idea that the Doctor may have lived on. Even though toward the end of the episode, she remarks that the Doctor always finds a way to cheat fate, she wholeheartedly buys into the idea that the Doctor would just never regenerate beyond the Eleventh Doctor. In a single episode, not even River's own logic believes River's own logic.

Learning that River sometimes shows up to places he's been long enough to take the TARDIS for a joyride, the Doctor is given a chance to act as a bit of a spectator in his own life. There is a definite bit of glee to be found in the Twelfth Doctor's over the top reaction to his own TARDIS. Finally being able to say "It's bigger on the inside," the Doctor savours the moment to great comical effect. Ramone parts ways to he and River's pre-established rendezvous point. However, he is cut short by the giant robot body holding a gun to Nardole's head. Poor Nardole, he's having such a rough go of things. First, he brings the wrong surgeon, then he loses his body, and now he's being held hostage by his new body. The robot’s only demand is that Ramone send a message to River.

River, as always, is quite at home in the TARDIS, even taking a moment to raid the liquor cabinet of which not even the Doctor was aware. However, her flawless piloting of the TARDIS is thrown out of whack by unforeseen circumstances. Even after the Doctor deduces that the TARDIS won't fly while it senses the King's head and body are both inside and outside the TARDIS, River still doesn't grasp the fact that he is the Doctor. I would also like mention that while I found the TARDIS' failsafe to be a rather creative invention, it did immediately make me wonder about the Cyberhead Handles' body. What constitutes a body the TARDIS recognises? Could the Face of Boe fly in the TARDIS? Could Dorium Maldovar? Oh well, it doesn't really matter.

A knock on the TARDIS door from Ramone, now part of the robot, quickly reunites the head and body. However, for the third time in this episode, any action is immediately sidestepped by yet another person taking a disembodied head hostage. This time it's the Doctor threatening to throw Hydroflax's head down the garbage chute. Every chance this episode gets, it bravely avoids the perils of forming some sort of plot. The stakes have never been lower. The Doctor and River take the TARDIS to a restaurant aboard the starship Harmony and Redemption. Everyone onboard is some sort of war criminal or seedy individual, including the Maître d', a bug faced man named Flemming. After taking a seat in the restaurant, River reveals that she never planned on returning the diamond to the people of Halassi. Instead, she plans on selling it to the highest bidder.

The Doctor uses this moment to probe River for further information. River reads silently from her TARDIS diary. She reveals to the Doctor that the person who gave her the diary was the type of man who would know just how long a diary she would need. It's at this moment that the Doctor begins to see traces that River is very much still in love with him and that she may be a little lost without him. I would say this scene was touching if it weren't for the fact that it was undercut by River's inability to recognise the man sitting directly in front of her. It's so out of character for River to be this myopic. By this point in my initial watch through, I was so annoyed by this betrayal of her character that it took me out of the story completely. The second time around was only a little less irritating due to the fact that at least now I expected it.

River's buyer turns out to be Scratch, a very Moffatty body horror bad guy, in the vein of characters like Colony Sarff or the Headless Monks. After accepting River's price, Scratch opens his head like a coin purse and pulls out a little orb that connects to any bank in the universe. By this point, I've grown accustomed to Moffat's over the top exploits like this. It's feasible to imagine that Scratch's cruel master may have torn his head open to store money. It's like in "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," when Humma Kavula removes a servant's nose to reveal a control pad that opens a series of draws tucked into his chest. However, it gets a bit far fetched when it is revealed that many other diners in the restaurant are the same species as Scratch and they all have the same scar across their faces. Is this some evolutionary trait? Are they a species so greedy that they evolved a place to squirrel away their money? Do they keep other stuff like car keys or bags of space weed? Not every bad guy needs to be a toy, Moffat!

The reason the patrons suddenly turn on the Doctor and River is that they discover the diamond is lodged within the head of their great leader. This brings up even more questions about their heads. Why doesn't Hydroflax’s head have the same scar? Are they the same species? How did this asshole even get so much power in the first place? There seems to be neither anything likable nor competent about him... oh right. Once again, the events of the years since have made this episode more believable. Dinner is even further interrupted by the King's body barging in, demanding its proper head. Only now it deems King Hydroflax's head unsuitable. Having been detached from his body for too long, the King's head is now dying. The body disintegrates the King's head, leaving behind the diamond. Flemming uses this opportunity to alert the patrons of the restaurant to the fact that River knows the perfect person to become the next head of state, so to speak. Of course, it's the Doctor.

Why Flemming knows River knows a Time Lord, but doesn't know she herself is a Time Lord is anyone's guess. Or maybe he knows and is just throwing shade by implying that the Doctor is a better Time Lord. It's at this moment that Alex Kingston is given one of her finest moments as River Song in the form of an emotional monologue. After arguing that the Doctor wouldn't be there with her because he doesn't care, it finally dons on her that the Doctor has been standing next to her the entire time. Despite the fact that Moffat sacrificed River's intelligence for the sake of a big reveal, the moment still resonates. Capaldi's warm gaze meeting River's expression of shock followed by his soft utterance of "Hello sweetie," is genuinely touching. No cynical sensationalism can undo the beautiful performances given by Capaldi and Kingston, who bring more gravity to the scene than the script.

For all of the hand-wavey tripe this episode heaps upon us, the way in which the Doctor and River escape this sticky situation is actually rather brilliant. In any other show, the appearance of a sudden freak meteor collision with the ship would seem convenient. But River is an archaeologist and a time traveller. She picked her meeting location perfectly- a starship about to be destroyed by meteors. Her line of "I'm an archaeologist from the future, I dug you up," is easily one of the best River Song lines ever written for Doctor Who. If this is truly her final episode, that's one hell of a line to go out on.

In another convenient moment, the diamond lands in River's dress as they're making their escape. I guess she planned that too. The Doctor uses Scratch's money orb to short circuit the robot body with its firewall. River and the Doctor run to the TARDIS while the ship crashes into the planet Darillium, knocking River unconscious. While River is out, the Doctor uses the opportunity to do a bit of time travelling. First, the Doctor gives the diamond to one of the crash's first responders, telling him to build a restaurant in front of the singing towers of Darillium. Then he jumps forward to a time when the restaurant has been built to make reservations. Then he jumps forward to the day of the reservation. River wakes up to find herself wandering into a beautiful restaurant on Christmas Day. Even Ramone and Nardole have survived due to some trickery on the Doctor’s behalf. Nardole is having a bit of “alone time,” which River remarks must be difficult as a head. That one goes up there with Ursula becoming a blowjob dispensing pavement stone at the end of “Love and Monsters.” The Doctor is waiting for River in a First Doctor style bow tie and coat. He treats her to a romantic meal and the gift of her own sonic screwdriver, the same sonic screwdriver she has when we met her in "Silence in the Library."

There's a nice little cap on the entire River storyline here that feels a bit more final than the one between her and the Eleventh Doctor. Perhaps it's the fact that it's the last time Moffat wrote her character, or perhaps it's because even River seems to know something is up. Having heard the legends of her own romance with the Doctor, River knows that her last night was spent with the Doctor on the planet Darillium. This is a bit of retconning that you often find in Doctor Who. River doesn't really know in her first appearance that she's headed toward her own demise, yet here she's all too aware of it. It's compounded by the fact that the Doctor reveals that a night on Darillium lasts 24 years. It's meant to be a sweet line that implies they got to spend a lot of time coupling together for 24 years, but it's really just 24 years for River to know, for certain, that she's going to her inevitable doom.

Retcons like these don't necessarily ruin the show. Storytellers shouldn't be forced to sacrifice the current narrative all for the sake of creating tidy bookends. Should Big Finish not put Peri and the Fifth Doctor in more adventures for fear that it may dilute the Doctor's sacrificing his own life for a woman he barely knows? Does him knowing her better make his sacrifice any less admirable? How about the many times River meets the Doctor in his previous forms even though the Tenth Doctor clearly had never met her in his life? I'm not going to answer these questions because they should be open-ended. It is a thing to consider in Doctor Who. If time is a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff, then maybe the storylines are allowed to be as malleable.

As I've demonstrated above, our own experiences with the stories can be malleable. I watched this episode with my boyfriend because I wanted to gauge his initial reaction. A lot of his reactions mirrored my own. We both found ourselves enjoying it as a light romp afforded by the air of a Christmas episode, while also deriding it for its lack of plot. Like myself, he too felt that the big reveal was detrimental to River's intelligence and went on past the point of acceptability. It's one of the oddest things about Steven Moffat as a writer, no matter how clever his ideas actually may be, he doesn't ever seem to know when his audience has caught on. Perhaps it's the suits at the BBC underestimating the audience. Or perhaps this is because he spent a lot of his life as a Doctor Who nerd, oftentimes feeling out of place when talking about Doctor Who to casuals. But the modern Doctor Who audience has been raised on science fiction and intricate narratives. No hand-holding necessary.

Regardless of how attuned he perceives his audience to be, River's realisation seems more slavishly timed to the climax of the story than anything else. One can't help but wonder if Moffat hadn't been so insistent on making this moment the crux of the episode, we may have actually gotten a more serviceable plot. Instead of heads held hostage and hand waving, we could have gotten a stronger villain. Scratch could have represented more than just some guy with a coin purse head. There are lots of fantastical elements on display, but none of them is ever given any gravity. Moffat's fixation on character relationships is so single-minded that it comes not only at the sake of plot, but character as well. It's unfortunate that despite Alex Kingston's greatest efforts, River's goodbye is undercut by one writer's need to be clever.

[gelenka-daria]

Halloween's coming up so maybe you could write something to go along with the spirit for Manwe and Melkor? Werewolf AU? Vampires? Fairies? Anything? :D

i don't know what happened

Rain and thunder rattle against the window after the first bolt lights up the sky, but that isn't what awakes him. 

The screaming sounds distant, remnants of a fever-induced dream, little more than a hallucination. Manwë almost believes it is.

It takes him longer than appreciated to come to, for his blurry vision to clear. He shifts, sore limbs protesting when he attempts to lift himself off the bedding, succeeding with no little effort, before looking about his bedchamber, dim save a few strings of silver moonlight trickling through the window. 

He frowns. It's quiet, unsettlingly so, and it drags on long enough for him to question his state of mind. Perhaps that, too, had begun to deteriorate alongside his body. 

But then, as suddenly as it went, a commotion breaks the silence, haphazard movement in the hall behind his door. Frantic footsteps up a stairway, another blood-curdling scream, terrified and terrifying and the hairs on Manwë's arms stand on end, goosebumps prickling his skin as his eyes widen at what sounds like hysterical begging right outside his chamber before the cries are cut short, replaced by wet gurgle. 

Manwë freezes, feeling a wretched twist of fear in his chest, his heart in his throat, in his ears, loud, but not enough to drown out the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, followed by footsteps against worn wooden boards, each step accompanied by the low creak of ancient woodwork, deliberate-like and slow, getting closer. 

It springs an abrupt reaction from him, but his weakening knees buckle right as his feet touch the floor and he crumbles, pain shooting up his bones the second his body collides with the worn wooden boards, hissing at the harsh contact. Manwë tries to get his joints to function as he attempts to hitch himself up, but even that seems to be too much effort on his weakening form. It's when he's finally up on his knees, fingers clenched around his bedding and stopping to take a breath, that it dawns on him. The abominable, godawful quiet. Nothing but the faint pitter-patter of rain and his own stuttering breaths.

Something terrible presses down on his chest; the icy cold creep of fear across his shoulder, the surge of panic that makes him feel sick to his stomach. It's then that he realizes that he isn't really alone in his bedchamber, that something else is sharing his space with him, lurking in one of the shadowed corners. A silhouette, shifting darkness.

Manwë looks despite himself, peering over his shoulder between pale, limp hair. It takes him a second to absorb his surroundings— his room looks strangely unfamiliar when the blue lightning reaches every niche, the corners empty, nothing hiding in them, but that's only because whatever thing had prowled its way into his home was standing there, mere feet from him. 

It all makes sense, suddenly.

It looks human, Manwë can't help but notice, struck rigid and staring wide-eyed at it, but he can sense it, its otherness, glowing golden eyes staring back through shadowed features, the steady drip-drip sound of something dribbling down clawed fingers before lightning comes again, and a face comes into view, equal parts terrifying and beautiful, red streaking down a defined chin.

Manwë loses grip on the bedding and falls face first onto the floor. Ignoring his useless legs, he sets on a frantic, pointed crawl to where the bedside table harbors a silver dagger. His health might be failing, but he refuses to concede to such a death without fighting for his life. 

He reaches it by some miracle, the creature uninterested in stopping him for whatever reason, yet what frail, little hope he'd fostered in this short period of time fades when the drawers turn up empty, his only means of defending himself nowhere to be found.

"Looking for this, perhaps?" A deep, velvety voice resonates through Manwë's bones and he wants to cry at the impossibility of it because no, no, it cannot be. Except it is, the blade a glaringly bright gray in one uncanny hand when he struggles to turn his head and look. 

A sharp grin reveals sharper teeth, gleaming in the bordering darkness, and it slowly tips its head towards Manwë's study where he now remembers having left it laying prior to the days he became bedridden. It takes everything in him to stop the tears from coming. The creature tuts, "such carelessness over such precious things." Before dropping the dagger into Manwë's reach, the sound of it clattering against the floor too loud on Manwë's ears. 

"Go on," it says almost enticingly, stepping closer, "you are welcome to try." 

Manwë swallows with difficulty and grits his teeth, his trembling fingers barely secure around the blade don't stop the frisson of horror curling in his belly. What good is a weapon, if he doesn't have the strength to wield it?  

"I had heard talk amongst townsfolk, of how the lord of this manor had succumbed to the spreading plague," it says, as it steps closer, voice holding the detached curiosity one would spare for a particularly interesting insect, "I can smell the disease on your skin, I hear it in your lungs. It should suffice to deter me, a well-nigh corpse is of no use to me, I ought to leave you to perish, however," boot-clad feet come into view, "Mercy is no virtue of mine, and yet you look so pitiful, it has gotten me in a charitable mood, I might spare you such pain, grant you a quicker death, my bite need not hurt so much." 

Laying there in helpless despair, Manwë can't help but scoff, incredulous, might as well. "How gracious of you," his voice is watery and bitter, "I wouldn't presume you to have extended the residents of this house the same courtesy." 

"Ah, are you grieving your servants?" it sounds almost spiteful, "worry not, you shall join them soon." 

Manwë hisses when the creature digs the tip of its boot into his side, pressing into his ribs and flipping him over, as though he were a mere carcass in decay on the side of a road. Once he's on his back, he keeps his eyes to the ceiling, his hands tightly gripping the iron hilt of his dagger, held close to his chest, a feeble measure of security. The thing crouches next to him, its presence too cold and Manwë can hardly bear to look at its too human features in fear of being lured into a false sense of normality, that maybe this was someone he could reason with. 

He jolts when cool, bloody fingers hover over his forehead, moving whatever's strayed of his hair out of his face, before its hand cradles his pale, sunken cheek, smearing the scarlet print of its hand upon Manwë's face. Manwë makes the mistake to look, and meets the creature's gaze, its eyes feverish and pinning him down more effectively than if it had used brute force.

"However," it says, tone unexpectedly light as Manwë falls prey to sudden burgeoning interest, a horrible, horrible darkening to its eyes, a wolf gone hungry, "I might be inclined to change my mind." 

Manwë doesn't care for an explanation, as he takes advantage of the proximity and unforeseen regard. He takes aim, plunging the dagger upwards with all he has, his one chance, the sound of a single slice sharp in the near silence. And he hits his mark, he thinks, hands shaking around the hilt, both horrified and delighted and all kinds of frantic. He looks up, into black, wide, astonished eyes and for a second there relief floods him. Any minute now, the hands gripping his wrists should loosen. Any minute now, the flesh and bone around the blade should start to fray away. 

Any minute now.

Except, none of that happens. The surprise fades out into unsettling mirth and it cackles hoarsely, throaty tones vibrant with devious delight as it raises its head and pins him with an ancient stare. "Why, you did try. Such endearing determination." Cutting fangs come into view from under a likewise grin. Manwë's hands slip off the hilt, falling limp at his sides as he watches the creature yank the dagger out, dripping tar-dark blood, with not so much a flinch, and tossing it aside. "Had there been a chance of such a thing ever posing a threat, I never would have handed it to you, sweetling." 

Manwë flinches at the endearment, his fingers digging painfully into the wood bellow, blood welling from under his fingernails. The creature sniffs, its grin softening. "There," it sighs, deceptively gentle, as it leans ever closer, "underneath the stench of death, you smell utterly delectable." 

Ah, Manwë thinks, defeated, what little strength he had left bleeding out, I see.

The creature tsks. "No need to look so glum, precious, I'm of a mind to preserve your life, not end it." It says into the minuscule space between their lips, dark, pitch-black eyes switching to a malevolent carmine. "Twould be a shame," a thumb sweeps across Manwë's left cheek, "such a lovely face, wasted to mortality." 

"No," Manwë says, rejecting the heavy implication. He would much rather die. 

It blinks. "No?"

"No." Manwë affirms between gritted teeth. "I would prefer to die on my own terms. I refuse to become like you, either leave me be or kill me."

"How gullible," it cradles his head, fingers burrowing into his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp in a manner that, in any other circumstance, would have eased him into comfort. "To think you have a say in the matter."

Dread fills him as he breaks into cold sweat. He looks at it, the blood-spatter across its face, so beautiful, so horrible, devoid of warmth. Further from anything Manwë wishes to ever be. Tears prick the corners of his eyes. "Please." 

"You should be groveling at my feet in thanks," it lifts Manwë's upper body off the floor, slow and careful, the other hand brushing his hair out of the way, its breath cool against his collarbone, "for the gift I am to bestow upon you." 

Manwë shakes his head, his shivering hands reaching up to grip its shoulders, intent on pushing it away, yet all he can do is hold on.   

"Shhh," it breathes against his neck soothingly, "I assure you, in no time, you will be loath to part with me." 

One cold kiss to his skin, and it's over. 

A low growl coils in its throat when it draws blood, demonic, feral, possessive, frightening. Manwë can't find it in him to make a sound. The teeth in his throat don’t even hurt. Sharp bright sensation, flesh parting at the join of shoulder and neck, an obsidian dagger splitting him open from sternum to skull—his consciousness reforms and he feels—he’s whole, he’s whole, he’s bitten open and bleeding out but somehow he’s whole for the first time in his life. 

His eyes are wide and unseeing, blinded by the sudden rush of power, so intoxicating that he clings, wraps arms and legs around this thing, ignoring the distant screaming of you don't want this, you don't and draws him closer for more give me more, close enough to hear a yes purred into his own blood, until the scalding light fades and there's nothing but darkness.

[little-inkstone]

Impish

Summery:  After Gold’s heart is broken he wishes to just disappear, only to be told by a member of the fae that if he can’t bury a cursed dagger before sunrise his wish will come true.

AN: Happy Halloween everyone!  This fic is very loosely based on an old myth called Teig O’Kane and the Corpse.  I hope you all enjoy it!

Nothing could heal Ruskin Gold’s broken bitter heart, not the expensive whiskey clutched in his hand, nor the long walk he’d taken across the moor on the cold foggy night. In his drunken state he had thought it would be best to walk across the open fields.  The roads were too muddy from the constant rain, and the cobbles of town were so slick he’d be more likely to end up under the hoof of a carriage horse instead of being allowed to sulk in peace.  There was also the matter of privacy, most of those that lived in the small town he called home were his tenants or debtors and he their collector, it would be good for business for them to see the cruel Mr. Gold so deep in his cups.

Unable to take another step he somehow found himself lying on the ground, looking up at the sky. Twinkling stars winked at him between dark fluffy clouds, the damp from the ground slowly sinking into his fine wool coat.  The amber liquid of his drink sloshed loudly as he lifted the bottle and toasted the sky. He mumbled something about seeing people for who they really where, and the tried to take a deep drink, only to end up splashing his face and missing his mouth entirely.  Lying prone and trying to drink while drunk, in hindsight, was not the wisest action.  He let out a bitter laugh at that thought.  Gold hasn’t been acting very wise recently as it was, and it was all the fault of that damned Isobelle Avonlea and her smile.

“Belle.”  He whispered to no one, the alcohol making him weepy as tears threatened to spill from his eyes.

He was a fool to ever think anyone could feel warmly towards him, of course it had been nothing but a ruse.  She had seemed so honest and kind; and he’d fallen for it as surely as he’d fallen to the ground a moment ago.

When she and her father had moved to the small town he all but owned he had paid them little mind; Maurice Avonlea was a good tenant if a little prone to drinking and gambling a bit too much at the local pub.  But he and his daughter ran their little flower stall and made enough to pay their loan and rent on time as well as afford the indulgence, so Gold hadn’t thought of them much.  That was a lie, he’d been thinking about Isobelle from the moment he’d first seen her. She’d been holding a bouquet of fragrant flowers and selling each bloom for a half penny.  One of the local children had been shy in approaching her, but she had bent down with a kind smile and offered the sweet blossom for free. Gold had scoffed at her foolishness.  Flowers were her family’s livelihood; they wouldn’t last long if they gave them away for free.

Gold hadn’t had much time to dwell on that thought, for just as he was about to turn away she looked up and smiled at him.  He froze in place, taken aback by the sweetness of the look.  She had to be looking at someone else, but when he turned to look behind him there was no one else there.  When he looked back at her she had covered her mouth to no doubt stifle a giggle at his clear bewilderment.  With the same hand she gestured for him to come to her, and without his permission his feet had obeyed.

In the following months, Isobelle, Belle, had been a bright spark of light in the terrible and dark ocean of his life.  It wasn’t just her beauty that drew him to her; he had seen many a pretty face in his years of life.  No, it was more than that, she was kind and gentle and clever as well.  She laughed at his darker quips and challenged him with her own.  The soft silk of her skin and voice hid a will of steel and a core of passion.  That passion had been his down fall, how could anyone as perfect as Belle ever truly want him?  That thought had been his constant companion while he courted her, but she had seemed more then receptive to his presence.  So he had continued until the voice of doubt and fear had been nothing but a whisper.  He was a fool.

Belle didn’t love him, she never had.  That morning he’d planned to propose to her, but the words had never left his lips. Instead when he had found her she had taken his hand and lead him away from the village.  She’d kissed him and ran her hands through his hair, asking him to do to her what only those that were married should experience.  Damn fool that he was, he had eagerly agreed, hadn’t he gone to find her to ask for her hand in marriage?  What was the harm in an indulgence?

The harm was that it had been nothing but a trick to get him to marry her.  Maurice had come across them just as he was pushing up her skirt and she undid his britches.  Instead the anger bellows of a father that had caught a man taking advantage of his only daughter he had laughed cruelly and said the words that had both broken Gold’s heart and solidified his worst fears into reality.

“Good job, my girl, now the bastard has to marry you.”

She had tried to lie to him, to tell him that her father was drunk and being unkind, but he wouldn’t listen to her.  Instead he had thrown the ring he’d planned to give her as an engagement present at her feet.  He would have married her for love; if she hadn’t been so grasping and greedy he would have waited at the end of an aisle for her and pledged his soul to her along with his wealth.  Now no such thing would happen.  If she was so intent on his wealth she could have it, what use for gold and silver did have when it felt as if his heart had slowly and painfully been ripped from his chest.

Gold had left as she held her unlaced jerkin together and cried in front of the ring he’d flung at her.  Blind rage had given away to bone deep sorrow and both had been muddled together once he’d began drinking.  Hours later a walk had seemed like a good idea, so now he was lying in a field with a broken heart and a fine jacket soaked with both rain and whiskey.

The sound of footsteps broke the quiet night and for one irrational moment he betrayed himself and wished it was Belle, come to explain everything away and help him up. He let out a disgusted noise at his own patheticness and ignored the sounds.  It didn’t matter who it was, it could a French battalion come to invade for all he cared; nothing would rouse him from this spot.  The footsteps drew nearer and he closed his eyes, perhaps they wouldn’t see him.  He wished no one could see him, if he simple didn’t exist them he wouldn’t be in so much pain.  The steps stopped beside him, and without really meaning to he opened one eye to see who it was by his side.

Instead of a man or woman or even a beast he found himself looking up at the sickening and twisted smile of an imp.  His skin glittered like damp moss and mud found at the edges of sluggish streams, his teeth were as crooked and dirty as his hair was wild and tangled.  The blood in Gold’s veins ran cold as he looked at the terrible creature in front of him.  He couldn’t move; he was pinned down by the cold reptilian eyes that were looking at him with clear intrigue.

“Hello, Ruskin Gold.”  It said nastily.  “It seems you’re lucky to have met me.”  Gold’s mouth moved but no sound left him.  The creature let out a wicked giggle and tapped its fingers together.  “Forgotten how to speak have you?  Fine, then listen to me.”

“What…?”  Gold tried, finally finding his voice. Dreaming, he must be dreaming.

“Ah, ah, ah, you had your chance Ruskin Gold, I’ll be talking now.”  The imp said, barring his teeth.  With a wave of his hand Gold felt himself begin to rise off the ground. Blood rushed to his head as he found himself upright and he tried to stay standing.  Maybe he wasn’t dreaming, maybe he was just drunker then he thought. He didn’t have long to think on this, the imp was talking again and he felt it was important to listen.  “I need you to do something for me, and if you succeed you will be richly rewarded, but if you fail you’ll disappear!”  He giggled menacingly.  “Seems you’ll get what you want either way.”

“I-I don’t want to disappear.”  Gold said, a shiver of fear dripping down his spine like ice water.

“No?  Then you best bury this,”  The imp flourished his hand and held out his palm, a wavy dagger suddenly there.  “Before dawn.”

Headless of the mess it would make of his hands Gold fell to the ground and began to paw at the dirt to make a hole that would fit the wicked weapon.  He stopped when the horrible creature began to laugh.

“What?  What am I doing wrong?”  Gold begged, desperation making him tremble.

“This is no mere knife; it needs a special place to permanently rest.”  His smile was more a sneer then a grin when he leaned down.  “Do you know a place like that?”

Gold grabbed the dagger from the imps hand and jumped to his feet.  He began to run as fast as his legs could carry him.  He wasn’t running from the imp, he had heard the stories of the fae; he knew it would be pointless.  Instead he wanted to wash his hands of it as soon as he could; there were several places he thought could be worthy of burying the blade, but the sun would be up in a matter of hours and those places might not be acceptable. His lungs burned as he ran, his feet slipping on the wet grass under his feet, but he didn’t stop until he reached the first place that had come to mind.

There was a light burning in the cemetery and Gold stopped up short when he entered the yard only to find the imp sharing a drink with a skeleton as they sat in front of a fire. Drunk and dreaming, that could be the only explanation.  His shoulders began to relax as he caught his breath, he didn’t need to hurry if he were soon to wake up.  The imp looked at him with his nasty smile once more and Gold decided that he would hurry anyway.  He moved to take a step into the graveyard but was stopped when the skeleton stood.

“We’re all full here.”  It rasped. “You’ll have to find another spot.”

The next few spots he tried were the same.  A band of ghosts had taken up residence under the large tree he thought would make a good resting place.  When he tried to approach them they told him to move on, there was no room among the roots of the tree to hold another treasure.  Ghouls and goblins were in the next places he tried and soon the sky was beginning to lighten with the rising sun.  He’d run himself ragged. His hands were stained with dirt and he had nothing to show for it.  Limping after twisting his ankle he made his way to Belle’s house, he didn’t care if it had been a lie, if he was going to disappear then he wanted to see her once last time.

Resting against her window seal he stabbed the source of his distress into the ground and looked through the window.  Across the room from him was Belle’s bed, in the dark he couldn’t see her very well, but he knew she was as beautiful as always.  Yet, he could just make out the moue of distress.  Her face, instead of being at peace and smooth with sleep was marred by a wrinkled brow and down turn of her plush lips.

“Oh Belle.” He whispered.  “Oh, Belle, I’m so sorry, I truly was a fool, but not for the reasons I thought.”  His face grew wet with tears as he sobbed at the window of the woman he loved.

Dawn came and went with him there as he cried, but he paid no mind to it until he noticed Belle began to rouse from her sleep.  He gasped as she stood and walked towards him.  He looked over his shoulder to confirm the sun was up and then back at her; he was still here, he hadn’t disappeared.  Joy bubbled up and he let out a laugh and stood to tell Belle he loved her. Only for that delight to disappear as she looked through him like he was nothing but air.  He closed his eyes and looked away; he had no more tears left.

“Come,”  The imp said from behind him.  Gold looked at the outstretched hand.  “It seems you’ve gotten your wish to disappear, so now it’s time I show you something important.”

“What more could be left?”  Gold replied, feeling haggard.

“You’ll see.” The dark creature giggled.

There was nothing else left to for him to do, so with one last forlorn look at his beloved he followed the imp.  They didn’t walk for long, instead once they had gotten to the main road they stopped and waited as the sun began to rise higher into the sky, but as it did Gold began to notice the way the world changed around him.  Gone was the quaint little village he called home, and in its place was a dark and dingy parody.  The cobble streets had fallen into disarray and all the shops had seen better days.  Soon people began to walk along the road, all of them too thin and pale to be healthy.  He recognized most of them, although their faces had aged and their hair had turned silver.  Misery seemed to have settled into the very bones of those that lived there.

That was until a large man rode down the street.  He was dressed in a fine red coat and his horse was clearly better fed than anyone else he had seen.  The man oozed wealth but Gold had never seen him before.  Turning to the imp he noticed the creature was smiling at him with narrowed eyes.

“Who is that?” Gold asked.  “What happened to this place?  It was thriving only yesterday.”

“Ah, but this isn’t yesterday, this is years and years into a future where you’ve disappeared. Dreary place, isn’t it?”  He replied nastily.

“And that man? Why is he so much better off than everyone else?” Gold demanded.  How could this have happened?  All from just he being gone?

“That man is their landlord.”  The imp replied.  “After you disappeared there was no will and no heirs to be found, so your lawyer sold everything you owned and this man bought the towns debts.”

“That doesn’t explain why he is so well fed while everyone else starves.”  Gold snapped.

“Doesn’t it?”  His guide asked.  “When you guard your coin like a dragon guard’s gold? Don’t you think that there are others that are as greedy as you?”

“I am always fair.” He defended.  “I take only what can be afforded.”

“I wonder if the townspeople would agree.”  The imp hummed.

Gold scoffed and turned away and back to the scene in front of him.  The town had come more alive as he’d argued with the fairy creature. Merchants opened their stalls and others wheeled their carts into the street, one of which was Belle.  His heart leapt up to his throat when he saw her. She was as beautiful as ever, but the years had taken their toll.  His Belle was too thin to be healthy, her cheeks were sunken in and her skin was sallow with malnourishment.  She had a streak of white in her hair that came with age but he couldn’t help but wish to reach out and play with it.  Belle would always be beautiful no matter what, but seeing that she had suffered made him feel as if his chest has been ripped open.  It didn’t matter that she’d only spent time with him because she wanted his money, if his wealth could have kept her healthy he would have given it all to her.

“Belle.”  He whispered, trying to reach out to her as she made her wears ready for the day.  “Belle I’m sorry.”  But she couldn’t see or hear him.

“Ah, Isobelle.” A voice called from behind him. Gold turned to see the wealthy man in red dismount from his horse and swagger towards Belle.

“Hello, Mr. Gaston.” Belle replied with a weary nod. Gold couldn’t help but notice she didn’t smile at this man.

“Have you given any thought to my proposal?”  The man, Gaston asked.

Gold closed his eyes.  Of course Belle would have moved on to the new richest man in town.  Hadn’t he had that spelt out to him very clearly just the day before?  He knew Belle’s true character now, it didn’t matter how much he thought he knew her.

“You know my answer, Mr. Gaston.”  Belle replied her lips thinning unhappily.  “I’m waiting for someone to come back, so for the last time I will not now, or ever, marry you.”  Gold looked at her in confusion, who could she be waiting for.

Gaston laughed as if she’d told him the funniest joke in the world.  “That again?  Gold isn’t coming back; he was swept away by the fae, or drowned himself in the river. You’ll be waiting forever for him to return.”

“Then I’ll wait forever.”  Belle said, tilting her chin up defiantly.

Him?  She was waiting for him?  Gold fell to his knees before her, his hands passing through her skirts as if he were nothing but a ghost.  He’d been wrong, he’d been so very wrong, and now he would never have the chance to make it right.  Before he had thought he had no more tears, but that seemed to have been another mistake he’d made.  Now he found himself openly weeping.  He didn’t notice when the world around him changed again, or when the sun seemed to arc backwards across the sky, nor did he notice when he was no longer weeping in the streets but rather under the window he had been previously.  All the world was lost to him until he felt a brush of something through his hair.  He looked up in shock the most beautiful set of blue eyes staring at him.

“Ruskin?”  She said her eyes widening in shock.  His own eyes widened and he stood with a laugh reaching out and pulling her into his arms.  “What happened to you?”  Belle asked as he clung to her.

Pulling back he looked down at himself at her words; he really did look a fright.  His coat was stained with mud and grass and his hair was wilder then the imps had been.  No doubt his eyes were also red from his lack of sleep and too much whiskey, but he had never felt more grateful for the beginning of a hangover.

“A dream,”  He replied.  “It must have been a dream, but oh Belle!  I thought I’d never see you again!”  Gold reached out again and grabbed her hands through the window and she let out a surprised noise.

“I thought that was what you wanted, after how cruelly you spoke to me yesterday.” Belle removed her hands from his and crossed her arms, eyeing him wearily.  “Or has your dream made you forget?”

“No, no Belle, I haven’t forgotten, I was a beast to you, I’m sorry.  You didn’t deserve those words.  I was a fool and a coward; I thought no one could love me and now I’m afraid I’ve ruined the only good thing that’s happened to me.”  He said the words spilling out in a flow of honesty he’d never experienced before.

“Ruskin, are you alright?  You don’t seem yourself.”  Belle asked worriedly, reaching through the window to press her hand to his forehead to check for a fever.

“Oh but I am.” He reassured her, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it.  “I see things for as they truly are, Belle.”  Gold told her, taking a deep breath he feel to his knees.  “Marry me Belle, not for any other reason that I love you, and I hope that you love me too.”

Gold watched as Belle climbed out of her window in her nightgown and kneeled in the mud beside him, staining the knees of her white cotton dress.  She took his face in her hands and pulled him in, her lips capturing his in a deep searching kiss.  When she pulled back she smiled at him in a way that would make angels weep from its beauty.

“Of course I love you,”  She whispered.  “I’ve loved you for so long!”

“Then will you marry me?”  He begged.

“Yes, we have a lot to talk about, but yes, I’ll marry you.”  Belle said, tears forming in her eyes.

Gold pulled her to him and kissed her again, neither of them hearing the soft mischievous giggle on the wind, as they did.

[owlways-and-forever]

As You Fade From View

Authors Note: Based on this prompt from @h0lyheadharpies about Sirius falling through the veil into a parallel universe. Don’t really have any other notes. Hope you all enjoy! Word Count: 3200 Links: ff.net, ao3

Bellatrix sent a jet of red light at Sirius head and he ducked, laughing. He knew it would infuriate her, his dear cousin had always hated being mocked. Sirius also knew that while fury fired Bellatrix up for a fight, it also made her erratic, and if he could just throw her off balance…

“Come on, you can do better than that!” he taunted, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Bellatrix growled in response, and Sirius smiled, he was so close, any minute now she would lose it and start fighting more like a rabid animal than an intellectual dueler. Sirius opened his mouth again, another taunt bubbling on his lips, but another jet of red light hit him squarely in the chest before the words could spill forth. He felt himself lose control of his body as the stunning spell took effect and he fell backwards. He passed through something very warm, like a curtain of steam, and then hit the ground hard.

Sirius felt pain spread through his tailbone, and instinctively rubbed his hand over it as he sat up. It took a few seconds for him to realize that he should not be able to run his hands over anything. He had been stunned, he shouldn’t be able to move. Alarmed, Sirius looked at his surroundings, even more surprised to find that he was no longer in the Department of Mysteries. He recognized his new surroundings immediately, and they sent a pang of sorrow through his heart. It was Godric’s Hollow, the fountain in the center square to be precise.

Sirius looked around in confusion. How had he gotten here? Perhaps something in the Department of Mysteries had been a portkey. But then how had the stunning spell been lifted? A portkey would not do that. Sirius pushed himself to his feet and stepped closer to the fountain, staring at his reflection in the water. His face looked younger, with fewer lines and softer edges, as though the weight of grief and sorrow had been lifted from his body.

“Hey, you okay?” a voice said from behind him, and Sirius closed his eyes as he recognized it with ease. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw that Remus too looked younger, less troubled.

“This is wrong,” Sirius said, gesturing toward the fountain, and he turned to look at it once more, as Remus slid his arm around his waist. “This shouldn’t be a fountain, they took it out. They were going to build a monument, I read about it in the Prophet.”

“I didn’t see that, but I suppose they just haven’t started construction yet,” Remus answered, and Sirius saw Remus’ reflection give him a curious look.

“No, it was thirteen years ago, after the first anniversary,” Sirius insisted, running a hand through his curls.

“I don’t know, love, maybe they just decided not build it after all,” Remus shrugged, and Sirius flashed him an odd and somewhat irritated look. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

“Late for what?” Sirius asked, his confusion mounting.

“Where’s your costume, mister?” a little boy asked as he ran by, pausing to cock his head at Sirius.

“He’s going to put it on at our friend’s house,” Remus assured the young boy, and he ran off, seemingly satisfied. “You did bring a costume, right?”

“A costume? Why would I have a costume? Remus we were just fighting –”

“I know we were, but I thought we could put that aside tonight for Harry’s sake,” Remus hissed. “Can’t you just enjoy taking your godson trick or treating?”

Sirius looked around him again, taking in more details than he had before. In addition to looking younger, he and Remus were wearing different clothes than they had been at the Department of Mysteries. The air was cool and crisp, far different from the heat he had felt when he’d left for the Ministry. Leaves rustled as they skipped across the ground in the wind, and down one of the side streets, Sirius could hear the sound of excited children.

“It’s Halloween?” Sirius said, more to himself than to Remus, as pieces of the puzzle began to fit together in his mind.

“Yes, of course it is, stop acting strange,” Remus answered. “Come on, James and Lily are waiting for us and if we don’t go soon, it’ll be too late to take Harry out.”

Remus didn’t wait for Sirius to reply as he turned and began walking down the street that led to the Potter’s cottage. Sirius considered all the evidence in front of him and came to a conclusion that distressed him more than he could say. He must be dead, and this was the afterlife. Sirius had never really believed in heaven and hell. The Black family was not particularly religious, and even if they had been, how could Sirius ever believe in a god after the kind of childhood he’d had? It was the only thing that made sense, the only way he could possibly be with James and Lily. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, clearly not the stunning spell, but perhaps he had hit his head hard enough when he fell…

Oh god, Harry, Sirius thought, and his heart clenched painfully. His godson would be devastated at his loss, and the fifteen-year old had already been through so much. The idea of Harry suffering made Sirius’ heart ache, and he felt an almost desperate desire to get back to him. How did one become a ghost? He had never much liked the idea of becoming a ghost, but if it meant not leaving Harry alone, it would be worth it. And Remus too… Sirius realized, if Remus was here, it must mean that something had happened to him too. There was something fitting about Remus dying moments after himself, in the same battle, but thinking of Remus’ death made him hurt in indescribable ways. He wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to know what happened to Remus – he could imagine well enough, Remus charging Bellatrix when he saw Sirius fall, leaving himself vulnerable to a killing curse.

Remus stopped walking at the gate leading to James and Lily’s house, his hand resting on the wood. It was exactly as Sirius remembered, and yet not. The hedge was about shoulder height, perfect to keep prying eyes from seeing little Harry flying around on his training broom. The stone of the house was neat, though here and there ivy climbed the cracks. James had hated the ivy, always saying he was going to take it down, but Lily loved it, she had thought it made the place feel more homey. The house looked different from the last time he had seen it though. The gate was hanging properly, not from its hinges, latched closed, and the door was not blasted ajar. On the second floor, the walls continued normally, when Sirius vividly remembered the wall of the nursery having been blasted apart, leaving broken studs visible. Perhaps the biggest difference, however, was the three individuals sitting on the front doorstep.

James, with his messy black hair, was holding Harry, and Lily sat beside them, one hand resting lightly on James’ thigh as she smiled at her son. After a moment, she looked up and waved warmly at them, her green eyes sparkling welcomingly.

“You made it!” she exclaimed, rushing forward to hug them as Remus pushed open the gate.

Sirius felt his eyes well up as Lily’s arms wrapped around him, the familiar scent of her perfume wafting over him. It had been so long.

“Sirius? What’s wrong?” Lily asked him, suddenly alarmed. He hadn’t even realized that a few tears had fallen.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he answered, nearly whispering.

“Missed us?” she replied, shooting Remus a concerned look. “You were here a few days ago, Sirius.”

“It’s alright, Lily, you don’t have to pretend to ease me into it or anything, I know what’s going on,” Sirius stated, pulling away from her and looking at James. “I know I’ve died. I just don’t understand why it’s like this.”

“Died? Sirius, no one’s died!” James interjected, alarmed.

“It’s fine, James, really,” Sirius insisted. “I don’t regret it, I was fighting to save Harry from the Death Eaters, there’s no more worthy cause –”

“Death Eaters?” Remus interrupted, and he, James and Lily all exchanged confused and concerned looks. “What are Death Eaters and why would they be after Harry?”

Sirius stopped and looked at his friends, noting the concern that laced their features. They were all regarding him as though he was a bomb about to go off, something alarming and unpredictable.

“How can you not know? Voldemort, he killed you, and now you can’t even remember who he is?”

“We’re not dead, mate,” James said, holding onto Harry a little tighter. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but no bloke named Voldemort’s ever tried to hurt us.”

Sirius paused, looking at everything in front of him. It made no sense – if they were all dead, James and Lily should remember everything that had happened still, just as he did. And why would baby Harry be in the afterlife, when he had very clearly survived the attack? Something wasn’t adding up.

“Are your parents joining us?” Sirius asked James, testing a new theory.

“No, of course not, mate, my parents… they’ve been gone for a couple months now,” James answered, his voice catching a little bit, and he looked down at Harry, running his hand over the infant’s head.

That settled the matter – he couldn’t possibly be dead. If this were the afterlife, then anyone who was dead would be alive to them. James’ parents had indeed died a few months before their son, so they would have to be here if it were the afterlife. The fact that they weren’t, that this James’ parents were dead too, meant that something else was going on.

“Right, yeah, I meant Lily’s parents,” Sirius recovered quickly, and Lily took a deep breath.

“No, Petunia convinced my parents that they should spend Halloween with their son,” Lily said, sounding slightly bitter.

“I’m sorry, Lils,” Remus replied, stepping forward to hug his friend. It seemed that even in this reality, things between Lily and Petunia were quite tense.

“Hey, you guys don’t happen to have a copy of today’s Prophet, do you?” Sirius asked, trying his best to sound casual.

“Not today’s, but I think we still have yesterday’s paper,” James shrugged, handing Harry off to Lily and leading Sirius inside.

They went to the kitchen, where James dug through a pile of parchment and extracted the previous day’s Daily Prophet, handing it to Sirius. He looked at the headlines, flipping through quickly. Every article looked benign, nothing that he remembered seeing, no sign of the events he remembered happening. In the week leading up to his Lily and James’ deaths, the wizarding world had been buzzing about the disappearance of Benjy Fenwick, but there was no mention of it in this paper. There was simply no way this could be the same reality that he had lived in.

“James,” Sirius ventured cautiously, unsure of how his friend would react, “do you believe in parallel universes?”

“You mean like a place where everything is the same except for one thing?” James clarified, sitting down at the kitchen table.

“Yeah, only one change can have a huge effect,” Sirius persisted, and James nodded.

“The butterfly effect,” he agreed. “I guess it’s possible, I don’t know, mate. There’s no evidence of it, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen.”

“I think… I think I’m the proof,” Sirius said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“What?” James gasped.

“I think I’m from a parallel universe,” Sirius explained, sitting down next to James. “Or this is the parallel universe, I don’t know, I’m not sure if one is more real than another, but this is not the place that I lived in.”

“How so?” James questioned. To Sirius’ relief, he sounded more curious than disbelieving. “I mean, what are the differences?”

“There was this wizard –”

“Voldemort.”

“Yeah, he was pretty evil, bout as bad as it gets,” Sirius explained. “He fueled all the pure blood mania, and he killed anyone who opposed him. The Death Eaters were his supporters, the nearest and dearest who completely believed that muggles and muggleborns were scum and deserved to die. Regulus was one of them. We were a part of an order that fought against them, you me, Remus, Lily. Voldemort, he… for some reason he got into his head that you and Lily, and Harry, were the biggest threat to his power. He went after you and he…”

“He killed us,” James finished, when Sirius could no longer go on with his story.

“Yeah,” Sirius confirmed. “But Harry survived. He lived, and he brought down Voldemort, for a time at least. But now he’s back and Harry’s fighting him again.”

“How old is he now?” James asked. “In your world. How old was he when we died?”

“He’s almost sixteen,” Sirius answered, the first bit of the information easier to share than the second. “The night you died… it was tonight.”

“Oh my god…”

“Hey, James, he’s fine,” Sirius reassured his best friend. “He turned out great, I mean you would be so proud of him.”

“James?” Lily poked her head around the doorway, baby Harry perched on her hip, happily stuffing his fist in his mouth. “If we don’t go soon, it’ll be too late.”

“Yeah, of course, let’s go,” James said, shaking his head as if to clear away the cobwebs of the conversation he had just been having, and he stood up, reaching out for his son. “You’re still coming, right?”

“Of course he is,” Lily said, smiling. “We can’t have Halloween without our son’s godfather, especially since he bought Harry’s costume.”

For the first time, Sirius looked closely at Harry’s outfit. He had on sky blue robes, with navy pants underneath, and a shirt that had large navy and sky blue checkers on it. Emblazoned on the chest of the robes were too small, overlapping Ts. James picked up a little broomstick as well, the small toy one Sirius had given Harry for his birthday.

“Well I do have excellent taste in costumes,” Sirius smiled. “Are you sure it’s okay to take him out in that around muggles though?”

“Yeah, yeah, the costume is charmed to look like some muggle football team to muggles,” James answered, waving nonchalantly.

“Right, makes sense,” Sirius nodded.

“Which team?” Remus asked, entering the kitchen with a smile.

“Er, West Ham, I think,” James answered with a shrug. As a Pureblood wizard, muggle football teams meant next to nothing to him. “Does it matter?”

“Well they could have at least picked a decent team, like Villa,” Remus joked, and Sirius rolled his eyes.

“Boys, no fighting,” Lily interrupted, before Sirius could answer.

They all followed Lily out of the house and proceeded down the street. With each house, the group walked up to the door and rapped on the wood, Harry squealing with delight. Some of the houses had Halloween decorations that made noises when you got close or lit up, and a few people even hid in their own bushes and jumped out to surprise the visitors. Each time, Harry squealed and laughed, a light, happy sound that made Sirius’ heart soar.

As they walked through Godric’s Hollow, they chatted about little things in their lives. Lily was thinking about going back to work, and thought it might be good for James to do the same thing. They were rich enough not to, to be sure, but neither one of them were suited to sitting at home endlessly. James, on the other hand, protested that they had plenty of time for work in the future, and for now he wanted to focus on having more children. He wanted Harry to have brothers and sisters, lots of them, and he wanted them to be close in age. Lily was less sure about it. It made sense, given their background – as an only child, James had always craved siblings, but Lily’s experience with Petunia had left her wary of the idea. Remus said he had been offered a job through St Mungo’s. They wanted him to work in counseling patients who could not be fully healed from their illnesses and injuries. It was a dream come true for him, to have an employer who knew of his condition and embrace it, seeing in it the possibility to help other people. Sirius remained quiet for most of the conversation, congratulating the others when it was called for, and adding suggestions or advice, but he offered no details of his own life.

“Sirius, do you want to hold Harry for a bit?” Lily offered as they began to walk back to their house.

“Oh, I don’t know…” Sirius blanched, wanting to decline. He had had precious few opportunities to hold his Harry when he was a baby, and it had been so long since then. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Oh go on, you’ll be fine, he’s tougher than the looks,” James said, nodding to encourage Sirius.

Lily held the infant out, and Sirius cautiously took him into his arms, settling him against his chest. Harry yawned and nuzzled his head into Sirius’ neck, and suddenly Sirius could no longer hold back his tears. He rubbed his free hand around Harry’s back, and the infant closed his eyes sleepily.

“Sirius, are you alright, mate?” James asked, looking at him with concern.

“Yeah, I just…” he looked up at James, their eyes meeting, and an understanding seemed to pass between them.

That night, having his best friends back and seeing what life could have been like for all of them if Voldemort had not destroyed everything, it had been a dream. He wanted so badly to stay, to forget his other life, his time in Azkaban and live in this world, where his best friends would get to see their kid grow up, and he would have a life with the man he’d always wanted. But it also reminded him of everything that had happened in the other world, and had reminded him that while he might have lost a lot in his reality, so had Harry, and Harry needed him. He couldn’t let his godson lose someone else. It was his duty, as Harry’s godfather, to look out for him. He had failed at that for 12 years, but he couldn’t do it anymore. His entire world was Harry. This Harry would be fine. Part of Sirius craved seeing this Harry grow up, but he knew in his heart that it was not what he was meant for.

“I have to get back to my Harry. He’s alone, he needs me. I can’t leave him, not again, it would crush him. And I have to protect him. James, I’m sorry, but I have to get back to my world.”

[autoirishlitdiscourses]

Discourse of Tuesday, 15 May 2018

I'll see you in section. Often, a published paper. However, these are very rare A and F grades, but rather that colonialism is always patronizing, in a more natural-appearing and impassioned delivery. Can't bring back time. I doubt anyone will object strongly. We mustn't be led away by words, by sounds of words. It's not that you were very minor preposition substitutions. You picked a good weekend; I'll see you next week in section tonight, anyway. You allowed the group, did a very strong delivery. I can't speak for everyone is a specific claim about the way to move the discussions of your finals and activities! I didn't hear this: Ultimately, I will throw you one in your discussion notes by the question of what you actually get from the second line of thought into your recording have no one else is planning substantial areas of thematic overlap is the specificity of your performance. Don't worry about whether your helicopter parents are doing poorly and taking the class? Here is what would constitute good textual choices are motivated by the final exam. Let me know and I'll give it the attention it deserves on that section attendance and participation will probably involve providing at least somewhat. —4.

You did a good selection, in relation to your section, or Eavan Boland, and I wanted to let that guide you into your paper and you did a good Halloween! We feel in England believe on line 648; changed The proud potent titles in line 657; dropped the paper and would almost certainly already know about the way that it can feel to a specific point about McCabe having a more specific about what your central argument? Well done on this. There are plenty of examples, but I'm sending this. If you haven't lived up to a copy of the Triffids, Cormac McCarthy's The Road, Jose Saramago's Blindness, and the very end of section, not writing a second-generation descent of emigrants who left Nigeria but who lives in Ireland and Irish currency on the section hits its average level of comfort and interest, and Dexter here. VI.

For one thing that leaves me feeling unsatisfied about your future endeavors, and listens to a strong knowledge of the Stare's nest is that it's important to you here. Let me know what you want to make large cognitive leaps immediately, you should pick from the book it appears on your way to get into South Hall 2432E. Let's stop talking for four minutes, and I know to the play, or if I can get people to discuss the general uses and symbolic values of the handout linked above was prepared for a paper option that's this far, and an estimate based on the list are represented by the victims and requires not just to study for a job well done! I also suspect that these are pretty small errors, but it does good things to say in here, and need to buy yourself some breathing room this week, though: remember that essay. I also think that your own reading of the text affects me approach often falls short because the email that I would be to conform more closely to the text can be a fallback plan. After restriction for MLA conformance: B-81. Again, thank you for doing such a good Halloween! These are all very small but very well be that this is often a major theme of crime drama: the professor. One of these headers for both of them are problem-free. To be more comfortable with the way that shows you paid close attention to the poem.

Nice job on the midterm would result in further disciplinary action. None of the anxiety of influence in your guitar performances this quarter and absolutely capable of doing this. Alternately, it sounds to me like you know what works for you that there is a fairly natural relationship well.

5%, although it's never bad to have you down to size by thinking about how you might choose, prepare a short section from one of strong-poet to the rest of the nine options; he also wrote the shortest acceptable one, and you accomplished a lot in section this quarter, so I hope you have received a boost of a report. I thought would be necessary to try to incorporate alongside of it as 1. I think you gloss over anything, she was excellent. Besides, even if you don't send it, because if you have some very minor deviations from standard American punctuation and grammar and phrasing at all that you had thought a good student this quarter, and again your comments and passages from the recitation, and I cannot fully explain to anyone any part of a lack of Irish culture is a very thoughtful and does a very good readings here that are not other ways to narrow it down. So, I think, to be directly to the bleeded potato-stalks; and/or the professor, but not necessarily a bad move, are excellent choices—but rather attempts to gloss over particularly difficult to find expressions for your paper so that I'd be less behind and have marked it as coming in on time or manage to pick them up today, actually, because I think that this is quite a strong and, as well. Hi!

I think that you made the largest overall benefit to the connections between the poem I've heard it before, you did so quite gracefully, actually, but you did a very high B in the back of your analysis is for most students the last line. 59 instead of answering your own shortcomings and that asking a group to respond to each other, he helps several police officers to solve crimes based not only against your own responses, but you added to the stage, take a more specific way. Thanks! Good luck on the exam, not a fair grade for the jugular. However, if you go over, but some students may not, however.

This doesn't change the basic parameters are what you actually want to review that document anyway, but if there is also potentially interesting ways by a group that's often been painfully silent this quarter! Thanks, too, if you'd like to be even more than twelve lines in front of the play set? Have a good weekend and I'll let you know, and you should look at what other people to be unable to get the earlier work, we could meet on campus instead of asserting X, whereas a B. You should use standard MLA citations probably to the stage, take the exam, research paper will articulate and have notes even brief ones directing people to categorize and think about other playwrights, filmmakers, etc. Welcome! The Road, Jose Saramago's Blindness, and to Bloom's thoughts. On the paper to pay off as a lens to examine evidence in a competition that valorizes certain characteristics by denying the opportunity to cover, refreshing everyone's memory on the essay. Alternately, you may want to pick for you. —Part of being fair to Yeats's The Song of Wandering Aengus but that would be highly unusual to accomplish a single paper. The/performance/recitation/discussion assignment, takes the safe path never pays off on the midterm returns to Tuesday, October 10. It took the section website and see whether I can help you in the paper as coming in on Wednesday evenings and bring in, first-out argument that you're dealing with them, in this regard, because this is a holiday resulting in campus closure is part of the twentieth century, and how it was more lecture-oriented. Could never like it passes differently when you're up in discussion you'll notice that the thesis statement at the final. 5%, although that is difficult selection, in turn, based on nine weeks of class, with no explanation of the text as someone else in your section. Again, very important aspects of some aspects of your grade further, on the final. Is there something about love in Who Goes with Fergus? You presented some good questions, OK? VIII. Her Lover are very rare A and F grades, explained somewhat in the propagandistic nature of the passage as a discussion of The Butcher Boy, you'd just need a copy for my records, but that you are of course I'll still take it; if the first place you might take here would help to focus your analysis should be adaptable in terms of why Joyce does this figure become significant at the beginning of my observations are based on the Aran Islands no photos, though I think that clarifying this would be most helpful at this point. There were ways in which this could conceivably boost your overall score for base grade is OK, too, that field is blank. You two worked effectively as a mutual antagonism based in what their common thread is, I think that it's come to an X and/or where you need to do evil. I told him that he understood the characters who question whether the walkers should be a constant problem throughout the quarter and has a goatee. Another potential difficulty that you could be squeezed in most ways, and exhibiting solicitous concern for emotions that they each see themselves as being entitled to. Hi! Grammar and mechanics are mostly solid, though this is often accomplished associatively rather than overwhelmingly vomitous and intimidating. For the sake of doing even better quality, but you picked a good strategy for this portion of your mind about how you're feeling, and it may improve your total grade for the midterm scores until Tuesday. O'Hanlon and, despite the odd misstep here and there, probably pick eight of ten minutes to get people moving in directions that dug down into smaller units and use standard citation methodology more carefully to do that Peets on Lower State and Coffee Cat are both bitter and mysterious, and let me know if you do will depend on what direction you want to talk about what you're doing. I'm sitting here grading papers, so let me know. You say that sometimes your section has already signed up for yourself is itself a thinking process that will help you to section and should elucidate some aspect of the play. Anyway, I supposed I'd have to do this a great deal more during quarters when students aren't doing a very strong delivery. How about 1 p. Again, thank you for a job well done. Participatory-ness, I think that practicing a bit in small ways, you've done a lot of reasons, I can attest from personal experience doesn't necessarily tell us? However, I think that making your evidence into a graceful larger-scale issues that you've dropped the paper is going to be leveraged carefully. 6:50, some people will have an 89. You've got some very impressive work here, and that this is the benefit of doing this. In any case, one of the text and how does O'Casey portray the Irish? /Please come to both of you had some important things to do you see the cause that Irish culture is a hilarious parody of military recruitment videos in an Eton suit.