#if not to evoke EVERY DISNEY PRINCE EVER

[mostlymovieswithmax]

Movies I watched in May

Sadly, I kind of skipped writing a post for April. It was a mad month with so much going on: lots of emails sent and lots of stress. I started a new job so I’m getting to grips with that... and even then, I still watched a bunch of movies. But this is about what I watched in May and, yeah… still a bunch. So if you’re looking to get into some other movies - possibly some you’ve thought about watching but didn’t know what they were like, or maybe like the look of something you’ve never heard of - then this may help! So here’s every film I watched from the 1st to the 31st of May 2021 Tenet (2020) - 8/10 This was my third time watching Christopher Nolan’s most Christopher Nolan movie ever and it makes no sense but I still love it. The spectacle of it all is truly like nothing I’ve ever seen. I had also watched it four days prior to this watch also, only this time I had enabled audio description for the visually impaired, thinking it would make it funny… It didn’t.

Nomadland (2020) - 6/10 Chloé Zhao’s new movie got a lot of awards attention. Everyone was hyped for this and when it got put out on Disney+ I was eager to see what all the fuss was about. Seeing these real nomads certainly gave the film an authenticity, along with McDormand’s ever-praisable acting. But generally I found it quite underwhelming and lacking a lot in its pacing. Nomadland surely has its moments of captivating cinematography and enticing commentary on the culture of these people, but it felt like it went on forever without any kind of forward direction or goal. The Prince of Egypt (1998) - 6/10 I reviewed this on my podcast, The Sunday Movie Marathon. For what it is, it’s pretty fun but nowhere near as good as some of the best DreamWorks movies.

Chinatown (1974) - 8/10 What a fantastic and wonderfully unpredictable mystery crime film! I regret to say I’ve not seen many Jack Nicholson performances but he steals the show. Despite Polanski’s infamy, it’d be a lie to claim this wasn’t truly masterful. Howl’s Moving Castle (2004) - 8/10 Admittedly I was half asleep as I curled up on the sofa to watch this again on a whim. I watched this with someone who demanded the dubbed version over the subtitled version and while I objected heavily, I knew I’d seen the movie before so it didn’t matter too much. That person also fell asleep about 20 minutes in, so how pointless an argument it was. Howl’s Moving Castle boasts superb animation, the likes of which I’ve only come to expect of Miyazaki. The story is so unique and the colours are absolutely gorgeous. This may not be my favourite from the legendary director but there’s no denying its splendour.

Bāhubali: The Beginning (2015) - 3/10 The next morning I watched some absolute trash. This crazy, over the top Indian movie is hilarious and I could perhaps recommend it if it weren’t so long. That being said, Bāhubali was not a dumpster fire; it has a lot of good-looking visual effects and it’s easy to see the ambition for this epic story, it just doesn’t come together. There’s fun to be had with how the main character is basically the strongest man in the world and yet still comes across as just a lucky dumbass, along with all the dancing that makes no sense but is still entertaining to watch. Seven Samurai (1954) - 10/10 If it wasn’t obvious already, Seven Samurai is a masterpiece. I reviewed this on The Sunday Movie Marathon podcast, so more thoughts can be found there. Red Road (2006) - 6/10 Another recommendation on episode 30 of the podcast. Red Road really captures the authentic British working class experience. Before Sunrise (1995) - 10/10 One of the best romances put to film. The first in Richard Linklater’s Before Trilogy is undoubtedly my favourite, despite its counterparts being almost equally as good. It tells the story of a young couple travelling through Europe, who happen to meet on a train and spend the day together. It is gloriously shot on location in Vienna and features some of the most interesting dialogue I’ve ever seen put to film. Heartbreakingly beautiful.

Tokyo Story (1953) - 9/10 This Japanese classic - along with being visually and sonically masterful - is a lot about appreciating the people in your life and taking the time to show them that you love them. It’s about knowing it’s never too late to rekindle old relationships if you truly want to, which is something I’ve been able to relate to in recent years. It broke my heart in two. Tokyo Story will make you want to call your mother. Before Sunset (2004) - 10/10 Almost a decade after Sunrise, Sunset carries a sombre yet relieving feeling. Again, the performances from Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke take me away, evoking nostalgic feelings as they stroll through the contemporary Parisian streets. There is no regret in me for buying the Criterion blu-ray boxset for this trilogy. Before Midnight (2013) - 10/10 Here, Linklater cements this trilogy as one of the best in film history. It’s certainly not the ending I expected, yet it’s an ending I appreciate endlessly. Because it doesn’t really end. Midnight shows the troubling times of a strained relationship; one that has endured so long and despite initially feeling almost dreamlike in how idealistically that first encounter was portrayed, the cracks appear as the film forces you to come to terms with the fact that fairy-tale romances just don’t exist. Relationships require effort and sacrifice and sometimes the ones that truly work are those that endure through all the rough patches to emerge stronger. The Holy Mountain (1973) - 10/10 Jodorowsky’s masterpiece is absolute insanity. I talked more about it on The Sunday Movie Marathon podcast.

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014) - 10/10 Another watch for Grand Budapest because I bought the Criterion blu-ray. As unalterably perfect as ever. Blue Jay (2016) - 6/10 Rather good up to a point. My co-hosts and I did not agree on how good this movie was, which is a discussion you can listen to on my podcast. Shadow and Bone: The Afterparty (2021) - 3/10 For what it’s worth, I really enjoyed the first season of Shadow and Bone, which is why I wanted to see what ‘The Afterparty’ was about. This could have been a lot better and much less annoying if all those terrible comedians weren’t hosting and telling bad jokes. I don’t want to see Fortune Feimster attempt to tell a joke about oiling her body as the cast of the show sit awkwardly in their homes over Zoom. If it had simply been a half hour, 45 minute chat with the cast and crew about how they made the show and their thoughts on it, a lot of embarrassment and time-wasting could have been spared. Wadjda (2012) - 6/10 Another recommendation discussed at length on The Sunday Movie Marathon. Wadjda was pretty interesting from a cultural perspective but largely familiar in terms of story structure.

Freddy Got Fingered (2001) - 2/10 A truly terrible movie with maybe one or two scenes that stop it from being a complete catastrophe. Tom Green tried to create something that almost holds a middle finger to everyone who watches it and to some that could be a fun experience, but to me it just came across as utterly irritating. It’s simply a bunch of scenes threaded together with an incredibly loose plot. He wears the skin of a dead deer, smacks a disabled woman over and over again on the legs to turn her on, and he swings a newborn baby around a hospital room by its umbilical cord (that part was actually pretty funny). I cannot believe I watched this again, although I think I repressed a lot of it since having seen it for the first time around five years ago. The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn - Part 1 - (2011) I have to say, these movies seem to get better with each instalment. They’re still not very good though. That being said, I’m amazed at how many times I’ve watched each of the Twilight movies at this point. This time around, I watched Breaking Dawn - Part 1 with a YMS commentary track on YouTube and that made the experience a lot more entertaining. Otherwise, this film is super dumb but pretty entertaining. I would recommend watching these movies with friends. Solaris (1972) - 8/10 Andrei Tarkovsky’s grand sci-fi epic about the emotional crises of a crew on the space station orbiting the fictional planet Solaris is much as strange and creepy as you might expect from the master Russian auter. I had wanted to watch this for a while so I bought the Criterion blu-ray and it’s just stunning. It’s clear to see the 2001: A Space Odyssey inspiration but Solaris is quite a different beast entirely. Jaws (1975) - 4/10 I really tried to get into this classic movie, but Jaws exhibits basically everything I don’t like about Steven Spielberg’s directing. For sure, the effects are crazily good but the story itself is poorly handled and largely uninteresting. It was just a massive slog to get through.

Darkman (1990) - 6/10 Sam Raimi’s superhero movie is so much fun, albeit massively stupid. Further discussion on Darkman can be found on episode 32 of The Sunday Movie Marathon podcast. Darkman II: The Return of Durant (1995) - 1/10 Abysmal. I forgot the movie as I watched it. This was part of a marathon my friends and I did for episode 32 of our podcast. Darkman III: Die Darkman Die (1996) - 1/10 Perhaps this trilogy is not so great after all. Only marginally better than Darkman II but still pretty terrible. More thoughts on episode 32 of my podcast. F For Fake (1973) - 8/10 Rewatching this proved to be a worthwhile decision. Albeit slightly boring, there’s no denying how crazy the story of this documentary about art forgers is. The standout however, is the director himself. Orson Welles makes a lot of this film about himself and how hot his girlfriend is and it is hilarious.

The Mitchells vs. The Machines (2021) - 4/10 More style over substance, Sony’s new animated adventure wants so much to be in trend with the current internet culture but it simply doesn’t understand what it’s emulating. There’s a nyan cat reference, for crying out loud. For every joke that works, there are about ten more that do not and were it not for the wonderful animation, it simply wouldn’t be getting so much praise. Taxi Driver (1976) - 10/10 The first movie I’ve seen in a cinema since 2020 and damn it was good to be back! I’ve already reviewed Taxi Driver in my March wrap-up but seeing it in the cinema was a real treat. Irreversible (2002) - 8/10 One of the most viscerally horrendous experiences I’ve ever had while watching a movie. I cannot believe a friend of mine gave me the DVD to watch. More thoughts on episode 32 of The Sunday Movie Marathon podcast. Don’t watch it with the family. The Golden Compass (2007) - 1/10 I had no recollection of this being as bad as it is. The Golden Compass is the definition of a factory mandated movie. Nothing it does on its own is worth any kind of merit. I would say, if you wanted an experience like what this tries to communicate, a better option by far is the BBC series, His Dark Materials. More of my thoughts can be found in the review I wrote on Letterboxd.

Antichrist (2009) - 8/10 Lars von Trier is nothing if not provocative and I can understand why someone would not like Antichrist, but I enjoyed it quite a lot. After watching it, I wrote a slightly disjointed summary of my interpretations of this highly metaphorical movie in the group chat, so fair warning for a bit of spoilers and graphic descriptions: It's like, the patriarchy, man! Oppression! Men are the rational thinkers with big brains and the women just cry and be emotional. So she's seen as crazy when she's smashing his cock and driving a drill through his leg to keep him weighted down. Like, how does he like it, ya know? So then she mutilates herself like she did with him and now they're both wounded, but the animals crowd around her (and the crow that he couldn't kill because it's Mother nature, not Father nature, duh). Then he kills her, even though she could've killed him loads of times but didn't. So it's like "haha big win for the man who was subjected to such horrific torture. Victory!" And then all the women with no faces come out of the woods because it's like a constant cycle. Manchester By The Sea (2016) - 6/10 Great performances in this super sad movie. I can’t say I got too much out of it though. Roar (1981) - 9/10 Watching Roar again was still as terrifying an experience as the first time. If you want to watch something that’s loose on plot with poor acting but with real big cats getting in the way of production and physically attacking people, look no further. This is the scariest movie I’ve ever seen because it’s all basically real. Cannot recommend it enough. Eyes Without A Face (1960) - 8/10 I’m glad I checked this old French movie out again. There’s a lot to marvel at in so many aspects, what with the premise itself - a mad surgeon taking the faces from unsuspecting women and transplanting them onto another - being incredibly unique for the time. Short, sweet and entertaining!

Se7en (1995) - 10/10 The first in a David Fincher marathon we did for The Sunday Movie Marathon, episode 33. Zodiac (2007) - 10/10 Second in the marathon, as it was getting late, we decided to watch half that evening and the last half on the following evening. Zodiac is a brilliant movie and you can hear more of my thoughts on the podcast (though I apologise; my audio is not the best in this episode). Gone Girl (2014) - 10/10 My favourite Fincher movie. More insights into this masterpiece in episode 33 of the podcast. Friends: The Reunion (2021) - 6/10 It was heartwarming to see the old actors for this great show together again. I talked about the Friends reunion film at length in episode 33 of my podcast.

Wolfwalkers (2020) - 10/10 I reviewed this in an earlier post but would like to reiterate just how wonderful Wolfwalkers is. If you get the chance, please see it in the cinema. I couldn’t stop crying from how beautiful it was. Raya and The Last Dragon (2021) - 6/10 After watching Wolfwalkers, I decided I didn’t want to go home. So I had lunch in town and booked a ticket for Disney’s Raya and The Last Dragon. A child was coughing directly behind me the entire time. Again, I reviewed this in an earlier post but generally it was decent but I have so many problems with the execution. The Princess Bride (1987) - 9/10 Clearly I underrated this the last time I watched it. The Princess Bride is warm and hilarious with some delightfully memorable characters. A real classic!

The Invisible Kid (1988) - 1/10 About as good as you’d expect a movie with that name to be, The Invisible Kid was a pick for The Sunday Movie Marathon podcast, the discussion for which you can listen to in episode 34. Babel (2006) - 9/10 The same night that I watched The Invisible Kid, I watched a masterful and dour drama from the director of Birdman and The Revenant. Babel calls back to an earlier movie of Iñárritu’s, called Amores Perros and as I was informed while we watched this for the podcast, it turns out Babel is part of a trilogy alongside the aforementioned film. More thoughts in episode 34 of the podcast. Snake Eyes (1998) - 1/10 After feeling thoroughly emotionally wiped out after Babel, we immediately watched another recommendation for the podcast: Snake Eyes, starring Nicolas Cage. This was a truly underwhelming experience and for more of a breakdown into what makes this movie so bad, you can listen to us talk about it on the podcast.

[periminkle]

blazes of deceit

this fic is a part of the disney collab hosted by @btswritingcafe​!! please go check out all the other talented writers and their works 💕

+ summary. When the opportunity to finally venture past the stone walls you’ve grown up in presents itself, you jump at the chance to discover the origin of those mysterious lights—even if the trip comes with a harsh truth and a suspicious, yet undoubtedly attractive, tour guide.

+ pairing. jungkook x reader

+ genre. fluff, angst. tangled!au.

+ word count. 26.052

+ rating. 18+

+ warnings. threats against a baby’s life, unwarranted death, mom problems, trespassing, pan violence, hiding a (not dead) body, tying people up with hair, curse words, drinking, thievery, deadly chase, sword/pan fight, recklessly jumping from a great height, graphic descriptions of wounds and blood, general violence, dark family matters (it’s pretty twisted!), orchestrated infidelity.

+ author’s note. happy early birthday to golden baby jungkook!! this fic took me wAY too long to write but she’s finally here! HUGE thank you to my big brain frenemy @guklvr​ for beta reading and hyping me up by boosting my confidence level +2000 even tho she’s on vacation and should be relaxing LMAO i would’ve postponed this until next year if u didn’t push me so TY ILY LOADS CARL 💘 i also wanted to shoutout #1 jk ryder supporter @dewykth​ and wofe @yeojaa​ for encouraging me every step along the way, y’all are the best n ily both to pieces 💝💕

You are positively ravenous.

Flurries of people scurry past the towering bars of your crib, yet none spare a glance in your direction despite your boisterous wailing. Like moths to a flame, they’re all huddled in one corner, surrounding a panting woman that clutches her rotund abdomen in one hand while tightly clasping onto a bejewelled crown in the other.

“What are you waiting for?” she spits out, hardened orbs narrowed in on your pathetic form.

“Your Royal Majesty, it’s only been an hour since you have given birth, please reconsider—”

Her glower is redirected onto the younger woman’s trembling form. “Are you questioning your Queen? Shall we reconsider your life as well?”

“No,” she begs, her tone quivering with anguish, “please spare my ignorant self.”

Your facial muscles begin to cramp and the walls of your throat feel like sandpaper, which only serves to exacerbate your violent sobs. The insistent suckling on your thumb is doing nothing to quell your raging stomach.

Her lips peel back to reveal two rows of pearly white, dazzling teeth framed by a nasty snarl. “Somebody slit that brat’s throat!”

Another midwife adorned in the bloody rags of childbirth darts across the cramped space with a weeping bundle of rough canvas in her arms. As she scrambles to deliver the shuddering newborn into his counterfeit mother’s arms, the clumsy woman trips over thin air, flying across her enraged Queen’s lap. Without a second thought, her backside is pierced by a shiny steel sword, sullied in a crimson liquid when it reappears.

The introduction of another babe deters your cries for attention. Instead, you distract yourself with a dull glimmer that you catch in your peripheral. Your chubby fingers hopelessly extend toward the dingy stars dangling above your head, just out of reach, reflecting the bright orange tiger lily printed onto the high ceiling of your cage.

“Not a soul shall speak of today's treachery.”

You’re well aware that your short arms could never stretch the distance required to satiate your unending curiosity; but they stay aloft, searching for the reassuring warmth of your mother’s embrace.

“Our blood will remain on the throne.”

Screams of agony overwhelm your developing eardrums as your tiny hands come to cradle your head, willing the pain to end.

Every inch of your walls is covered with abstract paintings, doodles of twisting branches snaking around the edges, dainty birds in every colour under the sun, and a joyous little girl dancing in her own brilliant freedom. No matter where you look, bespeckled tiger lilies are buried within the intricate linework like easter eggs, waiting to be found.

Your favourite by far is the uncanny depiction of the image stashed deep inside the crevices of your memory, a sight your heart desires to view most from up close. The miniature illustration captures your longing gaze pinned on the multitudinous lights ascending from a foreign location, golden hair streaming down your back and flowing over the fireplace in your determination to capture its vast length.

You attempt to steel your nerves for the umpteenth time, but you can’t help your nervous pacing across the minuscule length of your room. The entire tower is spotless as a result of your mindless cleaning—floors scrubbed twice, nonexistent dust wiped away, and trinkets set at the perfect angle to encourage your mother to comply with your outrageous request.

Today is the day, after all. The day that you’ll finally convince the stubborn woman to bring you out to watch the masses of floating lanterns disappear into the night sky.

The pitter-patter of your bare feet scuttling against the concrete floors nearly drown out the melodic appellations from outside your window.

“—down your hair!”

You dash over to the aperture, hastily gathering the ends of your mane to fling down while fixing the bulk of it onto the hook above your head. When the figure enshrouded in a black cloak snatches up your tresses, looping it around to create a foothold and carefully wedges one leg inside, you haul them up through the makeshift pulley.

By the time both of their feet are safely planted on the ground next to yours, sweat is beginning to form by your temples and the perpetual ache in your arms flares from consistently being forced to heave another grown adult up the stretch of the colossal tower.

“Welcome home, Mother.” You pull the rest of your hair inside and turn to face the stunning woman who lowers her excessively long hood, the extra length of fabric intentionally stitched on to keep her identity obscure as she travels.

Your mother sweeps you up into her comforting embrace and you allow yourself to relax in her arms, resting your cheek on her chest while your digits tightly clasp on to one another around her middle. Her chin settles onto the crown of your head.

“You would think that lifting me up all these years would give you some more upper body strength,” she says, her disappointment practically tangible. Placing both manicured hands upon each of your shoulders with a light squeeze, she pushes you back to examine your body from head to toe. “But look at you! My poor, delicate, little flower.”

Your forehead creases from your raised brows as a tense smile completes your agitated countenance.

“Oh, darling, what’s wrong? Come, come with Mother.” The adamant woman latches onto your forearm, dragging you over to the rustic fireplace and pressing down on your shoulders. Ever the obedient child, you kneel down onto the thick rug below.

Your mother delicately takes a seat on the antique chair beside you, a weary sigh slipping past her lips before she starts sweeping a brush through your golden strands. As per tradition, you sing the incantation that’s essentially engraved in the back of your mind at this point.

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine,”

A gleaming shimmer races across your tresses at the verse and from the corner of your vision you watch the light creases marring your mother’s features fade in rapt attention. She hums along to the tune with a detached, distant look in her eyes.

“Heal what has been hurt Change the Fates' design Save what has been lost Bring back what once was mine,”

You allow your lids to slide closed, gathering all the courage you can muster for the following conversation.

“What once was mine.”

Once the last note fades and a deafening silence reigns, she gently urges, “Tell Mother everything.”

This is it, it’s now or never.

“Uh, well, as you know,” you mumble, clearing your throat, “my eighteenth birthday is tomorrow.”

“Mhm, and I’ve already gotten your present as well,” she hums, steadily working her way down your mass of hair.

You falter at the information she casually reveals, guilt eating away at your conscience for preparing to ruin her good mood. “Yes, I know you’re always thinking of me, but, uh, well—”

“You can tell me, darling.” You register your mother’s heavy palm stroking your head, coaxing the words to tumble out of your mouth.

So you lay it on her. “I was just wondering if you would take me to see the lanterns this year.”

“What was that?” she questions, rightfully so when the garbled words blurt out quicker than you can process.

Before you can second guess yourself, you stammer, “C-can we please go see the lanterns?”

The brush suddenly halts in its path, suspended within the waves and dips of your many strands. Although you can’t see her, you know your mother well enough to feel her stiffen up, peeved at the topic you’ve brought up many times before.

“Petal—”

You interrupt, desperate to plead your case, “Mother, please, I’ve been waiting for—”

“Zip it.” You instantly clamp up at her hissing.

Your mother takes her time to stand, stalking over to halt directly in front of your hunched form. Her daunting figure looms above you, fierce orbs evoking a filthy shame that sinks its claws into your spine, and you lower your stare to her ankles from its intense weight. “Enough. I don’t understand why you keep asking this idiotic question when you already know what my answer is going to be.”

Her spontaneous refusal dampens your spirit, but you press on. “I just, uh, thought that I could see them once for my birthday a-and then I’d never ask to leave the tower again.”  

With a scowl as cold as an executioner’s axe, her arms come to cross beneath her bust. “I’ve already told you time and time again that they’re to celebrate the healthy birth of the Prince, any special ‘connection’ you feel to these lights is simply misguided and naive.”

You scramble to gather the scraps of bravery she shredded in order to sputter out, “But it’s my b-birthday too. Even if it’s just a coincidence, I wanna see them with my own two eyes.”

“How many times do I have to explain to you how dangerous the world is outside these walls? Do you know how many people are jumping at the chance to use your magic for themselves?” She rolls her eyes, chiding at you as if you’re a petulant child who disobeyed their elders one too many times. “If your little heart wants some adventure, you can go downstairs and explore the living room, besides darling, you should be thankful that nothing has happened all these years.”

“How am I supposed to be thankful for anything when you keep coddling me like this!” you lash out, frustration bubbling over at her usual response and refusing to toe the line any longer. Any notion of gently swaying her judgement or prompting her to consider your point of view is thrown out the window.

But your mother is nothing if not resolute.

“What?” Her words turn to ice—syllables forming razor-sharp blades that figuratively line your throat, poised to strike the second you step out of place. “Do you want to repeat that?”

Your breaths quicken, deathly afraid of the repercussions that will follow if you decide to continue your rebellious act. It wouldn’t be the first time that she punished you for begging to leave the tower.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, head hanging low and voice laced with resignation, “I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Aw, my precious petal,” she coos, her mood drastically flipping one hundred and eighty degrees as the edges of her lips subtly point upwards at your obedience. “That’s why Mother is here, to guide you in the right direction. You know that I’m only looking out for you, right?”

“Of course, Mother.”

Evidently content with the outcome of the conversation, she turns back to continue brushing through your tresses.

By the time her ebony cloak rests upon her thin shoulders, hood draping over her face, your hair is already hanging by the hook above the window and she hops through the opening to lower herself to the ground below. You watch as her figure shrinks with the increasing distance, only turning back once to give a short wave before disappearing through the lush greenery.

And then you’re alone once again.

In the hours that pass after your mother’s departure, you become well acquainted with the five stages of grief. Of course, your requests to leave have been denied more times than you can count on both hands, but you foolishly believed that mentioning the eighteen years you spent cooped up in one place, fending off boredom, would hit a soft spot.

You forgot that your mother doesn’t have any of those.

Obviously, she anticipated your attempt to convince her by throwing yourself a pity party, as she deliberately mentioned purchasing a gift in advance. Out of all your celebrations, you couldn’t recall a single time where she prepared—much less remembered—your birthday.

Utterly absorbed within your final stage of acceptance, you lose yourself within your thoughts. That’s why the steady, rhythmic tapping on the cobblestone metres below makes you jump, mind wiped clean of everything except questioning the origin of the sound. Goosebumps manifest across the length of your arms, already slick with cold sweat.

Initially, you believe that your mother may have misplaced something, but your doubt accumulates when you don’t hear her usual jingle follow the rapping. You wonder if she is harbouring acrimony at your earlier outburst—even though she seemed quite pleased as she left.

Thus, like the loving daughter you are, you gather the ends of your hair, about to throw the lump over the aperture when you take notice of the stranger’s bulky frame and lack of disguise. Last time you checked, Mother certainly hadn’t chopped all her curls off either.

You can feel your heart thumping in your head, chest rising and falling expeditiously to compensate for the sudden rush of adrenaline surging through your veins. In your distress, her words come back to bite you, echoing within your mind that he must be after your magic.

Mother knows best, after all.

Discreetly glancing back down, you spot the man scaling the wall using two arrows, a feat which you’re sure he wouldn’t be capable of performing without those well-defined muscles, attractively outlined through his thin clothing. Realizing that you’re wasting time ogling at the intruder, you spin back to survey your room, scanning the area for any weapons you can use to defend yourself.

You disregard any prospect of overpowering him and decide to approach the confrontation by taking advantage of your ability to startle him. Before long, the sounds of the rigid arrowheads wedging into the spaces between the stones are no more than a couple of metres away, and you grab the nearest object in a blind panic.

All too soon, his large hands are gripping the window sill, and you scurry to press your body against the wall directly next to the opening. You grip the handle of metal tighter, struggling to keep your heavy breaths silent as you watch his fit form effortlessly raise himself up past the open window.

When he lands inside, you’re transfixed by the way his shirt hangs on his brawny body, the veins in his arms enlarged from the physical exertion of carrying his weight up the tower. Just for that moment, you let your eyes roam his lean figure in unadulterated fascination.

“Hah! Stupid guards, thinking they could catch me after—”

And then that moment ends.

A loud clang resounds throughout the cramped space as a result of the pan in your hand bashing into the back of his head. For a split second, you worry if the force behind your swing is enough to knock him out cold, but then he meets the floor headfirst. You wince for him.

With the substitute weapon in hand, you circle around his seemingly unconscious form up to his head, which is turned away from your prying stare. In order to decipher his level of cognizance, you crouch down and bow over him to get a better look at his face.

Long, dark locks that were perfectly mussed before his fall now cover nearly half his countenance, so you push them to the side to reveal his closed lids and strong brows. Following the curve of his cheekbones, you pass his cupid’s bow to gaze upon his thin lips, a tiny beauty mark laying directly underneath—an intimate detail that you feel uncomfortable knowing.

A faint blush colours your cheeks as you comprehend how utterly breathtaking the stranger is, drastically disparate to the stories your mother told you as a child, where men resembled ogres that lived under bridges, grotesque and unkempt.

He is nothing like that. Not at all.

He reminds you of the princes you read about in picture books—dashing and strong, willing to go to extreme lengths to find their Princess, their one true love. You know you’re taking it too far when you begin to fantasize about his personality purely based on his, admittedly, strikingly handsome appearance. With a vigorous shake of your head, you force yourself out of your reverie and get back to your task.

You stretch two fingers out to rest just beneath his nostrils, feeling the warm air that leaves his body at constant intervals, a good sign that he was not only alive but knocked out cold.

You prod at his shoulder, whispering, “Are you awake?”

No reaction.

With this confirmation, you take hold of one of his wrists with both hands and clench your jaw while leaning back, trying to use your body weight to help drag him. He proves to be much heavier than you initially believed, though you feel him moving inch by inch. Rather than another human being, you simply think of him as a heavy sack of potatoes for the sake of your conscience as you shuffle backwards, heading for the wardrobe on the other side of the room.

By the time you reach said armoire, you collapse on the ground next to him, gulping in as much air as you can. Now, there was simply the problem of shoving him inside. You turn your head to face the stranger, pouting at the prospect of having to lift his bulky self.

After much pushing and rearranging, the doors finally close behind him, although, as you predicted, stuffing him in there took much longer than you would like to admit. You aren’t sure how comfortable he is in the disfigured pretzel position you left him in, but his contentment is not at the top of your list of priorities right now.

Rubbing your palms together, you go to pick up the frying pan that lay discarded on the floor near the window when you take notice of the brown satchel that sat next to it. You have no use for any kind of travelling equipment, obviously, what with your whole life existing in this tall building, and your mother only carries a quaint, woven basket around. She is insistent on living as modestly as possible, and that includes whatever goodies she brings back from her adventures.

That rules out everyone but the stranger. The bag does look more masculine, anyway. Grabbing the strap, you raise the object in question up to have a closer inspection and find the leather to be heavier than expected. There are odd bumps protruding from its exterior, filling you with a tenuous curiosity.

Carefully, you lift the flap open to expose a heavily jewelled crown. Perplexity is written within the creases of your brows as you reach to grab the item within and drop the empty satchel. From your inexperienced eyes, the thing is as real as it gets, a shimmering gold decorated with the finest jewels in the kingdom. The different colours of each gem catch the light, reflecting the brilliant rays onto the walls of your room.

Your impromptu analysis concludes with an inexplicable pull towards the diadem, which you’re uncertain how to act upon until you involuntarily place the crown on your head. You turn to face the mirror leaning against the wall and it feels so right, as though two matching puzzle pieces have finally been brought together. The reflection staring back at you seems complete in ways you have never been before.

Yet, you can’t begin to fathom the reasoning behind all these strange epiphanies, unfamiliar with the tranquillity that quiets the constant buzzing in your head. Overwhelmed, you remove the crown and not a moment too soon, for a familiar, shrill shriek meets your ears.

“Petal!”

Your stomach lurches. Eyes darting to the wardrobe, you’re reminded of the man inside. You know if Mother saw him, she would definitely freak out, maybe even refuse to visit for the next week to drive you insane with solitude. But, then again, you could use him as an example to show that you could handle yourself out in that dangerous world she was always going on and on about.

“Let down your hair!”

You stuff the diadem back in the bag and stow it in an empty flower pot.

Giddy at the prospect of having a legitimate argument to reinforce your reasoning to leave the tower, you dash to the window sill and fling your hair over without a second glance outside. The rush of excitement blinds you from the sensitivity of your sore muscles as you haul her up.

“Petal,” your mother grits out, staggering inside due to your rushed actions, “what did I tell you about checking who’s calling before letting your hair down?”

“Hello, Mother!” you brush off her question, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. “I have something really important to show you!”

“Don’t change the subject.” She squints her eyes at you, lips pursed with frustration. “You're getting more and more reckless. One of these days, a crook will make their way up here and you’ll be foolish enough to invite them inside, maybe pour them a cup of tea while you’re at it?”

“I’m truly sorry.” You decide to humour her to prevent her temperament from flaring, throwing out a meaningless apology—one you’re used to blurting out left and right.

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” she says, as smug and haughty as always. Your mother removes her coat, handing it off to you. “But today’s your lucky day! Just as I was about to visit, I remembered to bring your present!”

Your heart warms at your mother’s unusual thoughtfulness, although you’re much too eager to prove your strength first. “Ah, thank you, Mother. But I really want to show you—”

“Something more important than your mother’s present?”

“Of course not! I just wanted to get it out of the way so that I could enjoy your present later.” She seems unconvinced, so you add, “Y’know how they always say to leave the best for last?”

The older woman heaves an exasperated sigh, shoving you out of the way as she heads for the armchair in the corner. She slumps her tired form on the rickety seat as it creaks its refusal, then waves her hand, gesticulating that you get on with whatever it is you have up your sleeves.

Perspiration gathers within your palms and you fight to ward off the minuscule smile that plays on your lips while you gradually make your way back to the wooden armoire, “So, you’re always going on about how weak and fragile I am…”

“Yes.” She rests her chin in her hand, scrutinizing every hair on your head as though the answers to your ridiculous behaviour are buried within the multitudinous strands. “And what of it?”

“Well, I just thought that I should show you,” you start as your back hits the old furniture and your fingertips graze its rough texture. “That I’m more than capable of handling myself when we go out to—”

“When we go out?” she interrupts, irritation hardening her sharp features as she fixes you with an enraged scowl. “And where do you suppose we’re going exactly?”

You hesitate as your earlier confidence slips and you scramble to correct your word choice before she completely blows you off. “Uh, I just meant that this will show you how strong I am, and, uh…”

An eerie silence occupies the room when you find yourself at a loss for words. You know that your blabbering will get you absolutely nowhere, so you tighten your grip on the handles of the wardrobe, counting on your actions to speak louder than your words ever could.

“How old are you turning again, Y/N? It was eighteen, was it not?”

You shrink under her abrupt question, choosing to play along to pacify the shreds of annoyance flickering in her orbs. “Yes, Mother.”

“And for how long are we going to play this game?” she asks, standing with her basket in tow. Your mother rounds closer to you and your gaze automatically flies to the floor.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“What’re you hiding this time? Did you find another mouse? A rat?” she mocks, resting one hand on her hip. “Ooh, did a raccoon find its way inside?” Once her face is a mere couple of inches from your nose, you allow your eyes to meet her own, dreadfully empty ones. The sight sends a chill down your spine.

You release your hold on the furniture, dejection seeping from your tone. “Two mice this time.”

Her boisterous cackle echoes off the stone walls and she clutches her stomach in an attempt to quell the onslaught of laughter. The gesture reminds you of the countless other times you tried to ‘prove yourself’ through similar methods when you were younger, catching rodents that occasionally found their way into the nooks and crannies of the tower.

The first time you caught a mouse, you’d been ecstatic, rushing to show it off to the only person you knew. Although at that age, rather than a ticket to freedom, you were simply seeking your mother’s approval and perhaps a few praises here and there. You wanted to prove that despite your lonely upbringing—with your mother lounging around the tower for only a few hours every other day—you could handle yourself. She wouldn’t have to worry.

Evidently, you were too young to understand your mother’s rash nature, and she immediately assumed the worst—that you had somehow managed to sneak outside and wanted to prove your calibre by hunting down a nearby animal. The harsh scolding you received that day still lingers as a scar on your wrist, a painful reminder to never cross your mother.

“The outside world is not a simple matter of ‘two mice’ darling. You should know better than to think I’ll ever be impressed by these foolish displays of strength.” She swoops you up into her arms and you automatically bring your hands to circle her lithe waist. “That’s why you’ll always need Mother to protect you.”

Your chin rests on her shoulder, stare unfocused as you dismally state, “Yes, Mother.”

“Now, onto more exciting matters.” A couple of light, successive pats strike your back and you’re released from her hold. She is quick to open her wooden basket and rummage through the contents, reaching inside for what you assume to be your birthday present. The vegetables in her hand don’t excite you, but you put on a fake grin for her anyway. “I’m making your favourite soup!”

She scurries away from your static form to head past the doorway, but you stop her in her tracks with a low voice. “I’m not really feeling up for soup today.”

“You know how far the journey is to get some of these vegetables, let alone how expensive each one is!” she exclaims, waving said produce in her hand as she spins to face you.

“I’m really sorry, Mother,” you mumble, flashing her your best puppy-dog eyes. “But I ran out of paint recently and I’m feeling kind of down about it.”

She tuts. “That’s a three-day journey, Petal.”

“I know, it’s just that when I can’t distract myself with painting, I get these horrible thoughts of leaving the tower.” Doing your best to reason with her, you shift your weight to the other foot and fiddle around with your fingernails, attempting to appear as innocent as possible. “And I think those paints are a much better idea than going out to see the lights.”

A few seconds pass before a groan escapes your mother’s lips. “You’re lucky Mother loves you dearly.”

You stumble into her torso, grateful that she is unintentionally following along with your plan—a tedious scheme that you were saving as a last resort. She strokes the crown of your head, allowing you to nuzzle your cheek into the comfort of your mother’s embrace before her immediate departure.

Goodbyes are exchanged with some more reprimands sprinkled into the conversation, then she scales down the building and is no longer in your line of sight. You rub the nape of your neck, inching towards the armoire as you ponder whether a trip to indulge in your greatest desires is worth it when weighed against the lifelong bond you have with your own blood.

While navigating through your moral dilemma, you twist open the knob and watch as the scruffy man’s body slumps down to the floor without the support of the door to hold him upright. You refrain from cringing at his reddened nose.

Prioritizing your safety first, you retrieve your trusty pan and manhandle his body onto a chair, the seat still warm from your mother’s presence. This time around, you won’t be able to attain the upper hand by catching him off guard, so you settle on tying him up.

The question is: with what? You have no reason to keep ropes casually lying around the tower and one glance at his bulging biceps assures you that sewing thread will not be enough either.

As you’re thinking about stuffing him back into the wardrobe until you come up with a better idea, the blond strands at the edge of your peripheral catch your eye. For the first time in your life, your excessively long hair proves to be of use.

When he is tightly restrained to the armchair, your tresses acting like a straitjacket around his torso and snaking around his legs, you step back to appreciate your work. Your eyes drift over his corded muscles and roam over his face once again.

Before you let yourself get lost in his model-like features, your free hand reaches out, palm outstretched, to slap him across the face.

You nurse the stinging pain ebbing atop your outermost layer of skin, cradling the appendage to your chest as you hiss out a low whine, although the sound is masked by the low timbre of a groan. Your body stiffens while you gawk at the stranger, watching him gather his surroundings, whipping his head back and forth before his chestnut orbs land on you.

Your grip on the handle of the pot tightens.

“Wha—”

“No! Uh, I mean, hush!” you exclaim, deepening your voice for a rather weak, intimidating effect. “I’m doing the talking here.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat before you can utter another word. His doe eyes bore into yours and you step back, instantly feeling threatened by the intensity of his gaze. He wriggles around in his restraints, testing his extremely limited range of motion.

A prolonged, slightly awkward, silence stretches in the air as you attempt to recall the interrogation questions you practiced while tying him up. Regrettably, you come up blank.

He rolls his eyes at your lack of speech, raising a single brow.

“Well?” he questions, seemingly accepting his lack of free movement and slouching comfortably against the back of the chair. “I thought you said you were gonna do the talking?”

You grit your teeth at his impertinence, shaking off the nerves of talking to another human being that was not your mother as you adorn a superficial, bold facade. Striving to exude the same persuading tone that all those mystery books depicted, you mimic the slow strides you’ve read detectives take around their suspects.

“How did you find me?” You round the corner to escape his unimpressed glare, circling around him.

In turn, he cranes his neck to peer over at you, bewilderment written in the slack of his jaw. “Find you? Who says I was looking for you?” He whistles lowly catching sight of your mane, “That’s some hair you got there. Is that what’ve you tied me up with?”

A scoff escapes your lips, unconvinced at his act.

“Oh yeah?” you challenge, marching back to the front of the chair to dramatically slam your hands down onto his bound wrists, effectively halting his faint wriggling. “Then why did you come all the way up here, huh?”

The dashingly handsome stranger’s tongue prods at his cheek, serving to rile you up further. Taking his sweet time, he inspects the space around him before his focus comes back to you, and he leans in, smirking devilishly. “Sure as hell wasn’t for you, Princess.”

At the odd nickname combined with the close proximity, a flush tints your cheeks and you take a few steps back. He chuckles at his small victory—a deep, melodic sound that sends your flustered state into a muddled craze of butterflies, threatening to burst from within. You purse your lips and narrow your eyes at the man, more so to collect yourself than to unnerve him.

“Got something in your eye?”

You tilt your head back and grumble, exasperated at his lack of cooperation followed by his audacity to tease you further. “For your information, my eyes are working perfectly fine.”

“Good for you. Now, if you’ll just untangle me and give me back my bag, I’ll be out of your hair. Literally.” He grins at his joke, which you don’t find quite as funny.

“Like I’ll believe that.” You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest. “I’ll ask you again. How exactly did you find me?”

“As I said, Princess,” he jeers, his impatience made visible by the bulging veins lining his neck, “why would anybody be after your poor ass? I mean, just looking at the place, doesn’t look like you’ve got much else other than a bunch of hidden property and a shitty old tower.”

“Shitty?” You repeat, accosted at the stranger’s portrayal of the place you grew up.

He takes another look around the place as if to confirm his accusations before curtly nodding his head.

You glower at his blunt words, taking personal offence for the many hours you spent decorating, cleaning and doting over the building. “Well, I didn’t know we were expecting a rude guest. Then again, guests are invited inside, aren’t they?”

“Listen, you seem like the ditzy type, so I’ll keep this short and sweet. I got into a bit of a scuffle with some scoundrels and before I knew it, I was outnumbered!” he recounts slowly and melodramatically as if he is presenting a bedtime story to a child. “Then I stumble through some vines and find this gigantic tower!

“And to my surprise, rather than hidden treasure, this place has some naive, pan-wielding maniac at the top,” he concludes with a sigh, soundlessly implying that you should pity the unfortunate situation he stumbled upon—the unfortunate bit caused by your interference. All you feel is a burning itch to sock him across the face again, although that wouldn’t be too helpful in discovering his real objective.

His whole story sounds like pure bologna to you, but you feed into his obvious lies with a hum of acknowledgement. “Must’ve been so hard for you.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he whines, a pout forming on his pink lips.

You flash a close-lipped smile and thrust the metal weapon centimetres from his nose with more force than intended, though it seems to do the job when you catch his eyes widen slightly before reverting to the same relaxed stare as before. His posture is evidently tenser than a few seconds ago, which builds your pliant determination.

“Either some truths are gonna come out of that smart mouth or you’re gonna take another nap,” You threaten, waving the pan back and forth.

“Okay, easy now.” The stranger bends his hands upwards by the wrists, waving his fingers down slowly, as though he were calming a raging bull. “There’s no violence needed in this okay? We can make a deal.”

The sound of his cooperation piques your interest, so you inquire, “What kind of deal?”

“First of all, can you lower that?” You comply with his request, although you keep the skillet in the air, ready to strike at a moment's notice if he tries anything funny. “Okay, Princess, how about you give me the satchel, let me go without any trouble and I won’t tell anyone about your little hideout here, hm?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m the one with the upper hand here.” If you two are to come to a compromise, you’re going to need more from the stranger than his word to keep quiet. “And I need you to take me to see the lanterns at the capital.”

A hacking cough morphs into a distorted chuckle in his throat. “Hm, you see, that would be a bit difficult considering the rocky relationship I have with the royals.”

You cock your head to the side, raising the metal menacingly.

His fists curl into balls as a strained grin stretches across his face. “But I guess we could make it work.”

Pleased with his compliance, you continue with your conditions, “You take me to see the lanterns tomorrow night, bring me back home in one piece and I’ll give your bag back. Then you can jump out of the window for all I care, just keep your mouth shut about this place.”

“Do I even have a choice in the matter?”

“Nope.” His lack of protest makes you giddy, and you allow yourself to credulously overestimate your influence over the man. It has to be that or your frightening frying pan, right?

“Then what’re we waiting for?”

A childlike wonder brightens your countenance as you speedily unravel your locks from around the stranger, whipping the bulk of it over the hook and out the window. With his newfound freedom, you catch him combing through miscellaneous trinkets and in fear of him identifying the location of his bag, you call out, “There’s no use, you could ransack the whole tower and never find your precious satchel. You’re better off fulfilling our agreement.”

Fitting your trusty skillet under your arm, you don’t spare him another glance and hope that your bluff is enough to deter his scouring. Thankfully, the clattering of objects ceases and he saunters past the vase with his dear bag inside. Your attention flits to the verdant scenery below.

You allow an exuberant screech to rip through your vocal cords while you effortlessly fly down, your body wrapped around your hair as though the strands have solidified into a firepole and land on the plush, vibrant grass with a bounce. The prickly sensation on your bare skin is not what you imagined the spindly plant to feel like, yet you revel in its oddities nonetheless.

Your companion follows along with less flair, steadily climbing down using the two arrows that were left between the stones. By the time he reaches the ground, you’re already feeling the consequences of sticking your bare feet in the mud by a river.

He rolls his eyes at your antics and darts off while you tread toward the water to wash off the muck between your toes. You swish your foot back and forth, watching the current run off with the dirt and avoiding the miniature fish that gather around you. Their bright orange bodies are stark against the rocks underneath, easy to spot due to the clear, crystalline stream that you’re splashing around in.

When one of them decides to start nipping at your ankles and the rest of his posse tag along, you wade deeper—searching for a grassy area to withdraw from their persistent suckling. As you’re scouring the landscape, enjoying the slight breeze blowing through your hair, you find yourself alone.

This doesn’t bother you at first, used to the notion of having only your own inner thoughts as company. You’re preoccupied with rinsing the brown stains that mark one section of your tresses and gather the clean, soaked mass into your arms before you realize that the tour guide you recruited has gone missing.

At first, you can’t believe he abandoned the precious crown that he appeared to cherish so greatly, but before you can think too deeply about it, a light smack meets the nape of your neck.

“Looking for me, Princess?”

“Stop calling me that,” you whip around, a glare directed at his triumphant smirk. “And where were you anyway? Not trying to run off already, are we?”

He raises his hands up as though he has been caught red-handed, although his digits are curled around what looks to be strips of tree bark and long strands of weeds. Just as you’re about to question him further, he crouches down and grabs one of your ankles, lifting your leg out of the water and closer to him. You yelp and shift your weight to rest on your other foot.

“What?” He secures a few layers of the rough wood to the sole of your foot, wrapping the flexible plants around the bark and expertly tying it at the top. “This is what I get for being considerate isn’t it?”

“Is considerate even part of your vocabulary?” you tease, the relief at his presence causing you to lower your guard.

He freezes halfway through fastening the second makeshift shoe onto your other foot when the orbs staring up at you light up with mischief. Changing position, he folds forwards then rocks back to stand up to his full height. “Ah, I see how it is. Then I would never do something so thoughtful, right?”

“I take it back! I take it back, just finish it up,” you beseech.

“That’s what I thought, Princess.” He bends over to complete the second knot then scampers off to the forest as soon as the job is complete.

As you test out the peculiar slippers—inwardly marvelling at the barrier they provide against the elements of nature—you vocalize your displeasure with the nickname he has taken to calling you, “I thought I told you not to call me that.”

His strides ease up from his hurried pace, shortening to compensate for your smaller steps. “Aw, does Princess dislike being reminded of who she is?”

“I’ve never heard of a Princess living outside of a castle before.”

He hums, tilting his head in wonder. “Is your tower not considered a castle?”

“Not when I’m the only one living there,” you mutter under your breath, although you’re not sure if he catches it or not based on his silence. Regardless, you change the subject before he has a chance to respond. “So are you gonna tell me your name or what?”

Sneaking a peek at his side profile, you catch the endearing crinkle that appears by his eyes when he grins. “What’s with the sudden interest? I mean, I understand the enthusiasm but—”

You strike his elbow with the bottom of the skillet and he whines like a kicked puppy.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I just thought we should be on a first-name basis if we’re going to be travelling all this way together.” You amuse yourself by twirling the skillet around in your grip, acting as though there’s a gigantic pancake that you professionally flip onto its other side. “I would prefer my name over ‘Princess.’”

“I kinda like the ring of it though.” He winks at you, but you’re too invested in your cooking charades to notice. “You can call me Geum.”

“Geum? Like ‘gold’? What kind of name is that?”

“Ooh, someone’s judgemental.” Snatching the pan, he brandishes it around like a deadly cutlass in a seasoned pirate’s hand, bounding around you. He ends his show with the tip aimed straight at your heart.

“Just saying. You’ve got to admit it’s a bit… unique.” You halfheartedly brush him off, fighting to keep your grin from showing. As a side note, you announce your name.

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

Before he can prance off, you pluck the skillet out of his grasp and tear through the dense bushes with your treasure. His war cry echoes throughout the expansive woodlands as he rushes after you, untangling your hair from lone branches as he goes.

To claim that your feet are about to fall off is a gross understatement.

You have been travelling alongside Geum for hours now without a single break. Despite the high spirits that you two kicked your trip off with, the elation from brushing against the silky plants, cooing at the wildlife that crossed your path, and inhaling the fresh scent of damp moss and wet tree trunks from yesterday’s showers wore off quickly.

You’re inclined to believe that your enthusiasm began to subside when Geum yanked you away from running your finger along one set of rich emerald leaves—narrowly avoiding what he explained to be poison ivy. Your curious hands have been cemented to your sides ever since that close encounter.

After your lively bickering dies down, rather than a peaceful, quiet walk, listening to the whispers of the wind and the pleasant chirping of the birds, the antsy man beside you puts you on edge. He can’t stop looking from side to side, trying to peer past the endless birches and elms that obscure your view.

Is Geum expecting someone?

Perhaps some parts of his story are true. Perhaps having a ruffian with other delinquents hunting him is not the best partner to accompany you on this journey—not that you have much of a choice in the matter, it’s either him or no one. You’re unsure which option is worse.

Any conversation you strike is met with teasing remarks, so you give up on prodding him for any substantial information. But with the sky darkening and the breeze turning brisk, you’re about to mention camping out somewhere when Geum says, “We should settle down for the night.”

“I never thought I would agree with something that came out of your mouth.”

“That’s why you’re wrong most of the time.” And there it was, another snotty retort that practically begs you to deck him with the pan you keep tucked in your underarm.

The quibble ignites a fire under your skin, the flames licking at your sides and providing some warmth amidst the chill in the air. “Most of the time? So you’re saying that you’re wrong sometimes?”

“Yeah, nobody can always be right.” He flashes a lazy smirk your way, adjusting the bundle of your locks in his arms. “Like when I said that your hair isn’t an inconvenience.”

You take a second to process his snarky words. With your mind occupied, stuck in a whirlwind of potential reprisals, you unintentionally head towards the distant outline of the castle when you approach a crossroad branching in two opposite directions.

Just as you’re about to let loose a nasty quip, his warm hand wraps itself around your wrist, dragging you away from the faraway mansion. You overheat at the source of the touch, thoughts going haywire.

“Hey, hey!” In hopes of snapping him out of his reverie, you raise your voice. “You can’t blow off our deal now, don’t you want your precious satchel back?”

When he offers no explanation for his cryptic actions, you attempt to pry off his fingers with your other hand—making sure not to trip over your own two feet while you’re at it. Your wriggling is all for nought because Geum’s iron grip is too durable to be outmatched by your fumbling digits.

“Geum, please just,” you plead, ceasing your struggle when the delicate skin in his grasp begins to sting from his strength, “let’s talk about this, okay?”

You’re so preoccupied with regaining your freedom that you don’t notice the dingy sign you two pass; a rubber duck with the words The Snuggly Duckling etched onto the wood. “Shut up and hurry.”

Your jaw drops at his insolent tone, astounded at his change in demeanour. There’s no playful spirit behind his words this time, only a sharp annoyance accompanied by his sudden haste that you feel all too strongly in your wrist. You stumble after him and duck your head through a small doorway, your mind caught up in formulating a coherent response that consists of sounds other than your outraged sputtering.

“Don’t tell me to—”

You’re cut off by the ruckus inside the establishment. Burly men surround the two of you, drinking, howling in laughter, practicing their aim with throwing knives—there’s even a large group of people fighting in one corner. The amount of blood streaked across the walls, their clothes, and pouring out of their open wounds is concerning. You can smell the metallic tang from the entrance.

When the hand around your wrist disappears, you find yourself yearning for the physical connection, serving as some kind of reassurance that he is not leaving you to the metaphorical, and sort of literal, wolves before you. In order not to lose Geum as he wades through the crowds, you latch on to the thin hem of his shirt. He pays you no mind and continues onward.

Skillfully slipping through the giants while you bumble behind him, you two arrive at a row of vacant barstools. You loosen your grip at the unexpectedly tranquil space, such a drastic contrast to the commotion in the background that it’s like you’ve been transported to another place altogether.

You’re brought back to reality from the loud grunt that booms throughout the joint, although you tune out again when you hear a punch being thrown, then a crack that you can only hope isn’t a bone. Or two.

“Uh, Geum?” you ask, although he pays your appellation no mind. His attention is focused on the intimidating, tattooed man behind the counter.

“Joon.” Your unofficial tour guide takes a seat. “A mead?”

Determined to stick close to the only familiar face in the building, you slide onto the seat next to Geum. The overwhelming scent of liquor hits you hard, causing you to crinkle your nose the exact moment that your narrowed eyes spot the bartender, Joon, awkwardly cough into his fist, trying to stifle his snickers for your sake.

“Just a water for her.”

While Joon confirms Geum’s order with a slight nod, you cast your head down to stare at your twiddling fingers. Your mind is still reeling from the abrupt change in scenery, unsure how to carry yourself in this new setting. It was no problem in the dense forest, with only Geum to judge you—but it isn’t like you’re trying to impress him anyway.

In here where hordes of broad men are gathered, drunk out of their minds with crimson staining their attire, you’re scared. Everything is too raucous, too rancid, too overwhelming. You’re uncertain whether the trip to the capital will play out as you’ve imagined and you turn towards Geum to tell him as much when—

“Was this from me?” You instinctively flinch at his tug on your elbow, although regret rushes down your back, clawing against your spine like ice-cold water when hurt flashes across his shadowed orbs. Before you can blink, it’s gone.

As a feeble apology, you offer a tightlipped smile. Referring back to his words, you examine your arm and grimace when you spot the blooming scarlet streaks encircling your wrist, taking the shape of Geum’s slender digits. “Oh, uh, don’t worry. It’ll fade.”

It’s not a lie since the marks will eventually fade. You hope it doesn’t turn black and blue before that though.

A clear glass is thrust your way, which you’re overjoyed to snatch from Joon’s hand, noting Geum’s copper liquor from the corner of your eye. Hours of travelling without any form of hydration definitely took its toll on you, evident by your severely chapped lips that you can’t help but swipe your tongue over every minute—not that the dried saliva is doing you any favours.

Before you have a chance to sip from heaven in liquid form, you’re halted by a gentle finger tracing the length of your forearm. Thankfully, you’re not as skittish this time around, remaining frozen until Geums pulls back; the pale, discoloured scar he was following having tapered off into your natural skin. “Where’s that one from?”

His strange inquiry confuses you with its unusually intrusive nature considering his inability to chat seriously five minutes ago. You pause for a second to debate on revealing the truth or constructing a comical narrative for the sake of avoiding a sombre turn to the light conversation. Despite your decision, your lips rebel, taking on a mind of their own. “A punishment.”

Bronze orbs snap up to yours, boring into the deepest parts of your soul and uncovering each of your secrets one by one as if they’re gems, buried within the layers of your lonely childhood. You’re transfixed. “Mother said it would remind me to never leave the tower.”

The condensation running down the side of the chilled cup meets the edge of your palm, sliding down your index finger and becoming a stark reminder of your parched mouth. You lift the glass to take a sip, but a taste renders your control inoperative as you guzzle down the rest, leaving not a single drop inside.

Your famished stomach makes itself known with a growl when your thirst is quenched. Attracting the attention of the bartender with a small wave, you ask, “Is there any chance you’ve got some food here?”

“We’ve got anything as long as you’ve got the coin for it, blondie.”

You shudder in alarm at the introduction of another patron in the bar. Leaning away from the repulsive drawl to your left, you shift over to position yourself as far away as possible. Seeing your discomfort, the stranger takes a few steps forward to invade your personal space once more and you recoil back with a jerk of your torso.

The abrupt motion messes with your centre of gravity, tipping you over the edge of the barstool. Just as you’re about to have an unpleasant meeting with the floor, a palm darts out to the small of your waist and steadies you. You follow the arm up to Geum’s clenched jaw.

“She’s not looking for anything that you guys can offer.”

Your throat tightens at your companion’s harsh answer, wary of how the other men will react. The burly man to your other side bursts out in obnoxious laughter and a glint of light reflecting off of his silver teeth catches your eye, which you recognize from earlier. He’s one of the goons that was involved in the fistfight near the entrance.

“As if you’re packing anything better.” He nudges his lackeys behind them and they chuckle along like they’re all in on one big joke.

“It’s not hard to top a baby carrot.”

Panicked at his provocation, you glimpse at the challenging smirk plastered across Geum’s lips. You aren’t sure why he’s trying to pick a fight or if there’s any logical reasoning behind his actions at all, but you tap on the arm still attached to your torso, conveying your opinion on his moronic pride with your widened eyes.

Of course, men will be men, and the little posse arranged behind the silver toothed boss riles their leader up, encouraging him with disgruntled yells and unintelligible speech to prove their dominance. With you in between the two blockheads, you’re sure that you’re not going to like how this plays out.

Dismissing your distress, Geum takes a sip of his drink. He seems unbothered by the commotion surrounding him and you envy his nonchalant demeanour.

“You got any bite behind your bark, pretty boy?” His lackeys change tactics, switching over to goading Geum on. You assume their greater numbers spark their courage, reassured that they could overpower one man. “Or are we just trying to impress this little miss right here?”

“I’m not sure if it’ll be very fair for you guys,” Geum says cockily, scrutinizing each member from head to toe then returning to his sweet mead. “I mean, just looking at you boys, doesn’t look too impressive if you ask me.”

If the atmosphere didn’t thicken with a fatal tension, you would have giggled at his smart mouth. But the other man’s nostrils flare in resentment, beginning to surge forward before he’s interrupted by a spindly boy who thrusts a paper below his nose. “Boss, you were right, it’s him.”

His unsightly features twist upwards in joy, displaying his horrendous set of chompers once more as he chuckles. That’s when you realize that a sinister smile can be much more frightening than any bellow of rage. “Looks like you’ve got quite the bounty on your head there, Geum.”

At the snarl of his name, your eyes dart to the wrinkled sheet in his hand which he graciously flips to face your direction. An uncanny depiction of Geum’s face is drawn, a sum containing many zeroes painted underneath his name. What appalls you the most is the red, bolded letters at the very top, distinctly spelling out wanted.

Geum is a wanted criminal.

While your mind is reeling, sight blurring and breath quickening from the influx of information, the man in question unabashedly finishes off the last of his alcoholic beverage and proceeds to slam the glass onto the counter. Through all of the clamour, you pick up Joon’s exasperated sigh in the background.

The door to the establishment flings open, hinges creaking as the wood bounces back from the sheer force of the blow. While everyone is distracted by the bustle, Geum stealthily hops off his seat, slipping an arm around your waist to soundlessly lead you to the other side of the counter. Although you’re reluctant to follow, you refrain from squabbling with him in order not to attract any unwanted attention.

“We’ve received a report that a well-known thief has been spotted in the premises—”

Geum kneels in front of the shelves lined with drinks of all shapes and colours, fiddling with something you can’t see from your position behind him. Following his lead, you crouch behind him, softly muttering in disbelief, “You really think they won’t find us hiding here?”

A click is heard as a few of the racks cave in on themselves, revealing a concealed passageway. Geum shakes his head towards the opening, silently directing you to enter first. You’re hesitant to accompany him any farther but you’re pushed forwards by Joon’s calf on your back and you understand that you don’t have much of a choice in the matter anymore.

If you’re caught now, you’ll be accused of being an accomplice to whatever crimes Geum committed.

You spare a thankful nod to Joon, stealing a glance at the guards blocking the entrance while you’re at it. Their white uniforms are decorated with accents of bright oranges and reds, a familiar flower fastened to the right side of their chest. One of them holds another copy of Geum’s wanted poster which you tear your gaze from, willing yourself to escape from this mess before thinking about anything else.

Geum shoves you through the opening, and you crawl through the underground passage as fast as you can in order to keep his pinching fingers away from your ankles. You two are far enough to safely whisper short phrases to one another, but he insists on being a nuisance as he urges you to pick up the pace.

It’s pitch black when the trapdoor shuts behind Geum, and you’re unable to make out your own hands in front of your face; with no other path in sight, you blindly head forward. As you continue, you pass torches burning with a bright fire that provide light, illuminating the stones around you and the shadows following you. You wonder how often this underground system is used to have fire running at all times.

Eventually, the tunnel’s height expands enough for the two of you to comfortably tread through on your feet. If you weren’t tired enough from walking for hours on end, the brutal jog which Geum sets is more than enough to tire you out within mere minutes.

“Geum,” you heave, unable to catch your breath with your chest fruitlessly rising and falling, never passing enough air for you to gather your senses. He’s too far to catch, effortlessly sprinting ahead, yet you still uselessly reach out to capture his attention. “Geum.”

You push yourself to the limit, another few minutes passing by before your powerless body can no longer handle the stress of the strenuous activity, and you slow down, coming to a full stop. One hand on the rocky wall steadies your dizzying sight as you hunch over, throat burning and stomach aching. Even though you try to remain standing, your legs involuntarily give out and you end up on the floor.

As you try to regain your breath, hands grasp your shoulders and gently shake you back to reality. Geum’s intense gaze is only centimetres away, torso bent to level with you. “You can do this, come on. We have to lose them.”

“I,” you huff, “I can’t… It’s… too much.”

Geum’s arms return to his sides, his brows furrowing as you watch the gears whirring in his head through your blurry vision. When he spins around to face the exit, you cry out in a hoarse voice, believing that he’s leaving your pathetic, crumpled form to fend for yourself—but instead of running off, he crouches to the ground with his backside to you. “Get on.”

In spite of your resolute will to arise from your folded position, your legs can’t seem to extend outwards in order to climb onto his back, which you convey by tapping his shoulder and pitifully shaking your head. Geum’s lips pry apart to respond, but his words are drowned out by the pounding footsteps that echo throughout the tunnel walls. He curses under his breath as he turns and scoops your fetal form into his arms.

All you can register is his natural woody scent enveloped in the sweaty musk that drenches his frame, your body clutched tightly to his torso as he races to the end of the tunnel. You grip his thin shirt in one fist, unfamiliar with the warmth fluttering in your chest, so you brush it off as another side effect from the arduous sprinting.

A bright light can be seen at the very end, but your eyes are locked on the well-defined jaw of the man carrying you as if you were as light as a feather, running as if your lives depended on it—which they kind of do.

You couldn’t differentiate the pounding of Geum’s shoes from the mob of guards pursuing you two. As you slowly recover from your exhausted state, the guilt of becoming a burden settles into the creases of your face, worrying lines etching onto your features from thinking about your impending fate.

Your thoughts wander to the reasoning behind this violent chase. By the fancier uniforms they sport, you suspect their position to be rather high, perhaps palace guards or ones belonging to the royal family. Reminded of the wanted poster clutched within one of their hands, the image stirs unease within the depths of your stomach that’s already stinging from the massive amounts of cardio you’ve done today.

Before you can connect any dots, you’re out in the wilderness again, although instead of the sun’s blazing rays on your face, the moon’s tender beams spill over your surroundings. The sort of serenity that accompanies the stillness of the later hours are interrupted by your rapidly beating heart, which is amplified by the pulse felt on your left side.

After a few more strides, Geum comes to a sudden halt.

“What’s wrong?” You tilt your neck to look at his face in curiosity. Although he doesn’t appear fatigued, his cheeks only slightly flushed from exertion and a few sweat droplets racing down his temples, you ask anyway, “Are you tired?”

The grip under your legs lower you to the ground and you stand in front of Geum, beginning to worry about losing your advantage over your pursuers. He doesn’t provide a verbal response to your questions, simply shaking his head and causing the tips of his hair to sway back and forth with the motion. The strands cover his eyes when he stops, but he doesn’t bother to brush them aside.

Geum’s shoulders slouch, heavy from the weight of defeat. You’re unnerved at his strange actions, turning to look ahead at the obstacle that’s forcing him to give up all hope.

You two are standing at the edge of a cliff.

Your knees buckle at the length of the drop, which seems never ending from your viewpoint. The tenebrous shadows of the night obscure the bottom, painting the jagged walls with uncertainty at any chance for survival. Your heart constricts as the despondency emanating off of Geum slithers its way into your rapidly diminishing resolution.

“When they get here,” he announces, bravery shining through his firm tone, “I need you to run as fast as you can. I’ll distract them, just focus on getting back to the bar. Tell Joon to take you somewhere safe and trust no one but him.”

You’re baffled at his complete change in attitude as well as his idiotic plan. There’s no trace of humour in his piercing orbs though, simply an obstinate determination that implores you to obey his orders. But you aren’t about to abandon the first friend you’ve ever made. “Are you insane? What do you think you can do against trained soldiers?”

“There’s no other choice.” He nudges your torso to position yourself behind him, both your backs to the cliff, watching the guards get closer and closer. Dread weighs ponderously on your limbs, the adrenaline pumping in your veins with every footstep marching to surround you two. You’re cornered.

The soldier closest to Geum unsheathes his sword and steadily approaches. You slip the rusty pan into his hand and he inconspicuously reaches back to pat your thigh, reminding you of his reckless scheme.

Seeing your defensive stance, the guard rushes forward, thrusting his sword forward to slice through layers of skin. Instead, the clang of metal against metal resounds throughout the empty cliff and your apprehension increases tenfold with your front row seat to Geum’s doomed duel, fending off a glinting sword with your rickety skillet.

Although he’s fighting well considering his enormous handicap, you spot more soldiers creeping their way into the skirmish, unable to stand and watch one of their own be bested in battle. Overall, the odds weren’t looking too great for your pan-wielding knight.

You have to do something. With Geum’s plan off the table, you can’t think of anything other than taking your chances with the cliff. You gather all your faith in the landscape, Geum, and yourself while taking a deep breath. Waiting for an opening within the clash, you cautiously inch towards Geum and when one particularly hard blow jolts both men back a few steps, you snatch up the opportunity.

Before another guard can take his ally’s place, you rush over to snake an arm around Geum’s lithe waist, tugging his back to meet your chest. During this process, he nearly elbows you in the face, writhing around in your tight hold until he recognizes your delicate hands on his stomach.

With the enemy frozen in confusion at your ostensibly desultory actions, you take advantage of their shock to stumble backwards, proving harder than necessary due to Geum’s long legs tangling with your own as you head towards the edge. You’re nearly there when one of the guards pick up on your plan to escape, jumping into action with his razor-sharp sword and waving it in a deadly arc that nearly slices both of your heads off clean.

Thankfully, you lose your footing on a slippery rock and tip over.

While airborne, any air is momentarily robbed from the heavy drop in your gut and a terrified shriek rips past your mouth as you lose your tight grip on Geum, utterly absorbed in your fear. The distance between you two grows, but because of his quick reflexes, Geum is able to fist a clump of your clothes in his hands and pull you into his chest with one hand resting on the nape of your neck.

You don’t have enough time to react to the new position before both your bodies are enveloped in gelid water. All of your nerves fire off, enraged at the sudden change in temperature. A violent shiver overtakes your limbs in a weak attempt to warm yourself up.

Although Geum’s palm on your neck withdraws to wade your bodies back up to surface, the grip around your middle only tightens.

The stream parts as you two float back up to meet the chilly air, greedily filling your lungs as you unravel from one another in order to paddle your way to shore. The current sweeps you along, aiding your furious efforts to reach the ground again.

Geum arrives at the muddy grass before you, swiftly lifting himself out and turning to fish for your soaked form. White puffs of your breath escape your mouths because of the low temperature, yet they dissipate as quickly as they’re formed.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” You close your eyes and nod. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

The fire crackles alongside the chirping crickets, forming a peculiar orchestra with the breeze blowing through the rustling leaves. You extend your frigid digits as close to the flames as you dare, desperate for its warmth, yet recoiling from the sting of its heat all the same.

“Might as well stick your whole hand in there while you’re at it.” Geum emerges from the tenebrous thickets of the forest, making his way into the dull glow of the bonfire with a bundle of skinny twigs in his arms.

You’re drained from the day’s events, but you flash him a smile brimming with gratitude, appreciative that he’s intent on keeping the fire alive despite his inevitably numb appendages. You insisted on swapping turns, allowing his body to warm up a bit while you scavenged for wood, although he dismissed your offer multiple times, claiming that moving around was much more effective for him than any flames.

You’d have to disagree with him there. The burning fire feels incredible heating up your skin from the outside in.  

“If you take a second to come and enjoy the warmth, then maybe you wouldn’t be so moody,” You jest, rotating the fish skewers that Geum expertly caught in the river with a sharpened branch. By the slightly burnt edges, you suppose it’s ready. “C’mon, let’s eat before you head off again.”

He grunts his affirmation, depositing his findings on top of the ever-growing pile of wood and taking a seat on a fallen log located a couple of feet away from you. You allow the meat to cool down before separating the fish from the stick it’s impaled on and passing it to him.

“Is your hair dry yet?” He’s too preoccupied with forcibly ripping the fish in half to avoid scaling it, so he doesn’t catch your affectionate, lingering gaze.

You hum, grabbing a lock of your wet strands. “Not quite.”

He places his meal next to him on the log and leans over to take the bulk of your tresses in his grasp. You watch as he lays the blonde strands near the fire, quietly giggling at his strange logic.

“You think the heat is going to make it dry faster?” The appearance of his wide grin elicits the return of the bizarre tightening in your chest, a crushing pain that makes it difficult to breathe. You haven’t had a bite of the fish but nausea swirls in your stomach as your hands turn clammy and you rip your eyes away from Geum in hopes of collecting yourself.

Seeing your doubt towards his surely infallible rationale, his brows scrunch together and he pauses his movements in his perplexity, a distant look swirling in his eyes. He should be completely unaware of the turmoil raging within you, yet all your previous worries dissipate with the smoke of the fire as his face becomes increasingly wrinkled, flashing an expression more ludicrous than the last.

After you beg and plead with him to stop, cheeks aching from smiles and belly throbbing from laughter, he breaks out into his own set of snickers. More than satisfied, Geum grabs his fish again and begins to nibble on the meat inside. “You never considered getting a trim?” he asks between bites.

A few seconds pass as you calm yourself down from your hysterical state. “Never allowed to,” you answer, short and vague to keep the pleasant atmosphere.

“Allowed to?” His voice is laced with his astonishment. “Who’s telling you what to do at your age?”

Fidgeting with your own skewer, you ponder over an answer that’s precise enough to satisfy his curiosity, yet obscure enough to conceal your identity at the same time. Your eyes dart from side to side, following the light of the fire as it illuminates a wet, crimson stain on the sleeve of Geum’s jacket.

“What’s that?” you question, scuttling over to his log and sitting down next to him. To get a better look, you grab his elbow and pull it towards you.

“Nothing. Don’t change the subject.” He tries to shrug off both your concern and your hand that’s clutching onto his arm, which only makes you tighten your grip. At the increase in pressure, a low groan slips past his lips and you instantly release your hold at the sound.

“Does it hurt?” The memory of the guard wildly slashing his sword in the air comes to mind and you realize that although the blow didn’t cost either of your lives, his upper arm must have borne the brunt of the force instead.

“It’s fine.” He attempts to brush you off again, but you’re as clingy as a leech and refuse to budge from his side.

You latch on to the lapel of his jacket and tug. “Take it off.”

Despite your solemnity, his low chuckle sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. “Already asking me to strip? I’m not that easy, Princess. How about you take me on a date first and I’ll think about your offer?”

“You know what I mean,” you grumble, exasperated that he persists on maintaining his incessant teasing while injured.

When he finishes cleaning off one half of his meal, about to reach for the other, you move to stand in front of him. You dismiss the wild pounding of your heart to focus on slipping his jacket off of his opposite arm.

He puts forth no effort to stop you, although he’s definitely not helping much with his limp, bulky appendages that are a lot heavier than expected. Slowly but surely, you tenderly thread his injured arm out of his sleeve with careful hands.

The white, short-sleeved shirt he’s sporting underneath makes it easy to spot the splotches of crimson dyeing the hem of his sleeve through the dim, orange light. You approach his laceration delicately, treating him like a frightened animal. He snorts at your earnest actions.

Lifting the fabric covering the entirety of the gash, you gasp softly at the depth of the wound, grimacing as though it’s your own limb that’s been hurt. “You shouldn’t be moving around with this, you’re not letting it heal.”

“I’ll endure any pain to keep you close,” he whispers, sweet honey dripping from his words as he loops his other arm around your waist, effectively pulling you in between his open legs.

His chin is a mere few centimetres from your belly button, gazing up at you with a flirtatious wink as he perches his hand onto your lower back. You hold your breath, worried that he can hear the utter chaos erupting within your chest due to the close proximity.

Flustered, you push at his broad shoulders, desperate for some room to breathe. Geum flinches at your touch and you instantly regret your thoughtless behaviour. Your concern at the severity of his wound multiplies tenfold, feeding into a disquiet that nestles into every cell in your body. “I’m serious, it doesn’t look good.”

One hand falls into his lap while the other comes up to ruffle his damp locks. “Don’t get shy now, Princess.”

Taking in the defeated slouch to his back, the distant glaze that darkens his bronze orbs, you think about your hair. You think about how much younger your mother appears after she detangles each strand. You think about all the scars you’ve avoided throughout the years by singing a simple tune.

This man saved your life, and it’s time for you to repay the favour. You consider waiting until he’s asleep to heal his arm, plagued by the distress of being mistaken as a witch. Mother warned you about those kinds of people, who are ready to ruin your life in order to improve their own—anything ranging from taking advantage of your unworldly qualities to selling you for a pretty penny.

Mother always knows best. Right?

You peer into his expressionless eyes that stare holes into the dancing flames, the other uneaten half of the fish still laying untouched. From the limited time you’ve spent together, you shouldn’t feel this distraught at his pain, as though a chunk of your heart is bleeding out with him and leaving you in a puddle of your own misery.

But one look at Geum’s laceration and even a child could tell that the relentless stream would end his life before long. No matter how well he can conceal his shallow, rapid breathing, you begin to make sense of his sweaty, pallid countenance that shreds any remaining skepticism you hold against him—dismissing the wariness brought about by those wanted posters.

“Geum.”

His eyelids shut close at your grave tone. “I know. It’s fine.”

At your hesitant tone, he sluggishly spares you a placid, tame smile. You hate it.

The Geum you’ve come to know is exuberant, taking all his hardships in stride with a sly smirk to boot. He’s brilliant, craftier than any artist, and resourceful even in the face of despondency. He’s compassionate, extending his own neck to save yours, always sympathetic to your plight.

This Geum is hollow, a shell of the person you knew.

The crushed downturn of his doe eyes doesn’t belong to his captivating features. You yearn to watch that classic, mischievous glint sparkle in his irises as he taunts you endlessly, testing how high your pulse can spark when he invades your personal space yet again.

You take a seat next to him. “No, uh,” you stammer, “I got a solution. You just can’t scream or freak out or anything, okay? Most importantly, you can’t tell anyone. Not a single soul.”

Before he can react to your cryptic warnings, you separate a lock of your hair, wrapping it around his wounded bicep. He raises a single brow at your strange antics but provides no further opposition. You’re pleased with the amount of trust he’s placed in you.

You close your eyes, and then you sing.

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine,”

Starting from your roots, a golden glimmer races across the tresses of your hair. Bewildered, Geum recoils in his state of shock but remains rooted in his spot nonetheless.

“Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine,”

He follows the scintillating shimmer in your strands until he reaches the portion wrapped around his bicep. You absentmindedly wonder if he can feel his flesh reconstructing, cells dividing at a rapid rate to close the smooth gash.

“Heal what has been hurt Change the Fates' design Save what has been lost Bring back what once was mine,”

Your lids slide open to stare at his wide eyes, his jaw hanging ever so slightly. You’re glad to see that his previously pale complexion has given way to his natural, lively undertone.

“What once was mine.”

When the last notes fade out, eventually overpowered by the lone hoot of an owl, you gingerly untangle your hair from the shell-shocked man. Geum slaps his other hand over the healed skin, his head rapidly darting between examining his arm and making absurd facial expressions that convey his amazement. From his naturally cool composure, you treasure this rare moment of awe.

“Wha—”

Your stressed squeak halts him in his speech. “Please don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.” He looks like he’s trying to convince himself more so than you when he continues, “Not freaking out. What’s there to freak out about? I mean, magical healing hair? Completely normal.”

Your grin is filled with mirth at his nervous tone, and you lift his prodding digits from the site of the wound. Or at least where it used to be. “You feel okay?”

With all of your attention directed towards analyzing his healthy appendage, ensuring that your magic had not screwed up somewhere along the process, you miss Geum’s tender gaze roaming over every inch of your countenance. “Yeah, I guess I’m more than okay now.”

“I promise I’m not some kind of witch or anything like that. Just, uh, was just born with it,” you try to explain despite being in the dark about many of the nitty-gritty details yourself.

“Born with magical hair?”

You giggle at the absurdity of his question, although the validity remains true, it’s rather peculiar to hear it out loud. “Some of us are born with more talent than others. But that’s also why I can’t cut it,” you smile sheepishly, deciding to answer his earlier question now that your secret is out in the open.

“It turns brown and loses its magic.” You gather all your strands into one fist, pulling the mass to the side to expose the short, chestnut coloured strands underneath. You feel vulnerable and exposed with your neck out on display, sharing the fragility of your powers with a man you’ve known for less than twenty-four hours.

But it’s Geum, and he doesn’t feel like a stranger to you. “An overbearing mother is also part of the reason, but that’s a story for another time. Carrying it around can be heavy and the tangles can be brutal, but I guess it has its perks.”

He hums, stretching his torso to throw some twigs into the fire in hopes of enlarging the dwindling flames. “Yeah, I, uh…”

You stay silent, neither dismissing nor pressuring him into voicing his thoughts.

“My name isn’t actually Geum.”

A teasing smirk lifts the corner of your lips as you lean closer and nudge his arm. “You don’t say?”

He scoffs at your playful demeanour and pushes you back with one finger on your forehead. When your upper body is tilted away from him and your head is facing the starry night sky, he retracts his digit and speaks so softly that the noise is almost carried away by the wind. “It’s Jungkook.”

“Jungkook,” you test it out, matching the syllables to the face. It’s a bit strange after getting accustomed to associating him with the name ‘Geum,’ but in a way, it complements him better.

“Yeah.” He pauses and you shift your body to study him, memorizing the slopes and angles of his side profile. His orbs reflect the flickering fire, engulfing the newly added branches in its blaze. “I just thought somebody should know.”

“Is Geum your alias... for when you’re being a criminal?” Although you’re hesitant to delve into the subject, especially right after he’s begun to unveil his true identity, your curiosity outweighs reason and you can’t contain yourself. You can’t say that you’ve never questioned the diadem hidden in his satchel.

Crowns don’t belong to convicts who run from justice.

You wait for his answer with bated breath, unintentionally trapping your lower lip between your teeth in anticipation. Please, Jungkook.

“If you’re trying to ask what I did,” he hisses, knuckles turning white from his clenched fists, “Yeah, I stole it. Those assholes don’t deserve their riches.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenches, his anger radiating off him in waves. You wish you could eat your previous words because of how furious he’s become, but you’re committed to finishing the job. “Are you talking about the King and Queen?” Your brows pinch together in your discomfort. “Was that their crown?”

“This is your first time out of that tower, right?” You confirm his inquiry with a quick nod of your head. “How much do you know about the kingdom?”

“Jungkook—”

He tuts, fixing you with a strict glare. “Answer the question.”

“Well…” While recalling all the knowledge you picked up from your mother and the few historical books within your collection, you fiddle with a strand of your hair and organize your thoughts. “The castle is located in the middle of the capital, said to loom over the entire kingdom with its height. After it was rebuilt to accommodate more space for the Prince, everyone, from poets to milliners, cried over the beauty carved within those walls.”

He expels a deep sigh, causing you to question the legitimacy written in those pages you recited. “I asked about the kingdom, not the castle.”

His question leaves you dumbfounded. The information you collected over the years is limited to everything inside that grandiose, opulent building. There was nothing about the land, animals or even the common folk.

A gust blows the smoke of your little bonfire towards you, and you blink rapidly to avoid any soot from lodging itself into your eyes. Jungkook plucks a large leaf from one of the plants nearby, lazily fanning the fumes away. “That cozy castle and the royal family sitting on top of it all couldn’t care less about their people. They rake their luxuries from our hard work when even one jewel off that crown could feed hundreds.”

You process the cold truth in silence, a shiver overtaking your limbs in spite of the heat in front of you. “Is that why you stole it?”

“I don’t care if they want to plaster my face all over the kingdom and put a bounty on my head, I’m not going to stand around and watch people die from their greedy hands,” he states, proud and resolute.

You’re torn between the anguish nipping at your heels and the relief washing over your head. Living sheltered in that tower, you had no clue about the perils outside your own stone walls, is this what Mother was trying to protect you from?

However, discovering the true nature behind Jungkook’s crimes restores your faith in him, and your shoulders relax as you crane your neck to peer at the stars again. With your curiosity quenched, you move on to another question. “So, how many people get to call you Jungkook?”

He follows your example, leaning back and revelling in the breathtaking sight. “Nobody knows my real name, everyone calls me Geum.”

Your jaw drops a fraction from the admittance, feeling rather privileged that he chose to share it with you. “Your family calls you that too?”

“Don’t have any,” he brushes off your sympathetic gaze with a shrug.

“Why the name Geum?”

You catch his tiny, forlorn smile in your peripheral. “I grew up hearing all about the royal family’s massive parties, overflowing with family, friends—people. They were never lonely. And since they were parading their money around, I thought that was it, that was the secret.”

The dejected tone in his voice clogs your airways and makes it difficult to breathe, stunning your motionless form into remaining as still as a statue, the magnitude of his sorrow sweeping over you in fatal waves.

“And I hoped that maybe naming myself ‘gold’ might give me some luck with that.” With his shoulders downcast, his eyes flicker over to you, gauging your reaction.

You desperately wish you could turn back time to console the young boy whose heart was too big to fit inside his tiny body. Although he’s grown into it now, you strive to ease his suffering by even the slightest fraction. “I think ‘Jungkook’ is even better for making friends.”

The edges of his lips flip upwards as he navigates his face to halt directly right in front of your own, pressing one hand to the other side of your farthest thigh and caging you in. “Would you be my friend, Princess?”

All your blood rushes to your head, warming your cheeks. In a futile attempt to preserve any of your remaining dignity, you shrink back to maintain some distance. But his smirk grows at the sight of your shy response to his advances, his orbs flitting down to your pink lips before returning to your eyes. He looks absolutely ecstatic over your flustered state.

His hot breath fans over your lips and you gather any rational sense you have left inside your muddled brain to push him back, missing the split second his confident facade cracks and a sliver of insecurity shines through. It’s instantly replaced by a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No matter what you decide to call yourself, I’ll always be your friend.”

Seconds seem like hours as the two of you stare at each other, seeking to uncover the words left unsaid. Jungkook’s palms press against his knees, pushing off of them to come to a standing position and effectively ending your little moment. “I’m gonna go get some more wood.”

You nod, staring at his retreating backside that ventures into the adumbral forest once more. Even though the perpetrator of all these complex emotions is no longer within sight, you feel unsettled from the mere thought of him, yet your heart yearns for him all the same.

“Oh, Petal, I thought he would never leave!” A distinctly high-pitched cry rings out in the empty space, a voice which you didn’t expect to hear until at least tomorrow night.

Your head whips to the side to confirm your suspicions. “Mother?” Her dark figure emerges from the shadows and your heart drops to your stomach. You fumble for the right words, at a loss from her unexpected appearance. “How did you—”

“The better question is how could you, Petal?” she corrects, continuing to step into the light provided by the fire. The once comforting flames turn harsh, sharp pops bursting forth from the aggressive combustion. She lowers her hood to reveal the disappointment etched into her youthful features—and without fail, the sting of upsetting her burns through your conscience. “Really, how could you betray your own mother like this?”

You stand, determined to explain yourself, “Mother, he’s different from the monsters you told me about. If you get to know him, he’s sweet and caring and kind an-and he isn’t after my magic!”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, my naive, little Petal.” She tilts her chin up slightly, peering down at you. “Everyone is the same out here, all looking after themselves.”

You approach her within a few strides. “Mother, please listen to me, he’s different! Even though he puts on a tough front at times, he’s really considerate on the inside.” You fiddle with the tips of your fingers as you whisper the next part, “And I, uh, I think he might like me.”

The reaction you least expect is her startling outburst of laughter, powerful enough to fold her in half, and you wait for her giggles to quiet down before warily stepping forward. Your mother is acting awfully strange. “You think he likes you? And what makes you think that?”

You blanch at her ruthless words, wincing as though they assumed a physical form and punched you repeatedly in the gut.

Her maniacal snickers abruptly cease and a frown mars her lovely face once again, her expression one you recognized from previous reprimands, whether it was shattering a vase or begging to go outside. Your chin falls down to meet your chest, unable to muster up your faux bravery for any longer.

“I’m asking what gave you the idea that he would like some insolent, unsightly brat like you?”

You can’t open your mouth to respond, frozen in fear.

“Hm, what’s with the silence? You seemed so certain earlier, Petal. This is why you never should have left, look at this pitiful romance you’ve created,” she mocks, rounding your nervous form like a predator playing with their prey. “Let’s put him to the test then, shall we?”

Your head snaps up at her odd suggestion, eyes widening at the satchel she uncovers from behind her slim form. “You found it?”

She tosses the bag to you and you outstretch your arms—only to catch it a second too late. The bag drops to the floor and the flap flips open. You race to collect the sparkling crown that tumbles out, hastily shoving the diadem back inside before Jungkook wanders back, even turning towards the fire to ensure his continued absence.

“Why so scared?” your mother questions smugly, “I thought you said that he’s different from the rest of them?”

“He is!” you exclaim, rushing to defend him.

“Then give it to him, let’s see if he stays once he has the crown back in his hands. But don’t come crying back to Mother when he runs for the hills,” she snarls, lifting her hood over her short curls and withdrawing into the woods.

Your mind reels from your mother’s visit, but your concern lies with where to stash the leather satchel in your grasp. Dead leaves crunch under approaching footsteps and you examine your body, contemplating the best area for your idea.

Hiking the hem of your dress up to your stomach, you loop the strap of the bag through your left foot, twisting and repeating until it’s coiled around your ankle and the pouch snugly rests against your skin. You shimmy the satchel until the middle of your thigh where it refuses to go any higher.

Satisfied, you release your dress, smoothing the fabric down and confirming that nothing is suspiciously sticking out. You violently shake your leg back and forth to ensure there would be no future problems and sure enough, the straps tenaciously cling onto your thigh throughout all your testing.

“Hey, look what I found! He’ll definitely save us some travelling time tomorrow, but I don’t think he likes me much.”

Jungkook appears from the area your mother disappeared with an overwhelming pile of lumber in his arms. You stroll over to lessen the load, but he brushes you off and bypasses you to drop it beside the fire.

A white horse tromps along after him, trying to nip at the crown of his head while he shoos it away with a waving hand. The comical sight distracts you from the dreary thoughts of your mother, although the stiff strap wrapped around your leg forbids you from forgetting about it.

When you snap out of your reverie, Jungkook is cocking his head to the side at your unusually spacey behaviour.

You spare him a weak smile and shake your head.

Rather than sore feet, the next day your entire crotch is painfully numb from riding Maximus, the quirky horse who holds an obnoxious grudge against Jungkook for reasons unknown to you. While Max allows you to rub his cheeks, scratch his neck and run your fingers through his mane, he huffs if Jungkook so much as breathes too loudly.

Oddly enough, the stallion follows Jungkook around like a lost puppy despite his cold attitude. What is with males and their inability to show their appreciation for one another?

Jungkook insisted on being in front and taking hold of the reins even though Max refused to let him mount his back at first. After some caresses and loving words with the sweet animal, Max permitted you to hop on—which Jungkook was not pleased with. It was a nice change of pace to watch the ordinarily suave man lose his cool over a horse’s favouritism.

In the end, the only way Jungkook was allowed on was by sitting behind you, latching onto you for stability. The animosity growing between the two males adds to your amusement, so you remain unbothered by the hostile glares you can feel Jungkook throwing over your shoulder and the aggressive puffs of air that blow through Max’s nostrils every once in a while.

“Tell me how you found Max again?” Skepticism leaks into your tone, courtesy of Jungkook’s thieving habits.

You could practically feel his eyes roll back into his head as his arms tighten around your waist. His built torso is glued to your back, which repeatedly distracts you from the path ahead. “I told you that I was collecting some twigs off of the ground when this guy appeared out of nowhere! I was scared shitless.”

“You mean to say that someone accidentally lost their horse in the middle of the woods?” You glance sideways to peek at his chin, lodged into the crook of your neck. His face is merely a couple of millimetres from your own.

When he insisted on resting his head there, you had thoroughly embarrassed yourself with a flaming face, resembling a ripe tomato ready for the picking, coupled with your inability to enunciate any word properly. But after hours of his head smooshed against the side of your face or leaning against your upper back, you finally relax into his hold, finding comfort and safety in the appendages coiled tightly around you.

“Sounds plausible, doesn’t it?”

You scoff at the impish grin stretching across his cheeks at his own horrible excuse.

The castle comes into view in the ensuing half-hour, the imposing building no longer obstructed by the towering trees of the forest. Your spirits are dampened slightly by the cruel secrets Jungkook revealed yesterday night, although your giddiness at the prospect of living out your dreams makes you vibrate in excitement. You remind yourself that you’re here for the magical lights, not the castle.

The faint pounding against your back picks up speed for a reason drastically different to your own. He is essentially walking right into his own imprisonment—his wanted posters more than likely plastered across every flat surface inside the marketplace with soldiers littered around the premises. You gather the sturdy reins into one hand, freeing the other to hold Jungkook’s conjoined digits over your stomach.

Completely engrossed in Jungkook’s dilemma, neither of you notice Max racing into town until a screech pierces your ears. You apologize profusely for the spilled legumes that begin rolling away from the young woman, and you whip Max into trodding off before she curses you out.

Once you’re satisfied with the amount of space between yourselves and the unlucky woman, you tie Max’s reins to a nearby fence and race to join the festivities carrying on all around you. Spotting Jungkook’s unsure form lagging behind, you dart back to tug on his wrist, flashing him an encouraging smile before lugging him from one stall to another.

You don’t get far before you experience a sharp pain on your scalp. With the large amounts of people bustling around the tiny square, your hair is a tripping hazard that you try to quickly bunch up into your arms. Your hair is way too long to carry by yourself, so you turn to ask Jungkook for help, though he’s nowhere to be found.

Your mind races to the worst-case scenario. The guards must have caught sight of him, capturing him off guard while you were none the wiser and now he’s going to be hanged for his crimes all because you were too stupid to—

A couple of little girls with flowers decorating their braids physically yank you out of your trance, their tiny hands gathering your multitudinous strands and dragging you off to the side. You’re about to protest against their actions, more concerned over Jungkook’s whereabouts than anything, but after catching a glance of said man playfully waving at you from a few feet away, you allow yourself to be whisked away.

The three girls deftly move from left to right, taking locks of your hair with them as they knot it all into one humongous five strand braid. When you stand up to your full height, you’re amazed to see that none of your hair touches the ground. Considering the hefty weight that pulls at the back of your head, you know this solution can’t last too long.

They scatter various fresh flowers all over, the scent of the blossoms wafting around your figure. As you’re appreciating their handiwork, an arm wraps itself around the curve of your lower back, drawing you into a herculean chest while you blow air kisses filled with your gratitude to the snickering girls.

Jungkook maneuvers you into a narrow alleyway, and you get a chance to admire his glittering irises from up close.

“Guards?”

He only grins.

You’re certain to keep an eye out for any wandering soldiers from that point on, with you pulling Jungkook behind crowds or him dragging you into the gaps between small buildings. Despite the situation being rather stressful with your lives at stake, your escapade is thrilling nonetheless and you enjoy being pressed up against his lean frame, carelessly giggling to yourselves.

Although neither of you carries any silver, window shopping proves to be equally as amusing—browsing through homemade accessories, toys and masks that you play around with, flashing ridiculous faces at one another.

The delicious smell of baked goods drifts through the streets and prompts your mouths to fill with saliva. You appreciate the artistry behind their beautifully decorated exteriors, adorned with colourful frosting and sprinkles. One booth catches your attention and you latch onto Jungkook’s hand to drag him along.

Rows and rows of shiny green bottles are positioned in perfect rows on a table inside the booth and plushies hang from the sides, acting as bait to any passerby. You tug on the hem of Jungkook’s dark vest, gesticulating towards the game with awe.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few silver coins that glint in the sunlight. Your eyes widen into saucers at his mischievous grin and you smack his arm, chiding him for his wandering hands as he assures you that he found them on the ground. When he goes as far as to insist that he saved them from being trampled on, you can’t help your tinkling laughter from escaping.

Perhaps it’s karma that prevents your rings from landing on top of any bottle, but the exhilaration of watching the rings soar in midair with a flick of your wrist as Jungkook’s chants fill your ears is priceless. Certainly more precious than any stuffed animal.

You two amble about the streets again, side by side. Long fingers intertwine with your own and your heart flips in your chest, suppressing the raging flush that threatens to colour your cheeks whenever Jungkook is involved. You look around your surroundings, trying to conceal the cheeky grin on your face, resembling that of a toddler with their favourite candy.

Before long, your travelling gaze takes notice of the people hunched over on the ground, concentrated on the stones below them. With a closer look, you discover the sketches littered across the stone pathways—some spanning the entire street and some smaller than your palm.

You bolt over to join them with Jungkook in tow. This whole hand-holding business is proving to be more useful than you thought.

There are pieces of different coloured chalk dispersed throughout the streets, and you pick up an orange one, urging Jungkook to do the same. He searches around for a bit until he decides on a white coloured chalk.

By the time you’re finalizing the tiny drawing you sketched onto the uneven stones, the stub in your hand is half the size of your pinky. Your joints ache from kneeling for so long, but you’re more than satisfied with the bright tiger lily staring back at you.

You stand up, brushing off of any stray rocks that have embedded themselves onto the bare skin of your legs and nudge Jungkook’s arm with your foot. He grumbles under his breath that you ruined the white blob he claims to be a bunny, but you jest that it was doomed the moment he picked up the chalk.

The retort silences him and you stretch your hand out to help him stand, grinning sheepishly at the pout on his pink lips. He accepts your peace offering, although rather than using your aid to get up, he yanks you downwards and your unstable body lands right into his lap. You squeak at his retaliation and wriggle violently in his hold as he curls himself around you, his chin resting onto your shoulder and arms wrapping around your torso to quell your futile efforts of escape.

“You like the nation’s flower?” He questions, nuzzling his face into your upper back.

“Nation’s flower?”

He hums his confirmation and you feel the pleasant vibrations on your neck before he’s nodding towards the purple pennants that dangle off of thin strings, stretching between buildings. Now that you’re actively inspecting the marketplace for the flower, you notice the continuous motif of the orange lily sprouting everywhere from decorations to paintings.

Jungkook seems to have abandoned all hope on his own masterpiece, for he lifts you up by your underarms and leads you away.

As you venture through the rest of the market, grazing through the various stalls, you examine all the knick-knacks depicting the famous tiger lily. It soothes you slightly, recognizing the flower decorating your walls back at the tower.

Lost in your trance, you don’t catch Jungkook slinking away, disappearing into the crowds.

As you turn the corner to browse the next stall’s wares, a massive stained glass window depicting a family of three catches your eye. The man appears stern with his furrowed brows and deep-set frown, and the woman’s forced smile fits awkwardly onto her face. She’s holding a tight bundle of canvas, a tiny face peeking through the layers of fabric in her arms.

Rays of the setting sun pierce through the coloured, translucent material and surround the art piece with an ethereal glow. You’re transfixed by the woman, reminded of your own mother’s delicate features.

You shake off the unpleasant feeling of your last encounter with her and analyze the three squares dedicated to the child’s crumpled face. The only noticeable detail you can make out is his chubby cheeks.

“Interested in the Prince?” A warm breath whispers into your ear, “Am I not good enough for you anymore, Princess?”

You spin around to face Jungkook, barely able to contain your delight as you examine the playful glint in his eyes. “Bold of you to assume there was ever a point where you were good enough for me.”

He scoffs, hands automatically coming to loop around your middle. “I know you’re not suggesting that I’m anything less than stellar company.”

You hum aloud, feigning contemplation by rubbing at your chin and a wide grin breaks his irked performance. He tries to hide his little slip by burrowing his face into the crook of your neck.

His soft cheeks on your bare skin along with his large hands squeezing at your sides elicit all your muffled giggles to burst past your lips. Pure, unadulterated glee bounces around your stomach.

Some of the lilies lodged within your golden strands fall loose and flutter onto the ground with the movement. You intercept one that drops from near your temple, plucking it out of the air and slotting the stem just above Jungkook’s ear.

He pulls away from subjecting your clavicle with his tiny nips in order to rest his forehead against yours. Your head is cradled by one of his palms and you watch as his heated gaze roams down to your lips. Entranced by his overwhelming presence, your eyelids slide shut as he leans forward slightly, tilting his head to the side before a meaty hand encloses around the circumference of your upper arm, yanking you away from him.

Panic seizes your muscles. Your heart threatens to shatter your rib cage with its fierce pounding. The soldiers. You extend your other arm to reach out for Jungkook—the same alarm piercing your flesh is reflected in his blazing orbs. Before he has the chance to rush after you, a dainty woman clothed in a primrose dress sweeps him away as well.

Barely a whole day has passed since you began running away from the soldiers, yet you’re more than certain that the soldier’s attire solely consisted of their royal uniforms, which did not include any flowy, pink garments. You whip back to your own abductor; a stout, jolly man with a cheshire grin stretching from one ear to the other.

He releases you in the middle of a swarming mass of people, moving their bodies left and right to the beat being pounded out on tabors and the sweet melody spilling from a nearby flute.

The man spins you around, encouraging you to let loose and sway your hips to the upbeat song as you’re handed off from one partner to the next. Somewhere within the chaos, you spot Jungkook’s longing stare and you subconsciously inch closer to his side.

The second that you two are within reach of one another, you dart into his arms. Just as you’re about to slip into his comforting embrace, a scrawny boy takes your place while an older woman wraps her arms around your shoulders. She wastes no time before guiding you into a dip, her palms supporting your back.

Upside down, Jungkook’s annoyed countenance is an amusing sight that you gleefully chortle at. Knowing that he is similarly distraught at the prospect of being unable to dance together soothes your aching desire and you savour the thrilling experience of moving as one part of a greater whole.

You prance and twirl your heart out as if it’s your last time. And you’re sure that it will be.

Eventually, both of you are able to slither your way out of the dancing crowds, and the cheers die down the farther you get from the main square. The sun is rapidly falling past the horizon and the capital is shrouded in the deepening twilight. You assumed that he would lead you to see the lanterns about now, but you’re clueless as to why you two are heading away from the castle.

“Jungkook?”

He turns back to you with a breathtaking smile resting on his lips, the dwindling light casting an otherworldly radiance around him. Reaching for your hand, he intertwines your fingers with his own as he leans down to softly bump his forehead against yours. “You’ll see.”

Jungkook directs you towards the moat that surrounds the marketplace, ushering you into one of the many gondolas lined up against the dock. You narrow your eyes at him and he attempts to reassure you with a simple, “We’ll bring it back.”

This man will truly corrupt all your morals.

But you’re so entranced in his spell that you follow along without more than a tiny squeeze at your interlaced digits. You release his hands before he jumps into the boat, the wood swaying back and forth under his weight, worrying you instead of the unbothered man a few feet away. As you take a sharp inhale, about to follow in his footsteps, Jungkook grips the sides of your hips and lifts you into the gondola with him.

You fix him with a reproachful glare at his unexpected actions yet the silent scolding doesn’t last long, for you’re hopeless to the sight of his elation, sticking to him like a second skin. Powerless against his charms, you sit on the thin wooden seat on the other side of the boat and watch him grab an oar, dipping it into the water and propelling you two forward.

You want to admire the unobstructed view of the sparkling night sky, but nothing can beat the galaxies hidden within Jungkook’s eyes, thus you try to seem as inconspicuous as possible in ogling him from your peripheral. However, your futile efforts are rather pointless considering your position, facing the handsome thief rowing the boat at the other end.

You think the title is fitting since he’s stolen your heart without a problem as well.

Once he deems your spot satisfactory, Jungkook strolls over to your side, taking a seat on the bench across from you. His legs slot in between the spaces of your own.

“Now that I think about it, it’s the Prince’s eighteenth birthday too,” he states. “He must be pretty excited, taking over the throne and everything.”

You perk up at the news. “He’s succeeding the King?”

“Mm,” he affirms, wetting his lips with a swipe of his tongue. “King announced an early retirement or something because they’d already found the Prince’s betrothed. His coronation is today.”

You nod your understanding, thinking about the responsibilities bearing down on the poor boy. “It’s kind of weird to think about, y’know, being the same age and even sharing the same birthday but leading completely different lives. He’s about to get married, lead a country and me...” you falter, pausing to string your thoughts into a coherent sentence. “Well, this is my entire dream. Seeing these lights is everything to me.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” he asks, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re living your own life, on your own journey. Comparing yourself to others does nothing but rob yourself of your own happiness.”

You hum with a teasing lilt to your tone. “Suddenly the boy who named himself ‘gold’ in the hopes of attracting some friends is giving me advice?”

He breaks out into a chuckle, doubling over and laying his forehead on your shoulder. His hands reach out for the locks of hair resting on your lap, plucking one of the flowers swimming in your strands. Like Hansel and his bread crumbs, many of the blossoms that fell off throughout your time in the marketplace left tracks of your whereabouts. Only a few flowers remain with you.

With the delicate daisy between his thumb and index finger, he rolls the pads of his fingers against each other, spinning the white petals so fast that they blur together into a splotchy circle surrounding the yellow centre. Once he becomes bored with the flower, he lifts his head and stretches his arm out with a classic smirk that heightens his flirtatious nature. “For you, my lady.”

You huff at the offering. “You act as if it wasn’t already mine in the first place.” Despite your sharp words, you gingerly pluck the stem out of his grasp, fingers brushing against his own. When you raise the daisy up to your nose, the invigorating floral scent startles your senses once more.

With not much else to occupy your time, you decide that now is a better time than ever to dislodge the wilting buds from your tresses. You face the side of the gondola overlooking the water, grabbing onto the ledge and leaning forward.

You muster all the grace you have within your bones to place the ivory daisy onto the water’s surface. The flower drifts along the calm current, painting the atmosphere with a tranquil serenity.

Despite your best efforts to suppress them, your clumsy tendencies shine through when you tip your torso over a smidge too far, losing your balance and diving headfirst for the water. Jungkook is quick to latch on to your wrist, steadying you before you accidentally throw yourself overboard.

You’re sheepish in both your apology and thanks. To avoid any further mishaps, one of his hands remain on your lower back and the other collects the remaining blossoms in your tresses, handing them off to you.

A slow rhythm develops between you two and your raging thoughts come to a standstill, a red light halting the traffic within your mind. In front of you, a garden of assorted blossoms assembles, floating gently towards the ornate castle. One sprout catches your eye.

A tiger lily.

Directly below its long petals, a flash of bright red catches your eye in the reflection of the water. Jungkook’s deep voice cleaves through the soft sloshing of the water. “The lanterns.”

“It’s…” You struggle to piece together proper words to describe the sight before you. One lantern lightens the dark sky, drifting alone in the expansive space before a bunch of others race to join the first. Their warm, yellow glow overpowers that of the moon, painting the landscape in an orange tint that seems to welcome you into its embrace.

“Beautiful.”

You’re too distracted by the enchanting sight before you to notice his eyes trained on your profile, and so you soundlessly agree with a nod of your head. It’s as if time has ceased in its endless ticking, halting in its tracks for another world to open where only you and Jungkook exist.

You don’t mind the idea as much as you think you would.

“I have a surprise.”

You turn over to face him, head tilting in curiosity. He carries a paper lantern in his open palms and your brows furrow at his attentive, considerate behaviour. “Jungkook?”

“We should join in on all the fun, right?” A genuine smile illuminates his soft features instead of the usual smirks he casually throws your way. Oddly enough, despite your inability to operate in front of his flirty personality, you adore both sides equally.

“Kook, wait.”

He perks up at the nickname, reminding you of a dog with its tail violently wagging back and forth—you can’t help but be enamoured by him. You raise the hem of your dress up to the middle of your left thigh and he sputters, looking away. “Hey, hey! I know I’m pretty irresistible but this boat is not the place to—”

“No, you idiot.” You snicker at his unexpected timidity, shimmying the coiled strap down your leg and covering your decency once again with the fabric. “I have something for you too.”

He peeks at you, ensuring that you’re sufficiently clothed before turning to face you. A cold sweat settles over the outer layer of your skin as you watch his brows raise at his satchel in your hands. Keeping the lantern in one hand, and his steady gaze focused on your eyes, he gently pushes the bag down to the floor of the boat, the metal of the crown banging against the wood.

“All I need is you,” he whispers the words into the empty space of the night, the syllables getting lost somewhere within the mellow breeze blowing by. Your heart constricts at the reassurance that this time, Mother is wrong. You fight back the tears gathering at your waterline and grab the other edge of the lantern after he lights the candle inside.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod and the two of you slowly lift your arms to release the lantern with the masses drifting above you. After a bit, you lose sight of your paper lantern and you glance back at Jungkook to ask whether he was able to keep track of its location, but your voice gets stuck in your throat when you become captivated with the childlike wonder buried within his orbs, roaming over the sky and examining every single lantern at once.

His scouring eventually leads him back to you. He catches you staring, but neither of you care enough to break the moment. His eyes soften and you two shuffle forward on your seats, being pulled toward one another like magnets. Your legs entangle with his in the cramped area and you lean forward until your lips are millimetres from one another.

From this close, you have a perfect view of your reflection within his brilliant irises, the shallow scar that runs along his cheek, the cute birthmark right under his mouth. His eyes are locked on your mouth and you take that as the go-ahead signal to close the gap and slot your lips against his soft ones.

With your evident lack of experience, Jungkook takes control immediately, a hand flying to the back of your head, threading through your hair to keep you in place as he sucks at your lower lip. His tongue swipes at the closed seam that blocks him from your mouth, and you instantly open up to clash tongues, although you shrink back soon after, letting him explore your hot cavern.

You sneak a peek at him every time you two separate for air, confirming that this is indeed reality and not some product of your wild imagination. He invades all your senses and keeps you locked to him like an addict desperate for their fix, his other palm searing through your clothing with its heat and burning a hole through the thin fabric of your dress.

When you finally pull away, you feel feverish and dizzy as a raging blush colours your cheeks. You can’t find it in yourself to look directly into his eyes, but he reaches for your chin and forces you to study the haze of passion in his gaze.

Every part of your body is lit aflame from his touch. Hooked on the feeling of his plush lips pressing against yours with your tongues swirling in tandem with one another, you’re about to lean in for more when his eyes dart off to the side and he abruptly jerks away as if you burned him with your embrace.

His startling jolt snaps you out of your dazed state. With your head out of the clouds, you notice that the lanterns have already moved onto the next town over, taking their warmth with them. The fire within you, kindled by Jungkook, dwindles with the uncertainty of your future together.

Without so much as another word, Jungkook snatches the oar from the bottom of the boat and jumps back to his position at the front of the gondola. He urgently paddles the two of you back to land and you fumble for words. “Jungkook, I—”

“It’s not you.” His statement is reassuring in writing, although his tone is detached, distant in a way that crushes the passages to your lungs. Lost in your dejection, you’re powerless to prod him for any more information than that.

Before the boat can hit the edge of the dock, Jungkook springs out with his leather satchel tucked under his arm, pausing to mutter, “I just—I have to take care of something. Please believe me when I say I’ll be back.” His anguish leaks into his voice and you will yourself to nod, a forced smile on your lips. “Wait for me.”

He dashes off with your heart in his hands. You steady your shaky breath and place your faith in him, the man you have come to trust with your life.

You spend the next half hour struggling to get out of the gondola, craving the flat land to ground yourself. By the time you manage to clamber out, there are a couple of discoloured blotches on the length of your dress that put your many failed attempts on full display. You fan one of the bigger spots to help it dry faster, but the fabric becomes chilly with the extra wind and a shiver slips down your spine from its icy temperature.

Languid footsteps approach your frigid frame and you brighten up, forgetting about the cold. “Took you long enough. Y’know, for a second there I was worried you’d actually lef—”

You pick up more than one pair of feet advancing on you and your eyes widen at the lanky, redheaded twins that stop in front of your path. Cursing your quivering limbs, you cringe at the tremor in your voice when you ask, “What did you do to him?”

They simultaneously snort at your question and the one on the left replies, “Sorry about this, lass, but you’re gonna have to come with us.”

The blood drains from your face and you repeat, louder, “What did you do to him?”

“Aw, don’t get all riled up now. But don’t worry your pretty little head, we’re going to take you right to him.” They corner you back to the dock and you scramble to locate a weapon to defend yourself with. At your wit’s end, you prepare to jump into the murky waters.

However, before you get the chance to move another muscle, an intense pain blooms at the back of your skull, wrapping around to your temples accompanied by a flash of light exploding behind your eyes. Then everything goes black.

Your head pounds as a dull ache nestles itself deep within your bones. Your vision is nothing but a blurry, indecipherable mess of colours, so you opt to keep your eyes closed instead. You’re kneeling on cold tiles that rub your knees raw when you subtly shift into a more comfortable position, discovering the existence of the shackles around your wrists and ankles.

“—nd the girl. We expect you to keep your end of the deal.” The rugged tone that speaks is one that you recognize from before your blackout—one of the redheads.

“Yes, yes, all the charges laid against you have been cleared,” a high-pitched voice meets your ears and you subconsciously grimace, physically recoiling from the sound. Thankfully, your sharp motions go unnoticed. “You’re free to go.”

“What?” You hear shuffling nearby, the rustling of clothes getting farther away from you. The distinct, metallic sheen of a couple of swords being unsheathed follow and the footsteps come to a sudden stop. “You promised us gold.”

The woman scoffs, “Now why would I give you crooked-nosed knaves anything more than a death sentence?”

Many polished boots clamber against the ground with such force that the vibrations can be felt through the flesh of your folded calves. The grunts and garbled screams that ensue are silenced within seconds and two hefty weights hit the floor with a limp, lifeless thud.

“A pleasure working with you boys.”

There’s more shuffling, then something is dragged past your crumpled form. The throbbing across your cranium worsens and you’re incapable of fending off the blissful oblivion of desolation any longer, thus you surrender to the darkness once more.

The next time you open your eyes a harsh light coats your surroundings and the blocks of colour are clearer, sharp enough to decipher the intricate detailing painted on the tiles beneath your knees. Someone chokes on a wet cough, and your eyelids snap shut once more. Your nose crinkles in disgust as well.

“Her tiny skull should have been rolling through these halls eighteen years ago.” The woman’s wretched tone fills your ears, words full of deadly poison.

You remain chained, kneeling against the ground with your head lowered. A numbing sensation lingers no matter how much you fidget in place, bearing down your limbs with the weight of your useless nerves that refuse to fire off.

Another, deeper, voice responds, “Tone it down. Her magic is powerful, the advantage we hold over the other kingdoms is colossal with this kind of sorcery on our side. If she falls, the whole empire will fall with her.”

Sorcery? Although you can count the number of people you met on one hand, you’ve studied heaps of books and drilled your mother with enough questions to know that your magic is unique and rare—a product of alchemy that occurs merely once every millennium.

“I see no point in keeping her around when we cannot access her magic at our will, she is as good as worthless to us. That halfwit of a sister was incapable of locking this churl in a tower for long enough, and look at her now, running around, wreaking havoc with a criminal.”

Your mind swirls with the sudden barrage of information, unsure as to why these two strangers hold deep insights into your life, as well as the knowledge about your unusual hair.

“There is nothing to worry about, Jimin is on the throne. We will simply send her away once again,” the gruff voice states, exasperation clear in his tone.

A deafening thud reverberates throughout the spacious room. Helpless to the dreadful fear swimming in your veins, your body shudders in response to the noise.

The woman shrieks, clearly at her wits’ end, “I want her dead! Guillotine, hang, drown, burn, I could care less. She poses a threat to Jimin’s throne with her existence, and we have gone through too much to have our plans foiled by this knave. We were merciful enough in having my imbecilic sister continue to meet with Jimin throughout the years.”

There’s a long, drawn-out sigh before the man answers, “Have some heart, darling, that is her son you speak of.”

“In the eyes of the people, he is my son and the King,” she seethes. Her enmity is strangely familiar, yet you fail to identify the woman through her voice. “Quit acting as if I am the only sinner here and remember how much we both sacrificed for our blood to inherit the King’s throne.”

“It is not your blood though, is it, dear wife?”

The tension within the room is thick, palpable in the dense air in the way that makes breathing difficult. “You must have enjoyed sleeping with my sister more than I believed. Do you want to call her back here? Play a good husband and wife for the counterfeit King?”

You couldn’t keep the tremours from breaking out over your body as your breaths quicken and an abundance of liquid races to your eyes. It was all beginning to come together, but you wait for the two to confirm your suspicions.

The man chuckles with hollow intent. “Do you fail to recall your own words, pleading with me to follow this foolish scheme of yours? I would have much rather preferred a foreigner rule the kingdom alongside our daughter.”

“Funny, that’s not what you said eighteen years ago.”

You let out a choked sob, unable to repress the sounds of anguish that tears at your skin to brutal shreds. Enraged rivulets stream down your cheeks, and you lift your torso to stare at your legitimate parents. They turn to you, the man distraught and the woman with pure disgust.

“How—” you stammer through your heavy wails, “how could you?”

“So the Princess found out.” Your biological mother raises from her royal seat, storming over the short distance to your trembling form. “Fine, we can strike an agreement.”

She reaches behind your head to grab a handful of your hair, yanking your head up to peer up at the exquisitely decorated ceiling. When you yelp in pain, she crouches down to your level, baring her pearly white teeth as she threatens, “Leave. Be a good little girl and go hole yourself back up in that tower. Don’t worry, Mommy will come get you if we ever need that magic of yours, hm?”

You desperately wriggle around to loosen her hold, but she only grips your strands tighter, pulling downwards to introduce more pain to your scalp. “That thief will stay right here to ensure you keep up your end of the deal, alright?”

At the mention of Jungkook, your heart stutters and your expression morphs to that of despair, momentarily forgetting about the strain to the sensitive skin of your head. “Where is he?”

She smirks and snaps her fingers. The door to the throne room is pulled open with a loud clack, and Jungkook’s weak, bloody form stumbles through the grand entrance, hanging upright with the help of two sturdy guards.

“Kook,” you achingly howl.

“Mopping all his blood off the floor would be terribly tiresome for the maids.” She jerks your head down to bear witness to the sneer stretching across her lips. “It’s all up to you, really.”

“Let me heal him!” you agonize, sobs ripping through your chest, burning through every tissue to the outermost layer of your skin. “Pl-please, please let me heal him. I’ll leave, I won’t say a word, I’ll do anything you want—I’m b-begging you, please.”

The wicked smirk playing on her lips grows wider at your pleading. She shoves your head away, the momentum of the push throwing your whole torso over to the side, bringing about a harsh meeting with the floor. With Jungkook occupying every crevice of your mind, there’s no space to register the pain pulsing through your groggy body.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

You scramble to your hands and knees, disregarding the scrapes and bruises littering your limbs. Despite your tunnel vision directed towards reaching Jungkook, your movements are sluggish from the extended period of time spent kneeling in one position.

The guards supporting him release their hold on his arms, and you scramble to catch his limp frame in your arms, but your depleted muscles can only manage to soften his fall with your body. You detangle yourself from him and hurriedly begin wrapping your hair around his torso.

Your jaw trembles at his damp locks, sodden with sweat and stuck to the side of his head dripping in crimson. The vicious colour oozes out of the deep gashes you locate across his back, peeking through the tears in his shirt and stains the bloody spit drooling from the corners of his cracked lips. Great purple welts fill the rest of his exposed skin, completing the heart-wrenching picture before you.

You pick up the weak croak of your name, and you hiccup from your fierce laments at his red-rimmed eyes. “Guess I was right all along, Princess.”

Your mother’s cruel words follow the nasty glower she shoots his way. “Shut up or we’ll end your pitiful life now, you filthy criminal.”

“Jungkook, I’m here,” you reassure him, beginning to wrap your excess strands around his arms before he stops you with a stained hand. “Jungkook let me—”

“Stop,” he mutters, gripping his side in pain.  

“No! I can’t—I can’t let you die.” You grit your teeth, disobeying his words and going to wrap your tresses around his broken body once more.

“If you go back there,” he coughs, an alarming amount of blood spurting out, “then you’ll—”

“It’s fine, everything will be alright, okay?” You press your palm over his hand and the icy bite that greets you hardens your resolve. “We’ll figure it out.”

You take a deep breath, readying yourself to sing the incantation engraved into the back of your mind when Jungkook’s fingers graze your cheek. You unconsciously lean into his touch, examining every crimson stain marring his delicate features.

His doe eyes soften at your orbs roaming his face and when your gaze settles on his thin lips, he snatches the chance to land a peck against your mouth. The fleeting kiss fills you with greed, and your eyes flutter shut despite your rationale as you dip towards him for another.

You halt, gasping at the gut-wrenching sound of your tresses being severed from the base of your neck, the noise snapping you back to reality. Your eyes widen at Jungkook’s relieved countenance as his torso reclines to the ground, the sharp dagger in his hand rattling onto the tiles beside him. When you reach back to assess the damage, your hand grips onto the short strands that reach no further than your shoulder.

You glance back at the heaps of dead, brown hair sprawled across the palace floor and your mind wipes clean of any coherent thought. Instead, your chest caves in on itself, breathing made impossible because of your collapsed airways and you choke out, “Jungkook, what did you—”

“What an absolute halfwit, does he think he did anyone a favour with that little stunt of his? Without your hair, we have no need for either of you.” Your biological mother laughs, the notes turning ominously maniacal towards the end. “Kill them.”

Guards immediately surround you two, and in a weak attempt to protect him from their pointed swords, you cradle Jungkook’s powerless form to your chest. You prepare yourself to bear the end of their piercing blades.

“What do you roaches think you’re doing?” she seethes, blazing orbs flashing with white-hot fury. “I said, kill them!”

The gigantic doors burst open again, but this time, a lean man strides forward. His blond strands are neatly styled away from his forehead and the regal red robe hanging upon his shoulders elegantly sway after him. The soldiers part ways to make room for the intimidating man and one of his retainers at the door announces, “The King is here!”

You struggle to even out your frantic breaths, thankful for the distraction that grants you a break to rack your brain for a method to escape the dreadful situation you two have found yourselves in. Debating whether you should fight back, sneak away or plead for forgiveness, your eyes dart wildly around the room. A woman donned in a black cloak lingers slightly behind the King, gazing at you with a murderous glare that sends pin needles into the thin lining of your stomach.

“That’s enough,” the King states.

“Jimin.” The former Queen races up to him but is stopped by the retainers that encircle the King.  “What business do you have here? There are more important matters for you to attend to.” Her eyes narrow at the sight of the woman behind him.

“No, I think this has gone on long enough.” He sweeps his gaze over to the two of you, Jungkook barely clinging onto life, nestled within your protective embrace. The woman latches onto his bicep, her head vigorously shaking back and forth, yet you’re uncertain whether her disagreement will relieve your anguish or worsen it.

Despite her insistence, his head nods in your direction and the woman that raised you begrudgingly marches up to you, barely acknowledging your presence in favour of pressing her palms against Jungkook’s open lacerations. He winces at the pressure and just as you’re about to tell her off, you discern the thick gauze that rests between her hand and Jungkook’s side, the sterile white shade expeditiously being replaced by a bloody crimson.

“What are you talking about, dear?” the former Queen asks, a hard edge to her tone. “These two are hedge-born lowlives, simply not worth your time.”

He crinkles his nose in disgust, flicking his hand towards the former King and Queen. “Lock them up in the dungeons.”

Both their eyes widen comically, jaws dropping to the floor. However, you can’t find joy within their despair when Jungkook’s survival is still up in the air.

The woman sputters, recklessly thrashing her body to escape the soldiers’ grip. The man simply lowers his head, seemingly having accepted his fate as he follows the guards without another word.

“Did you forget who put you in that throne, Park Jimin?” the woman screeches, the blood vessels lining her neck about to implode. “How dare you disrespect your pare—”

“How could I ever forget your treacherous actions?” he spits out, disgust lacing his voice, “How could I ever forget how many lives you’ve ruined, dear aunt.”

“We did it all for you!”

“You did it for yourselves,” he hisses. Relief trickles through the tips of your fingers, spreading across your body like wildfire from the King’s aid. “Get them out of my sight.”

“You worthless—” Her shrieks echo throughout the halls, though you’ve long lost focus in their conversation after watching the two wretched souls being punished and put in their rightful place.

Your aunt passes some thick bandages from inside the bell sleeve of her cloak. You gratefully accept the offering, pressing it against his lower back—wishing that it’s not too late, that Jungkook has not lost too much blood yet. The passive stare that your aunt fixes you with crams your head with doubt and you begin to panic, bringing one of your hands up to cradle his face.

Although you’re convinced that you wailed through an entire year’s worth of sobs, the tears sliding down your face refuse to stop, dripping down and landing onto the dirtied skin of Jungkook’s cheek. You press your forehead against his, hoping against hope that some magic remains within your body, that the tiniest bit will reveal itself like a bag trick and heal his wounds.

But your magical hair was extraordinary enough, and this is no fairytale.

“Get those two to the physician’s,” the King orders.

Guards scramble to action, ripping you apart from Jungkook as you unsuccessfully attempt to resist being separated again. You’re absolutely spent from the tiring events of the past couple of days and your weary legs give out as the soldiers lift your drained form into a standing position.

Jungkook is moved onto a sturdy sheet, then carried away past the double doors and out of sight. Your flimsy arms wrap around the shoulders of two guards as they assist you in following Jungkook to the physician, passing the King on your way.

His plush lips stretch into a sympathetic, tight-lipped smile, but the adrenaline from earlier wears off and the sting of your own wounds drains you of your manners, uncaring that you’re facing the King. Thankfully, he dismisses your discourtesy instead of beheading you, and you’re hauled away from the gracious man.

On the way, you’re close enough to overhear what he mutters under his breath. A garbled scream rips through your throat in protest, and you shoot the King the deadliest glare you can muster. He releases a deep sigh at your childish antics, waving as you turn the corner.

“Poor guy doesn’t look like he’s going to make it.”

You spend the next few, rather tedious, days in a luxurious bed, being fretted over by everyone from the maids to the chefs. It was difficult to indulge in the extravagance that the castle had to offer when you were anxiously awaiting news regarding Jungkook, which they refused to disclose until your own condition improved.

After all the pampering, you were permitted access past the confines of the expansive room you were forced to recover in. Your injuries were minor in comparison to Jungkook, thus you were granted freedom much earlier than him.

Not like he was capable of stepping outside of his room anyway.

Although his body is repairing his torn flesh incrementally, he shows no signs of consciousness—not the twitch of a finger, the flutter of an eyelash, nothing. Doubt claws a bit higher up your torso each day, waiting for the moment that the disquiet slithers up your esophagus and suffocates you.

Despite the crushing news of his coma-like state, you work diligently to ensure that neither you nor Jungkook becomes a burden to the castle by picking up various duties. Jimin continuously waves off your attempts to help, but you’re restless and desperate for a distraction from wondering about Jungkook’s condition all the time.

Jimin banned you from performing some of the maid’s tasks once, then sorely regretted it when he had to tend to your nervous breakdown in the afternoon. Since then he has kept his comments on your excessive working habits to himself.

Today you’re in Jungkook’s room, dusting off the spotless shelves that house the many herbs being grounded into powders and rubbed as a salve onto his injuries daily. You organize the rolled bandages for the second time in the past hour and mop every inch of the floor.

You can’t devote yourself to lingering by the unconscious man’s side for too long, otherwise your mind gradually begins to spiral into every possible worst-case scenario and you simply can’t handle the reality of a future without him. It sounds overly dramatic—many of the maids you have grown close to over the months claimed as much when you brought up your journey together.

But they didn’t hear his melodic laughter that followed his teasing smirks when he said something flirtatious, effectively making your heart skip a beat. They didn’t feel his hand always reaching out to make contact with you in some way, craving your touch to ground him to reality. They didn’t see his eyes softening when he gazed at you as though you were holding his entire world in your eyes.

They didn’t know Jungkook the way you did.

You strain the mop of its excess dirtied water before stowing the tool away in the storage room. When you return, a draft filters in through the open window and you race over to close it, worried that Jungkook may catch a bothersome cold that will delay his healing process.

You take a seat on the lavish mattress adjacent from his thighs as you stare out the window in front of you. The air remains stale in spite of the fresh breeze that blew into the room seconds prior, and the dull atmosphere persists due to the lifeless man inhabiting its space.

You’re uncertain how many more times you can handle walking into this room with his weak body lying motionless on these pristine sheets, but you will endure it all without complaint for him. A knock at the door catches your attention, and you twist around to meet Jimin’s friendly beam. “How is he?”

“Same as he always is,” you state, allowing yourself to take in Jungkook’s sunken cheeks and pale face. “Unresponsive.”

“You wanna join me in the gardens for some fresh air?” At your unsure raise of a brow, he convinces you with, “You’ve been cooped up in the castle the whole day.”

The both of you head out to view the lush scenery outside, seated amongst the blooming tulips, although your eyes are drawn to the lilies that border the lilac cosmos. You trace the familiar shape of the orange flower with your pupils, reminiscing on the doodles decorating your room’s walls back at the tower. That seems like forever ago now.

Other than his lack of consciousness, Jungkook’s condition remains relatively stable and yet you still find it burdensome to stray too far from his side. The staff is under orders to instantly notify you should he arise while you’re away, but that doesn’t ease the disquiet that rouses whenever you leave the castle walls.

You’re convinced that the second you wander off, he will wake up without you there; a thought too unbearable to consider. You crave to lose yourself within his molten ember orbs once more, exploring the undiscovered galaxies in his gaze.

“These past few months must seem unfathomable,” he starts, pressing his lips together to ponder over his next words before continuing. “I don’t know how my mom treated you in the tower but, knowing her, I’m guessing it wasn’t too great.”

His casual mention of the affectionate term you pleaded to call your mother for ages—the topic she despised almost as much as you begging to venture outside the tower—stung the slightest bit. From her actions, it was evident that she never cared for you as much as her own, biological son, but it was difficult to dismiss the joyful memories you shared with her, no matter how few and far between they were.

“She started visiting me a few years back, explaining all their horrendous crimes and insisting that she was the only one I could trust. She told me about you, too. Your mother ordered her to lock you away in that tower and ensure that nobody ever found out the truth in exchange for my seat on the throne. ”

Your head lowers at the information, brows furrowing as you contemplate your true relationship with the woman that raised you from birth.

“When my mom caught word of you travelling with the thief, she returned the crown in hopes that Jungkook would run for the hills, and you would be left to come back with her. Her goal was to overtake the kingdom from your mother.” His eyes gloss over with a distant sheen and you sympathize with him; the boy was used as a tool, just like you.

“It’s reassuring in a way.” His strange admittance prompts you to glance up at him, confusion swirling within your orbs. “At least we’re both suffering from our family’s despicable actions.”

Our family.

His optimistic viewpoint hits you like a wave crashing against the shore, sharing his vast fortitude and washing away a fraction of the sombre agony tormenting your heart. Although Jimin’s life was no doubt disparate from your own, you two are connected through the blood running through your veins. Even if those same bonds brought you to a tragic meeting with your own wicked parents, at least you could rely on one person within your family.

The edges of your lips curl into a tiny smile aimed at the blond man across from you, your own short, chestnut coloured hair providing a stark contrast. “I’m glad I can rely on you, Jimin.”

He readjusts his weight on the green, iron chair and leans forward to rest his elbows on the metal table between the two of you. “I think this is the first time you’ve called me by my name without me having to remind you.”

You quietly giggle at the memories flooding your mind, from the hostile attitude you first approached him with, then the days he comforted you over Jungkook’s motionless form, to Jimin demanding that you call him by his first name. You consider yourself extremely lucky to have someone as gracious and compassionate as Jimin to be your half-brother.

“I know we’ve already gone over this,” he starts with a serious edge to his tone, “but this is your last chance.”

You rip your gaze away from the plants to lay a couple of light pats to his hand. Despite the lack of context, the topic is familiar to you, as he has gone over this with you many times. “No, I don’t want the throne. You trained for this position your whole life, so I’m entrusting the kingdom to your capable hands. All I ask is for you to fulfill my request.”

Jimin releases a heavy sigh. “If you really want him free of all his crimes, there’s no way you two can live within the capital.”

“That’s fine with me.” You shrug your shoulders, unconcerned about the prospect of having to leave the busy city. “I don’t think I could live somewhere like this anyway.”

You don’t expand on your reasoning, and he doesn’t question you further, simply sparing you a solemn, understanding gaze. Supposedly, you aren’t supposed to pick favourites within your family, but Jimin is definitely golden in your eyes.

“Deeply sorry to intrude, Your Royal Majesty, but your betrothed is at the door and wishes to meet with you.” A guard inches his way towards your table with his head bowed, hands respectfully gathered behind his back.

Jimin looks to you with an apology on his tongue, but you wave him off before any explanations can spill from his plump lips. “Go get your girl.”

A bright smile enlightens his features as he springs up from his seat, dusting off his uniform before bounding after the guard. When he quirks his head back, you demonstrate your encouragement through a thumbs-up that you wave from side to side until he is satisfied, facing forward with a gleeful snicker.

You inhale the outdoor air, about to head inside yourself to rearrange Jungkook’s bandages again when your eyes wander back to the tiger lilies that caught your eye earlier. Within a few strides, you reach the vibrant buds, stretching your hand out to pluck a few stems. The sweet smell invades your senses.

With a tiny bouquet in hand, you make your way back inside, the metaphorical load on your shoulders a bit lighter than it was before. You expertly maneuver your way through the halls towards Jungkook’s room with the dwindling hope that today will be the day that his honey orbs reflect the sun’s light filtering in the window, filled with the mischief and tenderness that you remember.

When you’re met with his unmoving form instead, another sliver of that faith shatters into tiny shards.

You shake it off and head back to the windowsill, where an empty flower vase rests. The lilies within your grasp are carefully inserted inside and you place the bouquet back onto the tiny platform. Their floral scent wafts throughout the space as you take your place beside his legs.

As part of your usual routine, you use this time to relax. Just for a moment, you give yourself the room to breathe, giving your brain free rein to feel the emotions raging within you and fantasize about your future with Jungkook. You imagine yourself in a tiny cottage, craving a quaint place to live after the immense tower you were raised in.

The two of you would settle down there, adopting a pet to keep you company before you inevitably brought a few children into the world. Their genders didn’t matter, as long as you could raise them with Jungkook, forming a tight-knit family that shared all the love the both of you lacked growing up.

A warm hand wraps around your wrist. Your head snaps to follow the direction of his arm, curving into his broad shoulders, and past his sharp jaw with your heart in your throat. Tears gather at your waterline, spilling over onto your cheeks as you hiccup from the sudden sobs that overtake your body.

The doe eyes that stare back at you carry your whole world in their weight.

+ epilogue.

Tiny footsteps scuttle around the wooden floors, screaming in delight from being chased by a much larger, yet still very childlike, man. “Betchya can’t catch me, daddy!”

Your husband playfully roars at the taunt, speeding up his strides to snatch the little girl up into his arms. She shrieks at the hand that comes up to tickle her little torso.

“Okay, okay, enough playing you two,” you command, calming the baby boy in your arms that becomes far too excited from the chaotic energy erupting within your cottage. “It’s dinnertime!”

“Dinnertime!” your oldest repeats, violently wriggling around in her father’s grip to force him in lowering her back to the ground so that she can run to her spot at the table. She looks from side to side, doe eyes flitting back to you with a pout on her lips. “But where’s Pascal, Mommy?”

You pass the baby to Jungkook, freeing your hands in order to bring the steaming hot food from the stove to the table. The beige chameleon fades back into his natural emerald colour once you grab him by his scaly torso, dropping him into your daughter’s awaiting hands.

Her squeaky voice chides, “You can’t hide from Mommy.”

A boisterous, yet melodic neigh notifies you of Max’s presence in your backyard, and you shamble past the wooden door to hand the carrots you prepared for him. He snorts in delight as he lowers his head to the floor and begins chomping away. At the sight of his dirtied mane, you take a mental note to give him a thorough wash and brush later on.

Before you head inside, you catch sight of a blond man making his way towards you. “Jimin!”

His eyes reduce to two crescents from the wide grin that occupies his face. He swapped out his imposing robe for a commoner’s shirt and slacks, and they strangely suit his lithe form better than his bulky uniform.

“And where’s our lovely Queen?” You tease, elbowing him when he reaches out to ruffle the top of your head.

“Taking care of things that I don’t want to do.” You two snicker, ecstatic to see one another, and you step aside to let him coddle your children. The slight breeze in the air gingerly kisses your face, rustling the leaves on the trees surrounding your tiny house, and you close your lids to relish in the tranquillity of nature.

A pair of familiar arms curl around the shape of your waist and a smile creeps onto your lips as you open your eyes to examine Jungkook’s face, inches away from your own. He brushes your brown strands over your shoulder, leaning in for a quick peck as a loud chorus of disgust is vocalized behind you.

Both of you break out into giggles at your daughter’s behaviour and turn to face your family waiting for you inside. With your hand tangled with his, you walk to a brighter future together.

[carewyncromwell]

Judging by this picture of what looks like a stained glass slipper, I’d say we’re about to continue the Cinderella AU!

One of the best ways to deal with an anxiety attack is to ground oneself in the present situation. A common technique is the 54321 Method, which Carewyn doesn’t display here, but she does end up (without realizing it) evoking the idea of grounding by accenting her physical presence and encouraging Orion to take deep breaths. 

All of the lines Orion spouts while Carewyn runs away are ones the Prince in Disney’s animated version of Cinderella cries, when his mysterious lady love runs from him. It amuses me to no end how in so many magical Cinderella adaptations, it takes whole minutes for the clock to strike twelve -- in the case of the animated/live action Disney versions, so many that we even get a full chase scene for the pumpkin coach in that time. 😂

Trigger warning for a brief mention of suicidal thoughts. 

Previous part is here -- whole tag is here -- Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee -- and I hope you all enjoy!

x~x~x~x

Orion led Carewyn down the hall at a run, unable to break free of the happy adrenaline that pulsed through him. Some people in the hall outside the ballroom eyed the young king and his enchantingly striking partner curiously as they passed, but neither of the two paid them much mind. Orion rounded a corner with Carewyn, passing a large gold-trimmed grandfather clock as it tolled 11. Once they’d gotten around the corner, he opened a wall and pulled her into the secret passage behind it, out of sight from anyone who might pursue them. 

Once through the passage, Orion dashed up a flight of stairs with Carewyn, up, up, up, toward the upper levels. At last, when they reached the top of the stairs, he opened another passage, which opened up onto the landing of the battlements on the top floor of Florence’s castle. 

The cold winter wind gushed around them, tiny traces of snowflakes trailing through the air as Carewyn and Orion stepped out. As soon as they were outside, Carewyn gave a start at the odd smell that touched her nose. Curious, she moved out to the edge of the ramparts -- and she gasped.

The sea. 

The odd smell was the salt of the spray from the Southern Sea, only a few miles from the back of Florence’s palace. It was so dark out that Carewyn could hardly see the lightless buildings between the palace and sea, and yet she could still make out the ethereal white sea foam in its grayish black depths. Its waves rushed at the shore, sounding like some kind of resonating whisper that never needed extra breath to sustain itself, and its growing and shrinking waves sparkled in the moonlight. 

Carewyn exhaled, her lips spread into a wide open smile of awe. Orion came up behind her, watching her. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” 

Carewyn couldn’t take her eyes off of it. “It’s...it’s breathtaking.”

Orion slowly approached her, his eyes trailing along her shoulder and down her back with an oddly unreadable look. Once he’d come up just behind her, he very slowly extended a hand. It lingered uncertainly in mid-air for a moment, before it tentatively made contact with her back, exposed by the cut of her dress.

Carewyn flinched, unable to hold back a gasp of both surprise and pain. Orion pulled his hand away at once.

“Forgive me,” he said. His voice betrayed some anxiety.

Carewyn looked at him. Orion’s unflappable face had lost a lot of its color under his mask and his black eyes flickered the way her white horse’s would when it was nervous. 

“I can't see any injuries,” he explained, “but I can feel them there all the same.”

His eyes narrowed a bit upon her face.

“...Who...who delivered those lashes to your back?”

Carewyn’s blue eyes rippled with sorrow. “Orion -- ”

“Who?” Orion asked again. His voice was tenser than she’d ever heard it. 

Carewyn couldn’t look him in the eye. She tore her gaze away, looking out toward the sea again as she clutched the railing with both hands. 

“...My grandfather,” she said at last, very softly. “I...‘acted inappropriately.’”

Orion did not respond. The silence dragged, to the point that it had become deafening. When Carewyn finally felt brave enough to look back over at Orion, she saw that he’d migrated to the railing himself a short ways away, clasping his hands very tightly together as he looked out at the sea. His head was bowed, his face largely obscured by the darkness, but he was taking very deep, heavy breaths. 

Carewyn’s heart clenched. She moved to him, bringing a hand to rest on his shoulder. 

“Orion, I’m -- ”

“Don’t say you’re all right.”

Orion’s voice was very soft, but harder than Carewyn had ever heard it before. It made her stiffen, her grip on his shoulder faltering -- her partial withdrawal seemed to affect Orion, making him whirl around and seize her hand in both of his, as if desperate to keep her close. 

“A whip is a tool only used to cause pain -- a tool with no other use besides that,” he said. He spoke in a faster, tenser voice than normal: one that, although misty as ever, was turbulent in a way Carewyn had never heard. “Therefore it can never be used to spark any good in this world. It leaves scars that never heal -- that designate you as subhuman and your suffering as insignificant -- that make people cringe at the sight of them, wondering what crime you’ve committed or what lowly status you must be, to have earned them, when truly it says more about the person who inflicted them on you than it ever could you -- ”

“Orion...” Carewyn whispered.

Orion’s eyes were flashing with an odd emotion, one hard and blazing like a flame under a shell of hard black diamond. It took Carewyn a moment to realize it was anger. 

“You’re so strong,” he said, his shaking voice very hushed and rambling even as his breathing grew more irregular. “You’ve always been so resilient, and I don’t want to demean that, but -- but you shouldn’t have to be that strong! You shouldn’t have to downplay the suffering you’ve gone through! You shouldn’t have to stay locked in the dragon’s keep and endure, and I shouldn’t have -- ”

He choked. His black eyes pulsed with emotion as he clutched more desperately at her hand and he gasped for air. 

“ -- I never should’ve left you to him! I should’ve taken you away, far away, regardless of what you told me, regardless of the consequences, regardless of what your family or our countries or anyone else might do or say -- ”

“Orion!”

Carewyn pulled her hand out of his and brought both of her hands up to his face, cradling his cheeks. Orion trembled in her hold, breathing very heavily and his hands clutching at the air in front of him. 

“Orion,” she whispered, “shhh...shh, shh...”

She moved in, placing her forehead against his.

“Breathe,” she said as gently as she could, slowing her breath and speech down to try to  subconsciously encourage him to follow suit. “Breathe...I’m here...I’m here...”

Orion inhaled and exhaled shakily. At first his eyes were locked on hers, flaring with more of that anger, anguish, and anxiety -- then they fluttered shut, and he threw his arms out to wrap both of them around her, cradling her against him with his arms crossed over her back and clutching at her shoulders. He breathed in and out deeply, trying to follow her rhythm as he focused on the softness of her skin and the warmth of her voice. 

Finally, after a few minutes, Orion had finally regained his center of balance, his breathing softening and returning to a normal rate. He exhaled heavily through his nose, opening his eyes again to look at her. 

Carewyn offered him a weak smile, both feeling relieved that he looked better and wanting to comfort him, but Orion’s face -- although once again calm -- still looked very grim as he pulled back only just enough that their foreheads were no longer touching. His gaze trailed over her smile and then around her eyes, dipping into the corners. 

“Can you ever forgive me?” he murmured. 

“Forgive you?” repeated Carewyn, upset. “For what?”

“Everything. For not fighting for you, for not being able to help you fight off your beast, as I promised...for being the son of the man who led the army who killed your brother...”

“Orion,” Carewyn said very firmly, “your father had no hand in Jacob’s death. He died long before he ever saw battle. And I told you to go. It’s a good thing you did. If you hadn’t gone, then you wouldn’t have been able to convince the King and Queen to come here, to consider peace...”

She trailed her thumbs gently along his cheeks. 

“I should be the one apologizing to you. I should’ve told you what I really was a lot sooner.”

“I don’t think you lied anymore than I did, my lady,” Orion said rather coolly. 

“It’s not the same thing,” Carewyn insisted. “Every lie you told you told so that you could pursue diplomacy and peace. Every lie I told...I told out of shame. I’d only pretended to be a lady to help get you out of trouble, at the start, but then afterwards...well...I didn’t want you to look at me differently...even though I knew deep down you would, once you learned the truth.”

Orion reached out his hands and, mirroring Carewyn, took hold of her face tentatively in return. 

“You’re right,” said Orion. “I do see you differently.”

He leaned in, touching her forehead with his again. 

“Before, I merely saw you as a wonderful contradiction -- a lady who was born to a family of wealth and cruelty and yet was kind and selfless almost to a fault. Now...I see you as akin to a diamond: a sparkling, precious gem, fashioned only under the hardest, most unforgiving pressure and more resilient than nearly anything else on Earth.”

Orion moved in even closer, so that their noses touched.

“A gem symbolic of purity and light...of perfection itself,” he murmured.

His gaze flitted from her eyes to her lips and back. Although he’d moved in close enough to kiss her, however, he hesitated. 

Carewyn could sense his intent, and her cheeks darkened with a blush as her gaze fell down to his lips. 

“I hardly think I’m perfect, your Grace.”

Orion sighed, his lips spreading into a slightly tired smile. “Your standards truly are exhausting, my lady. If you cannot meet them, I know that I surely never will...”

He made as if to pull back, but Carewyn held his face in place. Her eyes met his again, rippling with an intensity they didn’t have before. 

“You needn’t worry about meeting my standards, Orion Cosimo Amari,” she said softly. “You clear them...easily.”

And before Orion knew what was happening, she’d leaned in and placed her lips up to his jawline in a tender, lingering kiss.

She pulled back after about five seconds, her eyes shining warmly up at him despite the seriousness of her face. 

“I cannot stay,” she murmured, “but -- ”

Before she could say another word, Orion -- his black eyes shining with a desperate kind of longing -- tilted her head up and swooped down to cover her lips with his own. His breathing through his nose was soft but heated as he cradled her face in both of his hands, cherishing the feeling of her lips on his and being enveloped in her arms. 

He broke the kiss after about thirty seconds, his black eyes half-lidded on her face.

“Carewyn, I...”

Carewyn briefly rested her forehead against his, her own face tinged with a warm flush under her robin mask, before reluctantly pulling back.

“I can’t stay,” she repeated even more gently. “The illusion the Baroness gave me will fade at midnight -- so just...just stay here. Away from the ballroom. At least until after midnight...by then, the spell Rakepick cast on you will have worn off.”

Orion’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“When the lady dressed as a lioness ‘mistook me for someone else,’” he said slowly, “she’d placed a spell circle on my back. Is that so?”

Carewyn nodded. “The spell’s terms were that you’d be targeted by every weapon in the ballroom. So long as you don’t return there until after midnight...you’ll be safe.”

“But I was there with you before, and I was not harmed,” said Orion with a frown.

“The spell can only affect you. Jae guessed that if anyone else would get hurt when the weapons attacked you, then the spell wouldn’t activate...so he and his comrades, and Talbott and Badeea, they served as human shields...”

“...As did you,” Orion whispered, his eyes widening in realization. “When you kept stepping in front of me and staying close to me, while we were dancing...you were protecting me.”

Carewyn offered a rather self-effacing smile. Orion’s hands quickly returned to the sides of her neck, cradling her jawline. 

“Carewyn....” he said, his calm voice touched with both adoration and the slightest edge of anxiety, “you saved my life. All while not knowing for certain that you throwing yourself in front of me wouldn’t result in you being harmed...”

“Well, I certainly hoped I wouldn’t be,” said Carewyn, attempting dry humor. “I couldn’t exactly make sure that Lord Malfoy and my grandfather wouldn’t hurt you if I’d died...”

Seeing the look on Orion’s face, she then became much more serious.

“Orion...after I learned the truth about Jacob...when I was back at the Cromwell estate...I lost myself. I lost my drive, my spirit...my reason for living. Everything I was, and everything I thought I knew, both about myself and about the path I’ve always walked.”

Her eyes fell down to Orion’s shoulder, becoming darker.

“Knowing that Jacob, the only thing in my life that gave me a reason to keep fighting and keep enduring, was dead...I lost all will to live. I didn’t just feel like I deserved to die...I actually wanted to. I deluded myself into thinking that at least then, the pain would stop. At least then...I could be with Jacob and Mum again.”

Her lips then spread into the saddest, softest smile. 

“...But when your note arrived...when I read your words, reminding me of the song you taught me...even after all of the lies, even after I pushed you away, even though you were set to be crowned King and I’d never see you again...it reminded me of how much joy I’ve known, even without Jacob there with me. The memory of you, and my friends, helped pull me out of that despair. And then when I found out what Grandfather wanted to do to you -- found out that he planned to destroy you and everything you’d ever dreamed of, for Florence and Royaume...I couldn’t do nothing, I just couldn’t.”

Her eyes gained a stronger, more passionate glint as she met his again. 

“You saved my life, Orion. You helped me fight my beast, just like you promised. You gave me hope when I was most ready to throw everything away.”

Orion’s black eyes were very wide upon her face. As he stared at her, his eyes softened, melting in a strange blend of sadness, affection, and pride. 

“Carewyn...”

Carewyn leaned in to kiss him chastely on the lips. 

“I know it’d be impossible for us to make a life together,” she said seriously, “but I told you I’d fight for you...and I always will.”

Orion considered her for a long moment. Carewyn found herself straining to hear any sound from below -- any marking of the time -- it had been 11, before they’d headed upstairs --

“I must go,” she said yet again.

But when she made as if to leave, Orion clutched her hands in his.

“Please,” he implored her, “stay.”

“I can’t,” said Carewyn. 

“You will be safe here in Florence. I wouldn’t allow Charles Cromwell to get within ten feet of you again -- ”

“Grandfather can’t know I’ve been here,” Carewyn said very firmly. “The King and Queen of Royaume have treated him as a confidante for years -- he’s invested a lot of money to make sure they rely on him. As long as our family’s money and status are intact -- as long as Grandfather’s place at their side is intact -- he will have their ear, and they will trust his word. And I know Grandfather will use every penny he has to sabotage your efforts for peace, until his dying breath. Imagine how he’d twist you ‘kidnapping’ his precious granddaughter and turning her against her own family. Don’t forget: the last time Florence harbored a fugitive from Royaume, we got a War that’s lasted fifty years.”

Her eyes narrowed. 

“So...I must return to Royaume. I must make sure that the King and Queen have no idea that Bill and the others helped me get here with one of their coaches without their permission. I must make sure that Grandfather has no idea I was ever here.”

Orion’s face was full of pain as he squeezed her hands. “Carewyn, I can’t let you return to him -- ”

“I won’t,” said Carewyn. Her lips spread into a smile. “Don’t you understand? You gave me my life. The Baroness and Talbott broke me out of my tower, and I’m never going back. As far as Grandfather will know...I simply escaped while he and my family were away.”

Orion’s eyes widened. Then they softened visibly. “...Just as KC and Bill Weasley originally planned.”

Carewyn beamed. “And just as my mother did, before me. It might not be easy for me to be on my own, but I know I’ll find a place somewhere, to make my own way. And maybe when you and King Henri are able to make peace...I’ll be able to find my way back to you again.”

Orion’s black eyes melted, gaining a proud warmth. In a spontaneous move, he swept in again and kissed her fully, heatedly. Carewyn brought a hand up to the back of his head, cradling the base of it under his ponytail -- after a wonderful, soft moment, she used the grip to gently break the kiss. 

Orion smiled almost shyly. 

“Forgive me,” he said. “In that moment, you just looked so beautiful.”

Carewyn raised an eyebrow. “I'm under an illusion, Orion.”

Orion shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. However surreal your appearance is, your eyes blazed with such courage...like a wild stallion, fearlessly running through an open field with no fences.”

He kissed her again, more chastely. 

“It was stunning.”

Carewyn smiled through a dark blush, her eyes closing modestly. 

“...How do I look to you, exactly?” she couldn’t help but ask. 

Orion beamed, his black eyes sparkling under his magpie mask. “Like Artemis.”

Carewyn blinked in surprise. 

“Shining white hair, a smile kissed by mischief...paler than the moon, with eyes that shine like stars.” Orion’s grin broadened. “You look how I always imagined the goddess Artemis to look, when I heard the tale of her and the hunter Orion as a boy.”

Carewyn’s lips spread into a broader, emotional smile. Somewhere down below, she just barely caught the sound of a bell, and her smile flickered and died at once. She immediately bolted for the door to the secret passage, but Orion stopped her again.

“11:45, my lady,” he said soothingly. 

“It took us a good ten minutes to get up here,” said Carewyn. “I must go now -- ”

“Then we’ll go back together.”

He took her hand and followed along behind as she ran back down the stairs of the secret passage, back toward the ground floor. Despite herself, Carewyn kept trying to shake him off. 

“Orion, you should stay here -- I can make it back to the ballroom by myself -- ”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Grandfather and Lord Malfoy will be looking for you -- if you stay here, in this passage, they probably won’t find you -- ”

“Probably.”

Even with his placid agreements, he remained at her side. Once they reached the end of the passage, Carewyn whirled on him, putting her hands up to his chest to stop him. 

“I must go on alone from here,” she said very firmly.

“Must you?” asked Orion. 

“It’s nearly midnight...just wait until the twelfth strike, and you’ll be safe -- ”

“And yet you will not be, if you’re still here,” Orion said very solemnly. “I can’t let Charles Cromwell or Lord Malfoy stop you from leaving -- they’ll know it was you, who kept me from the ballroom...”

“Orion, there’s no time!” said Carewyn anxiously. “The only way I can get back to the coach in time is through the ballroom. I won’t be able to shield you -- if you enter the ballroom before midnight, you’ll die.”

Orion’s eyes had grown very small and dark with thought. Then, little by little, they lit up with an idea. 

“Carewyn,” he said seriously, “run away from me.”

Carewyn’s eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Run away, when I pursue you. No matter what I say or do, while I chase you...no matter what happens, just keep running for the carriage. Ride back to Royaume, and don’t look back.”

His black eyes were very serious. 

“Promise me.”

Carewyn was stricken. Her face had lost a lot of its color as she clutched the front of his white-feathered doublet. 

“No! No, I can’t -- ”

“It will be all right, Carewyn,” Orion soothed her. 

“It can’t be all right!” she argued. “If you follow me, you’ll die -- !”

“The weapons in the ballroom will target me, yes,” said Orion. “But I’ll have a keen eye open for them, and I shall dodge them...just as you helped me dodge them before.”

“You can’t possibly dodge them all, even if Jae and the others are still in there!” Carewyn was beside herself, her hands clasping desperately at his chest. “Orion, I can’t let you -- ”

“It must be done, Carewyn,” whispered Orion gently. 

“Orion, I can’t lose you!” Carewyn implored him. Her eyes were flooding with tears. “Orion, please -- I can’t -- ”

Orion, mirroring a gesture Carewyn had used before, clutched the back of her head, cradling it gently, and he placed a tender kiss to the crook of her neck. 

“It will be all right, Carewyn,” he murmured against her skin. “Trust me.”

Carewyn felt sick. She knew every second she hesitated was one less than she needed to get back to the coach, where Bill, Charlie, Talbott, and Badeea were no doubt waiting, and yet her fear for Orion’s safety threatened her very stability. She’d done everything she could to try to protect him, the way she couldn’t for Jacob -- if she lost him too, she didn’t know what she’d do...

She looked into his gentle, calm eyes, vainly trying to fight back her tears. Despite the painful lump in her throat and the clenching of her heart, she saw the lack of fear in his features -- the man who, not long ago, had been so anxious he could hardly breathe was absolutely fearless in the face of Death. 

Carewyn Cromwell didn’t trust anyone. She’d never had faith in anyone...not since she’d lost Jacob and been enslaved to Charles Cromwell, a man who trusted and believed in no one but himself...

And yet in this moment -- as impossible as she knew it would be for her to do -- she knew she had to try. 

And so, her eyes streaming with tears, she swept in and kissed Orion fully. She caressed his face, trailing a hand through the bangs under his coronet, as he clutched the back of her head tenderly. 

After a minute, they broke apart, and Carewyn pushed open the door of the secret passage, dashing back out into the hallway, straight for the ballroom. After giving her a minute’s head start, Orion started his pursuit, calling after her. 

“No, wait -- come back!”

Following Orion’s instructions, Carewyn didn’t stop. She ran down the hall, right through a crowd of people and back toward the ballroom, as he chased after her. 

“Please come back!”

Orion’s voice sounded odd in Carewyn’s ears. Such words would normally have sounded tense, breathier, anxious -- but instead, every word rang out very clearly. 

As Carewyn made her first step into the ballroom, she couldn’t stop herself from looking back. Seeing her hesitation, Orion raised his voice.

“I don’t even know your name -- how will I find you?”

The completely out-of-character sentence shocked Carewyn back to her senses. 

This was an act. This was a ploy -- another lie, for them to get them to their goal. He wanted everyone to hear him. He wanted to make it sound like he didn’t know who she was, but that he didn’t want her to leave, like he was trying to stop her from going. Carewyn just wasn’t sure exactly why...

In that moment, however, she knew that didn’t matter. And so she ran, even despite the fear thumping in her chest. She could see Jae pushing through the crowd, trying to reach Orion’s side -- from the other side of the ballroom came Barnaby and Tulip. 

As Orion dashed through the ballroom, Carewyn could see many figures all over the room stiffening abruptly, their eyes glowing red as they faced Orion. Her heart seized up with terror as she ran, looking back constantly despite herself.

Jae, please -- please, reach him -- !

BANG. 

The first gunshot came from the far left side of the ballroom, fired from one of Royaume’s lesser lord’s pistols. Orion was able to dodge it by ducking around a pillar. 

As the ballroom devolved into terrified screams and Jae and the other bandits tried to hold off and overpower as many of the armed Royaumanian lords and ladies as possible, more gunshots rang out from other sides of the room. 

BANG. BANG. BANG. 

Orion dodged both the gunshots and the fleeing masses with artful grace by sliding underneath the refreshment table, his eyes returning to Carewyn.

“Wait! Please, wait!”

Carewyn’s heart clenched at the sight of Orion avoiding the shots. Once again, he proved himself to be so much more than he first appeared --

Still, though, he was catching up -- and, Carewyn realized, the faster she could get across the ballroom, the faster she could get Orion out of harm’s way. 

And so she pushed through the crowd, running as fast as she could. She pushed right past KC and McNully, both of whom gave her confused looks, but nonetheless seemed to have caught on. Thanks to Jae, they were enough in the loop to know Orion was in trouble, and although they didn’t understand Orion’s ploy, they knew better than to prevent Carewyn from leaving. 

BANG. BANG. 

As people ran to try to avoid the gunshots that would never have hit them anyway, Carewyn tried desperately not to look back. She couldn’t afford that hesitation. 

I can’t let him die -- I can’t -- 

“Halt!”

In the midst of all the mayhem, someone seized Carewyn’s arm, yanking her back. Carewyn whirled around, her face losing all of its color at the sight of white-blond-haired, albino-peacock-dressed Lord Malfoy. 

“His Majesty ordered you to stop,” he said in a very dangerous voice, his gray eyes flaring with loathing. 

Carewyn’s heart flared with terror and she wrenched against Lord Malfoy’s grip, desperately trying to get free. 

“Let go! Let me go!”

Orion, seeing Carewyn’s distress, tried to dash over. Unfortunately his distraction had caused him to ignore his surroundings.

“NO!” screamed Andre. 

It was only thanks to the Prince of Royaume that King Henri’s ceremonial blade was not plunged through Orion’s chest. Instead it slashed his side, causing him to hunch in on himself with a sharp hiss of pain.

Orion getting injured, even superficially, made Carewyn’s eyes lose all of their light. 

“NO!” she screamed. “NO!”

And to make matters worse, somewhere underneath the sound of panicked screaming, there was a terrible BONG of a clock tolling the hour.

It was midnight. 

Carewyn lashed out against Lord Malfoy’s grip, but he held fast, his teeth bared. 

“A lady with the ability to enchant a King enough to lead him to his doom,” he hissed, as the clock made its second strike. “Clearly you are behind this conspiracy -- ”

BONG. Carewyn could feel her face tingling, and she fought harder against his grip. As Malfoy glared down at her, his eyes seemed to slowly widen -- the illusion around her face was flickering like a candle, making her real hair and eye color at points easier to see.

“What...?”

BAM. 

Out of nowhere, Bill Weasley -- his face obscured by his antler-decorated stag mask -- had appeared and punched Lord Malfoy right in the face. The strike was so strong that it knocked him completely off his feet and forced him to let go of Carewyn. 

Andre had successfully put the King of Royaume in a headlock to restrain him. Erika, who KC and McNully had both flagged so as to prevent her from being affected too, pulled out her own ceremonial sword to forcibly disarm the King. As King Henri blinked rapidly and shook his head, Erika shouted at Orion over her shoulder as loudly as she could over the fifth stroke of midnight. 

“Get out of here, King Cosimo!” 

Orion, his hand sliding off of his side, turned his focus back to Carewyn and plowed after her just as before. 

“Wait!” he cried again, echoing his earlier sentiment as if nothing had happened. 

Bill grabbed hold of Carewyn. “We can’t wait -- the Cromwells already left, but Malfoy and Rakepick -- ”

“I know!” said Carewyn, her voice fiercer than she meant. “Come on!”

Carewyn broke back out into a run out of the ballroom, Bill at her heels. Bill pushed and shoved their way through the hallway full of people, clearing a path for Carewyn as the clock struck eight. 

Despite the shallow wound to his chest, Orion kept running after them, continuing to play his ruse. Lord Malfoy, having recovered from Bill’s punch at last, likewise tried to pursue, but before long he found himself circumvented by Skye not-so-subtly tackling him to the ground. 

“Don’t want you getting shot, Lord Malfoy,” she said in a voice that clearly communicated that she wouldn’t have minded one bit if he had been. 

Bill and Carewyn finally made it out the front doors to the top of the grand stairs when the clock struck ten. It was also there that they were halted again, this time by Rakepick stepping on the wide skirt of Carewyn’s gown. The movement made Carewyn lose her footing, making one of her stained glass slippers come off as she stumbled down the stairs. Rakepick then took advantage of her disturbed balance to grab her by the wrist and hoist her back up onto her feet. 

“And where do you think you’re going?” said Rakepick, her voice dripping with disdain. 

Carewyn brought a hand up as if to smack her, only for it to be caught too. Bill halted and backtracked back up the stairs, his brown eyes flaring. 

But when Rakepick looked Carewyn in the face, the illusion flickering and dying before her eyes, she stilled, her face losing all of its color.  

“You,” she whispered in an oddly fragile voice. 

BONG. 

At long last, the final stroke of midnight had come. Carewyn was exposed, recognized, by the magician her grandfather had hired, even despite her best efforts. 

But before Carewyn could even think of doing anything, Bill wrenched Rakepick off of his friend with one hand and threw her to the ground. Then he looped an arm around Carewyn’s waist, hoisting her up as if she were his little sister, Ginny, and ferried her right off her feet to the coach. Once he’d handed her off to Talbott and Badeea inside, Bill leapt up onto the boot. 

“Go, now!”

Charlie in the driver’s seat barely needed any encouragement -- he flicked the reins and set the horses off at a run before the coach door was even securely closed. 

Rakepick stared after the coach from her place sprawled out on the stairs, stunned. She didn’t even see Orion watch it go himself from the top of the stairs with a smile. 

Once Carewyn’s coach was out of sight, Orion looked around, and a sparkle of orange diamond and shimmering paint caught his eye. When he looked down, he found Carewyn’s discarded “stained glass” slipper sitting innocently on its side at the top of the stair. He wiped the small amount of blood on his hand off on his black doublet sleeve, before he gingerly bent down and picked up the hand-painted shoe, his smile spreading into a full grin as he headed back indoors. 

His improvised plan had worked all right so far. Maybe...just maybe...the Fates might favor him and Carewyn, after all. 

[weraceasone]

Hey Elle, I hope you’re having a good day. I just wanted to see your opinion on this

So we all know now that George has traveled (most likely to Spain) and there’s photos and videos of him on a beach with his girlfriend with no masks in sight.

When Lando traveled to Dubai he got absolutely cancelled by everyone. Some people were angry with Daniel going to LA and a few people commented on Pierre and Charles in Dubai. So why is no one saying anything about George? Why is there always a double standard to which Lando seems to be held the highest out of everyone and get the harshest reaction to anything he does. I know he’s not perfect and makes mistakes and no one should be travelling right now. The double standards just annoy me. The hate I have received for being a Lando fan account lately is ridiculous and it’s all just because of what Lando is doing. So I can’t even begin to imagine the hate he’s received. It’s probably why he’s taken a step back from social media. And it’s the same people that cancelled him that are complaining he’s not posting anything. All the hate just puts me in a bad place where I can’t enjoy interacting anymore and scared to type anything in fear of being cancelled 😔

hey Anon! I took some time to answer this, because ever since I read it, I’ve been racking my brain for a reason behind this.

1. I feel like it’s nothing against Lando, I feel like it’s something personal against his fans. we all know Lando attracts a bit of a younger audience, because he’s young himself and he knows all the memes and he’s goodlooking and just seems to be enjoying himself…  he just totally fits into that mold of a teen idol. there’s nothing wrong with being young and finding someone to look up to and even developing certain feelings, don’t get me wrong, but there’s also a lack of life experience that is very visible in the way way things are handled. whenever Lando does something wrong, whenever he mentions something about a girl, it always evokes an emotional reaction. but I understand the distress is real. I’ve said this before, but; when you’re really young and you grow straight from watching Disney princes on screen to having the world tell you you need to be romantically interested in someone, it’s not strange to find a person admirable and then eventually start to develop feelings for them. we find this person that we admire, that’s doing something we are fond of, and we cling to it so desperately that that whole barrier of ‘I actually don’t know this person in real life’ gets lost somewhere in between. and when you are really young and you really have certain feelings for someone, it’s not weird that you subconsciously put that person a pedestal. and it’s hard. I totally understand that. it’s hard when that person you’ve put on a pedestal does something you, deep in your heart, don’t agree with and at the same time feel the need to protect them from anyone who dares to break that little image of perfection you’ve created in your head. and you might think, well… if they will go along with anything Lando does, that means they will never criticize him, so what does that have to do with anything? so this brings me to point 2: 2. I’ve been following Lando closely now for over two years and I’ve seen him change, but I’ve also seen the perception of him change. I think a lot of people are done with it, with the fans that he seems to attract. something that I’ve seen every single time Lando does something slightly wrong, is a debate between Lando’s fans and non-Lando fans. it never fails. it always evokes a debate in which one side is like “I don’t think it’s that serious, he was just joking”  and the other side is like “your perfect little man did something wrong again!!! how are you not seeing this!!! wake up!!!” (and I’m not going to say I’m on one side, because I’m on neither. where two fight, two are at fault). fingers are constantly pointed. it’s a constant stream of passive aggressive text posts in which anyone is made to feel bad if they dare to think another way. you know, I don’t blame anyone for the way they feel or for the way they think about certain things. everyone is free to have their own opinion and think about what matters to them most. but as someone who has been following Lando for a while, the debate is becoming less and less about him, and more about his fans.

I think it’s a combination of fans who desperately try to protect their idol and other people desperately trying to break through that barrier and unfortunately it has divided us in the process. it’s a shame, really. I believe we should criticize drivers when they do something wrong, 100%. however, a difference in opinions should not create division and words of hatred.

I’m sorry this answer took so long, Anon. I hope you’re having a good day! 🧡

[poptod]

The Dead Heed No Lies (Ch. 2)

Description: If you won't join the life of the party upstairs, the life of the party comes to you.

Notes: Building up. Word Count: 1.9k

Chapter Two: Holed Up

It had been approximately a week since you’d fainted in the break room, found by Ahkmenrah, who was apparently worried about you after you hadn’t returned, even as dawn approached. When you came fully back to consciousness, he sat with you, explaining what the tablet did, how it needed moonlight, which was the real reason for the transfer. He further explained that it only worked during the night, which was why everything seemed so still during the day. He’d been gracious about the whole fainting thing, telling you that it wasn’t entirely unexpected, simply wishing you a better day ahead of you before he left to his exhibit.

You decided not to accompany him. Watching a man crawl into his own grave to die seemed like something that wouldn’t be good for you.

“How long are you staying here?” You asked Tilly, watching from the balcony as chaos ensued in the form of an almost hysterical party.

“Dunno, this is a pretty prestigious museum. But should be for another few months.”

“That’s quite a while,” you noted, nodding in a mildly impressed manner.

“Should give you enough time to get to know Ahk more,” she said, leaning over to you, attempting horridly at a wink.

“I - what?”

“You know, you and the King,” she said, saying his title with a theatrical form of reverence.

“… Right. Me and the King. What is this, Disney?” You shook your head, chuckling to yourself.

“What? You’d make a great couple,” she said, nudging you with her elbow.

“Til, I barely know him. You’re seeing things.”

“Whatever you say,” she said skeptically, turning and leaving down the stairs.

The whole notion she was proposing was ridiculous. You’d spoken to him a grand total of three times, the first being when you met him, the second was him waking you from a black out, and the third was you accidentally running into his parents, and he quickly introduced you to them.

On the whole, the conversation wasn’t bad, but it could’ve gone better. It felt rather like a young teen who had modern ideals with two racist parents, but this time it was an actual King and Queen who had Jewish slaves and their son, who had apparently never agreed with that.

You didn’t agree with it either, being Jewish yourself. After his parents had left, Ahkmenrah explained that it wasn’t the first time it’d happened, that it was equally embarrassing as it was funny. You agreed, and quickly excused yourself.

As fun as it was to be upstairs during the night of life, you had a job, and it couldn’t be avoided. Especially since McPhee was now breathing down your back, which was a change, because usually he was at home, asleep, during your work hours. Now, fully awake, he was free to observe your every movement. Not that he did, he was busy making sure nothing in the museum was destroyed. You stayed far away, in the basement, locked up and sorting through the archives.

Every now and then Tilly would come down, asking you to take a break, which you nearly always declined.

Then the King visited you.

You could tell it was him without even looking up, from the way his cloak dragged across the ground, and his sandals hitting the asphalt.

“Hi Ahk,” you said, not looking up from the papers you were sorting.

Man killed 150 bears in American wilderness, original article…

“Hello. How’d you know it was me?” He asked, chuckling as he sat down beside you. That was something you hadn’t expected of him when you first met him - for him to be normal, to stoop down to your level. Sit with you on the ground, cross legged, looking like a perfectly normal man in an impeccable costume. Warm and human.

“I can hear your cloak. No one else wears a cloak,” you said, smiling as you looked at him, before looking right back down again.

“Ah. Suppose it does sort of… give it away,” he said, fumbling with his cape in his fingers.

“It’s fantastic material, though. I assume it’s the same clothing you were embalmed with?” You said, and without thought you fingered the material, always wondering what fine cloth would feel like. As much as you studied history, you never actually experienced any of the findings it brought.

“Oh, uh, yes. It is. Gold sewn in and all. I think we were a little dramatic back then,” he laughed quietly, his eyes fixed on your hands.

You knew it was inappropriate, but dear God it was soft.

“Well you had a lot of gold. Symbol of status, a way of letting people know how much you were worth. It’s like people owning mansions nowadays, buying fancy cars. Just a show of wealth and status.”

“Unsightly,” he joked.

“Unseemly,” you said with a chuckle, playing along. After a moment of quiet giggles you turned back to your papers, continuing to sort through them though it was the last thing you wanted to be doing. Here you were, studying historical records when a literal goldmine of information was in front of you, and he acted quite like he liked you, and a lot, always open to talk, always trying to learn more about you. Overall, very friendly.

“Ahkmenrah, I was wondering,” you started, setting your papers down. The more you looked at them, the duller they got. He looked expectantly at you, so you continued.

“There’s hardly any mention of you at all in any history books. No statues, we only found out you existed when we found your, um. Your sarcophagus. Do you have any idea as to why that is?”

It was, maybe, a sensitive topic. Maybe it was a question he didn’t know the answer to. Either way it evoked some emotional reaction out of him as he shifted uncomfortably, tucking his feet and hands further into himself in a psychological sign of defensiveness.

“I didn’t know, for a while. I found out later when my parents told me. I don’t remember this for whatever reason but my brother killed me, and uh… took the throne? It was his birthright, to be fair,” he said, defending him though he deserved none of it.

“He was older than you, but your parents gave you the throne?”

“Yes. I know it’s odd,” he sighed, relaxing as he leaned back on his arms. “But they thought it would be a better decision if I ruled instead of him, and generally speaking, I think they were right. My brother’s a bit, ah, bloodthirsty, you could call it?”

The two of you laughed, but you wondered what in the hell his brother could’ve done in Egyptian times to be considered bloodthirsty enough to pass the throne to the younger child.

“Anyway, he poisoned me, and my parents were still alive when this happened, but they couldn’t do much while he desecrated everything that ever mentioned me.”

“That’s depressing,” you sighed, stretching your arms as you relaxed, looking ahead to the rows of boxes.

“What’s depressing,” he said, his tone suddenly changing, “is you sitting down here all night when all the fun is upstairs.”

“Oh not you too,” you groaned, not wanting to have to convince another person that you had an actual job to do.

“What? It’s not healthy, you know,” he said, laughing, knowing he was a terrible influence.

“I’m fully aware of that but it’s my job. Wouldn’t expect you to understand that, all you do is have fun,” you chuckled, digressing into a tired sigh. He hummed, quiet and low, relaxing in his position once more.

“In that case, if you really can’t be swayed, I’ll stay with you.”

You stammered, fully disagreeing. If he stayed you’d never get anything done, he was a huge distraction, him and his beautiful flowing robes and his stupid gorgeous face - no, you couldn’t do it, you would absolutely not stand for it.

However, before you could go off on a rant of why that was a terrible idea (while completely avoiding your actual lovey-dovey reason as to why it was a terrible idea), he saw the look in your eye, and his smile faded into a sad, open mouthed, glittering eyed expression that made him instantly look like he’d been crying.

Like a goddamn puppy.

“Fine,” you sighed, giving in without a word exchanged. “But don’t distract me!”

“Me? Never!” He laughed, standing up and wandering through the aisles, letting you have your silence as you worked. You didn’t say anything, but you appreciated the thought deeply.

Every now and then, over the next few hours that passed, you’d see him through the spaces between the boxes. His head would poke out, and sometimes he’d kneel down to where you were, giving you a funny face for you to soften and laugh at.

This boy is too kind for his own good, you thought to yourself, wondering if he was like this during his life in Egypt. As you sorted mindlessly through sheets of paper, your mind wandered, going through the two different scenarios.

If he was exactly the same then as he was now, you wondered how he survived. As a prince, he was supposed to be mature, a role model for his kingdom. He should’ve been manly and strong, neither of which were traits he’d shown thus far.

If he was not the same, you wondered when the change happened. What he was like back then. Was he cruel, antisemitic, and a succinct ruler? Or was he just as kind as he was now, just more mature, with the weight of his responsibilities drowning out his personality?

“You look lost,” he noticed, boxes pushed to the side as he poked his head through the other side of the open shelf. You laughed, pushing the boxes back together to force his head out. He whined, jogging his way around the long hall to make it to you.

“No need to be ashamed. I, too, get lost in sheets of paper,” he chuckled, sitting down behind you and looking over your shoulder. He was slightly taller than you, allowing him a vantage point.

“You know, you speak remarkably good English for a 4,000 year old Egyptian Pharaoh,” you said, using the end of your pencil to tap his nose.

“What can I say, it’s what everyone else speaks. I hardly ever speak Egyptian now except with my parents.”

“I guess that makes sense,” you said, growing slowly quieter. “Your version of the language is dead now.”

A clangor of Rex’s roar resounded from upstairs, a sound you now knew signified that everyone needed to return to their place.

“Just as I am soon about to be,” he said, grunting slightly as he stood. Without thought you stood with him, letting your pencil and paper fall to the ground clattering quietly. With a chuckle he looked you up and down, almost sarcastically wondering if you’d do anything else embarrassing. You just glared, the blushing heat in your cheeks obvious.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” you mumbled, leading him out the door and up the stairs. He followed, and the two of you walked to his old room in the museum.

As you reached the threshold he stopped, turning to you.

“I must leave you now,” he said, his words dramatic but his tone sincere. His hands came up to hold yours, another sign of his truthfulness.

“Try and do what I said?” He asked of you.

“What was that again?”

“Have some fun. Don’t hole up in that basement.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

“Sure.”

He left you with a smile, never wanting people to see him as he wrapped himself back up in his tomb. You understood his wish, obeying his need for privacy.

Until tomorrow night, you thought to yourself.

[nitrateglow]

Favorite opening titles/sequences?

Oh damn, there are so many. In general, I think the best movie openings set up the tone of the story to come and the cleverest ones subtly hint at the movie’s themes. Daniel Thomas MacInnes put it best:

While many movies treat a title and credit sequence as an afterthought, or perhaps a necessary distraction from the film, a good filmmaker knows how to integrate it into the film, so that it has a dramatic power. By placing a sequence of events on-screen while the credits roll, you are placing an emphasis on them. You are highlighting them, focusing attenion upon them. This can prove highly effective for the story you want to tell, and it's underlying themes.

Here are some openings from my favorite movies which I believe possess such dramatic power.

The Red Shoes

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On one hand, this opening is very much of the old-style title sequence: a simple set of cards listing the major players in the production. However, the music and use of colored illustrations in these images set the tone for the movie to come so well, something beautiful and emotional. You get the sense that you’re being beckoned into a fairy tale world, much like the classic Disney films which begin with a live-action book opening, introducing the characters and their universe as illustrations. The Red Shoes toes the line between realism and fantasy, especially in its most famous ballet sequences, so this is such a perfect way to open the movie.

A Christmas Carol 1951

Once again, this is nothing flashy, but the music is EVERYTHING, setting the tone well. We’re introduced to this version of the Dickens classic, not with some sweet jingle bell harmony, but with a loud, sinister brass section that sounds like it belongs in a horror movie. Then, just as suddenly, we hear “Hark the Herald, Angels Sing” in a jubilant register… and then right before the movie starts, the music jumps back to the malevolent motif. It’s such a great way of getting the audience in the right frame of mind, reminding us this is both a ghost story and a tale of Christmas redemption.

Blast of Silence

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Blast of Silence opens with darkness, then the sound of the hero’s birth— his mother’s dying groans, his own weeping and screaming—over a train barreling through a tunnel. Accompanying this is the film’s (in)famous second-person narration, with the gravel-voiced, street-wise, and sardonic Lionel Stander illustrating the protagonist’s anger and cynicism right away (“You were born with the hate and anger built in!”). Then light breaks through and we realize the camera is on the front of a train just coming into the light. It’s a brilliant opening, setting up the story’s noir vibe and evoking a strange sense of determinism in how it suggests Frankie Bono’s tragic end was destined from the beginning of his life… much like a train on the tracks.

Wait Until Dark

Both the pre-credits scene and the titles sequence are brilliant. The first image of the film is itself disconcerting: an expanse of red cloth, suddenly cut open with a knife before we even learn we’re looking at a doll—and already, the film is setting up its sense of imminent brutality, coupled with the dissonant dread evoked by Henry Mancini’s wonderful score and the editing itself. The interaction between Lisa and old Louis is also a subtle way of setting up the deceptive games the characters play out, with Louis wishing Lisa luck one minute, then calling up the psychopathic Roat to rat her out as she drives away with the intent on betraying her partners-in-crime. The airport scenes continue establishing the themes of dread, betrayal, and mystery, especially with Mancini’s creepy music making us aware Lisa’s drug trafficking enterprise will not end well, long before even she is aware of that.

Horus Prince of the Sun

Best cold opening ever. Horus is a movie that deserves to be listed with the great, history-changing films of the late 1960s: it is every bit as rebellious as something like The Graduate, only it had a greater restriction to overcome: the idea that animation is all kids’ stuff destined to imprisonment within the Disney mold. Rather than opening with the titles or a cute storybook, Horus starts with a barren landscape. And then we see a boy running for his life from a pack of snarling wolves that are not anthropomorphized or made cute in any conceivable fashion. The opening consists largely of our hero Horus fighting these wolves in a violent, harsh fashion, telling the audience right away this won’t be your usual kiddie musical. No music accompanies the images at all, granting the sequence a sense of gritty realism one would expect from a crime drama of the period, not a fantasy film.

A Clockwork Orange

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I have always found the opening titles of A Clockwork Orange so striking, even before we get to Alex staring us down in chilling close-up. The way the titles are just set against plain colors that alternate between the cuts—they suggest the flipping of switches on a machine or computer (foreshadowing Alex’s “cure” perhaps?). Wendy Carlos’s electronic score further establishes such a mental connection: the sound is inhuman and sinister, planting dread in your guttiwuts before Alex even appears. And when he does, is that not just one of the best introductions to a character ever? That smirk alone says so much—Alex is evil incarnate, but there’s a boyishness which makes it compelling.

The Castle of Cagliostro

I’ve often gone over why I love this movie’s opening (I even made a post about the pre-credits sequence: https://nitrateglow.tumblr.com/post/184327179573/the-castle-of-cagliostro-scene-analysis-the), but I’ll say it again: the pre-credits scene sets up Cagliostro’s playful side, with Lupin and Jigen defying physics in Looney Tunes fashion as they rob a casino, and the titles sequence establishes the film’s more introspective, melancholy qualities, with a gentle love ballad accompanying the thieves’ journey to Cagliostro. I adore this movie so much because it balances all of these elements with elegance, putting real soul into what is essentially a fun caper adventure.

Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind

Nausicaa’s cold opening reminds me a lot of Horus’s in that it throws the audience right into a desolate, dangerous world. Yupa finds a village where all the inhabitants have died from the polluted landscape, and the images are somber and despairing. We learn right away this is a world where death can take you at any moment and where human survival is becoming less likely. And yet, right after this scene, we cut to the credits, a series of tapestry images depicting a messiah rushing in a renewed world, accompanied by Joe Hisaishi’s gorgeous main theme, which can only be described as cautious, tragic optimism incarnate. Nausicaa is a movie which ultimately ends on such a note, though it does not shy away from despair and feelings of hopelessness, making it a rich emotional experience—and this is all forecasted from the film’s opening.

[clairen45]

Red Re-Read: The Company of Wolves and the ST

This meta is long overdue. When I started my blog in January, I had a list of prospective articles I wanted to write about Kylo and Rey, or some themes that I was seeing suggested in the ST. On top of the list was Little Red Riding Hood, and I never even imagined going there without at the very least a honorable mention to Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber (1979) and the extended movie companion to 3 of these tales, Neil Jordan’s 1984 The Company of Wolves. Special request by @missnomerblr pushed me to finally complete the task. Also tagging our dear Reylo she-wolf extraordinaire, @ravenmaiden. The aesthetic and special effects left quite an impression on my mind as a child when the movie was released. Of course I was only allowed to watch it years later, and I didn’t get all the symbolism as a young girl, of course... but the idea that men with Frida Khalo eyebrows could turn into wolves, and that the wolf could get as seduced as the girl, were forever ingrained in my mind. How is it relevant to Star Wars, will you tell me? Ok, I will imagine that you didn’t catch any reference before, or read any meta on the sexual subtext of the movies,  but how could you miss the obvious red-themed campaign for the release of TLJ in theaters, with all the characters’ clothing dipped in red, and that little piece, very much unabashed about its reference:

Daisy Ridley even joked at the time about her poster, calling it “Little Rey’d Riding Hood”. That’s a good one, Daisy.

Officially, so many tales have been used by the Star Wars team to describe the ST. JJ compared Rey to Cinderella in his audio commentary to TFA. Sure, it’s a rags to riches story for Cinde-Rey-lla who is an orphan, undervalued and under-appreciated, and who maintains through her many hardships and trials a positive outlook on life and people, and a sunny character. Like your classic Disney princess who can talk to birds and mice, Rey understands every language. And if it’s not with a glass slipper that her prince identify her as his future bride, it is a blue lightsaber that does the trick. A saber, which like the slipper in Disney’s version, gets broken in the process right before the epilogue (part 3). Second reference: the characters were apparently coded as Goldilocks and the Bears during the shooting for TLJ. Again, that’s fair, because Rey, like Goldilocks, takes an adventurous stroll into the woods and ends up borrowing, like a cuckoo, things that don’t belong to her: a saber, a MF etc... She also trespasses onto Luke’s island, and then onto the Supremacy. And, like Goldilocks, in the positive versions, after a narrow brush with danger, she escapes barely unscathed with possibly a valuable life lesson. There is also Snow White, and the glass pod/ coffin that Rey uses to meet with her prince. I will add another element later, but I’ll hush for now. There is also the implicit Sleeping Beauty in the title The Force Awakens and the idea further developed in TLJ that Rey’s powers have been dormant ... until a prince awakened it... And then, there is Little Red Riding Hood.

This tale belongs to the cycle of educational tales about menstruation and loss of virginity. They are pretty easy to spot (intended pun): they are the ones with the color red encoded somewhere, with numbers that evoke the passing of time (12 fairies, 7 days, etc...), and also stories that require the heroine to lose a bit of blood: from the finger pricking of Sleeping Beauty or Snow White’s mom to the potential gore of Bluebeard and Little Red Riding Hood. And yes, usually menstruation and seduction go hand in hand pretty nicely. Because, traditionally, a woman who bleeds has just become fair game: she is desirable because able to bear children. So cycle of blood it is: menses, hymen, labor. What is fairly subtle, symbolic, and innocuous in cautionary tales aimed at children is brought to full light in Carter’s take on the classic tales aimed at adults. Her heroines, though, are given more obvious agency. More attention is given to the fact that it is also a time of budding sexuality for the heroines as well, a time when desire shifts from narcissim to the desire of the other. In tales, this otherness gets the extreme treatment: the object of desire is a monster, an animal, that normally becomes civilized by the end, so that desire fits conventional standards and doesn’t disrupt society. So the monster turns back into a prince when he can be salvaged (The Beast, the Frog), and he is killed when really too far gone (Bluebeard). I will also argue that, most of the time, the transformed one is actually the princess: though she doesn’t change physically, she has learned to accept her desires and stops seeing male desire and sexualty as monstruous. She has accepted the otherness, so she stops seeing him as a monster. She has changed psychologically. That being said, Carter was not the first one to bring a magnifying glass onto the implied sexuality in Little Red Riding Hood. It is implied for children, but has been very much understood as it was by adults... Think of Tex Avery’s wolf and Red for instance. What chance would have Wolfie against the very savvy and alluring vampish Red Hot Riding Hood? So the story of seduction has been going both ways for quite a long time, with Red being seduced or seducing the wolf... Then you have different outcomes, and frankly, writers and directors have done them all: girls gets devoured by wolf, girl gets devoured and rescued, girl barely escapes, girl outsmarts wolf,  girl kills wolf, wolf falls in love with girl, girl becomes a wolf, girl tames wolf... you name it.

ELEMENTS FROM LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD

It was quite a bold choice in TLJ to have Rey in full Little Red Riding Hood Cosplay when so far the elements had been merely subtext in TFA. Red, so far, had been mostly coded as Kylo’s color. But as we get to find out more about him, the color seeps and bleeds, especially in TLJ, the litteral “core” (aka heart) of the ST, the middle chapter which is very much about Kylo’s exposed wounds (both figuratively and symbolically), culminating with Crait, the planet that seems to be bleeding every time you  but skim its surface. Remember also that “raw” was the keyword in the trailer, and defines Kylo: “raw untamed power”. Raw means what it means. Exposed flesh, scorched, flogged. I thought I had read somewhere that the throne room scene had been coded with Little Red Riding Hood and Big Bad Wolf during shooting, but I have never been able to find the link through my research... Please, if you happen to know or remember that, just let me know. But back to the hood...

There has already been many metas on the importance of Kylo and Rey meeting in the woods. They could have met on Jakku, they were that close... But they didn’t. There’s the woods, but there’s also straying from the path. Red, like Goldilocks, is cautioned against that. Nothing bad will happen to little girls who stay on the straight and narrow. Possibly nothing at all wil ever happen to little girls who remain on the path... In most stories, though, straying a bit will be the good start for some journey... And indeed, Rey, given a clear path, “the first steps” on the famous Path of the Jedi, through her Force visions, refuses it. Rather than following the path, she runs away... straight into the woods... Where she meets her big bad Wolf. As in the original story, he starts out being more cunning than Red, and is able to get her where he wants her to be. Abduction in TFA. Long way to Granny’s house while he takes the short cut. Plotwise, there are also some common elements. Red carries a basket full of goodies that she is supposed to take to her sick grandmother. Her mother commissioned her to the task. It’s all female realm. The grandmother lives alone, far away, in a secluded place. The grandmother represents knowledge, and also fate for the little girl: one day she will be a mother, and then a grandmother. The wolf wants to get there and get it all: the girl, the goodies, and the grandma. By getting away with the grandmother, he also symbolically tampers with the girl’s future: aka, being seduced/bedded (and not married), she will never be a wise, old, respected lady one day. As for Rey, this is not too far off. Her basket of goodies is short round BB8 which holds information. Information that is of importance to Leia. And which can lead to an old, wise... Granny Luke? living alone in a far away, secluded place... And who in a way represents a potential future for Rey, being the Last Jedi. Kylo also wants to get there. So just as in the tale, there is a potential race towards Luke’s place. And by getting the girl, Kylo is also tampering with her future: dark Side or Light Side Rey?

ANGELA CARTER’S SHORT STORIES

3 tales deal more specifically with wolves in Carter’s The Bloody Chamber : “The Werewolf”, “The Company of Wolves”, and “Wolf Alice”. I am just going to undeline a few elements that can resonate with what we have seen in the ST so far.

“The Werewolf”: the little girl gets attacked on her way to see her grandmother. She defends herself and cuts off the forepaw of the wolf. The paw turns out into a human hand. When she finally gets to her grandmother she finds her really sick and feverish, and understands that the wolf was actually her grandmother. She kills her and takes her place in the house. For that one, I want to underline the idea that monsters can hide under familiar faces, or that something that was deemed monstrous can reveal a human side. Depending on what side you are looking at it. That was the point of the ST in the cross flashbacks that tell us about Luke and Kylo. The monster gets humanized, and we get to see something unattractive and upsetting about someone who had all our trust. I am not saying that Luke is a monster, but that he potentially could have done something monstrous, which it turns out he did, because this fleeting moment turned Ben into a monster. And on the other hand, Rey gets to see Ben the man under Kylo the monster. Special bonus to the Skywalker special in the Werewolf story: the cut off hand. And in the end, Rey is indeed the one in Luke’s stead.

“The Company of Wolves”:  different folk tales and folklore about wolves and werewolves...  I have underlined that one for you: “Before he can become a wolf, the lycanthrope strips stark naked. If you spy a naked man among the pines, you must run as if the Devil were after you”. It reminded me of half naked Kylo. And then the story of the girl.This description of the girl:

She stands and moves within the invisible pentacle of her own virginity. She is an unbroken egg; she is a sealed vessel; she has inside her a magic space the entrance of which is shut tight with a plug of membrane; she is a closed system; she does not know how to shiver. She has a knife and she is afraid of nothing.

Some of these images of virginity (and virginity consumated and broken) we have seen played out on the screen: from the veil covering the MF on Jakku, the eggs on Ahch-To, the curtains on the Supremacy, to the cave on Crait... In Carter’s story, the girl is not a little girl, she is described as a pubescent, or verge of pubescence, girl, barely formed. She meets a young man in the woods who holds a reamarkable object, “a compass”. It’s nature versus culture. He bets her a kiss that he can get to Grandma before she does. The girl will take her time, she wants to lose that one. In the meantime, the man does away with the grandmother, but not before stripping naked and showing his genitals (”His genitals, huge.Ah! huge!”). When the girl walks in, she is no fool. She understands fast enough. She starts by showing compassion to the lot of wolves howling in the cold night. Then she starts shedding her clothes she “took off her scarlet shawl, the colour of poppies, the colour of sacrifices, the colour of her menses, and since her fear did her no good, she ceased to be afraid”. As the man talks about eating her, she starts laughing: “she knew she was nobody’s meat”, and she joins him in bed. The last line sees her sleeping sound and sweet “in granny’s bed, between the paws of the tender wolf”. Which reminds me of Isaiah “the wolf shall dwell with the lamb” and the coming back of a Golden Age.

“Wolf Alice”. That one is about two awakenings. On the one hand we have a young girl who was suckled by wolves and is found by nuns. Desperate to fully civilize her, they deliver us to the house of The Duke, who is some kind of a monster. You think he is a vampire at first, since he has no reflection in the mirror , then some kind of monster feasting on corpses. But he turns out to be a werewold at the end of the story. So the two creatures are actually very much alike. There were a lot of elements there that reminded me of a particularly twisted AU Reylo, to be honest. To begin with, their circumstances: she is a nobody, without any family, barely a first name, and he is a Duke, with a castle and countless trinkets from the past. For instance, Alice’s description:

Like, the wild beasts, she lives without a future. She inhabits only the present tense, a fugue of the continuous, a world of sensual immediacy as without hope as it is without despair.

It could fit Rey on Jakku, marking down each day. She does not have any plans beyond today. She is caught in a stasis.The Duke is constantly described by his hunger: “huge, inconsolable, rapacious eyes. His eyes see only appetite. These eyes open to devour the world in which he sees, nowhere, a reflection of himself”. That also reminded me of Kylo’s need to cover his face and his body in TFA, as if he wanted to disappear. They never interact with each other. The castle is referred to as “the den where she and the Duke inhabited their separate solitudes”. Alice changes, though, as she discovers the passing of time through her menses, and her reflection in a mirror. The mirror scenes can also evoke Rey’s experience on Ahch-To... At first Alice is very happy about finding a girl in the mirror because she thinks she has made a friend, that she has a companion to share experiences with... After a while, she ends up understanding that this companion is “no more than a particularly ingenious variety of the shadow she cast on sunlit grass”. With this knowledge, she puts on a wedding dress that she found in the castle and starts roaming outside. Her wanderings take her to the graveyard where the Duke is having a feast, and where he is hunted by an angry mob who manages to wound him. That’s when Alice (in full bride attire) and him interact, and that seeing him in pain, she nurses him back to life.

Poor, wounded thing... locked half and half between such strange states, an aborted transformation, an incomplete mystery, now he lies writhing on his black bed in the room like a Mycenaean tomb, howls like a wolf with his foot in a trap or a woman in labour, and bleeds.

The whole beginning could have been written for Kylo. And the symbolism at the end is clear rebirth. As she gently licks his face. Where there was nothing in the mirror, gradually appears the face of the Duke under her ministrations:

the prey caught in its own fishing net, then in firmer yet still shadowed outline until at least as vivid as real life itself, as brought into being by her soft, moist, gentle tongue, finally, the face of the Duke.

It sure reads like some smutty AU fanfic... And not far from Rey’s own experiences and interactions with Kylo. Two solitudes that meet. The girl so hopeful to find what she wanted to see in a mirror and finally crying when she understands it was all a lie, a shadow, and not what she wanted. And who turns to another solitary person right afterward, who may be the only person in the world to understand what she goes through. A creature that is caught between two states. A monster tracked down and wounded, whose human face she is alone able to reveal.... Ummm...

THE COMPANY OF WOLVES: CINEMATIC PARALLELS

Though Neil Jordan’s adaptation of Carter’s tales is contemporary to other fairy 80′s classics such as Labyrinth, Legend, The Neverending Story  or Dark Crystal, that one was never aimed at children. In an article from Film Ireland, this movie is best described as

more influenced by filmmakers like Jean Cocteau (Beauty and the Beast) and 1970’s Parisian pornographic art movies that embedded fairy tales with a salacious twist. The result is a film drenched in sensuality, richer than chocolate cake, and sporting enough themes and allegory to keep film students occupied indefinitely.

Neil Jordan worked with Carter herself to write the script for this movie. And, interestingly, most of the crew for the movie came from the Star Wars movies... The story goes like this: in a house in the country, a young girl is sleeping in her bedroom, dreaming, and visibly upset. She has an elder sister who doesn’t like her, and parents who are at a loss about her behaviour. In her dreams, the girl imagines she is a peasant girl from an XVIIIth century village, plagued by wolf attacks. Her elder sister gets conveniently killed at the beginning of the story. The girl spends most of her time with her grandmother (Angela Lansbury), some kind of a witch/fairy godmother, who knits her a wonderful red coat, and who warns her about men and wolves. Most of the stories do come from Carter’s tales but are fleshed out. The girl, who doesn’t have a name in the original story, becomes Rosaleen. She also has a suitor in a village boy... But then one day she meets a strange man in the forest and then...

There are indeed many interesting parallels to draw between Jordan’s movie and what we have seen so far in the ST, as far as Rey’s journey is concerned. The Company of Wolves is supposed to be a journey after all, an experience, what Film Ireland superbly calls “ a timeless and psychedelic daydream/nightmare, undulating and shifting”, that is supposed to reflect a young girl’s fantasies and fears as she is on the cusp of womanhood. This is about transformation, and, as the girl is portrayed sleeping most of the movie until the end, about an awakening. Which is not too far off from what Rey is experiencing, albeit in a galaxy far far away, and in a totally different genre. But, it would not be smart to overlook the implications of the title for the first installment: The Force Awakens. We know, from Snoke and Kylo’s conversation in TFA, and from Rey’s conversation with Luke in TLJ, that it is not so much about the Force Awakening (did it ever sleep?); but about someone awakening within/to the Force. And who else but Rey has been awakened? “Something inside of me has always been there... But now it’s awake.  And I'm afraid. I don't know what it is or what to do with it. And I need help. “ Which could honestly be uttered by any teenage girl (granted, boys too) as she experiences puberty... The novelizations insist on Rey’s dreams and nightmares, something we unfortunately never got onscreen...

There are more parallels to draw between Rosaleen and Rey. Rey, like Rosaleen, is the girl with the rose. The wilted flower in her AT-AT was a subliminal call to the Beast’s magic rose in Disney. White roses, red roses, are not just emblems of love, they also represent female sexuality, and female blood.

They both are fighters. Rosaleen carries a knife with her into the forest. And when her grandmother tells her a story that ends with a husband beating his wife, Rosaleen’s reaction evokes Rey: “I'd never let a man strike me!”. Her meeting with the wolf/man is also interesting to compare with Rey and Kylo. In Carter’s story, the man is described as a hunter, but in the movie he is turned into a rich man, a marquis. There is a class divide that did not exist in the short story. When she finally quizzes him about what he really is, whether he is a man or a wolf, his answer is that he doesn’t belong in one or another, that he belongs to both. Something that is further echoed by the Priest who finds the wolf girl and wonders whether she is “God’s Work” or the Devil’s, and finally decides it is better to show compassion to a suffering creature. Like Rey, Rosaleen ponders about the nature of her adversary, and decides first on hurting him: she shoots him after stealing his own gun (like someone we know who got somebody’s saber and struck thet somebody down). But then, when she sees him in pain and crying, she offers her compassion and realizes they are not so different. Her mother had warned her that there was also a beast in women’s hearts, so the ending shows Rosaleen turned into a wolf, apparently from her own free will. She chose to become the man’s companion. Much like our characters in TLJ who realize they are more connected than they thought, and Rey seeing Kylo differently.

I would like to offer further parallels in themes or scenes between the two movies:

Before meeting the wolf man, the girl has a suitor: a boy she met in her village. She is not romantically interested... and sees him more as a friend.

Meeting in a snow forest, both armed

Blood on the snow.... This classical Snow White reference is also a symbol for loss of virginity or first period... In both movies, the guys are the ones “bleeding” the snow... Can’t get more obvious than that...

The “duel” involves a “red moon”... Before the girl gets inside Granny’s house, the moon turns red, and looks like an eye. Starkiller base has this reddish eye, and it explodes (turns red) after their fight...

Both women wound the wolf... Rosaleen shoots at the wolf and wounds him in the shoulder. Rey cuts Kylo’s face and part of his chest.

High waisted pants...

Do you like subtle phallic symbols? (Remember that in Carter’s short story, he was showing his huge genitals... Well, that’s the best they could do... LOL)

And more of that...

From hunter/prey dynamic:

To real intimacy by the firelight, in “Granny’s House”... Luke is the “Granny” of the story...

The compass... It is the object that the hunter shows the girl as a lure. Compass is a song in Rey’s spotify playlist, and we have seen a compass in Luke’s hut.

The mirror, the eggs, and the nest.... The need to breed. Proof that it is all linked and that Ahch-To was indeed sex-ed class.

A lot of points can be made between Luke and the grandmother. If, unlike Luke, the grandmother is more than willing to teach the girl, they both have magic skills. She turns out to be a (good) witch. The girl loves her grandmother and believes all her stories to be the truth, but her mother warns her at one point about the grandmother’s biased view of the world. Luke’s views also turn out to be partial, and the truth slightly twisted. During one of her strolls, the grandmother encounters a snake...

Remember Luke on Dagobah?

When the wolf faces the grandmother, he shows up with blood on his mouth, implying that he has “enjoyed” Rosaleen. The grandmother asks what he did with her. The wolf: “Nothing she didn’t want”. We find these two ideas first in the smut hut when Luke is shocked to discover that Rey has allowed herself to get this close to Kylo, and then when Kylo tells Luke that he will destroy Rey...  Also, if the wolf kills the grandmother, no blood is shed. When the wolf attacks the grandmother, she breaks as if she were a doll. She is thus a simulacrum: she was not a real person, she was the image of a person. Just like Kylo unable to kill Luke because he is just an image projected from across the galaxy. I think this is a very intriguing point. The point here is to shatter illusions, dreams, and fantasies. The girl in The Company of Wolves is sleeping next to a horror book called “The Shattered Dream”.

Other possible parallel? The pack!

The Snow White references and subversion. From this:

To this:

I was also interested in the little scene when the grandmother explains how the Devil meets a young man in the wolf and gives him the potion that turns him into a wolf. This reminded me of how Snoke ensnared and turned Kylo... Heck, for that matter, Snoke is even like a very grotesque Terence Stamp!

Oh, and the Hamlet scene...

And yes, I can definitely see some parallelisms in the potential ending as well with Rey running away with Kylo... Look at this poster for the French DVD, which fuses the face of Rosaleen with the wolf and compare it with the TFA poster where Rey and Kylo merge their weapons (prelude to sex, right?) and complete each other, as well as the concept art in Art of The Last Jedi that merged their faces for Ahch-To:

The point is not to say that the writers thought of this movie or this set of story to create the ST. Maybe they did, but that doesn’t really matter, anyways. The many similarities, in my view, are mainly due to the fact that both stories tap into similar themes. The coming of age of a girl, the fears and fantasies stemming from the desire for the other, the ambivalence between disgust and attraction about sexuality, the fear of losing oneself and one’s identity (the path, the compass, the metamorphosis). Again, this is a tale as old as time. Which is why it has so much appeal and resonates into our psyche. Maybe this will never be the main event for many people who will just enjoy the cool battles and special effects. Maybe it is this extra depth that irks the discontented fanboys, because, though they don’t fully see it, they still understand that something else is at play there... But this is why this movie will endure the test of time as a story. Themewise, it has universal SEX appeal.

[rosesisupposes]

Love Language, pt 2

aka Phase I: Roman

Character Tags: Virgil/Anixety ; Patton/Creativity ; Patton/Morality ; Logan/Logic ;

Chapter Pairings: Established LAMP/CALM, Logince

Warnings: none

Reader tags: @residentanchor​ @royally-anxious​ @fellowthomassandersfander @bewarethegrammarpolice @jemthebookworm @arandompasserby

Summary: Logan loves his boyfriends, truly he does. But finding the right way to show it has presented a challenge.

<< Part 1 | Part 3>>

[read on ao3]

Roman was the first to investigate the clatter that had been Logan’s crashing revelation. “Dearest Lo, has someone harmed you?” He rushed in to help pick up his boyfriend from where he still lay, staring at the ceiling. Instead of depositing him on his feet, Roman held the logical side bridal style, grinning now that it was clear that he was unhurt.

“Roman, you can put me down, you know. I’m quite alright.”

“But why would I want to, my dear Sherlock? You’ve crashed to the ground once today, and of the three things in the world you should be falling for, none of them are a desk chair,” the prince replied with a grin, kissing Logan’s nose.

Logan blushed. Being treated like a delicate creature was the most confusingly enjoyable thing about dating Roman. Logan was the solid, staid one, the adult in the room. But with this passionate man, he was handled as lightly as if he was one of the petite princesses from Roman’s beloved Disney movies or plays. Which reminded him - it was time to put his plan in motion.

“Roman, I actually fell because I, uh. Need your help. With my studies.”

Roman deposited Logan gently on his bed, looking equal parts shocked and delighted. “You… need my help? With studying? My dearest Logan, I would be delighted to aid you in your academic quest. How may I assist you?”

Logan cleared his throat, then grabbed a huge tome from his bookshelf. “It’s to do with Shakespeare, actually. I am able to read the words and follow the play, but, well. I’ve read that they weren’t meant to be just words - they were supposed to be performed. I’d like to truly understand them as they were meant to be heard and seen. Would you be able to help in this?”

Logan suddenly looked up as Roman held him by both shoulders, eyes intense as he stared directly into the other’s bespectacled eyes. “Logan, there is nothing I want to do more than perform the works of the Bard for you. Where shall I begin?”

“You should pick the play, Roman. I am sure I would learn the most from your most passionate performance.”

Logan had thought watching Roman perform would just be a good way to connect with the dramatic man. He hadn’t been prepared by how enraptured he himself would become watching the man perform. Despite playing every role, Roman was able to evoke so much passion even as he switched back and forth. Logan found himself breathless, only speaking when Roman encountered a word he wasn’t quite sure of. On this, Logan was able to help, offering definitions and period-specific context. Roman’s eyes were alight as he listened to his boyfriend’s explanations, before diving back into his one-man show.

Logan was absolutely entranced as Roman spoke with regret and sorrow, holding the text.

“For it so falls out that what we have we prize not to the worth whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost, why, then we rack the value, then we find the virtue that possession would not show us whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio: when he shall hear she died upon his words, the idea of her life shall sweetly creep into his study of imagination, and every lovely organ of her life shall come apparell'd in more precious habit, more moving-delicate and full of life, into the eye and prospect of his soul, than when she lived indeed; then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in his liver, and wish he had not so accused her, no, though he thought his accusation true.”

He paused. “Lo, why would Claudio have love in his liver? Why not the heart?”

Logan blinked, recovering from the near-trance that Roman’s performance had put him into. “I, uh. Oh, yes, in Elizabethan England, they held the idea of the four humours governing physiological and mental health. Blood was the humor associated with spring, youth, and passion, and at the time it was thought that the liver produced blood, and thus was the root of all passionate feelings.”

Roman leaned over to kiss a blushing Logan on the cheek before transforming back into the grave Friar, offering counsel to a desperate and bewildered family.

Roman finished the play with a flourish. Logan gave him a standing ovation. It had been nothing short of a delight to watch and listen to. Roman bowed elegantly, flush with success and pride in his performance. That confident smile was too much. Logan slid arms around the prince’s waist and kissed his grin. “Thank you, Ro. That was... beautiful. I really did learn a lot from you.”

“Thank you, Logan, for giving me the opportunity, and for being my dramaturg. We made an excellent team.”

“We did, didn’t we,” Logan smiled, bringing up a hand to cup Roman’s neck. He kissed him long and slow, slick tongues sliding gently against each other in perfect partnership.

When they finally broke apart for air, Roman smirked as he leaned his forehead against Logan’s. “Please, do tell if you ever need another private performance.”

Logan laughed, breathless and content. “Don’t make such tempting offers, dear Prince. I might take you up on it until we run out of plays.”

author’s note: wish fulfillment? i don’t know what you’re talking about, i would never want to flirt via shakespearean performance/dramaturgy, nope, doesn’t sound like me at all. shh.

Text: Much Ado About Nothing, Act IV, scene i

[bat-besties]

On Impossibility - 4

Chapter 1   Chapter 2    Chapter 3     Chapter 5  Chapter 6   Chapter 7     Chapter 8  Chapter 9

A popular!Logan and loser!Roman high school AU based on @2pointomg’s idea with eventual Prinxiety. 

impossible 

ɪmˈpɒsɪb(ə)l

adjective

·       not able to occur, exist, or be done.

Eg. It is impossible to fund both the sports and drama programmes with the school’s limited budget.

·       very difficult to deal with.

Eg. The situation which Logan Sanders, Student Body President, is in after he convinced the school board to cut the unsuccessful drama programmes is impossible.

·       (of a person) very unreasonable.

Eg. Roman Prince.

To Roman, nothing is impossible. Not following his older brother Patton to acting college, not being a loser taking on the school’s popular Student Body President and definitely not writing and performing an epic school play with no money and six cast and crew members.

Edited by @alpacasarethegreenestanimal, who can no longer be described as the Virgil to my Logan in this context. Theatre to Roman, then?

@toolazytothinkofcreativename

@entitydark

@romanasanders

@barclays-sides

@cashmeredragon

@jughead-is-canonically-aroace

@immacrazyfangirl

@narniasfinestavengingsociopath

@featuredfander

@what-a-catch-joe

@mightaswellenthuseaboutbooks

@candiukas

It was the best thing Roman had ever written. As his friends pointed out, he said that every time he wrote a new play (or ballad or short story) but that was just a testament to how quickly he improved, and how well he took constructive criticism aboard –

‘No, no, no! No kiss? How can there be no kiss at the end?’

Kyle looked down at his friend with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, ‘I’m not kissing you.��

‘It’s a teeny peck of a kiss.’

Talyn shuffled through their script, ‘It says here, ‘Rosso swoops Ombretto into a passionate kiss…. sensuous lips…. forbidden gay love…. could have confetti….at least 10 second of lip contact.’’ They looked up at Roman, raising their multi-coloured eyebrows.

Roman, lying on his stomach on the stage, held a hand out dramatically ‘Alright, alright. We’ll discuss the kiss when we get to it.’ He sat up, ‘So… do you guys like it?’

Valerie smiled at him, ‘I do.’

Terrence looked up. ‘Roman – it’s the best thing you’ve ever written.’

Roman smiled. All the stress of coming up with a good idea, all the late nights he’d put into that script, all the times he’d woken up his parents with reading through soliloquies, was worth this moment. Six high school kids sat in a circle on a stage in a dark auditorium, still cluttered with instruments and with the assembly podium in centre stage and realised they could make something amazing. Yes, there weren’t many of them, but Roman wouldn’t have traded his friends for the most star-studded of all Broadway casts. The love he had for them and his knowledge of their individual strengths shone through his play. It was an intense gothic-style story, and in his eyes, it was perfect.

Roman was Rosso, a knight fallen from grace due to his anger and arrogance who must prove his worth by going on a quest into a cursed forest.

Kyle would be Ombretto, who played the dual role of villain and love interest – Roman had originally written a different part for him, Rosso’s companion Giallo, who was the source of hope and goodness in the trials Rosso would face, but Giallo had to be written out because there was no way one person could play both characters – and Ombretto had to stay.

Terrence was a dancing malevolent fairy, Valerie was the evil queen of the forest and Dahlia would be Rosso’s guide through the woods, Margherita.

Of course, Talyn was in charge of hair, make-up, costume and props – their talents would be especially important as they had no-one to do set, so their work would have to evoke the gothic world much more than the group’s joint effort at some sort of background.

Elise had agreed to do sound and lights nearer the time.

‘We’ll show them,’ said Dahlia firmly, ‘we’ll show them what we can do – and how important drama and the arts are.’

Was it cheesy? When we are serious and heartfelt we can seem ridiculous, but in that moment it was not cheesy to say ‘We’ll show them’. In that moment, the six of them saw for the first time how this idea of theirs that they’d been working on for the past month could be realised. The easy companionship, the sense of purpose, the excitement for the future and the commitment to the project, no matter how hard it would be were cheesy, perhaps, but they swelled to fill the dim auditorium with possibility. The podium was some distant tower, the ropes backstage tangled vines and the seating was filled with expectant shadows.  

Jarringly, the doors at the back of the auditorium swung open, and the intruders flicked the harsh white lights on, revealing the stage again as set up for mundane assemblies and not fantastical plays. ‘Alright Logan, I want you opening, I know you like responding but I’m trusting you to write an airtight opening speech, I’m going to close since I have the most experience, the middle we’ll sort out….’ Joan paused, looking at the blinking theatre kids on the stage. ‘Um, we booked the auditorium, so could you please leave.’

Roman stood up, indignation radiating from him. ‘This theatre has been used by the Drama Society from 4 ‘til 6 every Thursday for the past ten years- ‘

‘I’m sorry. First off, it’s an auditorium, not a theatre, secondly….’

Logan was doing his best to hide behind Joan and the others, hoping that Roman wouldn’t notice him. He still hadn’t apologised for the assembly incident, the past few days he had just been trying to keep himself together after his fight with Virgil. The extra debate practices before their competition in New York had been a godsend, and now Roman had to ruin them.

The others had already slipped their scripts into rucksacks and had collected any jackets lying on the stage. ‘Roman.’ Valerie picked up her friend’s backpack.

‘No.’ Roman replied to Valerie apologetically, then turned back to Joan speaking firmly, ‘No. This is our place.’

As the theatre kids stood in the glare of the light on stage, bags hung off single shoulders and jackets draped over arms they looked – helpless, somehow. And Roman was still standing there, clutching his script to his chest and staring Joan right in the eyes. Suddenly, Logan could see himself as he had been at his old school, sitting in the back of the seating. ‘Disputandum dominatur displays logic and higher social status to remove the theatrum parvus from their natural habitat. It is unlikely the theatrum parvus will find a secure habitat again due to government programmes aiming to cause them to go extinct.’ He told his head to shut up.

In his notebook, Logan always rooted for the underdog.

He stepped forward, waiting for Joan to finish speaking. Once they had, he cut in before Roman could.

‘While the debate team must use the auditorium now, our competition is in just three weeks. If you would consent to using our classroom for that period, you could book the auditorium at other times, and after that you could go back to normal.  Besides, we practice in E4, which is very spacious so should be suitable for any small-scale exercises in make-believe you wish to engage in.’

‘Small scale? Small scale?!’ Roman roared, then he placed his hands on his hips – how someone could be that unconscious about the absurdity of their body language Logan would never know – and projected to the back of the room, ‘No! We are putting on a play. It will be the greatest play this school has ever seen, and furthermore it will get us back our funding! We will take your offer and for your generosity will give the debate club seats in the front row.’

Logan couldn’t tell whether that was sarcastic or a show of genuine gratitude.

Joan sighed, ‘Alright, it’s ten past and clearly we all have things to do. Let’s get started with compiling our research.’

As the Roman and his entourage left the auditorium, Logan didn’t hear a single word of what his captain was saying.

In the back of the room his former self was laughing. ‘Theatrum parvus member beats opponent twice its size with bravado and conviction.’

------------------------------------------------------------

‘I don’t understand why I have to wear that!’

‘Because it’s your costume that’s why!’

‘Yeah - Talyn is the costume designer, they have final say!’

‘Well, I’m the actor, so shouldn’t I have final say over my lines?!’

‘So why did we workshop this play for so long if you don’t have any say over your lines!’

‘We workshopped for too long, we won’t get it ready in time!’

‘Maybe we would get it done sooner if you guys would co-operate a bit more!’

‘Maybe it would be a bit better if you didn’t bulldoze us every time we disagreed with you!’

‘Look, let’s just take a break for ten minutes and come back to it.’

‘Thanks Valerie,’ Roman sighed and put his head in his hands, ‘Ten minutes everyone.’

He knew that it was late and they needed to finish blocking the first act before the school closed or they would be a full week behind their schedule, but he would start ripping down the posters in that stupid English classroom if he had to stay in it for one more minute. Everything which made his play magical seemed childish in that room – the Google translate Italian names, Terrence’s dance which the space was too small for, even Valerie’s evil incantation.

Walking quickly down the hallways and enjoying the quiet, Roman ran over his lines in his head - why had he used ‘alas’ three times in as many sentences? ‘Princey’, ‘Disney’, ‘Princess’ or sometimes just ‘freak’ were the names the students knew him by and having a class of people shout ‘alas’ at him every time he spoke wasn’t something he wanted to encourage. Putting his whole being into every part he played always made it difficult for him when people teased him for his acting but performing in a play he had written was like offering his soul to the school on a platter. He knew everything inside him was beautiful and worthwhile – he was a shining star, the best guy in the school! – but it was hard to hold onto that when his peers found it ridiculous time and time again. And Logan Sander’s anti-bullying campaign counted itself as a success if nobody was getting beaten up in the hallways. Roman couldn’t help but resent Patton sometimes for the respect people in his year had had for him and his talent. He could never be the year’s shoulder to cry on or literal sunshine like Patton had been, but he would settle for nods in hallways and having the ball passed to him in PE - for genuine applause after his play. He could never settle for anonymity: it was something Roman found shameful, but he would rather be the butt of jokes or eyerolls than left in peace. This way, everyone knew his name. They would remember him when he succeeded in life!

He checked his watch as he wandered into Art – five minutes of freedom left. He stopped his journey and leaned on a table covered in splatters of purple paint. It all came down to the fact that no-one outside the cast and Talyn would feel the sense of mystery and charm this play held for them or appreciate the richness of the world or the drama of the story the way that they did.

Looking up, suddenly he was transported back into his enchanted forest.

Paintings in the style of illuminations had been blue-tacked to the peeling paint of the art room, and they were the most beautiful things that Roman had ever seen. Thorns embraced collapsing stone towers and glowing eyes peered out of bottomless wishing wells. A weeping knight cradled a dragon’s head as it lay with a lance in its side and a lady all in white wandered through a midnight forest lit by blood-red stars. The pictures glowed with light – he leaned forward, drinking in each careful brushstroke and inked line. They were perfect. Roman knew he had to get this person to join his play. He didn’t care if the artist was Logan Sanders himself because he was filled with the illogical but definite thought that as soon as he could get someone like that onto his team his play would begin to feel dark and eldritch again. He took a moment before he looked at that Comic Sans name tag, scared to have this hope taken from him. ‘Virgil Lee’. Huh.

Roman had mixed feelings on that. He had always enjoyed working with him, even if Virgil never seemed to want to move into a friendship beyond English projects and pre-lesson conversations. He had really tried to befriend him: he’d set up a speaker in his bedroom and sung ‘You’ve got a friend in me’ with a cowboy hat on to Virgil when he was round to analyse Moby Dick. Would someone time-travel to freshman Roman and burn his Disney karaoke CD? Or at least tell him that when Virgil stopped the backing music halfway through it wasn’t him that was being weird (Roman still used the CD). The angsty nature of the pictures definitely fit with the emo’s aesthetic and Roman knew that he had an appreciation for Angela Carter and Mary Shelley. The thing was that when Roman said he would even have taken Logan Sanders he did not expect his best friend to be the artist. Still, he had apologised to Virgil after the assembly (he was somewhat offended at the response his beautifully worded speech had got – the boy had been distracted and seemed as though he wanted nothing more than to be left alone) and at least it wasn’t some random freshman or something.

Pulling out his phone, he saw that he only had a minute to get back to the classroom. He needed Virgil as soon as possible, so before he could think too much he called him. The hall was silent except from the slapping of Roman’s shoes and the blaring of the dialling tone in his ear.

‘Hello?’

‘Ah, yes, Virgil, are you free to talk?’

‘You could just text me like a normal person.’

‘Is that the sound of a Disney film I hear?’

Virgil was indeed watching Disney. He had set himself up on his sofa with the Nightmare before Christmas, a tub of Oreo ice cream and a pile of blankets, trying not to think about Logan or Roman or anything much at all.

‘Nightmare before Christmas.’

‘Classic!’

‘What do you want?’

‘Well, friendo, I was in Art and I couldn’t help but notice your beautiful paintings!’

‘Um, OK. They’re not- ‘

‘I do not have time to deal with self-deprecation! I am calling because I need you to join my play. To do set design and help Talyn with the props. Please.’

‘Dude, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not qualified to- ‘

‘You were in set last year!’

‘I didn’t design the set though!’

Roman stopped outside the classroom door. He leaned on the wall and spoke more softly, ‘Virgil, it’s a gothic play. It needs you. I need you. Come on! It’ll be fun.’

The sound of a put-upon sigh was music to Roman’s ears. ‘Fine. When do you want me to come in?’

‘Now?’

‘I have ice cream and am watching a Tim Burton film, why would I leave that to go to school?’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Sure thing, Princey.’

‘Goodnight, Charlie Frown.’

‘Hey!’

‘I’m sorry for calling you Charlie Frown.’

‘I’m sorry you called me too.’

‘Enjoy the movie.’

‘See you tomorrow.’

-------------------------------------------

Virgil shifted the sketchbook under his arm as he stood outside E4, peering into the frosted glass panel in the blue door. He pulled out his phone to reread the text: 'E4 4:00’ which Roman had sent the night before. Tugging at the bottom of his sleeve, he barely had time to register a blurry shape rapidly filling up the window before the door swung open.

'Virgil, set designer extraordinare!’ Roman went in for a hug, which Virgil sidestepped. The actor looked down for a moment, then settled for ushering Virgil into their old English classroom as though it were the Old Vic itself.

‘Well, come on in.’

'You've met Talyn, right?’ Talyn looked up from their fabric samples and waved.

'Yeah, sure.’

If by met Roman meant 'stared longingly at the awesome dyed hair of' then Virgil had certainly met Talyn.

‘So, basically a disgraced knight called Rosso goes through a cursed forest with a guide Margherita, then faces an evil queen, mavolent spirit and finally a witch guy under the queen's power, who he gets together with at the end.’ Roman explained quickly.

Virgil quirked an eyebrow. ‘That’s really weird, you know.’

Roman threw an arm round Virgil, who started a bit at the sudden contact. ‘And you are here to make it even weirder!’

Virgil smiled – he was glad he came. It was funny how familiar this felt: the overdramatic boy, the yellow lights of the classroom defiant in the dark school, a project to be done. It was a funny mix of English projects with Roman and meetings with Logan. He shook his head, clearing it of all thoughts of his former best friend.

Roman had been so incredibly right about Virgil! Talyn animatedly explained their designs to him, and all the actors tried to do their best to impress him. Not Roman obviously, he was unaffected in his performance by the sight of those slender legs swinging from the desk or the pale knees framed by frayed, dark denim. It was just that it felt right to have him there. The boy's fringe fell in his face as he leaned over the design of Ombretto's cloak, tracing a finger along its intricate design.

‘How can you afford to make that?’

Talyn shrugged ‘We’ll find a way. I'll sew it, we’ve all chipped in for thread and beads and things, and I’ll see if the Art Department happens to have like a football field of black fabric spare.’

‘I’ll bring in some money.’

‘Thanks.’

As Talyn bent over their designs again, Virgil looked at Roman. The actor's hair was flopping stupidly into his face as he yelled passionately at Valerie until he unconsciously swept it back with a hand. What a dork.

For the past few days Virgil had been bringing in a packed lunch and eating by himself outside, but for convenience he began eating with the theatre kids. While he had been terrified of most people in his first few years of high school, he couldn’t believe he’d been too scared to ask to sit with them before now. A larger part of him than he would like to admit wanted Logan to see him with these people, sketching set pieces and joking with Roman about how their play fit into the lore of all different fictional worlds (Star Wars was as far as they could make believable). But the Student Body President didn’t so much as look up from his piles of text books when Roman stood up on a table to give his speech with a change in the position of him and Kyle or stop writing his anti-bullying charter when their table was overturned by a particularly annoyed sophomore.

[ahopefuldoubt]

Matters of Representation: The “Chosen One” Archetype, Adoptees, and The Prince of Egypt

originally posted in 2016 [x].  time references are relative to 2016.

This is a post I started drafting in the middle of April (2016), so coming back to it three months later has been like trying to meld together two fairly different frames of mind.  For anyone who reads it, I hope you’ll bear with me as I (continue to) work through things here.  It’s part personal, part purposeful, and probably does not flow well.  My original plan was to write only about the overused “Chosen One” trope and how unsettling it is when that character is an adoptee or foster child.  But it grew a bit beyond that.

Moses gives me pause.  He’s a puzzle I am always trying to reconfigure.  Oftentimes he seems to me like a generic protagonist: another man who receives a call to arms and embarks on a hero’s quest to fulfill his destiny.  Another adoptee who gets saddled with the “Chosen One” label and responsibilities, one who must save the world despite having already lost his original family and history.  A convenient blank slate with no past.

As much as Moses frustrates me as a character, and as little as I identify with him, he’s important to me.  Our relationship is complicated.  :)  (Can you imagine the Facebook status?)

Like a lot of transracial and/or international adoptees, I grew up in a predominantly white community.  My older sister was adopted too, but without her there, I didn’t see myself reflected in my family or in my town.  As a child, I watched animated movies like Anastasia and Dumbo.  Standard fare.  Stories that featured orphans, separation, adoption, reunion.  I was attracted to them.  Anastasia was hugely influential for me.  And I was troubled by them.  Just thinking about the scene where they separate Dumbo from his mother sends me into a tailspin; it’s not a movie I’d voluntarily watch again.  Back then, though, I didn’t have the language to really explain what I was feeling or why, or to even describe these movies as adoption-related.  I did what I think a lot of adoptees do in this situation, and internalized it all: I felt embarrassed about how much I liked Anastasia, but I don’t think many people knew I felt any sort of way about it.

Maybe a contributing factor was that my adoptive parents were from a generation where people didn’t have many discussions about privilege (of all kinds) or about adopting children — especially as white people adopting children who weren’t white.  My parents were not given the language, so they couldn’t approach the subject or teach me how to put a name to my emotions.  There’s more awareness now: Adult adoptees are speaking out and helping to ensure that prospective adoptive parents have these conversations.  Things have improved; however, on the whole, I still see a lot of the same issues.  Whitewashing and colorblindness.  And shoddy representations of adoptees in stories.

It’s been quite a trip to have seen The Prince of Egypt so recently, and to think, finally I can see myself.  This is the representation that I didn’t realize I was missing.  Nothing has been quite the same since I watched this movie.  In many ways, but certainly in that I’m better able to notice and think about all of these adoptee/foster child “Chosen Ones” in stories past, present, and future.

I’m glad that The Prince of Egypt focuses so much on Moses’ relationships with both his adoptive and biological families (including a sense of his own “in-betweenness”).  For one thing, the reunion naturally involves Aaron and Miriam, the character/s I identify with and emote over more.  Furthermore, because it is such an intimate and complex story, there are many layers to the three siblings’ relationships, and their conflicts are allowed to unfold on-screen.  I don’t think movies like Anastasia depict this struggle as well or as profoundly, or even at all.

Reunion has been at the front of my mind for at least six years.  Time feels strange to me; fleeting.  I’ve passed the age my birthmother had me, if the information in my record is real.  My adoptive mother died earlier this year.  Reunion is on my mind constantly.  Is my birthmother still alive?  Did I get my dimples from her?  Does she share my serious outlook on life?  Did she ever contact my birthfather again?  Does my birthfather have the same thick hair?  Was he good to her while they were together?

Am I running out of time to find the answers to any of these questions?  Do I even want to know?  I’ve already hit a couple of snags in my search for her.  I’m afraid to go further.

Reunion is on my mind constantly.  Do I have any younger biological siblings?

But I will never fully be a member of my biological family, should I reunite with them.  It will feel so close, yet so far.  There will be a linguistic divide, a cultural divide.  I won’t quite mold to the shape of my birthmother’s arms.  And this hurts.  I often need to take a giant leap away from the movie and fandom because my emotions surrounding separation and reunion (the one in The Prince of Egypt and my own possible reunion) are so tangible.  A lot of painful stuff has been thrown into light, yet for some, at-times unfathomable reason, I still want to connect to this story, ache for it, find joy in it.  Because through it, I’ve also been able to process some of my own pain and grief.

There have definitely been times where I’ve wished I could identify more with Moses.  Beyond our common adoptee-hood, though, I don’t relate to him on much of a deep or personal level.  What I’ve learned — and accepted — over these past three months is that Moses doesn’t have to be “my adoptee protagonist.”  I don’t even have to like him at times.  Rather, as I wrote, he’s my puzzle.  He raises questions for me.  He makes me think more about how adoptees are represented in stories.

Too many stories use adoption as a convenient plot device.  However, adoption is a lifelong process.  More importantly, it is an identity.  My adoptee identity is with me every time I say my name and people smirk or do a double-take because my name, particularly my full name*** does not match my Asian face.  It is with me when I am asked if I speak Korean, and when I reply, “No,” I feel inadequate, estranged from my heritage and my people.  A blank slate with no past.

Adoption is not a tragic backstory or an obstacle for characters — and people — to overcome.  Yet it seems to be treated as such, or completely brushed aside.  Many weeks ago, at this point, I was talking about this with my best friend and remarked how Disney’s version of Hercules literally has to go through Hell (the Underworld) in order to be considered worthy of reuniting with his birthparents.  Narratively, it’s seen as an act of love and heroism, and I think this is part of the issue: The adoptee “Chosen Ones” in these stories are called on to be superheroes and saviors (and deliverers), to be strong and sound of heart and mind, to be more and more and more.  “Forget and be content.”  But, “don’t you abandon us.”  What’s an adoptee supposed to do with these high and contradictory expectations?

I’m not a Hero(tm).  I don’t want to be one.  Maybe this is why I don’t connect with the “traditional heroes” in stories.  I can’t live up to those kinds of expectations.  Nevertheless, I was raised with them.  I’d wager that many adoptees were, too.  Be grateful.  Be loyal.  Be a part of your adoptive family, but not really.  Be a part of your biological family.  But not really.  At what point does membership become conditional?

I understand that the search for self is universal, and as a result, many characters are made to go through journeys of self-discovery.  The “adoption fantasy,” wherein children (adopted and non-adopted alike) imagine they were adopted, is also a natural developmental phase.  When this “secret identity” trope is evoked in stories, it reads like a shocking plot twist.  However, it’s different for those who have actually lived it.  And there are of course many layers and levels to all of this, bigger pictures and so much to this specific circumstance.  Moses is an adoptee and he is Hebrew: born a slave, then taken and raised by his oppressors, who keep his adoption, his identity and history, from him.  I may consider Moses a puzzle in some ways, but the unethicalness of his relinquishment and adoption is something I will always be rather clear on (critical of).

In the sense that Moses will remain something of a puzzle to me, I’ll continue to find pieces of myself reflected in our “common adoptee-hood.”  I’ll continue to rage at his behavior when he’s a teenager.  I’ll continue to feel every jarring step and moment of happiness in how his siblings process the reunion.  And I’ll always continue to think about stories feature adoption and adoptees.

*** I use my birth name here on Tumblr, but my full legal name is always coded as white.

Last edited: 6/4/17 for clarity

[isaackuo]

Thoughts on Strange Magic

Thoughts on Strange Magic I love Strange Magic so much! It's so different - a jukebox musical heavily laden with singing and fairy fantasy calendar visuals. The commitment to this artistic vision is breathtaking, and risk taking. There's just nothing else like it.

I mean, if you actually saw some of the scant promotion for Strange Magic, you might have noticed the fantasy calendar visuals. But nothing could prepare you for the amount of singing in the film because it's so far outside what you could reasonably expect. Apparently the film makers even considered making it sung through entirely. (I'm kind of hoping that unnamed Lin-Manuel Miranda Walt Disney Animation Studio feature will do this, but of course with original music/lyrics rather than jukebox remixes.) The risk of trying something way out there is that people might reject it. That's pretty much what has happened with Strange Magic and I think that's a shame. But if you give the movie a chance, it's a really trippy fairy fantasy that has the whimsical dreamy feeling of A Midsummer Night's Dream and grounds it in compelling characters with solid motivations. The use of singing produces, at times, a weird surreal effect because it's sometimes unclear whether the characters are really singing, or if it's oblivious "musical" singing. Since these characters are fairies rather than humans, it's entirely plausible for them to actually go around actually singing all the time. But then it's weird when the Bog King says "At least you're not singing", and then a minute later he's joining in the song he seemed to initially to shun. This confusing ambiguity accentuates the fuzzy transition between sword fighting and dancing together.

The duet/duel itself is something different. It reflects feelings that are similar to things like Esmeralda's fight with Phoebus, or Megamind's banter with Metroman (or, I'll grudgingly admit, Roxanne...Metromind forever!). But in the form of a singing duet? I really can't think of any precedent. Later, it gets sublimely surreal when the movie eases into the titular duet of "Strange Magic". The movie seems to transition into true "musical" singing, where singing is exposing Marianne and Bog's inner thoughts rather than them actually singing. But it's ambiguous, in a way that accentuates the surreal change of pacing and visual attitude (it literally shows the previously scary things of the dark forest in a new light).

This second duet is leisurely and dreamy, evoking the ethereal flight of Lois Lane and Superman. Oh, did I mention that there is a lot of singing in Strange Magic? Well, there is. And that's how we're able to enjoy three very different feeling romancing duets between the protags. The third one is at the end, capping the movie off with an unabashedly trippy introduction of a kaleidescope effect. Because of course! I mean, why not just go all out, and go out with a bang?

Fundamentally though, Strange Magic is a movie about a love potion. Crazy hijinks ensue, but by the end of the night everyone lives happily ever after. But George Lucas fills in the big factor that was missing in A Midsummer Night's Dream - characters that we actually care about. There's no shortcut to that, so the bulk of the movie builds up the characters and their relationships so we love them and love seeing them bounce off each other. (Even the villain, who we love to see get put in his place.)

Each character has a core motivation that makes it easy to root for (or against) them. Marianne loves her sister Dawn. Dawn is boy crazy. Dawn's best friend Sunny is hopelessly in love her. Roland wants an army, and is only interested in marrying Marianne so he can get that. Bog hates love and the chaos it causes. Bog's mother wants him to fall in love. And so on.

Strange Magic is not a movie where tension is driven by a real sense of danger. You know everything's going to work out in the end. The tension is driven by magic and love - or really, the magic of love. So, building up the characters and showing by their actions what they care about, we get a real connection with them and feel for them. There's particularly an interesting disconnect between what Bog says about himself and the proof of his every action and instinctive expression. He sings that he's "evil", but his actions betray someone who is instinctively caring even to strangers he finds annoying.

The movie has been billed as a "Beauty and the Beast" story where the beast doesn't change. But honestly, that's more just a hook and a recurring vibe. Still, it's fun seeing how Strange Magic deviates from Beauty and the Beast: 1) Learning to love: Strange Magic doesn't confuse things by making either protag need to learn to love. They're both had their heart broken, but they're both basically doing okay single. Ironically, the fact that they both hate love at this point in their lives is one of the things that draws them together. 2) Transformation: There is a transformation, actually, but it takes place well before the protags even meet. Marianne starts off pretty much the sort of princess who is really not Bog's type. She only unwittingly transforms herself into the sort of person that would catch Bog's heart after her fiance breaks her heart. This transformation takes place over some time, since she trains herself into a strong sword fighter against a virtual knight to vent her frustrations. Speaking of that virtual knight, it's a fun callback to Sleeping Beauty. In Sleeping Beauty, Briar Rose dances with a virtual prince that's made up of her woodland creature friends. Then, she dances with her Phillip while singing a duet. In Strange Love, Marianne learns how to sword fight dueling with a virtual knight made up of her tiny fairy spirit friends. Later, she'll sword fight with Bog in a fight that becomes more like a dance, singing what becomes a duet. 3) Imprisonment: The "beast" does imprison Marianne's sister Dawn, but Marianne doesn't offer to take her place. The real prison is a result of the love potion, not the physical cell Dawn's held in. Bog and Marianne try to free Dawn together. 4) Beauty: Neither protag is physically hideous nor is either transformed to become "beautiful". This helps to not confuse the message about how it is to fall in love with someone's mind or spirit rather than one's appearances. Bog mistakenly deduced that he was too hideous to love, but that turned out to be a misinterpretation. And while Marianne isn't physically his ideal type, neither does he consider her ugly. Ultimately, there are so many deviations for Beauty and the Beast that it's really more of A Midsummer Night's Dream with some Beauty and the Beast ideas sprinkled in, than a BatB story.

So how does it compare to A Midsummer Night's Dream? Well, I feel that A Midsummer Night's Dream lacks characters that we really care about. Puck's silly love dusting and magic produces silly pairings for comedic shock value, but little else because I don't think we're given much reason to care about what happens to the characters. In contrast, Strange Magic concentrates almost entirely upon just one usage of the love potion. By devoting so much attention to this one usage, and making it clear how much chaos and stress is produced just from that one love dusting alone, the movie successfully amplifies the impact of the ridiculous love dusting chaos produced by the Imp. So, the story spends a lot of time building up the relationship of Marianne and her sister Dawn. It takes time to really show us how much they care for each other. It's essential to the story because it makes it natural for Marianne and Bog to go from fighting to loving. It seems Marianne really did enjoy their fight, but her higher priority is clearly her sister. It's only as it becomes clear Marianne and Bog are on the same side when it comes to curing her sister that it becomes more than just a spark of natural chemistry. A Midsummer Night's Dream is framed within a lover's tiff between a husband and wife, but we don't have any emotional reason to care about them. The lover's tiff in Strange Magic takes place near the end, after we have grown to care about the characters and their relationship. As they note in Spinal Tap, such a fine line between stupid and clever.

Oh, and one final random thought - I really appreciate how the central romance in Strange Magic is between two characters who aren't experiencing their first love. They both have enough life experience feeling the crushing pain of heartbreak that they treat Dawn with tender care, at least. The result is that both characters are jaded and have made mistakes, like Megara from Hercules. But neither is broken out of a funk by the adorkable naivete of a manic pixie dream girl/guy. Rather, they just happen to feel a lot in common because of where they've been and where they are in their lives I really appreciate that defiance of trope, and it's another thing that makes Strange Magic so different.

[bunny-wan-kenobi]

Bunny’s Beastly Review *SPOILERS*

I’ve seen the movie three times. I started as the skeptic. Then I saw the film. Here are my thoughts...

I’m a Disney lover, and the films from the Disney Renaissance are close to my heart. I think that animation is a medium that is so rich in the way that it can construe meaning and capture emotion in an artistic, entertaining, magical way, and the animated Beauty and the Beast is an exceptional example of this. 

I’ve been skeptical this whole time of Disney’s recent efforts to translate their animated works into live-action. It feels so opportunistic and uncreative to capitalize on what the animated films already did SO WELL instead of creating something new like Moana or Zootopia. When I first heard the news, I planted myself in the belief that these films really don’t need to be made. 

Do I still believe that after seeing Beauty and the Beast? Well yes...and NO. Maybe I was primed to come to this conclusion after enjoying many elements of Cinderella and falling unexpectedly for the live-action Jungle Book, but I can honestly say that Beauty and the Beast surprised me...but not in the ways I was expecting. 

I expected the nostalgia, the covers of classic songs, the pretty visuals, the strong supporting cast. I knew I would get that. But what surprised me was how happy the movie made me feel. It was the same infusion of warmth I felt when I saw Cinderella’s radiant gown twirling on the ballroom floor in the Disney live-action version.

 It was like I was a little girl nestled on the couch, sometimes in awe, sometimes just beaming because the movie evoked some intangible positive regard that wasn’t based on the perfection of it, but on its ability to speak to my heart. The live-action Beauty and the Beast managed to awaken that feeling in me, which means that there is the possibility that it won’t mean the same thing to someone else or ignite the same experience for everybody, but since this is my review...this movie honestly just made me happy. 

The movie’s not perfect--heck there are just some elements where the animated film is simply superior, but I’m glad it was made. Here’s my breakdown:

The Exceptional

- It answers questions I always had from the animated movie and creates a cohesive narrative. We learn why the villagers forgot about a LARGEASS CASTLE AND ROYALTY a few miles of forest away. We learn why Chip doesn’t age (don’t pretend this never bothered you). We learn more about the curse itself. I appreciated these gaps getting filled.

- We got answers to questions we didn’t know we wanted. I LOVE that Belle’s mother features in this movie, that it holds weight and connects her and the Beast’s stories of loss and loneliness together. I liked getting to see Mr. Potts and understanding just how widespread the effects of the curse were. I liked the backstory given to flesh out Gaston, Maurice, and the Beast, leading to...

- The Beast. I LOVED the Beast. I hold Dan Steven’s performance as equal and different from Robby Benson’s, and that is the highest praise I can give it. His Beast is less growly and irascible, more grumpy and self-effacing. I think it was a brilliant idea to re-interpret Beast as a classicist Sun Prince-eqsue figure and position him in juxtaposition to the romantic and intelligent farmgirl Belle. It changes the nature of their love story in that Beast’s flaws include his predilection to look down on others and judge them along with the usual selfishness and temper. Yet this Beast is just as soulful, just as expressive, and just as much of an endearing dork, made evident by Steven’s wonderful face-work beneath the CGI. It’s the little moments: the sharp exhale of shock and grief when Belle leaves, the surprised smile when Belle asks them to “go home,” the befuddled expression when he realizes in the library scene that he actually likes this girl. I felt like I was watching a different Beast, someone familiar yet refreshing, and I fell for the character. And then the song....

- Evermore. Yes, I’m that person. I’m playing it on loop. I have no shame. I wasn’t expecting this song, I wasn’t spoiled beforehand, so I was BLOWN AWAY. I really enjoy “If I Could Love Her,” but I understand Alan Menken’s explanation that it didn’t quite fit into this narrative. Evermore does. It’s a song of mourning yet it’s stalwart in the Beast’s resolution to keep waiting, keep going on even as he believes that Belle is never coming back and that he IS going to waste away for YEARS all alone. It really has some dark implications when you pause to think of it, but this song soars beyond them, carried by the imagery of the Beast rising higher and higher in his tower to see Belle leave and then THAT SHOT pulling out of the tower to Belle...it was EVERYTHING. 

- Maurice. I really appreciate that Kevin Kline brought a dignity and quiet strength to this character that was treated as a caricature before. I really felt for the character in his grief, and I think he had more dimensions within this film and that made his relationship with Belle more compelling. 

- GAS-FREAKIN-STON. Or LUKE EVANS. Luke Evans made this character his own and I think his performance is one element of the movie I like better than the animated film. His Gaston is still egoistic and broad, but there is a kind of cunning and real malice in his actions that heightens both his attraction and his presence as a villain. He’s just so enjoyable to watch as he’s trying to manipulate Maurice’s affections or preening in his chair during “Gaston” or bellowing in the kill the beast sequence. Not only does he have the singing chops, there is so much personality and charm in this performance and it’s simply magnetic. 

- The set. Yes, there is a blend of Jacques Cocteau and other fantasy films, but this set was haunting and magical to me. I liked the sinuous shapes of the outer facade, the crumbling floors, the detail in Belle’s bedroom (the gold on the ceiling ugh). It was a beautiful setting, and a feast for the eyes. 

- The stakes are raised. I cared about the supporting characters before and they were all lovable, but I think this movie conveyed more clearly what the cost of the curse is and how tragic it is for all those caught within it. Mrs. Potts, Lumiere, Cogsworth and the others are desperate for this to work because their humanity is at stake (and for Mrs. Potts, her SON’S) and there is a yearning for that carried in the film that adds even more emotional weight. I don’t know if I’m the only one that actually loves “Days in the Sun,” but this song got to me. They’re wondering whether they will ever be human again, but not in a celebratory, bombastic way like “Human Again,” but in an understated, more poignant way. There’s a beauty of the human spirit that rises in the song, evidenced beautifully by Audra McDonald’s delivery of: “I could sing/Of the pain these dark days bring/Of this spell we’re under/Still it’s the wonder of us I’m singing tonight.” They haven’t given up on hope or of love, and though Belle’s change really isn’t made as clear, this is probably what impacts her decision to stay. So when they become objects at the end, the score cradling that moment, it’s devastating. 

The Good 

- The love story. Both versions are good, but I feel like the way it’s developed in the live-action film is more organic and allows the characters to spend a little bit more time together. It was so sweet to see Beast and Belle bonding over their love of books (say that 3x fast), the quiet understanding that passes between them when they visit Paris, the comfortable dynamic they enjoy as they puzzle over how they are both oddities. And the transformation moment, while somewhat dulled, is undeniably charming because of Belle’s tearful relief when she sees Beast/Adam. This was probably the most important element to get right, and I thought it was solid. Plus it crushes all the Stockholm-syndrome arguments by framing Belle’s decision to stay and help the castle residents and giving attention to her desire for freedom and efforts to escape in the beginning.

- The supporting characters. Like I said, I expected them to be wonderful and they were. I loved every performance, and this set of amazing actors brought new life to the characters. Special shoutout to Ian McKellan’s crusty Cogsworth, who made me like Cogsworth in a way I didn’t before. Also, I LOVE LOVE LOVE that instead of Babette, a feather duster coded as a sexualized French maid, we get a beautiful, elegant Plumette and a tender love story with her and Lumiere. AND SHE’S PLAYED BY GUGU MBATHA-RAW, a gorgeous black woman. And she gets one of the prettiest costume designs in the movie, a woman who should be a princess in her own right (someday...). 

- The rest of the songs still have the vitality and warmth of the original. “Gaston” is a highlight of the film and I really appreciate that they included Howard Ashman’s original lyrics (in other songs too). They made the film feel new to me.

- The fact that I ended up shipping a operatic wardrobe and a toothless harpsichord. Like...they had a dynamic that was unexpectedly moving and I was really rooting for them. 

- Belle’s village is ethnically diverse! Like Brandy-Cinderella levels integrated. That was pretty cool. 

- The French-ification. Okay...it’s still not in French, but I really liked that this film stands apart from the animated version by heightening the French aspects of the original story. The costuming (expect for maybe Belle--more on that later), the sets, the inclusion of “Maman” and Notre Dame, and the overall aesthetic provided a welcome fusion of the original and the animated. 

- BELLE TRIES TO ESCAPE. Like, she really tries to get out but decides to bring the Beast back and stay. She’s curious about the curse and learns more about it, and she remains an assertive character who pushes back when people try to make her comply. 

- Belle’s little “UGH!” during the “Belle” reprise. I can relate. 

- It’s a little thing, but Dan Steven’s disgusted head tilt when rejecting the rose. It cracks me up but points to the pompousness nature of the character. That’s when I knew we were getting a different Beast. 

- The “Beauty and the Beast” scene was really lovely to look at and was somehow more charged (maybe it was the dip?). The revolving shot when Beast lifts Belle up...magic 

- Every time Beast smiles toothily like a weirdo. Just charmed. 

- I actually like the trip to Paris scene because it allows for more of Belle’s development and for her realization that the castle (and Beast) has become home. It was also hella dark (like PLAGUE Disney--REALLY?!)

- That freakin’ snowball. EVERY theater I went to laughed uproariously at that scene, and Beast’s delighted laugh afterwards makes it. 

- LeFou and Gaston’s dynamic. There was a camaraderie and friendship that was fun to watch, and I thought Josh Gad did a great job with the role. 

- That mob song was so gooooood. I wanted to fist pump to it and I liked LeFou’s “But I fear the real monster’s unleashed.”

- The final ballroom scene is really sweet. I loved the sequence with “Winter turns to spring” and what a quiet moment it was. An addition that worked really well. 

- The end credits made my heart swell, and my aesthetic was all the silhouettes of the supporting characters and then the zoom out the stairs with Celine Dion soothing us the whole time with her beautiful voice. Gosh those credits were beautiful...

- Some of Emma’s line deliveries stood out to me, in particular when she declares “And I told you NO,” when she tells her father “Yes. Yes it is” in response to him telling her that returning to the Beast would be dangerous, and the “I love you.” Those were moments where I saw the strength of Belle emerge and Emma disappeared into the role, leading to...

The Meh 

- Emma Watson’s performance was the underwhelming one for me. I wanted so much to like it, but in some scenes it felt flat and just didn’t carry the passion of Paige O’Hara (the “Belle” reprise is a prime example). I still saw Emma as Emma and not necessarily as Belle. Yet even her performance warmed to me over time, and I think I appreciate more of it with each watch. The autotuned singing did take me out of the movie at times, and I really wished that was better because Emma does have a gentle sweetness in her voice and looks beautiful in the film. Was it bad? No. But it wasn’t my favorite Belle performance. In the end, it did sell the love story and I still enjoyed the character, but I think this performance was the weaker note in a solid film. 

- The dress. It was still pretty and floaty, but I wanted more. I wanted Cinderella-level brilliance, something that evoked the iconic dress of the animated version. This was nice, but it could have made so much more of a statement. 

- The inclusion of the Enchantress into the rest of the film. This really felt unnecessary. I get why they did it, but the scenes really didn’t make much sense. Why is Agatha living in the village? Is she monitoring the curse? WHY? Why is she a poor barmaid? Why does she have a Morgana-eque forest hovel? Like maybe they were going for enigmatic, but her scenes just felt like filler and could have been taken out without much impact or just expanded differently. 

- MRS POTTS SHOULD NOT HAVE SAID THAT LINE. She should not have said “It’s because he loves her.” That was the Beast’s moment--his moment to finally acknowledge that he loves Belle because he doesn’t have a moment to really say it in the rest of the film, and it’s supposed to be a weighty moment. That was robbed in the film by giving the line to Mrs. Potts and I will fight you on this. 

-  I get it...but Belle hiking up her dress every other moment and going out IN WINTER without layers annoyed me like AREN’T YOU COLD. I wanted to throw blankets at her. 

- Why give Cogsworth a love interest? That felt gratuitous and unnecessary. That lady had some pipes though...

- Some of the pacing felt rushed because of the editing, and I really wish the film had slowed down to linger in some moments. 

- It really weirded me out that Belle had all these conversations about the curse and the Beast RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE BEAST. Like...he wasn’t sleeping. It just felt kind of...not right? Like, can you talk about him somewhere else? Was I the only one who felt uneasy about that? 

- THE LAST SHOT. If you’ve seen it, you know. You know why the movie shouldn’t end with that. An editor should have been on that and it still jars me. 

I honestly can’t think of anything else right now that I really disliked. Some of the song sequences could have been more powerful (yes I still keep going back to that “Belle” reprise) and Emma’s performance was inconsistent (because there were moments in it that were quite good to be fair), but overall, it comes down to the fact that I enjoyed the film enough to see it three times. I mean...that’s a review in itself, and better than 500+ words on the topic. The movie had enough in it that made me love it, and me and my friend sang through the “Beauty and the Beast” cover at the end, bobbing to the syncopated beats, and we had a great time.

The point of a review isn’t to convince you to like a movie. It’s to point to the way you interacted with it in case someone else can resonate with it, get excited by it, or feel legitimated in the way they feel about it--whether good or bad. I enjoyed the live-action Beauty and the Beast, so now I’m going to stop typing, make some quesadillas, and return to listening to “Evermore” on loop. 

[swipestream]

The Princess Bride Is Absolutely Perfect! FITE ME IRL!

The Princess Bride opens with Fred Savage in bed suffering from a dire illness, the likes of which has seldom been encountered by mere mortal men. I can empathize because, indeed as I write these very words, my body is under assault from some vicious scourge more suited to a zombie horror movie (or a Cloverfield med station) than real life. Which, ironically enough, makes it a perfect time to watch The Princess Bride and delight in the trials and travails of a hippopotamic land mass, a drunken sot of a swordsman, a cold-blooded pirate dead set on stealing the prince’s most prized possession, and a simple peasant girl who almost married the future king. (And, of course, to marvel at the humble service performed by the sick lad’s grandfather.)

The Princess Bride evokes delight in nearly every facet of the production. The script is pervasively joyous and humorous; immortal lines and phrases drop from every character’s mouth every time they speak, and even bit players are given great lines, lines EVERYBODY knows, like:

Vizzini: HE DIDN’T FALL? INCONCEIVABLE. Inigo Montoya: You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

Or…

Buttercup: We’ll never survive. Westley: Nonsense. You’re only saying that because no one ever has.

Then there was…

Fezzik: We face each other as God intended. Sportsmanlike. No tricks, no weapons, skill against skill alone. Man in Black: You mean, you’ll put down your rock and I’ll put down my sword, and we’ll try and kill each other like civilized people?

And finally…

The Grandson: Has [the book] got any sports in it? Grandpa: Are you kidding? Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles… The Grandson: Doesn’t sound too bad. I’ll try to stay awake.

The casting is impeccable, from Robin Wright’s luminous and beautiful Buttercup to Wallace Shawn’s cheerfully malevolent Vizzini to André the Giant’s gentle giant Fezzik. Truly, there is no part I’d recast, from the very top of the bill all the way down to the hag who appeared in but a single scene, to lambaste Buttercup over and over again.

What strikes you most about the movie is this: despite being humorous, and clearly a self-aware play on the tropes of fairytale romances, there is a total and utter lack of ironic detachment. The movie is sincere. Westley truly loves Buttercup, and she truly loves him back, and the movie treats this as the rare and precious thing it is. Inigo Montoya’s father was slain in front of him, and his pain drives all his actions in the movie. Even the ironic and detached Count Rugen is utterly sincere in his love of causing pain, and his desire to truly understand the suffering he causes others. The character is detached and ironic, but the movie never is.

This sincerity is what gives this bagatelle weight far beyond what would ever be apparent from reading a synopsis. A grandfather reads a book to his grandson? So? That’s commonplace, and boring. And yet, by the end of the book their entire relationship has changed, and his simple act of lovingkindness has brought them both closer together. The sincerity in their relationship makes their relationship matter to the audience.

Westley loves Buttercup, and shows it through constant service and humility. She truly loves him back, which is what makes his sudden loss at the hands of pirates so jarring. The characters care about each other, deeply and passionately, and as a result, the audience cares about them and their plight. And with every humorous line, incongruous situation, or unexpected plot twist, the movie rewards that investment with delight.

There’s something to be said for movies that delight people. Something? Nay, everything.

Delight is, all too often, a forgotten ingredient in popular fiction. Even people who believe in good, and eagerly fight for it, fall into the trap of writing books in which there is no joy, no delight. And delight—that light-hearted feeling, sibling to true joy—is an emotion that is rare and precious. Creators that can reliably evoke delight in their audiences have the potential to make something truly great. Walt Disney had the touch, as have several others, but as time has passed it’s became rarer and rarer. Today… well, I’m not sure I can remember the last time a movie evoked genuine delight. All is dark and ugly, and more interested in pushing propaganda than in serving the needs of the audience. Fantasy without wonder or delight is grimy and sad, and not at all “realistic”.

Movies, books, TV shows: these which thrill their audiences, which delight them, which evoke a sense of awe or joy or wonder, are the most precious of jewels, especially in today’s debased entertainment marketplace. In olden days, Hollywood execs soul their souls for money. Today they sell their souls to virtue signal, and lose all the money. And along the way, those ingredients that made their fictions memorable, enjoyable, and lasting have all faded and fallen away.

Which is why this movie has become the perennial delight it has.

Jasyn Jones, better known as Daddy Warpig, is a host on the Geek Gab podcast, a regular on the Superversive SF livestreams, and blogs at Daddy Warpig’s House of Geekery. Check him out on Twitter.

The Princess Bride Is Absolutely Perfect! FITE ME IRL! published first on https://medium.com/@ReloadedPCGames