#its been a while since I wrote for Nikolai I should go back to it tbh | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vypridae · 1 year ago

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9!!! 10!!! 11!! 12!! 13!!! or pick and choose <3

IDK WHICH FANDOMS U MEAN BUT IM GONNA DO EACH ONE AND ILL JUST PUT MY HAZBIN/HELLUVA ANSWERS UNDER A CUT SO U DONT HAVE TO SEE THEM

9. worst part of canon

ok the worst part of dgrp canon has to be the way they handle characterization, like especially with trauma. specifically in mind i have korekiyo rn, like they mega rushed his entire Thing and wrote it in a way that paints HIM in a terrible awful light when it very likely (or definitely) wasnt that at all, but the way it was written just fucks up so, so much. also the Danganronpa Repitition TM (flashbacks to

bsd uuuh oh my god i have to think about this one cuz i love bsd with a passion BAHAHA its hard to find flaws with that one (in part i havent consumed the media in forever), ik it might be just bc the series is still being written but its irritating that some things from like the first seasons are just not touched upon again? and maybe its because ihavent read the manga but like. did atsushi join the ada and suddenly the bounty on his head is just Gone? am i misremembering if they went back to that or not its been like a year since ive watched bsd i need to rewatch it but thats about all i can think of. im not even mad about the not killing any characters because fyodor is alive still

10. worst part of fanon

dgrp has a TERRIBLEEEE shipping fandom. i hated oumasai for the longest fucking time because i encountered this one rper way back when that like was a mega red flag SBGJKFDHGKA i hated them for a while after that (then they grew on me). you get shit on for liking, like, the more toxic ships in the fandom no matter your reasonings or whatever, and i feel like its just a really negative place to be a shipper that likes to explore bad dynamics (such as i)

i think the worst part of bsd fanon is similar. shipping sides of fandoms are ALWAYS bad i feel like, and there are a lot of people that will be like "skk is real fuck you for shipping anything else" or like "if u ship nikolai with anyone but fyodor i dont trust u" or something like??? its a fucking ship chill out its fictional it doesnt hurt anyone irl CALM DOWN

11. number of fandom-related words you've filtered

for bsd uh . only two surprisingly, and its two ships that i cannot physically make myself like?? thats all apparently

for dgrp i have uuh two and its literally also only two ships that i dont like BHASFKAHSK

12. the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

for bsd am i allowed to say fyodor? idk if he necessarily counts as "unpopular" but i see way more hate of him than i see people liking him, but god fucking dammit i love him with my whole heart. hes so evil and those kinds of characters litearlly just make me gravitate towards them, hes so smart and cunning and you can do so much with his character, especially learning his ability oh my god? jhes so complex and i love him

for dgrp, i feel like every character is "unpopular" BAHSAJKAHk but for this i think i wanna go with chiaki. people hate chiaki because shes "boring" or at least they Did back when i first got into the series but shes so different in the game compared to the anime because the game shes based on her classmates' memories of her! shes only this "perfect" individual because thats how her entire class saw her, like she was made the class rep for a reason

13. worst blorboficiation

ok this one im trying to figure out what the fuck the definition is BAHAJSHFAJK from what im SEEING its like, the character that doesnt deserve to be liked as much as they are. (i dont think i answered this one correctly but shh its fine)

for bsd thats really hard for me to think of because i like literally every character but uuh if i had to say one ig i'd say uuh . maybe dazai? i feel like this is in part because people typically take away from dazai's entire complex everything because he's too complex for a lot of people (including me) to truly understand, like im not saying i understand him but i feel like a lot of people will take the wrong parts of him/exclude anything they dont like about him and go with that? if that counts but idk i still like dazai so i cant say that too much

for dgrp its the exact same situation with kokichi. they take his character, of which is incredibly complex, and dumb it down into the typical fandom woobification of "uwu baby who cant do anything wrong" LIKE!!! STOP!!! NO HE IS NOT!!! HE IS SO COMPLEX AND YOU'RE LIKING HIS CHARACTER FOR ALL THE WRONG REASONS!!! people that dont understand the complexity behind certain characters and are incapable of taking that as their blorbo and instead creating this silly incorrect version in their mind and making THAT their blorbo i just. thats not ur blorbo atp thats ur oc my guy

hazbin/helluva answers

9. worst part of canon

both of these shows are kinda not the best when it comes to being serious???? like there are some topics that shouldnt be joked about i feel like, and there are points in the shows that joke in relation to these topics. also theres not enough voxval but thats a criticism for another time

10. worst part of fanon

not even just the ships tbh, its liking any character thats either painted in a negative light or is just generally unpopular. the ships too but i could get to that another time. for EXAMPLE, me, i like valentino. a lot. he's one of my favorite characters. i feel like i cannot express the fact i love val because i will get called an ACTUAL rapist for saying it because "if you like val you condone his actions and thus are a rapist/terrible person/etc" when thats absolutely not at all how it works. i acknowledge that val is terrible, i understand that its bad, but i can still enjoy him as a character otherwise. his actions are what i dont like, ive never liked him (i actually hated him at first because of it but then i saw him being more silly in the series with vox and he grew on me), but you will actively get told to kys if you say that you even REMOTELY enjoy vals character

11. number of fandom-related words you've filtered

i have none for helluva but for hazbin i have four. three of which are for the sAME SHIP and one is another ship i dont like

12. the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

MIMZYYYY dude she gets so much unnecessary hate. like, everyone sees her as annoying and terrible and i GUESS i can see where they're coming from but a. theyre in hell, everyone's terrible, b. people just see her as annoying because she interrupted hells greatest dad and they dont like that because they want their radioapple song or wtvr. i love her and no one can convince me otherwise

13. worst blorboficiation

ok THIS one i might actually be able to answer with the correct definition of blorboification. i feel like alastor gets way too much unnecessary love, and maybe thats just because i think hes too popular for being what he is but hes just not all that to me. like, hes a good character, yes, but some people like him to an extent that i feel like doesnt do him justice?? its like i said with uuuuuh the dgrp side of this question, they dumb down his character a lot and are just generally bad at making him ACCURATE to the point its irritating. (hey so yk how i said i could answer with the right definition of this i lied)

#anyway sorry BFASHBSFDHKBASFHK i feel like i said a LOTTT for this #and also the last question i couldnt figure out how to answer so very sorry abt that #xanbox #ask game

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just-a-dinosaur-i-guess · 1 year ago

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eternal winter au you say

img from here btw

YESSS i fucking LOVE that au

okay so

lemme just set the scene. fantasy au basically.

it has been winter for as long as anyone remembers. the sun hasn't been seen in centuries, only covered by clouds. sometimes the edges of it will peek out, but never for long. the nights are bitterly cold, and if you do not have a shelter, your blood will turn to ice and your flesh to frost. cities are few and far between, the only way to get to them being dangerous treks on paths only barely there, even with use. the snow does not falter. those who live in seaside villages know that not even the ocean was spared; the waves have long since stopped moving, ships now still, ice as far down as anyone's dared to look. perhaps there is a depth at which its crusade halts, but no one would know.

and in one of these cities, this one being a theocratic city, is nathaniel hawthorne, a priest who has warm lodgings and steady meals. his life is good, it is easy, and then it is not.

walking home one afternoon, he gets bit by a vampire. (they, too, cannot survive in the cold and so must do their hunting in the day. the sun is not there to scorch them, after all.) he's horrified; as anyone else would be, and attempting to go to the church for some kind of help only gets him kicked out.

night is soon arriving, he can feel the chill in his bones, but then the vampire comes crawling back. he learns his name (nikolai gogol), and that he is taking him to his shared home.

he does not have an argument as to where else nikolai could take him. as what little light there is disappears beyond the horizon, they arrive safely.

nikolai lives with a butcher named fyodor, his apprentice sigma; and now nathaniel. fyodor is a fairly devout man and is pissed, to say the least, about nikolai turning a priest. nathaniel and sigma awkwardly get to know each other while fyodor and nikolai argue in the back.

sigma is a rather special person; they have no city that they came from. instead, they came out of the unyielding winter, shivering, having no idea who or what may have made them.

there's others like them; those whose origin comes from nothing but snow and ice are rumored to have powers; magic in their blood, though sigma does not know what type is running through their veins. it has not surfaced yet despite how long fyodor has been waiting.

(it is worth noting that there is another person around like this, a redhead who used to be called arahabaki, but we'll get to them in a bit.)

nathaniel just prays the magic sigma holds could turn him back, to save him from this fate; but perhaps he should have prayed for luck getting used to it.

sigma is interested in helping nathaniel, and fyodor won't argue if it means that sigma gets to hopefully finally unlock his abilities.

as this goes on, elsewhere in the city, two lives once again intertwine. the famous bard, osamu dazai, walks into town, strumming his instrument as always. on the other side of town, chuuya nakahara enters, blade worn from use against elemental constructs that lurk outside of civilization. they meet again as they met at first, in a warm bar with too many people in it.

they used to be a traveling duo, chuuya accomplishing feats while dazai sung about them, but they split up for reasons unknown. dazai still holds onto the songs he wrote of them, but their tunes have all soured.

but he still remembers their softer moments together; chuuya coming to him one late night, telling him arahabaki was not a name they liked being theirs any longer. he told them he'd love them regardless. he said arahabaki was a stupid name anyway.

back to the priest's troubles; eventually, fyodor's friends come to visit. they call themselves the hunting dogs, and they hunt the same things as chuuya does. fukuchi is a good guest, his pack of soldiers the same, albeit a bit chaotic.

nathaniel notes how tachihara seems to get along so well with sigma before he goes and asks fukuchi and the others if they have any cure to the vampirism.

he does not get any results there, and his search to save himself continues.

and that is the plot of my eternal winter au. i hope you like it :)

also i have a pinterest board of it

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delfiore · 2 years ago

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—THE GHOST YOU LEFT BEHIND.

pairing: zoya nazyalensky x fem!heartrender!reader

synopsis: a painful past between you and zoya comes to light when you are sent on an intel mission on behalf of the king.

word count: 4.3k

warnings: men being gross, a mild spoiler for the SoC book (?) idk i found the info on the wiki

a/n: hahAA 4k. shadow and bone has consumed my life and so has sujaya dasgupta ok thank you goodnight.

You looked down at the map strewn in front of you, a small smile creeping its way onto your lips. You didn’t look up, but you could imagine the fury on Zoya’s face.

“If I may, moi tsar—“

“I have made my decision, General,” Nikolai interjected, “you are my best fighter, and well, Y/N can be quite persuasive. I trust that you two would make an excellent team.”

For the glory of Ravka.

Finally, your eyes found her across the table. Her jaw was tight and her eyes hard as she looked back at you. “We depart at dawn,” she said, regal and in the manner of a good soldier, and left the room.

“Something humorous, sister?”

You shook your head, but the grin remained. “Now I think you’re just doing it for the hell of it.”

“I need all the information I can gather about jurda parem,” your half-brother reasoned, “and my advisor and general to not be at each other’s throats every time they enter the same room.”

“And your solution is to send them away alone with each other?” You scoffed.

“Precisely.” Nikolai nodded, with the same shit-eating grin. “I expect you back in a fortnight’s time with useful intel.”

By the time the sun was above you the next day, you and Zoya had been on horseback for hours outside Os Alta. Unsurprisingly, in complete silence.

You breathed in deeply. “Well, isn’t this lovely?”

“No.”

“A thrilling adventure back to my motherland,” you continued much to Zoya’s dismay, “almost like that time when we went to seek out the Crows. Just thinking about those Shu dumplings at the market makes my mouth water.”

Her silence was poisonous, and you felt the poison seep into your bones. The horses huffed as they trotted leisurely side-by-side on the dirt path.

“You know, we are going to be together for the next fortnight. Are you really going to do this without saying a word?”

“I am,” she said adamantly, “unless you’d like a punch to the jaw for breakfast, I suggest you shut it.”

“Speaking of breakfast, I am famished.” You looked down at your stomach delicately. “Perhaps we should stop. There should be a tavern in a couple of miles.”

To your surprise, Zoya let you stop at the tavern for some food, but not before she gave you a look that made you reconsider everything you’ve ever said around her. You were in the middle of devouring bacon and eggs, when you heard a scoff coming from her on the opposite end of the table.

“You eat like an animal,” she said, grimacing.

“Sorry that my table etiquette isn’t to your liking. I’ve learned to appreciate food having lived at sea where sustenance is never certain.”

“Why’d you pick it then? You were royalty.”

You huffed. “Not exactly. My status at court depended entirely on how my father, the King, felt about his illegitimate child that day. And that, in it itself, was fragile. But you knew that.”

Zoya shifted uncomfortably. You knew you had touched on a sore subject, but it was the most you had exchanged with her since returning home with Nikolai. All the spats and arguments left you little room to fill her in on all your adventures as you’d hoped. You wrote countless letters addresses to her, but you never received a response, so you’d only assumed that your words on paper had been reduced to ash by now.

“I’ll have you know I got the money for it. You just got to tell me where.”

“I’ll sell it to ya when I make sure I’ve got more coming in from Koba. The Crown’s maximizing security at the borders so it might take a while.”

“Are you listening?” You looked up at her, whispering quietly, so as not to alarm the men at the next table.

She nodded wordlessly.

“Thought the Fold being gone would make it easier, instead it’s just another useless king waving his magic wand around like a little prick.”

“Name the man. I’ll have my men do business with him.”

There was a stiff silence. Her hand fiddled with the napkin anxiously as she waited for the response.

A heavy fist slammed down on the table next to your plate, and the rugged men had surrounded your table.

“Got a couple of eavesdroppers, haven’t we?” One of the sneered.

“Oy, give us a bit of fun and maybe we’ll let you off,” another put his foot on the chair in which Zoya sat, and stroked her face greedily. “I’ll take this one.”

You could see the desperation in her eyes, begging you not to fight back. So, you held your tongue. You knew you couldn’t reveal the status of your being here. It was the reason why you and her dressed in plain clothes, and not your kefta.

“We’re just passersby, boys. Not looking for any trouble,” Zoya said sweetly, but you could tell that she was fuming too.

“C’mon, sweetling. No harm in a little fun, eh?”

You hated the way that prick was hovering over Zoya, it made you see red. In a quick motion, you whipped your head back against one of them, effectively breaking his nose with a loud crunch. With the other that stood beside you gawking, you pulled on his heart, until you could feel it squeezing in your hand, and he fell to the flooring, arresting.

The tavern once animated quickly fell silent, and the only sound left was the brawl that you found yourself in. Needless to say, a bunch of otkazat’sya were no match for two Grisha. But it was only you using your powers. Zoya had knocked down two of the men with her bare hands.

You found the informant amidst the brawl, now battered with blood on his face, and held him by the collar. “Tell me who the seller is and where I can find him.”

When the man refused to answer, you gritted your teeth, and pulled the air from his lungs.

“Fine! Fine! I’ll tell you!” He gasped. “Yuri Enkhbaatar, in Koba. Please, let me go.”

You nodded, satisfied, and punched him in the face, rendering him unconscious.

“Grisha scum!” One of them shouted as they all ran out of the tavern with their tails between their legs.

You took a moment to catch your breath. When you looked down at your hands, they were shaking and your right was bloody at the knuckles. The silver ring on your middle finger, fortunately, was still intact.

“It’s fine,” you said to Zoya, seeing her look at your wound with apprehension.

The sound of the horses neighing alarmed you. "No," you whispered and set off to chase the men, only to see them galloping away with one of your horses. You quickly ran after them, but they had rounded the corner and descended the hill, away from your immediate eyesight.

You let out an angry yell, just as Zoya caught up to you.

"Well done," she said sarcastically, a grin on her face.

"Save it," you grumbled under your breath, and keep walking in the direction you were supposed to go.

You heard Zoya's horse trot behind you, and you turned around in an attempt to counter whatever teasing comment she was going to throw at you. "Hop on," she said.

It took you a second to realize what she meant, frankly because you didn't think she'd be that hospitable. It might have been a different story if it was her horse that had been taken. You never liked being around an angry Zoya; a simmering Zoya was enough of a headache.

"You do realize that this means I'm going to be very close to you for the rest of our journey?"

"I'd rather that than have to wait for you every few paces," Zoya said, extending a hand to you. "Go on, we don't have all day. And if you keep babbling, you will walk.”

You took a deep breath before pulling yourself upwards; now you were very close to her. You thought the years of being apart would extinguish that bubbling feeling you get whenever you were around her, but here you were, trying your best to keep calm, as your legs wrapped around her. Thank the Saints she wasn’t a Heartrender.

“I’d say this is quite nice—“

“No.”

You sighed. It was going to be a very long ride to Koba.

On the fifth night, you arrived at the city. The sun had long disappeared behind the mountains, and the city lights could be seen from miles away.

“We should probably find our accommodation before doing anything,” Zoya said, “we might be here for a bit.”

You found a cheap inn in a small alley near the market. If you weren’t on a mission for the king, you’d almost see it as a much-needed vacation. You knew Zoya was exhausted by the way her eyes were barely open she waited for the innkeeper to assign you your room. She grabbed the keys as soon as it left the woman’s hand and went upstairs.

“All the Saints above in good Heaven,” you heard her exclaim as you peered inside.

“What?” You said. There was one single bed in the middle of an otherwise quite spacious room.

“It’s alright. You catch some sleep.” You said, sensing her annoyance. “I’ll go into the night market—“

She didn’t let you finish your sentence before throwing her day-bag somewhere on the floor and collapsing onto the bed, her limbs sprawled out across the entire width.

“—For a bit,” you said quietly, and closed the door behind you in the hallway, a small grin on your face at the unusual display of fatigue.

When you returned about an hour later, she was already in a deep sleep, but still in her riding clothes. Careful so as not to wake her, you pulled the cover from underneath her, earning an annoyed murmur from the girl, and throwing it over her body.

The commotion from the market had faded out the moment you stepped into your shared room. The quietness, not silence, that enshrouded the room, became loud. Your mind became loud as you thought about the past. Your past with Zoya.

You began to hear her voice, her young laughter as she chased you down the hall at the Little Palace, effectively putting many servants in charge of your wellbeing in distress. You despised your so-called family, the only one you liked was Nikolai, but things got better because you had your best friend, Zoya, the new Squaller that came from Novokribirsk.

You found her crying alone one day in a hidden part of the courtyard, when she was supposed to be training with Botkin. She had come only a few days before, and she was missing home.

“I’ll be your friend,” you remember saying to her, “that way you’re not alone anymore.” The pair of you were nine.

You sat by the side of the bed, resting your head against it, watching her sleep. She had every right to hate you, you knew that, but it hurt a lot. It hurt because you had promised yourselves to each other in the form of two silver rings. You didn’t understand the magnitude of that promise then, but you did now; Zoya Nazyalensky was your first love.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, but you knew she couldn’t hear. Quickly, you placed your hands above your chest to slow your racing heart, and keep the tears at bay. Once calmed, you settled back against the side of the bed, listening to the other steady heartbeat in the room as you succumbed to sleep.

Ten years old. You pushed down on the door handle quietly, being careful not to wake the other girls in the room. It was way past your bedtime, and you knew you would have to sneak back into your own room before the sun rises. In the dark, you made your way to where you knew was Zoya’s bunk. She was fast asleep, facing away from you.

“Zoyaaaa,” you shook her softly. The raven-haired girl turned around, and rubbed her eyes.

“I can’t sleep,” you whispered.

Wordlessly, she moved over, albeit barely as her bed was tiny, and you happily got under the cover with when as she pulled you closer.

“What are you ever going to do without me?” Zoya whispered back.

In the pale moonlight, your best friend looked like the entire universe. “I’d just never sleep.”

“Y/N. Y/N, wake up!”

You jolted awake, feeling the weight of reality crash down against your heavy eyelids.

Zoya was hovering above you, furrowing her eyebrows at the snorting noise you made when you woke up.

“Look,” she said, pointing out the window.

You rubbed your eyes and squinted subconsciously at the bright light that penetrated the room. Deep into the alley, a space opened up to what appeared to be a tea shop, and there sat two of the men you encountered at the tavern in Ravka.

“Shit,” you grumbled.

Next to them was another man, the front half of his head was shaved, the back of it skirted down his back in a long braid. He had Shu features, Enkhbaatar.

“There’s our man,” Zoya said.

You lunged towards the door when she pulled in your sleeve. “What are you going to do?”

“Stopping those bastards from importing the drug into our country.”

“By doing what? Asking them nicely?” Zoya hissed. “Y/N, we’ve already directed enough attention to ourselves the other day. We’re not in Ravka anymore, we don’t have the same kind of protection here. If they find out what we are—“

“They kill us, I know.”

She nodded firmly. “So, I have a plan.”

Zoya was good at many things, a good Squaller, a loyal soldier, a resolute decision-maker. It led you to believe that her plan might just work, it checked out in your head. You got the name, Bo Yul-Bayur. But then, you found yourself chasing after Yuri Enkhbaatar down many winding alleys, until you stopped at what seemed to be a brothel and his goons looked like they were about to swallow you alive. Turns out the men that you had beaten up at the tavern alarmed him of two Grisha nobles looking for jurda parem.

“Kill them!” He shouted to them in Shu.

“We just want to talk, Yuri!” You held your hands up in defense.

“I don’t talk to Ravkans, most of all Grisha!”

“But you’re not human, are you? You’re Grisha too.” You laughed, albeit carefully. “You’re a Fabrikator, an Alkemi.”

The look on his face shifted, as he scanned his men.

“Let us go, and you will have protection in Ravka from the King himself until we arrest Bo and bring him to justice,” Zoya prodded.

“I don’t need protection from your boy king,” Yuri growled. “Tell me, will your Saints be there to watch over you in the afterlife?”

The men charged, and all you knew was to defend Zoya from their blades. But there were too many of them. You were getting overwhelmed by the others as you try to subdue one. Men piled on top of one other trying to fight you, and there was a moment when you thought you wouldn’t get out.

It would be poetic, you thought, dying with your best friend, and your first love. Word would reach your brother of your failure, and he would do with it as he willed, but you would be here with Zoya, and you would be alone together.

Through the chaos, you spotted Yuri fleeing the scene. He really meant to kill you. You looked over to Zoya, seeing her struggling to fight three men at once. One of them, in her blind spot, with a gleaming sword in hand sliced her arm and she reacted with a painful yelp.

“Zoya!” You yelled. The added strength of seeing her in pain allowed you to stop two of the men’s hearts at once, something you’ve never done before, as they instantly dropped like flies to your feet.

You sensed an opening in the disorientation, and quickly grabbed Zoya to make a run for it. You hid in another small alley under ropes of aired out laundry for added concealment, as you attempted to catch your breath.

Zoya’s sleeve, once royal blue, was now stained with a dark red where the open wound was. It looked deep, and she was trying her best not to let the blood mark your whereabouts on the ground. She clutched it poorly in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but her face turned pale as she looked closer to fainting.

Quickly, you tore a piece at the end of your garment off to wrap it around her arm. “Keep pressure,” you said, but she turned away and refused to meet your eyes.

“I don’t need your pity, Y/L/N.”

“Pity?” You scoffed incredulously. “Zoya, you’re bleeding out!”

“Don’t pretend like you care about me now!” You knew it was her pride talking. Years of being the perfect soldier—alone—has hardened her, and having her plans fail so spectacularly. “I’ve survived worse. I took a bullet to the leg, an arrow to the shoulder. This is nothing.”

“Zoya, please let me just—“

“And you weren’t there!” You saw your own reflection in her glossy eyes, like a crosshair, like a wanted poster. You saw yourself in her disappointment.

“I left because—“ your voice was breaking, “I left because I couldn’t stand it anymore. My . . . family, never saw me as anything more than a bastard child! I felt like I didn’t have a family. I was on my own.”

Zoya laughed bitterly, sniffling her tears. From the wall she was slumping against, she took a step towards you, her eyes burned with contempt. “I was your family, Y/N, and you left without even saying goodbye.”

“I’m sorry.” Your eyes were wet. You balled your fists, your right hand fiddling with your ring. “I loved you.”

“There was a time where I would have said it back to you,” she said, her voice wavering, “but that time is long gone.”

With that, she left, no doubt to find her way back to the inn, but you didn’t bother trying to show your face for at least until that evening.

Nikolai heartily welcomed your return. He had worried for your safety when word got back about the tussle at the tavern.

"Well done, Y/N. I never doubted your abilities."

"Truly, it was Zoya that came up with the plan to catch Yul-Bayur," your voice trailed off, and you shrugged.

Sensing your discomfort, your brother came to your side by the table. "You talked, then?"

"If by 'talk' you mean we screamed in each other's faces, then yes," you sighed, your last verbal interaction fresh on your mind. “The only times I regret leaving with you are when I think about her.”

Your brother understood not to make his thoughts known, but to be your comfort when he pulled you into his chest.

The way Zoya handles her emotional baggage was never something she was proud of. Her confrontation with you in Shu Han had dug up a lot of things she wished she had forgotten about. She had promised herself to never let anyone in as much as she did you, and it scared her how easily still you got under her skin, even now.

So she figured the best way to deal with you was to pretend you never existed at all. The only times she would see you were at dinner and training anyway, but she never bat you an eye. She wanted you to know what it felt like to be left behind.

“Lady Y/N asked about you,” Genya told her, “asked how your arm is doing.”

“‘S fine.” Zoya answered courtly.

In the little time Genya Safin had the privilege of knowing Zoya, she knew the girl could be difficult to talk to. However, it never deterred her from trying.

“Why do you deprive yourself so? You know you still care about her.”

“It’s none of your business, Safin.”

“It is. It’s everyone’s business, Zoya, when you both have been lathering those longing, melancholic looks at each other all over our faces! You don’t think the other notices when you look at each other, but Saints it is so blatant that it makes me nauseous.”

Zoya didn’t reply, but opted to observe some younger Grisha mucking about during their breaks from training.

“And what about those letters? Why’d you keep them then? For decoration?”

“I—I don’t know.” She must have read every single one of your letters at least ten times, each time hanging onto every word. She would find herself smiling as some of the stories you tell her, but quickly catch herself slipping. There would be three to four letters every few months, then the numbers dwindled until she had to get used to not receiving any at all. Five months later, you returned.

“General,” a guard made himself known to the women. “His Majesty requests your presence in the council chamber.”

To her utmost dismay, you were there too, along with Tolya and Tamar. She let herself settle by the table, ignoring the burning gaze you were directing at her.

“You called for me, moi tsar?”

“Yes, I was hoping to get your input on how we shall proceed with Yuri Enkhbaatar, and subsequently Bo Yul-Bayar.” The King leaned on the edge of the table. “You were face-to-face with Enkhbaatar, what do you think?”

She let herself glance over at you for a split second, seeing you already looking at back at her with a crestfallen look. Straightening back up at the King, she answered, “We may need some time before we are able to get to Yul-Bayar. With him hiding out in Kerch, the only thing we may do is issue a bounty for him. Might I suggest our . . . friends in Ketterdam?”

By the time the meeting was over, Zoya used her best effort to leave the room as quick as possible, but, as if you had known she was going to, you caught her in the hallway.

“Zoya,” you said. There was a hesitant pause. “I was hoping to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk,” she spoke calmly, almost too much so. You winced at her aloofness.

“Please, I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just want you to know that I’m sorry, and that I thought about you every day when I was gone. You must believe me.” You clung onto her sleeve with a desperate look. Zoya almost faltered at the glossiness that been to form in your eyes, you looked so defeated.

“I still think about you,” you confessed quietly, “you are all I think about.”

Your confession hung in the air like a puff of smoke, one that she wished she could condensed into a ball and throw away. There were other things that should be said after, but if she said them, her beating heart was going to jump out of her mouth into her hands for you see. There was a time when she wouldn’t have been afraid to let you see. Parts of her wanted to return to it.

“Th-That’s it,” you mumbled quietly, but something shifted in your eyes. You avoided her eyes and visibly deflated.

Zoya watched you floated down the hallway like a ghost, regretting choosing silence.

That night you couldn’t sleep. Tossing and turning in bed, you let your last conversation with Zoya played out in your head. You didn’t know what she was thinking, you used to be able to read her like a book. There were very little expressions on her face to indicate any emotion, and yet her heart was pounding in your ears like a scared prey.

One can wear as many faces as one needs, but the heart will always want what it wants.

You kicked off your covers, and quietly opened the main doors to your room. There was not a single sound in the hallway, the Castle had gone to sleep long before that. You had learned where everything was now located in your absence, and you stopped in front of a room right by the stairs leading down to the main atrium.

She opened the door, and didn’t bother to hiding the surprise on her face. “Y/N,” she called your name.

You gulped, and let yourself run your eyes across her features. Her face was bare, free of cosmetics, her hair was dark as the night and cascaded freely down her shoulders.

“I can’t sleep,” you said, smiling sadly.

There it was. You saw the walls cracking, and finally tumbling down. Her lips quivered as she stifled a small sob. She had been pretending so hard, and it all cane tumbling down.

Wordlessly, she pulled you into her room, her hands finding their ways to the nape of your neck. You let her cry against your forehead, as your fingers found the wound on her arm that has now closed.

“I’m so tired of pretending.” Zoya said.

“Then stop,” you shook your head lightly. “I’m never leaving again.”

You let her push you back towards her bed where you sat by the edge, as she slowly guided you onto your back, raven curtains divided her face from everything else. You let your hands roam free, all night, for a thousand nights.

#zoya nazyalensky x reader #zoya nazyalensky #zoya nazyalensky imagine #zoya nazyalensky shadow and bone #shadow and bone #zoya x reader #genya safin #nikolai lantsov

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kikizoshi · 5 years ago

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Dostoyevsky’s Proposal

Written in the style of War and Peace. In this AU, Fyodor’s position is pretty much like an unmarried woman in the 19th century, as are many men in his time.

@poppirocks - Congrats on 400, and here’s to many more :)

~2.5k

“How kind of you to join me, Nikolai Vasilievich. I trust you’ll stay long?”

Dostoyevsky smiled, welcoming his guest into the drawing-room.

“Not at all, not at all!” Gogol waved his arms in amiable protest. “That is, not at all of kindness, of course I’ll stay! If anything, I’m the one humbled by your kindness of honouring me with an invitation.”

Dostoyevsky laughed softly. “You say that, and yet what if I should have invited you a week prior, when I sent out all of my other invitations? Surely you would have… taken ill. From the excitement, I mean.”

“Of course, of course,” Gogol dismissed playfully, “From excitement, or some spring fever. I might’ve been pulled away but look--” he spread his arms wide, “here I am, a whole man, with no need for worry.”

“And what a man you are,” Dostoyevsky smiled graciously. His comment, though perhaps a bit odd, was quite in-keeping with their relationship. Ten years had passed since either had seen the other, and though they sent frequent letters, meeting once more was a clean breath of fresh air.

“Sit, please.” Dostoyevsky insisted. “No, not there, that chair is horribly uncomfortable. Here, on the chaise with me. Don’t worry, no one will talk. There’s no reason to.” The tan-and-gold chaise in question, situated as it was very near to a piano, rendered its occupants practically unhearable should the piano be occupied as well. For this event, Dostoyevsky’s trusted servant, Vanya, happened to be performing a string of popular and robust German compositions.

“Now, I’m sure you’ve wondered why I invited you here…” He paused politely, and Gogol nodded with evident interest. “Well, I’ll tell you. I have a proposition. Not a horrid one, please, don’t give me such a vile look. I know how you love games. And as you know, I have a love for you, extending to your games, but moreso my love is in myself, and I too have a fondness for certain types of games...”

“And so your point?” Gogol laughed. “I should think we know each other enough to forgo the formalities by now.”

“Very well then... I’ll tell you plainly.” Dostoyevsky turned, so as to be sure to be heard by Gogol. “I propose a roulette, only not in a casino, but with a gun, in my chambers. I have a revolver. American, I think.”

Gogol smiled, amusement crinkling in his eyes, “Of course he wouldn’t know the maker of his own pistol.”

“Do you mind?”

“Oh, no, don’t mind me!” Gogol said merrily, “Please, continue.”

“Yes, so as I was saying, I propose that sort of game.”

“So what, you’d like me dead?” Gogol asked, though not without humour. “Or you want me to kill you? Why not just have a duel, then?”

“I don’t want a /duel/,” Dostoyevsky spat the word out, as though even speaking it was beneath him, “And my aim isn’t for one of our deaths. No, what interests me is a certain… other thing, which will become clearer to you later in the night. For now, however, I ask you to humour me blindly, as your friend, and trust that I shan’t lead you astray.”

“He speaks clearly and earnestly,” said Gogol, “and yet I wonder still at his intentions. If you truly don’t wish for my death--which you’ve stated implicitly enough--then, well, what else am I to make of it? Forgive my saying so, but is there any other conclusion I could draw?”

“Perhaps not for the time being, which is why I beg you again for your trust. I’ll bow for it if you like, only not here. In fact, please follow me directly, as we’ve no reason to waste another moment.” And there he stood, gesturing for Gogol to do the same.

“I say, you’ve surely gone mad.”

“And what if I have,” Dostoyevsky replied with a smile, “There’s nothing awful about that, is there?”

“Nothing awful? What an idea! But come, sit, for I will not follow you, not for anything. If you put a gun to my head I wouldn’t follow you now,” Gogol laughed as he said the last part, evidently taken with his own joke. “So here, your chaise is ever so comfortable, and why not enjoy it a while with an old friend, before getting down to business? No, don’t pull on my arm. It won’t do you any good and you’ll cause a scene. Sit, I say!”

Indeed, Gogol wasn’t wrong in his assumption of a scene; the two of them had gathered a sort of crowd consisting of side-eyed stares and occasional whispers. Dostoyevsky, defeated, sat with as much decorum as he could muster next to Gogol, and began to tap his leg in agitation. Gogol smiled and lounged back.

“Now,” he continued, “Surely you’ve other matters to discuss than only a gun-based roulette.”

“What would you have me say?”

“Hm, well, tell me of your engagement! There’s no end of gossip there. At least, the rumours I’ve heard are enough to fill a quarter of the River Styx.”

Dostoyevsky further deflated. “But they’re just that: rumours. What’s more to say?”

“Oh, but there’s more to it than that! Much more!” Gogol exclaimed. “For one, I heard that Princess K----- has her eye on you. Though not only one eye, from the way people talk, her vision is quite melonomic towards anyone else! And then there are the two princes, who for a long time now have fought mercilessly for your favour. They’ve even duelled, not once, but twice! Then there are the clerks, the merchants, some hussars…” (He named a considerable list which I will spare the reader.) “In fact, I’d say the whole of Petersburg has its eye on you! And you ask, ‘What’s more to say’.”

“I see you’ve soaked up quite the bit of gossip, despite the short time since your arrival. It’s strange we’ve not met before. With how you talk, surely you’ve attended several of Anna Pavlovna’s soirees. Yet I’ve not seen a hint of you anywhere.”

“Oh, well that was a purposeful slip,” Gogol laughed. “Yes, I did go, to her soirees and many other social gatherings, but my heart was not in it. I spoke dully about politics, gave only the blandest of smiles to those who approached me, half the time I felt horribly faint... And how could I let my dearest friend see me in such a state? No, even if I was presentable to most, well, ‘most’ see nothing but what’s put in front of them. Yes, we’re all ostriches with our heads in the sand. Stick us with a hot iron, even, and we’ll just bury deeper.”

“Maybe so,” Dostoyevsky said, “but then, you’re still a bird in that way, so perhaps half of your goal is already realised.”

Gogol stared blankly at Dostoyevsky for a time. “What use is there in being an ostrich?” He asked finally. “Ostriches cannot fly.”

Dostoyevsky failed to hide a coy smirk. “They’re rather adept at running, however. You could easily run, run, run away from every pressing issue--you’d leave any cage shrouded in dust long before it thought of imprisoning you. You’d be quite tasty, too.”

Gogol raised his eyes suggestively. “You wouldn’t need such a form to taste me. And in any case, if being an ostrich is all as you say it is, then am I not already one?”

“Oh, no, you’re still quite a man, I’m afraid. Though that, too, is perhaps a good thing. If you are a man, then, naturally, you’ll have the capacity to rationalise emotionally and mentally through your vices. One day you may even find grace.”

Gogol sighed wearily. “Why is it,” said he, “that it may only be one at a time between the two of us who is allowed to be happy?”

Dostoyevsky gave him a pitying look. “A balance you seem to keep readily.”

“You suppose?” Gogol sighed, leaning his head back, aggravated, against the mahogany of the chaise’s back, and closed his eyes.

Silence passed several moments like that; the chatter of the guests and gliding piano notes created a white noise which transported both men into a meditational state. The underlying melancholy both easily felt, yet they passed through it in their own ways: Dostoyevsky letting it wash over him and Gogol stamping it under his boot, grinding it under his teeth for good measure. Eventually, as Dostoyevsky nearly felt himself be lost completely, he broke the spell.

“If you wish to know the truth,” he said, “then I’ll speak it plainly: I’ve no suitable suitor. There have been rumours of such a thing, but they are mostly in jest. If some have been taken by them, and took such things seriously, it still means nothing--there isn’t one man or woman in our town who wishes to make me their betrothed. For who would?” He smiled a self-deprecating smile. “An invalid doesn’t make for a good match.”

“Ah yes! Who would want an idiot of a betrothed--but a rich idiot is another case entirely--but for your money. Last you wrote, you explained that your dowry had been raised, so that it now lands something over seventy-thousand. I know thirty men alone who would marry for that--ten of a higher class than you, for your family is held in quite high esteem.”

Dostoyevsky grimaced. “Yes, and in fact, you are quite right about that. And in fact, I’ve met with several good men who I’ll be happy to accept should one give an offer…”

“So what is the matter with you?”

“Yes, indeed, what is the matter…” Dostoyevsky trailed off once more, bringing up a finger to his teeth and gnawing, first gently but soon quite viciously, at it. It wasn’t until his reddened finger appeared just about to split that he forced it from his mouth to continue. “What is the matter, is that… I don’t wish to marry for such a… Which isn’t to say that I don’t wish to marry for my family, or that I wish to marry for love. I know the ridiculity of both ideas, and neither are particularly accurate. Only… I cannot shake the idea that in marrying, I’ll be losing something… Something that I can’t define will be lost, or perhaps it won’t… The whole matter gives off a horrible feeling, as though nothing can be done and, no matter what, something awful can and will come of it.” Again, he paused. Looking to Gogol, he hoped the other would say something, but as the look on his face was merely passively attentive, Dostoyevsky sighed and continued.

“There was another time,” Dostoyevsky said, “when I considered marrying, although marriage wasn’t a possibility for that man, and I’m quite sure--as I was at the time--that such a union would only have ended in tragedy. Still… That man, from some country far southward of ours and across an ocean, he was the only one I’ve met who could challenge me at chess. We went on for hours at a time, and each second felt simultaneously as a blink and as an era. Rarely had I been so excited. And at that time, genuinely, I considered making /him/ an offer, as unconventional as it might have been… Of course, I fiercely hated him too. He was an incorrigible man, a flirt and with so much bravado I feared his chest couldn’t bear the weight, and above all he was barely a noble. There was no hope in it but still… I dreamed...

“But now I am twenty-two, and in not four years I shall be twenty-six. I should have married years ago, but I’ve never had the heart for it, and I fear my reasons are nothing but selfish. It’s my vice, but… I’m afraid. I’m afraid to change my mind, for what if the awful does happen… Though even then it should not matter. I should trust in my husband, and if all does not come to be exactly as I wish it, then God has sent the trial for my own sake.” Dostoyevsky’s tone was convincing, as though he himself did not believe his words but was desperately trying to rectify the fact.

Gogol, after a moment, laughed. “If beating you over chess is the only prerequisite, even Vanya could become your groom. Why be so pessimistic, in that case?”

“You think Vanya would beat me?” Dostoyevsky shook his head seriously. “No--he wouldn’t do it. No one here would, for they are too full of virtue. You alone are the only man here who would think of such a thing.”

“Heh, well,” Gogol tapped his temple with a chuckle, “perhaps I should never have been invited at all, if I lack such virtue… And yet you speak of it not as something terrible, but rather as a curious state which you’re happy to welcome into not only your drawing room, but your private chambers! Be careful now--I fear the Devil is whispering in your ear.”

“Well now,” Dostoyevsky laughed, “And what of Turgenev? He has far worse problems than I, in that regard.”

“Oh? Poor, poor Turgenev, we mustn’t speak of him.” Gogol’s eyes practically glittered, a twist of amusement swirling down his face and throughout his being. He was evidently vastly excited to speak about Turgenev.

“Maybe so, but please, explain to a poor invalid.”

“Oh, if I must! I see there is no getting round you.” Gogol threw his hands up, feigning coercion, and readily continued. “You see, there was this new woman--I know not her name--who took him quite quickly and even more thoroughly. She not only agreed to take him in as her slave (a notion, if you’ll remember, that his dear Victoria--lover of a distant past and oh! how he’ll miss her--blanched at in the beginning), but this new she, how shall I say…” Gogol looked around, as though noticing their company for the first time, and met with several curious (and several accusing) stares. “She… gave to him a… new, and hitherto unfathomed ‘pastry’ to which, I fear, he was quite addicted from the first lick. Now, there’s no saving him. Bless his poor soul.”

“You speak as though from experience.”

“Oh! Can you imagine? Heh-heh, no no, I can’t--it simply couldn’t happen. Now, with someone else, in a different place, I’m sure my feelings would be quite different,” Again, a suggestive look was sent towards Dostoyevsky, “but as for him? No. I could never.”

Dostoyevsky huffed softly, a gentle, amused sheen shone in his eyes. “I’d love to hear more, if you’d be so kind, although I fear such conversation is rather intense for settings such as this…”

“Oh, anything is too much for everyone nowadays! Bless our Russia… But, won’t your appearance be missed? Everyone is here by your invitation, and what would they think if their dear leader were to leave them so suddenly?”

“They’ll think nothing of it--I won’t be missed. Come.” Again, Dostoyevsky rose, and again, he extended his hand to Gogol, which this time was accepted, and the two men left the drawing-room. One of the men’s thoughts rested in a dark cabinet beside a small, silver revolver.

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blackandwhitemusician · 7 years ago

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On “Crime and Punishment”, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and Bungou Stray Dogs

ft. Nikolai Gogol. LONG POST! Also spoilers for the novel/manga if you haven’t read it already/haven’t caught up yet.

Here are some thoughts I have on certain parallels between Crime and Punishment and Fyodor Dostoyevsky in real life and as portrayed in BSD, also some speculations as to how this book and the real Dostoyevsky might have inspired his BSD version.

First, on the real book itself (more like the English translation of the book):

The main character in Crime and Punishment, Raskolnikov, killed an old woman he deemed as wicked and worthless. He was so shaken by the idea of murder that he spent an entire month tormenting himself over it, lost his gut during the actual murder, and proceeded to make himself fall ill from the mental torture. He thought he did it for money, but the more he looked into the event and into himself, the more he realized he just did it to prove that he could (my own interpretation).

“There is only one thing, one thing needful: one has only to dare! Then for the first time in my life an idea took shape in my mind which no one had ever thought of before me, no one! I saw clear as daylight how strange it is that not a single person living in this mad world has had the daring to go straight for it all and send it flying to the devil! I… I wanted to have the daring… and I killed her.”

Raskolnikov also wrote an article on the psychology and mental state of a criminal, and what leads someone to commit a crime. Raskolnikov and another character, Porfiry, used these concepts to discuss a technique used by Porfiry to trap criminals into confessing, which the two of them referred to as a “cat and mouse” game.

Raskolnikov classified people into “ordinary” and “extraordinary”. According to him, the former follow and obey the law, while the latter transgress it. The former’s role is to follow and maintain the order, while the latter seeks to destroy the status quo and establish a new order. It follows that when a person of “extraordinary” conduct deems it necessary to commit a crime to achieve their objective, they can find the will to do it.

“The crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood.”

This does not mean, however, that people of “extraordinary” nature are exempt from feeling guilt. In fact, Raskolnikov recognized that if these individuals do in fact feel guilt from shedding blood, it would be their greatest punishment. The worst punishment for a criminal is not so much the prison as it is by way of their own conscience.

Yet, sometimes such a punishment is essential to make way for change. Raskolnikov compared these “extraordinary” individuals to the likes of Napoleon, who by social standards should be considered the worst criminals ever lived considering the amount of blood they shed, yet are revered as heroes for the change they ushered.

I immediately thought of this:

BSD Gogol’s character fits perfectly in the scheme of Crime and Punishment. The real Dostoyevsky also mentioned Gogol several times in Crime and Punishment, when discussing the topic of morality.

Whatever the objective of the BSD “Decay of Angels” is, I’m fairly certain it has to do with change - they are willing to commit evil to destroy the status quo and advance change. These “villains” are certainly not the usual kind of “evil cause I like it”, or “evil cause I am proudly anti-heroic figures”.

Going back to Crime and Punishment, there are a few other characters that I think are of relevance to the portrayal of BSD Fyodor Dostoyevsky:

Porfiry: an investigator, who was convinced Raskolnikov was the murderer in question, and went to almost extreme lengths to psycho him into confessing. He had a pretty sharp mind, and used the sadistic investigative method of trapping his “prey” by letting him roam freely in his natural habitat, which Porfiry believe would make the criminal lower his guard and eventually fall into the trap himself. Raskolnikov realized the trap, of course.

Svidrigailov: an extreme representation of a type of “extraordinary” man, he was portrayed as, to me, a nihilist and hedonist. Svidrigailov doesn’t seem to care about morality, and only wants to satisfy his own pleasures. Whether he harms others in the process is irrelevant to him. He can commit random acts of kindness because the spontaneity of that action gives him pleasure.

While I don’t see these characters as similar to Raskolnikov, they certainly brings out his character in various ways. Raskolnikov understood Porfiry’s investigative methods perfectly (I bet he basically thought “If it was me, that’s what I’d do”). Porfiry also recognized and acknowledged Raskolnikov’s intellectual depth and potential, and was interested in him intellectually. Svidrigailov, on the other hand, mirrors Raskolnikov’s own despair and cynicism, if only more pronounced in the extreme. One can say Svidrigailov is the embodiment of despair. He is totally amoral, and radically indifference to the feelings of others. His radical attitude could have been brought about by his realization and acceptance that evil is inherent in the world, and as such, evil and vice to him is only an “occupation of a sort”. His bleak outlook only serves to worsen his boredom with the world, and prompts him to seek pleasure for its own sake. He views eternity as “a bath house... black and grimy and spiders in every corner”, to which Raskolnikov responds in horror “Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and more comforting than that?”

Next, on the BSD portrayal of Fyodor:

Now there has been very little detail about his personal motivations, but I see BSD Fyodor as a combination of all three characters: Raskolnikov, Svidrigailov, and Porfiry, maybe more of Svidrigailov than the rest. BSD Fyodor is definitely among the “extraordinary” people Raskolnikov described, maybe even to the extreme. Of course, there is also the personality of the real Dostoyevsky.

Regarding killing people and messing up their families as a petty problem while looking for a happy chit chat about it with one of those he just messed up, that is as Svidrigailov as it gets. (I know Fyo was probably joking, but still)

It has been suggested time and time again that BSD Fyodor might have tired of, been disillusioned or discontent with the world as it is, and sought to correct it (while also having some entertainment along the way). He specifically has issues with special ability users, which still doesn’t stop him from killing normal people if they get entangled in the conflict. This motivation possibly stems from his hatred for his own ability, which seemed as destructive as it gets. Alternatively, BSD Fyodor might also see death as the ultimate freedom special ability users can be granted to be free from their “sins”, which refer to their abilities. As such, he took it upon himself to deliver them.

The constant mention of “freedom” of the will also strike me as a parallel to real Dostoyevsky’s discussion of freedom in Crime and Punishment.

“Anyone who is greatly daring is right in their eyes.”

“He who despises most things will be a lawgiver among them and he who dares most of all will be most in the right.”

In other words, if you act of your own free will, you are right. Anyone who wills it can transgress the law.

What really intrigued me is how BSD Fyodor saw himself as a divine figure delivering judgement for those he considers “sinners”. I doubt such a strong motivation came about just because he discovered his super human ability one day, which has been suggested as something to do with instant killing. I see a possibility of him having been alienated, ostracized and possibly imprisoned as a result of his ability and his intelligence, seeing how completely unfazed he was by the treatment he received in his prison cell at the Mafia base. His ability would have been dangerous on its own, but his intelligence makes him an even more dangerous individual. Another characteristic of him that interests me is the complete lack of guilt or remorse over his actions. If we assume this is a reference to Svidrigailov, it might have been a result of his mindset that evil is inherent in the world (which fits BSD Fyodor). If I have to guess, he would have been a child who never played with other kids, had no lessons in social etiquette and no guardian figure to teach him about the outside world, heavily religious, either avoided, feared or beaten up regularly, probably had no concept of remorse, probably had to fend for himself and used his intelligence to get the upper hand by gambling, manipulating or tricking others.

BSD Fyodor was probably regarded as a “demon” for as long as he lived. He probably also felt the suffocating imprisonment extended from his home life to the rest of society. He probably got tired and bored of interacting with others who just went on their normal lives complaining about their misfortunes, oblivious to everything else that happened around them. He probably never once saw himself as one of them.

It was also suggested in Crime and Punishment that through suffering and torturing himself with his conscience, Raskolnikov was able to still feel human (my own interpretation). Could it be that BSD Fyodor was past that stage of being human, since he doesn’t seem to be suffering from the weight of his crimes? Could that be the reason why he sees himself as the substitute for God?

Regarding BSD Fyodor’s ability

Not much has been mentioned in the manga, and even in Dead Apple all we got is something along the lines of “Fyodor and his ability are two sides of the same coin”. What strikes me is how Fyodor is portrayed to represent Crime, and his ability Punishment. This is all speculation, but I think his ability definitely has to do with delivering punishment for a crime (no shit!). But whose crime, and on what condition? Could it be that his ability only takes effect if the criminal repents and experiences remorse from their own crime?

Regarding BSD Dazai

Probably the most hotly discussed parallel in the fandom. Sure, Dazai and Fyodor have been described as being made of the same stuff from the start due to their intellect which is unparalleled by anyone else but these two, but they didn’t really strike me as similar until I encountered this line from Crime and Punishment.

“Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth.”

At first glance, this quote describes both Dazai and Fyodor very well. I have no question about Dazai having a “large intelligence and a deep heart”, and so he will continue to have “great sadness” in the form of alienation and loneliness (and self-hatred and guilt to an extent). Fyodor may have an equally great intelligence, but it is still unclear to me what lies in his heart. I think, he at least would have felt loneliness and the boredom of existence at some point, just like Dazai did. Their sharpness would have enabled them to sniff out the most obscure clues to the darkest intentions in people, which might have led them to regard human beings as foolish and utterly selfish creatures. The dangerous and unique nature of their abilities would have rendered them untouchable by others, further worsening their alienation.

“If God does not exist, then I will become God.”

What kind of experience would prompt someone to deliver such a line as that?

It sounds less like a divine sentence than a cry of disillusionment and cynicism to me, which is really... sad??

Other trivial stuff:

- The real Gogol was apparently a drama queen and a master of satire.

- The real Dostoyevsky was exiled in Siberia for reading banned works. He subsequently wrote “Notes from the House of the Dead” to describe this experience.

- The real Dostoyevsky frequently discussed the idea that man does not think rationally most of the time, and as such, man’s actions are not always predictable.

- In Crime and Punishment, Raskolnikov passionately loved Sonya, a destitute young woman whom he saw as his figure of salvation, and he once bowed to her because she represented “the sufferings of all humanity”.

- Svidrigailov was hinted to see the world as a dirty, meaningless playground in which he was the actor, and kept up his act until the end. When he decided to shoot himself after being rejected by the one woman he loved, he chose to do it in front of a complete stranger at the American embassy. His last words were “When you are asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America.”

Credits for screenshots go to @dazaiscans.

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newstfionline · 7 years ago

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What’s the Cure for Ailing Nations? More Kings and Queens, Monarchists Say

By Leslie Wayne, NY Times, Jan. 6, 2018

OXFORD, England--From the comfort of his country estate in Oxford, a distant relative of the Russian literary giant Tolstoy says he has the perfect solution for what ails the United States.

America, he declares, needs a monarchy.

In fact, Count Nikolai Tolstoy says, more kings, queens and all the frippery that royalty brings would be not just a salve for a superpower in political turmoil, but also a stabilizing force for the world at large.

“I love the monarchy,” Count Tolstoy, 82, said as he sat in his lush garden behind an expansive stone house. “Most people think the monarchy is just decorative and filled with splendor and personalities. They do not appreciate the important ideological reasons for a monarchy.”

The count is not the only voice advocating rule by royalty. An author and a conservative politician who holds dual British and Russian citizenship, he leads the International Monarchist League and is part of a loose confederation of monarchists scattered across the globe, including in the United States.

Their core arguments: Countries with monarchies are better off because royal families act as a unifying force and a powerful symbol; monarchies rise above politics; and nations with royalty are generally richer and more stable.

Critics say such views are antiquated and alarming in an era when democracies around the globe appear to be imperiled. The count and his band of fellow monarchists, however, are determined to make their case at conferences, in editorials and at fancy balls.

A recent study that examined the economic performance of monarchies versus republics bolsters their views. Led by Mauro F. Guillén, a management professor at the Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania, the study found “robust and quantitatively meaningful evidence” that monarchies outperform other forms of government.

Far from being a dying system, the study said, “monarchies are surprisingly prevalent around the world.” They provide a “stability that often translates into economic gains”; they are better at protecting property rights and checking abuses of power by elected officials; and they have higher per-capita national incomes, the study said.

Mr. Guillén says he was “shocked” by the results, which have not yet been published. “Most people think monarchies are something anachronistic,” he said. “They think that modern forms of government are superior and have trouble accepting that monarchies have advantages.”

When he presents his findings, “there is more skepticism in the room than with the average paper,” said Mr. Guillén, who is not a monarchist. “It’s been an uphill battle.”

His findings come as no surprise, however, to monarchists, who aim to preserve existing monarchies and to support royals who live in exile. They believe that countries with exiled royals should return them to the throne, and that nations without monarchies should consider a switch.

“We support the retention and restoration of monarchies anywhere in the world,” Count Tolstoy said. “Our goal is to persuade people.”

History books, of course, are replete with examples of monarchies that became symbols of repression and rapacious, cloistered wealth. Some were ousted by bloody rebellions (the American and French Revolutions) or collapsed in ruins (the Hapsburg Empire), and many have ruthlessly marginalized whole classes of people.

But Count Tolstoy insists that monarchists are not pining for the days of absolute rulers and the divine right of kings, when Henry VIII of England could order up the execution of unwanted wives and political foes.

Instead, his group advocates constitutional monarchies, in which a king or queen is head of state and the real power rests with an elected Parliament--much like those in Belgium, Britain, Denmark, Japan, the Netherlands, Norway and Spain (although demonstrators in 2014 demanded a referendum on the Spanish royal family after King Juan Carlos abdicated).

All of those countries, the monarchists note, have relatively strong economies.

Mr. Guillén’s study shows that since 1900, 22 countries have abandoned royal leaders, while 35 others adopted them. Forms of constitutional monarchies took root, at least for some time, in emerging economies like Malaysia and Thailand.

Still, the study noted that some current monarchies lack basic democratic freedoms, including in Brunei, Oman, Qatar, Saudi Arabia and Swaziland.

After the Arab Spring, some analysts noted that monarchies like Morocco, Jordan and the Gulf States demonstrated much more stability than countries like Iraq, Libya and Egypt.

Finding people to reject the monarchists’ vision is not hard, even in Britain, where Queen Elizabeth II is revered by many.

A London-based grass-roots organization called Republic, which wants the country to hold a referendum on the monarchy when the queen dies, says bluntly on its website, “The monarchy isn’t fit for purpose. It is corrupt and secretive.”

The group has a clear mandate: “We want to see the monarchy abolished and the queen replaced with an elected democratic head of state,” it says.

Graham Smith, Republic’s chief executive, said that current polls showed about 20 to 25 percent of Britons to be anti-royalty, and that it had been hard to win broader support. “Our job is to keep raising that number,” he said, adding that “public opinion takes time to shift.”

As for the Monarchist League, Mr. Smith dismisses it as “a crank organization.” He said: “They are going against the general direction of history. You cannot just pluck a family out of obscurity and put them in charge of a country.”

Count Tolstoy acknowledges that the International Monarchist League had turned into a “league of eccentrics” under its former chancellor, Victor Hervey, who had been jailed for a jewel heist, worked as an arms dealer and sought tax exile in Monaco.

It was founded in 1943 on the belief that the monarchies of Eastern Europe could be a bulwark against Soviet expansion. Count Tolstoy took over in the mid-1980s, and says the current members are “sensible, run-of-the-mill people.”

Count Tolstoy has written books on ancient and postwar British history. He has also run, unsuccessfully, as a parliamentary candidate for the far-right U.K. Independence Party in four general elections.

When he considers the United States, Count Tolstoy is certain it would be better off without a presidency.

“There is an alternative,” he wrote in an opinion article for The New York Times before the 2016 election. He noted that neither candidate “appears to be a Washington or a Lincoln,” and pointed to a neighbor as an example: Canada, he wrote, “demonstrates that democracy is perfectly compatible with constitutional monarchy.” “

But being an American monarchist can be a tough sell. The country, after all, was born of rebellion against a British king.

There are no reliable estimates of how many monarchists there are in the United States. But to help disseminate their message, a Washington think tank, the Center for the Study of Monarchy, Traditional Governance and Sovereignty, opened this past year.

American monarchists also find ways to help the cause abroad. Thomas R. Hutson, a retired State Department diplomat who was posted in Belgrade, has been advocating the restoration of Alexander, the crown prince of Yugoslavia, as the monarch of Serbia.

On his own dime, Mr. Hutson has repeatedly traveled to Serbia to promote the prince, who was born in exile in London and later moved to Belgrade. But Mr. Hutson admits that he is making little headway.

“I tell people I’m a monarchist and the conversation lasts three seconds,” he said. “There is resoundingly no interest in him coming back as king. It’s a generational thing. The monarchy completely goes by young people who lack of a sense of history.”

He insists, however: “I’m not giving up.”

The Rev. Canon Kenneth W. Gunn-Walberg, the rector of St. Mary’s Anglican Church in Wilmington, Del., and leader of the Monarchist League’s chapter for the Eastern states, said the appeal of monarchies was simple.

“There is style, a mystery and ethos with a monarch,” he said. “Presidents come and go. There’s continuity, a sense of history with a monarchy.”

#monarchy #Monarchist League #Nikolai Tolstoy #kings and queens

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bellejolras · 8 years ago

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Call to Pierre

hey i wrote a pierretasha college au fic !! under the cut cause its long. reblog if you like it please! its also on ao3

Pierre gets a call late at night from a Natasha paralyzed with anxiety who needs a ride home and a friend. Pierre can help with both.

college au, about 1 year after the Anatole events

***cw for implied reference to sexual assault

A loud rattling buzz interrupted Pierre's concentration, and he jumped. Hadn't he put his phone on silent? It was ok though, it was late and he was close to the end of the chapter he was reading, a good enough time for a break. The phone kept buzzing, vibrating around on the desk and Pierre reached for it quickly. Who would be calling him at this hour?

It was Natasha.

He picked up the phone, trying to keep the thump of his heartbeat out of his voice. "Hey Nat, uh what's going on?"

The other side of the line was silent for a second.

"Hello?" Maybe it was a butt dial. Probably she just rolled over on her phone and called him by accident. Probably just--

And then he heard her sniffle. "Pierre," she whispered. "Can you come pick me up?"

He could hear the tears in her voice.

"Natasha are you-"

"I'm in the parking lot of the McDonalds on the way to Nikolai's." She added almost inaudibly, "near the hospital."

A shiver ran through Pierre. "I'll call an uber ok? Don't hang up, I'll be there soon."

He put the phone on speaker and grabbed his shoes, a jacket, and the fuzzy blanket folded on the end of his bed.

The uber arrived almost immediately and Pierre got in the car and told the driver where to go. The driver looked at him funny and Pierre started to explain he was going to picking up a friend, but the driver just shrugged and started driving.

After a few minutes, Pierre realized the phone had been quiet. "Nat are you still there?" He turned the phone off speaker and put it to his ear. "I'll be there in just a few minutes ok? Is your car ok or do you want to take the uber back?"

She breathed slowly and ragged into the phone. "No, my car is fine. Ubers are expensive and-"

"Nat I can pay for the uber, it's not a problem."

"Yeah well what will my parents say if my car gets towed?"

"Hey, shh, its fine, I just wanted to give you the choice."

"No, I know. It's fine." Her voice was still barely above a whisper.

The phone went quiet again.

The night was bitterly cold and Pierre was grateful for having ended up in an uber with good heating. He hoped Natasha had left her car on, or that she hadn't been waiting long before she called him.

The car pulled into the parking lot a few minutes later and Pierre got out and thanked the driver, who nodded at him and drove away as quickly as he had first arrived.

"Natasha, I'm here. Where are you?" He walked around the parking lot and then saw her car in the back. "Oh, just kidding I found you. Hang on just a sec." He hung up the phone and walked over, opening the car door for her to get out.

She shivered as she stepped out of the car, and Pierre was glad he had brought a blanket. She must not have thought to wear a jacket earlier when she left for Nikolai's. To be fair, it was much colder now than it had been earlier.

He wrapped the blanket around her clumsily and opened the passenger door for her to get in.

Once he was finally in the driver’s seat, they really looked at each other.

"Nat are you alright? It's freezing. How long were you here? It's the middle of the night."

She shook her head, saying nothing.

The keys were still in the ignition, and Pierre left the car in park but turned up the heater.

"Nat, what happened?"

She turned to him, tears welling in her eyes and stammered out, "I-I-"

He felt the prick of tears behind his own eyes and reached over to pet her hair softly. "Hey, it's ok," he said gently. "You don't need to say anything. I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

She shook her head again, and swallowed. "No, it's ok. I don't want you to worry about me." She sniffed. "I was just driving back from Nikolai's, and I went over there earlier cause I made a lot of cookies yesterday and I haven't seen him in a while, and I was so tired when I left that I went this way on accident, like on autopilot, cause I never go this way if I can help it, and suddenly I was, I was sitting at the light, right before the hospital, and I was sitting in the driver’s seat and all of a sudden I was so stressed. Anxious. And I had like a flashback," she shivered, "and then I almost hit a tree so I decided I would pull over, and then I started crying and I didn't know if I could make it home so I panicked, and then I called you." She began to cry again, the tears creeping into her voice.

He looked at her tenderly, and hoped she couldn't see he was crying behind his glasses, in the dark. "Oh, Natasha,"

She looked up at him and a laugh broke into her tears. "No, stop crying. I'm fine." She paused. "Thank you for coming though, it helps to have someone here. And I'm still too embarrassed to talk to Sonya about this much. It was all very, you know,"

Pierre nodded quickly. "No, sure. I mean, I understand. And of course I came. Why wouldn't I? That's what friends do." And I love you, he thought. I'm here for you always.

She smiled and squeezed one of his hands, then pulled down the mirror above the windshield in front of her seat and wiped at her face.

She sat back against the seat and wrapped the blanket tighter, and Pierre wiped under his glasses, took a deep breath and then said, "Are you ready to go home?"

She nodded and buckled the seatbelt. She looked out the window as they pulled out of the parking lot.

"You know," she said softly after a minute or two of quiet. "Anatole had a blanket like this in his car. On the backseat. It was for his dog I think, so she didn't ruin the seat. I just remember it was soft, and that it got ruined that night, and that I couldn't stand to feel anything like it for months. The blanket in the hospital was so itchy but I wouldn't let them give me a soft one because at the time even that was too similar. I was so mad that he had even ruined fuzzy blankets." Her voice was surprisingly calm and composed.

Pierre reached over and took her hand. "It's alright," he said. "I'm here."

She looked at him quickly. "I've never told anyone that," she said. "I think he told people he got rid of the blanket cause his dog peed on it." She exhaled sharply. "This one is nice though, it's warm, thank you for bringing it." It smells like you, she thought. And that comforts me.

Pierre squeezed her hand with concern. "I would have brought something else if I had known."

She shook her head again. "No, no it's alright. There's no way you would have. It doesn't bother me as much as it used to anyway."

They were quiet again for another few minutes, still hand in hand, until they started nearing the school.

"Do you want me to drop you off at your building? I don't mind walking back from there, I don't get too cold."

Natasha looked over at him again. "Um, would it be alright if I stayed with you actually? I don't think I can bear to explain it to Sonya tonight and it would be good not to be alone. If that's ok of course, if you need me to go back to my own room that's fi-"

"No! No that's fine, of course, I should have thought of that, do you need to get anything from your room then or are you ok?" Pierre was glad that it was dark and Natasha couldn't see him blushing.

"No, I'll be alright. Honestly I'm so exhausted I could fall asleep as I am right now if I had to. I'll text Sonya and let her know so she doesn't worry as much. Are you sure it's ok?"

He turned into the parking lot in front of his building, and pulled into a spot.

"Yeah, absolutely. I'll let you know though, it's been a minute since I cleaned my room, so I'm sorry about that in advance." He looked over at her and smiled.

She smiled back. "I'm sure it's fine, and really it doesn't matter. As long as there's space for me to sleep," she said.

"Oh, yeah, no of course. I have both beds pushed together since I live alone, so I'll clear the crap off of there and it's all yours."

Pierre turned the car off and helped Natasha out. "Let's get you upstairs before you freeze, though," he said.

Once they were inside, she adjusted the blanket so it hung over her shoulders. "Look, I'm a superhero!" she laughed, deliriously tired.

Pierre scoffed. "Haven't you ever seen The Incredibles?" She looked at him in confusion. "No capes!"

She laughed again, and they got into the elevator.

"See, you're lucky the blanket didn't get stuck in the door. Sorry, the cape."

Natasha rolled her eyes.

The elevator reached their floor and they walked down the hall to Pierre's room.

He opened the door, and Natasha started laughing again. "Pierre, I thought you said your room was messy?"

He ignored this. "The bathroom is in there," he said pointing at one of two doors on the wall. "I'll clear up out here."

They switched places a few minutes later.

"Pierre!" Natasha called all of a sudden.

"Hang on!"

He opened the bathroom door.

"Where are you going to sleep?"

"The floor, probably." She gave him a look. "Don't worry about it, it's really fine."

She turned back around and he closed the door again.

When he came back out, she was already on the bed.

"Pierre Bezukhov, you're not sleeping on the floor. I invited myself into your room and you have two beds shoved together. That's plenty of space."

"Natasha, I-"

She looked at him seriously. "I didn't invite myself over to be alone."

He walked slowly towards the bed. "Ok, I just don't want to do anything that would make you uncomfortable."

"You have never made me uncomfortable and I promise I will tell you if you do." The room was dark but she looked up at him. "I promise."

Hesitantly he climbed into his own bed, and laid as far from her as he reasonably could.

"Pierre," Natasha whispered. "You can be closer if you want. It's ok."

He moved over a few inches but didn't dare move closer. He could hear his own heart beating, and hoped desperately that she couldn't.

Within 5 minutes, they were both asleep.

He woke up the next morning vaguely disoriented and didn't realize until he reached for his glasses that his arm had been around Natasha.

The thought sent a shock through him. He shook it off, the night's events coming back to him, and he reached over to check his phone.

Shit, it was late. Thank god it was Saturday.

He gently nudged Natasha, who groaned into the pillow and rolled over into the wall.

That seemed to have woken her up, and she slowly rolled back over and sat up, groggily.

"Oh, my god, Pierre. I, I forgot where I was." She ran a hand through her messy hair and blushed pleasantly. She laughed softly. "What time is it?" She checked her phone. "Aw shit, it's pretty late, even for a Saturday. If we don't hurry, the dining hall won't even have breakfast anymore."

"Ah fuck, you know you're right." Pierre got out of the bed and started towards the bathroom. "I'm gonna brush my teeth and everything, if you want to put something else on I think Helene left some clothes in my dresser a long time ago that she never bothered to pick up. You're welcome to whatever."

He closed the bathroom door and Natasha got up and went over to the dresser. The Helene drawer had some ok stuff, but she'd rather wear--

Pierre opened the door just as she finished pulling on a worn gray sweatshirt. "Natasha?" She whirled around. That wasn't Helene's shirt, it was his. She looked so small in his giant sweatshirt with the bear printed on the front. She still had on her jeans from the day before, and the outfit was frankly adorable.

"Is it ok if I wear this?"

He laughed to himself. "Yeah, of course it is." He couldn't help but smile at her. "Bathroom's all yours."

He tried not to think about anything as he got dressed. It was a lot to take in at once. Natasha, in his bed? in his sweatshirt? because she wanted to? He felt his face flush at the thought of it all. How could it be real? He reminded himself of what had happened before any of that, that she'd called him crying and what she said in the car. This wasn't a dumb fairytale story. It was—

The bathroom door clicked opened again.

"Pierre, um,"

He turned around.

"do you think you can come with me later to talk to Sonya? I know she loves me and understands, but it's hard to talk about."

He nodded at her. "Of course I can."

She smiled at him slowly. "Thanks. First though, breakfast. Come on, I don't want to miss the waffles!"

He followed her to the door and as they walked down the hall, he smiled to himself in wonder. It wasn't a fairytale story, but maybe it could still have a happy ending.

#now that ive reread this like 5 times i want to thank mg for the subconscious inspiration #mine #great comet #npgc1812 #pierretasha #writing #sorry the end is cheese!!

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ablackbirdsinging · 8 years ago

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I wrote a thing

@azrielsiphons This is the fic I was telling you about!

Like Calls to Like (Chapter 1)

Nina Zenik/Sturmhond Will get to be pretty mature (explicit??), but not yet. Spoilers for everything Leigh Bardugo has ever published. Don’t read any of this if you haven’t finished Crooked Kingdom and the entirety of the Grisha Trilogy.

If you’d rather read this over on AO3, here’s a handy link for you.

Nina stood at the bow of the ship with Genya, taking measured breaths of the briny sea air. Between the ship’s crew, the refugee Grishas, Kuwei, the members of the Triumvirate, and Matthias’ still body in the ship’s hold, Nina was beginning to feel claustrophobic.

As she often did when she stood above deck, Nina felt Sturmhond’s eyes on her, assessing her the way he assessed everything - the sails, the stars, the weather, his crew.

She was no stranger to the gaze of men, but there was something cool in Sturmhond’s eyes which made Nina think him impervious to the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts.

Frankly, it was a relief.

He picked his way across the deck, murmuring words to the sailors and the Grisha working up top.

“Morning,” Genya said, looking up with a smile as he approached.

“We should be pulling into port by the end of day tomorrow,” he said by way of greeting. Nina loosed a relieved breath and he eyed her curiously. “Not much of a sailor, Zenik?”

“I’ll just be glad to set my feet back down on Ravkan soil again,” Nina replied. A wide smile broke across Sturmhond’s face, softening his sometimes strange features.

“Me too,” he murmured as he walked away. “Me too.”

Nina turned back to Genya who was watching the privateer’s retreating form almost sadly.

“I’d thought he’d be… bigger.” Nina said. Genya huffed out half a laugh.

“He used to be, once,” she said with a shrug.

“Do you know him well, then?” Nina asked.

“Not well, exactly. Our history is…complicated.” Nina raised a sharp eyebrow.

“Not like that!” Genya laughed. “We never, I swear! But I’ve known him a long time. Before…and after.”

“The war?” Genya bit her lip, her eye thoughtful.

“Yes, that too.” Nina didn’t press the subject. She didn’t know what role Sturmhond had played, exactly, but she was familiar with the things the Grisha had endured during the Ravkan Civil War. The war had changed people, changed the country she loved. And it seemed even the coolest and most confident of privateers hadn’t been immune to its horrors.

—-

Nina hadn’t wanted to even go back to the Little Palace once they returned to Ravka. She was eager to find another ship to take her and Matthias’ body to Fjerda as soon as possible. But Zoya and Genya were insistent that she rest at the Little Palace for a while. Only there would they be able to find a healer to prepare Matthias’ body for another long sea voyage. Genya had done what she could before their trip to Ravka, but her knowledge on the subject was pretty limited. So Nina reluctantly agreed to return with them to the Little Palace before setting out again. She had to admit the idea of a couple weeks with solid ground under her feet again sounded nice.

“And besides, the King will surely want to be briefed on the happenings in Ketterdam, right?” Genya and Zoya shared a conspiratorial look.

“Right,” Genya said with a small laugh. She was practically hopping from excitement to see David after her time away. The thought of Genya and her Fabrikator love lightened Nina’s heart as they approached the palace walls.

—-

The day after Nina’s return to Ravka, she was called before King Nikolai. Genya had already secured a new kefta for Nina to wear, and she smoothed it nervously as she walked through the King’s throne room.

Darker than the typical Heartrender red by a few shades and embellished with swirling black embroidery along the back, the beautifully-crafted garment belied Nina’s new dark affinity.

The King watched her as she approached with a suppressed grin. Of course he didn’t need to be briefed on the happenings in Ketterdam, as he’d been there himself wearing Sturmhond’s face. But his Grisha Triumvirate was insistent that he continued the ruse, even in the midst of their own trusted Grisha.

“Miss Zenik,” Nikolai said as she came close and sketched a stiff bow. She had always seemed at ease around Sturmhond’s ship, if a bit reserved with the other travelers. It was strange to see her dressed up in the Grisha formal wear with her dark curls piled atop her head. “Squaller Nazyalensky has been filling me in on the events of the last several weeks. It sounds like we have you to thank for the recovery of several expatriate Ravkans, as well as the safety of Kuwei Yul-Bo.”

“Of course I didn’t act alone,” Nina demurred. “And of course it wouldn’t have been possible without Zoya, Genya, and Sturmhond.” Zoya nodded in her direction, but Genya was missing from the room. Nina suspected she and David were still enjoying their reunion at the Little Palace.

“Still, your actions were very admirable in the face of the challenges in Ketterdam. Will you be returning to your role in the Second Army, now that you’ve returned to Ravka?”

Nina rubbed a slippered foot awkwardly on the floor tiles in front of her.

“Actually, Your Majesty, I have a personal matter to attend to first. My -” she cleared her throat uncomfortably. “My close friend lost his life in the fighting in Ketterdam. I wish to return his body to Fjerda as soon as possible.”

The King’s golden eyebrows rose up into his hairline.

“I don’t suppose I need to tell you that Grisha such as yourself are not well-received in Fjerda. We’ve suspended the ships on our northern trade route in light of the tensions abroad. There are of course no passenger ships going out to Fjerda either.”

Nina shook out the stiff cuffs of her kefta.

“I was hoping I might convince Sturmhond to take me actually.” She said quietly. “He seems to have only a sliver of self-preservation. He might not find the trip entirely impossible.”

King Nikolai’s hazel eyes lit up a bit.

“No, I suppose he wouldn’t find it impossible at all. Shall I make a formal request on your behalf?”

Nina’s cool formality lifted like a veil at that.

“Oh, could you?” She looked like a girl again, staring up at him with so much unbridled hope that Nikolai suddenly found it hard to meet her eyes. He shrugged.

“He owes me about a million favors. I’ll send a letter right away.”

“Thank you so much, Your Majesty.”

“Of course,” Nikolai nodded. “If that’s all, then you may go. I’ll be in touch when I hear from Sturmhond.” Nikolai could almost feel Zoya rolling her eyes from beside his dais.

Dismissed, Nina turned to go and the rooms’ torches shone upon the back of her kefta. Black embroidery crept from the hem toward her neck in a dark, swirling riot amid the rich, wine red fabric. The sight sent a shiver up Nikolai’s spine. His fingers itched inside his ever-present gloves. It felt, suddenly, like the twist of scars and the dark shadows in his blood had reared up again. His arms, his chest, the backs of his shoulders suddenly felt too hot, too constricted by his finely tailored clothes. As the dark Heartrender swept from his throne room, Nikolai’s eyes watched her go with an intensity he hadn’t felt in years.

—

Two nights later, Nina had just returned to her room after dinner when there was a knock at her door. Some of her old classmates had been stopping by since her return to hear about her adventures being captured by the druskelle, then gallivanting around Ketterdam for a year.

But when she pulled open the door, Sturmhond was leaning against the door frame.

“Hi,” she said, somewhat awkwardly. His mouth quirked up into a lopsided smile.

“Hi,” he responded. “Uh, can I come in?”

Nina cast a backwards glance at her small room, and shifted to block it from Sturmhond’s line of sight.

“Can you give me a minute?”

“Yeah that’s fine,” but she was already shutting the door in his face.

For someone who arrived in the country with almost no worldly possessions less than a week ago, she had amassed a giant collection of shoes, dresses, tunics, capes, hair ties, and undergarments which were currently strewn across every available surface of her room. There was also more than one serving tray of days-old tea and pastry crumbs haphazardly stacked on the small desk.

Without a second thought, she swept as much of the clutter behind the dressing screen and anything that wouldn’t fit got kicked under the bed. She straightened the quilt across the bed and fluffed a pillow, then her hair. There was no help for her clothes - a drab and ill-fitting tunic and olive leggings, but he had seen her in worse aboard the ship. Her new kefta might have helped a bit, but it was somewhere buried in the heap of clothes relocated to the corner of her room.

With a deep breath, she yanked her door back open. Sturmhond was still lounging in the same position she’d left him in a moment before.

She plastered on her best “House of the White Rose” smile and gestured to the room behind her.

“Come in. Welcome to my humble abode.”

His calculating gaze swept over her room.

“It’s very… homey.”

“Well, we can’t all call a shockingly well-appointed and lavishly furnished pirate ship home.”

“It’s privateer, actually.”

“Alright, shockingly well-appointed and lavishly furnished privateer ship.”

“That has a nice ring to it actually. I’d like that engraved on a plaque,” he said as he perched on the edge of her desk beside a cup of yesterday’s tea with a dead flying floating in it. He poked the cup with one gloved finger and watched the fly slosh around.

“I didn’t know the serious pirate captain could make a joke.” She fixed him with a wicked smile, a challenge.

“Privateer, dear. And I’m not joking. You’ll know when I am because it will be hilarious.” He looked up from the disgusting tea cup and returned her wicked smile. Nina couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up and out into the small space.

“What are you doing here?”

“I heard you had a proposition for me.” His ruddy eyebrows arched into his ginger hairline in an expression that was vaguely familiar. Nina had enough good grace to blush at the innuendo.

“You got the King’s letter?”

“Actually, I showed up before he’d had a chance to send it. But he filled me in and suggested that you wouldn’t be discouraged from the task. He assured me that you were already well aware that your plan to show up in Fjerda was pure madness.”

“I’ve been told you’re an expert at mad plans,” Nina said coyly, picking at the hem of her tunic.

“By whom?” She could hear the smile in his voice without looking at him.

“By the other expert of mad plans.”

“Kaz Brekker, I assume?”

“Of course,” and he looked up to meet her eyes. They were shining with that light again, that hope that he had seen in the throne room. He shook his head to clear his mind.

“He humbles me. We’ll take my smallest and fastest ship.”

“Wait, what?” Her eyes became glassy with unshed tears.

“Honestly, I’d rather take one of the flying craft but the weather that far north is too unpredictable. Maybe if we waited till spring, but still, if we went down in Fjerdan waters and couldn’t get airborne again, we’d be, well, fucked. So a traditional ship is our best bet. We’ll take a skeleton crew and I won’t force any of the Grisha to travel with us. I’ll ask for volunteers, of course, but I can’t guarantee that any of them will want to take the risk. In the last month the situation in Fjerda has become even more unstable.”

“I understand,” Nina said. A relieved tear spilled down her cheek. “Why are you doing this?”

“Well, when the King asks so nicely…”

“Right,” she sniffed, “because you owe him a million favors.”

“Did he say that? Ridiculous. He owes ME a million favors.” Nina shook her head, laughing.

“I guess I don’t really care why you’ve decided to help -” but he cut her off.

“You have a lot of heart, Zenik. I like that. And I think what you’re doing for Matthias is very honorable.” Another tear rolled down her cheek. “I have some business to handle for the King over the next week or so, but I’ll start making preparations for the journey. I’ll send correspondence when I have a better idea of our sail date.”

He hopped off the corner of the desk where he’d been perched and headed for the door. Nina followed, wringing her hands.

“Thank you for this, Sturmhond. Truly.” He shrugged.

“Call me Niko.”

“Niko?” There was a devilish light in his bright green eyes.

“You didn’t think my mother named me Sturmhond, did you?”

“I didn’t know people like you had mothers, actually.”

Sturmhond - no, Niko’s - laughter echoed down the hallway as he walked away, leaving Nina to her small, disheveled room again.

—-

“This is a terrible idea.”

“I haven’t asked for your opinion, Zoya.”

“You’ve barely been back a week and already you want to go off gallivanting for no reason.”

“I still haven’t asked for your opinion, Zoya. And besides, it’s not ‘no reason.’ Not to her. She made a promise.”

“A promise that has nothing to do with you.”

“I like when people keep their promises,” Nikolai insisted stubbornly.

“Believe me, we all do, Nikolai. It doesn’t mean you have to be the one to take her.”

“There’s no one else who can.”

“If it’s truly that dangerous then all the more reason that you shouldn’t go,” Zoya stomped her foot to punctuate her point.

“Do not treat me like a child, Nazyalensky.”

“Then stop acting like one. You’re no longer the spare second son who can waste his time playing pirate captain. Privateer, I know I know. Don’t waste your breath. I shouldn’t have to tell you that you’re the King now and -”

“Yes, and as the King -” But Genya cut him off.

“Can you two stop arguing for a moment so I can concentrate? If you keep scowling like this I’m going to end up marring one of your beautiful features. On accident, of course.” Genya was removing the Sturmhond tailoring he’d asked her to work up a few hours before. Her hands worked across his face, returning his features to that of the King.

Zoya bit her lip and restrained herself for a whole minute before she started talking again.

“Your people need to see you on the throne.”

“My people need many many things from me, Zoya, and I cannot give all of them all of what they want. But in this specific instance, I can give one of my people exactly what she wants. And I’m the only one who can.”

“Are you fucking her, Nikolai?” Genya’s hands on his face stilled.

“Really, Zoya?” Genya said as she shot a critical look at the Squaller.

“I apologize. That was uncouth. Are you making sweet, passionate love to her, Your Majesty?”

“If I was, that would be my business alone. Not a matter for the Triumvirate. But the answer is no.” Genya’s hands stilled on his face. “What? Spit it out Safin.”

“Well, do you want to?” He could have sworn Zoya was biting her lip to keep herself from bursting out laughing.

“Do you two plan ways to gang up on me, or does it just come that naturally to you?”

—-

Nina made her way to the Corporalki workshops the next morning. She was meeting with a Grisha named Annushka who had taken on the task of preparing Matthias’ body for preservation and eventual burial once they returned him to Fjerda.

Nina had once called the Corporalki labs home when she was a student at the Little Palace, and not much had changed. She picked her way to the desk Annushka called hers.

“Nina, it’s great to see you again.”

“Hello, Annushka. I got your message. Did everything go ok?”

“Yes, all went to plan. The body is prepared and one of David’s apprentices brought a box over just yesterday. It will keep the humidity stable aboard the ship to make sure everything stays intact on the journey over.”

Nina swallowed thickly and nodded her thanks. She never imagined she’d be barely an adult and preparing to bury her first love.

“Would you like to see him before we seal the coffin?”

“I - I don’t think so, if that’s alright.” She had said her goodbyes in Ketterdam.

“Of course,” Annushka reached out to grip her hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, Nina.”

“Thank you, Annu.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Nina bit the inside of her cheek. There was something else she was wondering.

“Genya said you would be the best to work with Matthias’ body because you’re particularly well-suited to working with the, um, dead.”

“Yes, I’ve always struck a bit of a balance between the Heartrenders and the Healers. Not interested in killing, but not best equipped for medicine and healing, either.”

“I see,” Nina tapped her foot nervously. She liked Annushka, but she wasn’t sure how much she could confide in the Grisha seated across from her. “As you know, I trained as a Heartrender here a few years ago before leaving to join the Second Army.” Annu nodded. “But recently I’ve found that my power has changed. I’m much more in tune with the dead, than the living. In fact,” she dropped her voice low, “I’ve found that I can actually move the dead.” Annushka, to her credit, kept her expression carefully guarded.

“Bring them back, you mean?”

“Not exactly,” although she remembered the moments that she’d tried and almost succeeded with Matthias. “More like, re-animate. I could cause a corpse to get up and walk around, like a marionette. Have you ever heard of other Heartrenders with such affinities?”

Annushka shook her head.

“Not exactly. My own power is much more limited. In the most basic terms, I can isolate and arrest the decomposition of the dead cells. That’s why I’m well suited to the work you needed done with Matthias. But I’ve heard of others who possess a stronger affinity for working with the dead. Those who can manipulate the appearance of a corpse, extract internal organs for study, or even transplant, from the dead. But nothing as large scale as what you’ve described. To re-animate a corpse.” She let out a low whistle. “The power that must take is astronomical.”

Nina shrugged off the praise.

“Well thank you, Annu, for everything. The work on Matthias’ body, as well as the extra information. I’d appreciate if you could keep this confidential. I’m still working through what my new abilities mean.”

“Of course, Nina. If I hear of anything else on the topic, I’ll let you know.” Nina nodded her thanks again and headed back to her own quarters, with thoughts of Grisha who worked with the dead milling about in her head.

—-

Nina was a little bit drunk. She swayed down the hall laughing with two other Grisha her age, on their way to their rooms. Maybe she was more than a little bit drunk, actually.

Suddenly Naomi beside her froze.

“Why didn’t you tell us you had a tall, red-headed man friend, Zenik?” Sturmhond leaned against the wall across from the door to her room, his gloved hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers.

“Oh him? He’s no one. Just renowned sea captain and scourge of the seas, Sturmhond. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

“Saints, Nina. Send him to my room when you’re done with him, then.” The women giggled as Nina left them behind to approach Sturmhond.

“Did you just call me ‘scourge of the seas’?” He asked her in a low voice as she sauntered toward him. She nodded with a smile. “I take back what I said about calling me Niko. I only want you to call me that from now on.”

Nina laughed and opened the door to her room, gesturing for him to follow.

“Your wish is my command, Most Excellent Pirate Captain, Sir.”

“I like you like this, Zenik.” She turned to him with mischief in her eyes.

“Like what? Drunk? Reeking of kvas and pickled herring? Wearing a low cut dress that barely contains my tits?”

His gaze lowered very slowly to her cleavage and then very slowly back up to her face.

“I was going to say ‘laughing’ but now that you mention it…” She laughed louder at that and stepped away from Sturmhond to reveal the disaster of her room.

“Did you get in a fight with a Squaller? It looks like a tornado came through here. Did the Little Palace fire all of their housekeeping staff?”

“Austerity measures,” she said with a shrug.

“Well I’m glad they’re not skimping on kvas in the dining room, at least. You do smell like liquor and pickled herring, you know.”

“When in Ravka?” He smiled, looking around for a place to sit. With every available flat space covered in clothes and clutter, he sat awkwardly at the end of her unmade bed. She bounced next to him.

“What business, then?”

“The ship and crew are almost ready. We can leave in two days.”

“Wonderful, I’ll start, uh, packing my belongings.”

“You’d better start right away. It looks like it could take a while,” he said surveying the mess.

She leaned in close to him, until her messy curls were nearly brushing his shoulder.

“As soon as I get you out of my bed, I’ll begin.” He loosed a ragged breath and ran one gloved hand over his red hair.

“Are you doing this on purpose to unnerve me?” His gaze was steady on hers.

“Yes. Is it working?”

“Yes!” They laughed together, fierce blushes crossing both of their faces.

“I’ll see you in two days, then.”

“Two days,” he confirmed with a nod.

As she walked him to the door, Nina puzzled over something.

“I thought you were going to send me a letter about the plans,” she said as he started to walk out the door. He paused, shoulders stiffened. Then without turning around to look at her, he shrugged his shoulders.

“I just wanted to see you again.” And then he was gone.

That night, for the first time since Matthias’ death, Nina did not dream of snow and pines and wolves and blue eyes. Instead, on the waves of sleep, she sailed with the green eyes and clever smile of the boy she called the scourge of the seas.

#i wrote a thing #grisha trilogy #grishaverse #nina zenik #sturmhond #nikolai lantsov #Like Calls to Like #things ashley writes

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tumbleon · 8 years ago

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One small step for man. A giant leap for a girl band.

Have you ever returned to a smouldering passion after a long absence?

As a teenager I used to practice the guitar for two hours every night in my suburban bedroom in Libertyville, Illinois. The music was shrouded with such loneliness for a combination of reasons. One, the all girl’s high school I attended was a 20-minute drive away. My friends either boarded or lived in other counties up to two hours away. The girls who played music sang in choruses; I played sports and it clashed. Besides, it was an academic prep school anyway. There were no bands.

My affections for the guitar were based on a love of The Smashing Pumpkins born after witnessing the ‘Tonight Tonight’ music video on a friend’s television when I was 11. I had to sit down, it was so incredible. Later, I vomited after hearing the song on a roller coaster. The stars were clear: our destinies were linked.

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This bald gentleman in the top hat absolutely blew my pre-pubescent mind.

For the next six months I persistently but patiently pestered my father for guitar lessons. If he bought me a guitar, I would practice hours every day, I promised. Eventually he relented, and I did.

Nothing was more fun than playing guitar. Yet music was still a strange and foreign language. I could copy Billy Corgan, but he possessed something that I didn’t. He has a songwriter’s gift. He could hear things, and then find them again on an instrument. I never had that talent. I could only ever aspire to be a support player – a hired hand at best.

Before moving to New York, I promised my guitar teacher – who had introduced me to Led Zeppelin, Rush and Jimi Hendrix and taught me all the intricate finger work therein – that I would still practice two hours a day.

“No you won’t,” he laughed, “and that’s okay.”

My belief was a mix of youthful optimism and ignorance, and my guitar teacher was right.

I spent most of my time at Columbia doing other things – turns out there’s not that many rock bands in the Ivy League either. College graduation, 2006

For the next 12 years I would carry my beloved electric Gibson SG to every place I lived – New York, Auckland, Wellington, Dunedin, and then finally Christchurch. Yet I didn’t play.

(I DID get to meet Billy Corgan in New York though at a Saturday Night Live after-party)

Look at little 19-year-old me, standing next to my idol and everything! I was so happy, in the presence of greatness.

The distance that had grown between the guitar and I slowly became a self-fulfilling prophecy. How could I touch a guitar, when it had been so long – and I only ever knew covers anyway? What was I trying to achieve back in the day, learning all those solos that I didn’t even necessarily like? Besides, if I could play anything I wanted, what would that be? I had no ideas. The people who had things come to mind when they touched instruments were fundamentally different than me. I would watch from the crowd, admiringly.

Meeting Peter Gutteridge on my first day in Dunedin was one of the things that changed that.

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For those unfamiliar with the music of the late great Dunedin musician Peter Gutteridge, here is the fantastic 1988 Snapper song ‘Buddy’

Peter asked if I played – and I wasn’t about to say no to him. However, perhaps the less that is said about what came next, the better. Let’s just say it went as badly as I expected. You know those cartoons where the character is being thrown out of a house onto their butt? Peter didn’t do that, but that’s about how well it went in my head.

The next day I apologised to Peter for being an awful guitar player and asked him if I could show him something that I was good at by reading him some of my novel instead.

“You’re not awful,” Peter replied. “You just don’t take it seriously. That will change, but only if you want it to.”

Recently that had started to change, though not because of what Peter had said. My flatmate Mary was an architect from Pennsylvania who had moved over to Christchurch to be closer to her sister after the earthquakes. In her second year in New Zealand, she started to learn the guitar.

At the time I was still stuck on guitar as something I used to know, “but that was a long time ago” was a mental refrain. Besides, songs were like a foreign language to me. How on earth did someone find something that they wanted to sing? Then one Saturday afternoon I watched Mary struggle with a G chord for what felt like 20 minutes before letting out a deep sigh. “Here, pass that over,” I said. “I can help you with that.” Maybe I couldn’t conjure up everything I used to do, but I could play a G chord. My fiance Geof had a crap guitar lying around that the guy from Dashboard Confessional had abandoned at his last flat. I picked it up and started strumming. “What are you learning?”

In a matter of weeks we were playing covers of just about anything, no matter how embarrassing – we learned Poison and Kylie Minogue. We taught ourselves songs written by Max Martin, Stars, Lana del Rey.

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Our favourite Kylie Minogue song to play: 2 Hearts, written by two UK girls in an electro-clash band called Kish Mauve

There was a piano in our flat given to us by a neighbour who had heard my flatmate’s band practising in our shed and asked if we would like one. His brother had it in a truck, he said. It was the oldest functioning piano the tuner had seen in Christchurch. It was a German Fuerich, from 1880s. Someone had brought it over to Canterbury on a boat 130 years ago.

You can tell the age of a piano by the location of its strings – they don’t make ‘em like this anymore

The piano had sat untouched for a few years, but I had recently started to stab my way through some Lana del Rey songs just for the joy of playing along with Mary.

After Peter’s death I drifted past the piano again. I used to love the way Peter would throw down his hands on his piano as he passed it in the hall. The most beautiful sounds would come soaring out, and my heart would soar right along with them. The second day after his death, I drifted past the piano in sadness, wishing that he was there to throw his hands onto it.

Peter Gutteridge recording on the piano at Chick’s Hotel c. 2012 or abouts. Photo courtesy of Stuart Page (I think...)

“It sounded like this,” I said to myself, and threw my hands down… And something came out. Make no mistake, it sounded rudimentary compared to what Pete could pull off. It sounded absolutely nothing like what he did. But also, it didn’t sound that bad. I played what it sounded like to miss him.

Later that week Peter’s friends gathered at a hall to drink and remember him and play music. Guitars and amplifiers and synthesisers were strewn across a stage, inviting people to come up and play. I stared at the stage.

“Looks like they need a singer,” Nikolai, a boy I had met early that day said. Yet I was frozen.

“Come on, it’s not that hard,” a girl named Bex implored. “You only need to know two chords. I’ll go up if you go up.”

Still, I didn’t. As the band played, an essay that I had written about Peter turned into a chant in my head.

Some lyrics written when I was supposed to be working in Auckland, November 2014

A few months later, I set it against two chords. Mary loved it.

At times our covers nights had turned into long conversations about life. By the summer we started discussing melodies and coming up with bits of lyrics. Almost a year after we had started playing together, we vowed to play live by the end of the year. It was 2015. We didn’t. Once that year ended, we didn’t even shift our goal a month or two – oh no. We kept it as is: “by the end of the year”.

December came around sooner than we expected. We played one Open Mic: two covers, two originals. In January, a friend moved into the flat and took up the bass. We were now a force of three. In February, we played again. Our goals grew: Instead of playing live, we wanted to play at the Darkroom. Not by the end of the year: by June.

The Darkroom is a bar in a corner of the Four Avenues in Christchurch that opened in late 2011. It was one of the town’s first replacements for GoodBye Blue Monday and the Dux de Lux after the earthquakes either red-stickered or crumbled just about every building.

A bad phone photo take while roaming the rubble of my new hometown Christchurch round midnight in late 2011.

On an average night it holds anywhere between 12 and 50 people.

It opened a few days before I moved up to Christchurch from Dunedin for a job editing the student magazine at the University Of Canterbury. As a transplant from the United States, I wasn’t certain why they wanted me. Editors should know something about the town they are representing.

“That’s probably what they want,” the boy leaving the job said. “You don’t have any impressions of what had been.”

I had a few. One was stopping at some mall in the suburbs to use the bathroom while rolling around with some other study abroad students when I was 20. Back then I only saw fluorescent lights, suburban sprawl and concrete.

It took crossing paths with the surf rock band Thought Creature in 2010 to see a different side of Christchurch. Prior to moving to Wellington that year, I trawled through MySpace blog profiles of local bands and came across Thought Creature and their 2008 album Teleport Palace. I liked it.

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2008 Thought Creature single ‘Your Telepathy’, off Teleport Palace

Later that year I was surprised to come across the band in the midst of writing an article about Full Moon Fiasco, a band born somewhat out of Thought Creature’ ashes (that has since followed Will to Berlin). The band liked the piece I wrote about them, and the lead singer Will Rattray invited me on their South Island tour a week or so later.

Full Moon Fiasco South Island tour van somewhere on the West Coast, August 2010

They showed me a new Christchurch: a place of gorgeous bars and lazy afternoons filled with record stores, op shops and hauling amps. It was trampolines and breakfasts of eggs benedict.

Since that tour almost all of us have moved to the South Island: Danny Brady, the more organised half of Thought Creature and the sound engineer on the Full Moon Fiasco tour...

Danny Brady of Thought Creature (and Full Moon Fiasco sound man) tries on drummer Isaac Mawson’s hat in the back of the Full Moon Fiasco tour van in Franz Josef, August 2010

Erica Sklenars aka Lady Lazer Light, who manned the spinning wheel and visual effects for the band...

Erica Sklenars aka Lady Lazer Light showing off one of the wolf masks she created for The All-Seeing Hand’s stage show at Camp A Low Hum outside Wellington in 2014.

And Alice Macklow, who held down the keys for Full Moon Fiasco.

Full Moon Fiasco keyboardist Alice Macklow outside Goodbye Blue Monday in Christchurch, August 2010

After one of the gigs at Chicks Hotel in Dunedin the bar stayed open and we stayed late. As several members of the band and the audience droned on various instruments, Alice held out a guitar to me. I silently shook my head. I couldn’t imagine playing without somehow destroying everything.

Six years have passed since then.

This March, another member joined the band: another girl, a new flatmate in Dunedin who had dabbled in drums and synths.

In March, a friend from Auckland said she was bringing her back down for South Island tour and, and did we know any bands that they could play with at the darkroom?

It took me half an hour and a promise to think about it before it came to mind: “Hey, we could play with you!”

Brenda knew the Peter Gutteridge song; she had played along with it in a shipping container in her boyfriend’s backyard up in Auckland. Not another song required: we were booked.

“We don’t have a name yet,” I apologised.

“That’s all right,” she replied. “I’ll just put down PGX for now.”

That night around the whole kitchen table, the band discussed the name and liked it.

June is now approaching fast. Yet playing at the darkroom really shouldn’t be such a big deal. After all, almost all of our friends have played on that stage. It’s a step up, but not one you can’t do.

Besides, the gig is over Queens Birthday – the last long weekend in months. Few people stay in the city.

Or maybe you’re like us and stay at home making cakes for Queen Elizabeth over Queens Birthday weekend.

Sure, we had all been at gigs where the darkroom is packed with a hundred people – but I’ve also been to midwinter gigs at the darkroom where I was one of only four or five people in the audience. Despite being within the Four Avenues, the darkroom is part of a post-quake environment. In common parlance, it’s surrounded almost entirely by gravel lots. It’s an industrial area that only slightly improved when Space Academy opened across the street. Foot traffic is still nearly non-existent. In order to get to the darkroom, you have know where you’re going. Attending a gig at the darkroom requires an intention.

My friend Paul from Melbourne stood next to me at the gig that only had four or five people one winter. “This is odd,” he said of the number of people in the room. “In Beijing, even on a quiet night a bar like this would be full. Because there’s just so many people.”

We are the residents of the rebuild.

That means that if the band isn’t a big draw card, or if there’s too much hail, or rain, or there’s just something else going on in the city that pulls the usual suspects away, not many people may swing by.

That’s why the darkroom stage was one small step – a small box, really. It was nothing.

Yet for us, it was huge. I thought about all my friends from the tour who had moved to the South Island, who taught me to look at the islands in such a way where I saw the darkroom, where I saw the bands, where I wanted to play.First up, the darkroom. Then, Dunedin. The Biscuits are taking us down to The Crown in Dunedin the next day.

Three little letters at the bottom, just our first gig, no big deal.

“I haven’t really invited anyone yet,” our drummer Jenny said. “Maybe I’ll see how the darkroom goes first.”

Erica disagreed. “Invite everyone!” she cried.

People say that The Clean were a bit loose when they first played, but people heard something interesting and so gave them a chance anyway. I hope they’ll be as lenient with us.

Tonight I was supposed to be on a plane bound for Dunedin. I’m taking a relocation car down the next morning instead. The band is together, and we need to fit in as many practices as we can. I’m taking it seriously.

Our setlist is still a bit loose at the moment. There are a few gaps. But we always play the song about Peter – and we always save it for last.

#Dunedin #Christchurch #NewZealand #rockmusic #SouthIsland #girlband

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