#just. stunning. no notes. favorite scholar.

[emcads]

marcus rediker is required reading for this blog. go do your pirate homework.

[ceneid]

#love you always and forever. || ft. various genshin men

pairing : gn! reader x various genshin men

synopsis : their love language(s), and how they'll show it to you in little (or big) ways, never failing to make your heart, and you, swoon.

cw : fluff, fluff, fluff, and fluff, + akademiya scholar reader in wanderers :3

author's notes : sighhhhhh quick write no. two here we go because i love keefe sm SAJKSDVJHKSDV + i think my favoritism towards some characters show .. GUYS GUYS I TRIED TO KEEP THE WC EVEN I SWEAR 😭

✧.* - diluc.

diluc's love language would be a mix of both acts of service and gift giving. he would be on the scale of quality time, but as a wine business owner, he doesn't have too much time to spend with you. of course, he would always spend whatever time he does have with you, making sure to do whatever you want him to do. want to go to good hunter with him? sure, let him let adeline know where the two of you are going. want to have a picnic together? of course, let him firstly go to starsnatch cliff himself to clear it of any hilichurls first. want to just do none of that and simply cuddle with him for a good few hours? always, just let him take a shower and change into his sleepwear first so you'd be comfortable. but a majority of the time, he would send you little gifts with handwritten notes. no matter what the gift was, you always cherished it, and you could always tell that diluc poured whatever he couldn't say to your face onto the piece of paper. the notes were never short and blunt; they were always long, and you could tell each word was well-thought over to make sure that you couldn't take offense to them in any way. all in all, this red-headed lover wouldn't be the most available, but he would show you what he can of his love for you through what was available to him.

✧.* - kaeya.

kaeya's love language would be a fair mix of both words of affirmation and gift-giving, the second much like his brother's. compliments would fall from his lips like waterfalls; almost never-ending, and always about you, his dearest lover. he talks about how pretty you are, how absolutely stunning you are, how absolutely charming you are.. ahhh, if he could, he would never end. he doesn't talk about you with just you, of course- why shouldn't the entirety of mondstadt know? you're absolutely perfect, and kaeya doesn't see why you're embarrassed of him talking about how perfect you are to other people. you deserve all of the compliments in the world, and he wouldn't have it any other way. if he's away on a mission, not being able to physically be there with you to keep you company, then he'll resort to gift giving. of course, he already gives gifts to you weekly; it's quite rare for him to not give you a gift. however, while he's gone, do expect the gifts to expand by at least 10 more things. whether it be little souvenirs to things that you're pretty sure would cost at least 10,000 mora, he doesn't care how much he spends if it's you. you deserve the world, and he'll do his absolute best to give you exactly that.

✧.* - wanderer.

wanderer obviously isn't one to fit into the words of affirmation scale; instead, he'd fit more into the quality time and acts of service scale. he may not say or show it, but he secretly absolutely loves it when you take a break from your stressful, seemingly never-ending schedule to spend a day entirely with him. it makes him feel loved, like he always does when he's with you. he both hates and loves the feeling of love; he hates how he feels when he's not with you, and doesn't like the way that he always seems to light up whenever he's in your lovely presence. however, he's addicted to this feeling known as 'love', and he doesn't think that he'd ever willingly give it up for anything. quality time to him is like a breeze on a warm day; relaxing and soothing. every single time he's able to experience some quality time with you, he wishes that he could stay in that moment forever. moments of when you and him laid on a grassy hill and stared up at the cloud-filled sky, hands entwined between the both of you, are stuck in his head, and he doesn't think he can ever let that memory of that moment go. in order to show you his love for you, he shows it in acts of service. little things such as checking up on you whenever you study for more than two or three hours at once ("you stupid idiot. you've been sittin' there for the past two hours; are you mentally sane, or do you need me to come help you as always?"), or giving you a bottle of water when he and you are studying in one of the akademiya's many libraries together ("you better make sure that you're always hydrated. i don't want to be the one cursed to drag your passed out body to the clinic,"), are his to-gos. he'll try his best with acts of service since his words of affirmation aren't really.. affirming. but for you, he'll try his best. he promises.

✧.* - alhaitham.

the acting grand scribe of the akademiya is a quite reserved man; but reserved or not, everyone turns out to have a love language, and his turns out to be gift giving and quality time. since he works quite a tedious career, he doesn't always have time for you, and you know that. he told you before you started dating, wanting to be sure that you were okay with it. and okay with it you were, as long as alhaitham always made sure to make at least a few hours per few days or so in his busy schedule to spend them with you. and he did exactly that. he went to sleep and woke up with you; he and you would eat all of your meals together. breakfast and dinner at home, and then he would always make sure that his schedule was always cleared at 1-2 p.m. for you to come over with lunch for you and him to eat. he doesn't really care whether it's homemade or takeout; as long as it's from you, then he's perfectly content with it. he makes up for those days where he can barely spend any time with you by sending or giving you gifts; they can range anywhere from a bouquet of pretty flowers to a new necklace for you, the diamond, or whichever jewel that you like, always shining - probably costing at least 180,000 mora. oh, well, - alhaitham doesn't really care anyways. really, as long as it's you, he'll do everything he can in his power to keep you happy.

✧.* - xiao.

the vigilant guardian yaksha loves you, truly. he loves you to such that he's willing to show you almost all of the love languages here and there. sure, some may be more common than others - such as acts of service - but that doesn't mean that he'll neglect the other ones. acts of service is most commonly seen from this stoic lover of yours; it can range anywhere from him doing his job ( killing monsters that are on your path; you'll just tell him that you'd manage perfectly fine on your own, but he always insists by stubbornly saying that 'I just want you to be safe. If you get hurt, and I knew that I could've prevented it, I.. I don't know what I'd do.' - you always cave at the end and just pecks him on his lips as a reward ) to pulling a chair out for you to sit on whenever the two of you go out to eat ( it's not very often, but whenever it does occur, he always makes sure to be as polite as possible for you to enjoy it. ). second on the list would be quality time. xiao loves time being spent with you; he cherishes every second of it. to him, every second spent in your presence is a second equal to the feeling of pure bliss. nothing else on your minds aside than him in yours and you in his whilst the two of you relax on his bed, his head in your lap while you card your hand soothingly through his hair, is the definition of perfection to him. he loves every second spent with you, and he lets you know this through words of affirmation. on some more difficult nights for you, when you're overcome with stress or anything, he'll hug you tightly and whisper nothing but reassurances into your ear. he may not be the best comforter in the whole of teyvat, but he'll try for you. if that isn't enough to make you completely let go of the stress for the day, then after you fall asleep, he'll go to liyue harbor to buy a little gift for you. the gift is usually in the shape of jewelry; from anklets to necklaces, you'll have a complete set on your bedside table the next day after that, found with a note from xiao stating how he'll be back with breakfast in just a few minutes for you. he loves you, and he'll make sure that you know that in different ways.

✧.* - lyney.

the great magician of fontaine that goes by the name of lyney shows his love to you in a multitude of ways. no, he won't just stick to the five love languages; he'll show his love and loyalty to you through anything he can. even though this annoyingly charming man normally uses words of affirmation to worm his way into your heart (again, and again, and again, and again..), he'll try to balance the others out. physical touch would be a close second, as for he'll have a hand on you at almost any time he's in your presence. standing beside him? expect his hand to either be in yours or on your hip. sitting down beside him, trying to relax? he'll sneak an arm around your waist. just laying in bed, no one completely asleep yet? he'll be playing with your hair. lyney loves you, and he'll try to show some more of it through gifting you gifts. those said gifts normally range anywhere from a dessert or two from café lucerne to a full, blown out new wardrobe of clothes- he always says that he has more than enough mora to spare. when you try to argue, though, he'll just say that there's nothing that makes he himself happier than seeing you happy. if that doesn't work and then you're still lightheartedly angry at him for spending that much mora on you, he'll ask you out on a little date, helping you here and there- opening the door for you to enter first, sliding the chair out for you to sit in- he'll try that for you to forgive him. if both plan a and b failed? then he'll resort to the last possible option: tickle war, a perfectly fun way of spending quality time with you. at the end, you always do forgive him in one way or another.

© ceneid 2024. please do not copyy, repost, or translate.

[letarasstuff]

Ranting

(A/N): This was requested by an anon, I hope you like it :)

Summary: In the middle of midterms, Spencer's daughter has enough and for the first time in her life, she rants to the team

Warnings: one swear word, school, school stress, mental breakdown, shitty friends, a bit of angst (but there is fluff to balance that out), weird grammatical sentences that are according to google correct

Wordcount: 2.3k

✨Masterlist✨ _____________________________ As a teenager, Spencer was pretty closed off. But this had several reasons, like being a child (or moreover a teen prodigy) at college and getting his first Ph.D, or that he hadn’t had a safety net of people he could have gone to. So as he became a father himself, he tried everything possible to assure his own daughter that her feelings and thoughts are always welcome and valid.

Unfortunately (Y/N) herself has developed the same habit starting high school and ever since Spencer can’t do anything to get her to open up to him. It’s not like they don’t have a good relationship, they have one of the strongest father-daughter bonds the BAU has ever witnessed. The girl simply has other ways to cope with her feelings and how to act them out in the safety of her own four walls. Her father learned to accept it, knowing that he can’t and won’t force her to talk to him.

So what follows now not only shocked Spencer. But also his work family.

It’s the time every teen in high school dreads: Midterms.

A word a teacher can mutter and a shiver goes through the rows of students in the classroom. Or at least it feels like it to (Y/N). She takes her school work very seriously. In her mind every single grade determines her future.

The rational part in her knows that the grades in her sophomore year doesn’t matter. That they are even long forgotten when she graduates. There is just so much pressure on her. But it isn’t coming from her father.

Spencer is pretty laid-back regarding school. He knows his daughter is trying her best and that it’s just the tenth grade and not the end of the world. School is not everything life has to offer, especially he has to know it as a scholar and profiler flying through the country in a jet back and forth.

It’s (Y/N)’s classmates, who pressure her to get good grades.

“We depend on you and your notes”, Tyler exclaims as he jogs next to her through the busy hallway. “Ty, I know. But I don’t have the time to get them done for all of you to understand by tomorrow. They are still a mess that only I know to see through. I still have to finish my history project and I go to my Dad’s work this afternoon, which means I won’t get much done and I still have to do the homework I got today before sorting my notes for the test in two days.”

At her locker, the boy still doesn’t let go of the subject. “Do you want to say that our grades don’t matter as much as yours? Because this would be a true selfish statement.” Maybe it is the lack of sleep, because she pulled three all-nighters in two weeks, or the fact that she is slowly getting fed up being treated like an unpaid private teacher, but (Y/N) can’t stop her sassy answer. “Tyler, you wouldn't even know how to tell apart your ass from your head if it weren’t for me and my help in biology. You wouldn’t even know how to spell selfish if I didn’t let you copy my answers in spelling tests in elementary school.”

Done with the day and her friend’s shit, she slams the door of her locker shut and leaves a flabbergasted boy behind. Half an hour later the teenager enters the bullpen with her visitor badge clipped to the pocket of her sweater.

On the way there she was fuming. The audacity of her friends. It’s not only Tyler, who tried to get her notes of a unit, she was the only one listening, even though the teacher said loud and clear that this will be important for midterms. A few other friends out of the group she usually hangs out with texted her the same question of when her notes will be given to them. Understandably, (Y/N) comes into the office in the worst mood anyone from the team ever saw, including her own father.

“Hey Sweetheart”, he tries to greet her with a hug. Even though both of them are not big on touch, they are extra affectionate with people they are close to.

To everybody’s surprise, the girl takes a step back, effectively avoiding his open arms. “Hey”, she grumbles out before taking a seat in the chair already waiting for her. Nobody is allowed to sit in this one, except for her. Not even Derek has ever put his butt on this one, knowing the sacredness of it.

Without sparing anyone another glance, (Y/N) gets the needed stuff for that history project out and continues working on it. The team resorts to throwing a questiongly look to Spencer, who shrugs his shoulders with a look of despair. So everyone resumes their work without even daring to say a word.

The general silence is occasionally broken by an unnerved sigh leaving the teenager’s lips. “Is the conference room occupied?” She asks, her voice clearly showing how annoyed she is. Her father shakes his head. “No, not that I know of. Do you need help with your school work?” This is obviously the wrong thing to say. “Do I look like a baby? I don’t need anyone to help with that, I have been going to school for ten years now, I think I can handle this project as perfectly fine as I did since day one. It’s just your keyboard typing that will be the reason for my first grey hairs if I don’t get out of here soon.”

Quickly (Y/N) gathers her stuff and storms off into the conference room. Immediately the team crowds her father’s desk. “What happened?” “Who hurt her?” “Go, talk to her!”

“Guys, I don’t know what’s going on. I’m at the same loss as all of you. The only thing I know is that (Y/N) is under pressure, because it’s midterms. But judging by the way she reacted, I don’t want to go near her. It’s safer to try to defuse a bomb than talk to her in that mood. Last time I saw something similar, her favorite show was declared finished, got a revival and then didn’t get one and nobody mentioned it again. She was so mad, I think it took three years of her life.” A silence of uncertainty spreads through the room.

“What about we give her some room until she calms down?” JJ suggests, being unsure herself how to deal with a teenage girl. But the rest agrees and goes back to filling out their paperwork.

This continues for about 20 minutes, till a loud bang and a frustrated scream is heard followed by “DON’T THEY WANT TO GET IT OR ARE THEY JUST STUPID?!” Alerted by that, seven people (yes, even Dave and Aaron leave their offices, while Penelope was already in the bullpen) storm into the round table room only to see a more than outraged (Y/N).

“Sweetheart”, Spencer speaks to her in the gentlest voice they ever heard from him and slowly moves towards his daughter, “What’s going on?”

Her response is delayed by several deep breaths she has to take in order to be able to talk without seething. “ALL OF MY SO CALLED FRIENDS ARE ASKING ME FOR MY NOTES, like do I look like a personal tutor? And when I tell them that I got a life, a life outside of school and grades, because otherwise I go completely bananas, just like all of you say, they get mad. Now they act like I’m the most selfish person in the whole world. I’m so done, can’t they understand that they are old enough to take care of their own stuff? I’m not responsible for them, their grades or anything regarding their lives. Otherwise I would be the mother of at least four toddlers and one baby and at the age of sixteen I’m not ready for that kind of responsibility. I know friends are there for eachother, and I really don’t mind helping them from time to time. But what they are doing is terror. Terror.

“Oh and don’t get me started on their tormention if I get something lower than an A-. Then they suddenly transform into geniuses, like they suddenly know everything possible. Of course, I’m the dumb one. I should have studied more.

“I am under an insane amount of pressure, because I know they rely on me, but enough is enough. I tell them that if anyone asks me for anything school related again and they act like I owe them an answer, I’ll cut off all ties to all of them. What am I, a roboter just there for their needs, without some of my own?”

After her long rant, (Y/N) takes a couple more breaths. It’s pretty much the only sound right now, because the team is stunned. None of them heard her talking, no ranting, like that. Not even her Spencer has seen her like that.

Realizing what she just said, the teenager fidgets nervously with her hands. “I’m, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, you know, blow up like that. I, I really don’t know where this came from.” Nervously she scratches the back of her head. It really wasn’t her intention to let it out like that. Her plan was just to come home tonight and deal in the confinement of her own four walls with all of her feelings. It’s easier to be honest to yourself when you are alone than having an audience watching you losing it.

Suddenly (Y/N) finds herself engulfed in a massive bear hug. “Oh, my sweet sweet summerchild. You needed to rant to us and I’m so happy you did. Even though your uhm, friends, sound like big douchebags, we can help you sort something out”, Penelope tells her while keeping her arms around the teen.

“Just like lil mama said, we are here for you, Baby Reid. Don’t ever be afraid to tell us something, may it even be as small as you having stubbed your toe.” Morgan ruffles her hair and gives her a reassuring smile.

Just like them everybody shows her their support, be it encouraging words or affectionately gestures. Rossi invites her to a calm and quiet dinner at his mansion, cooking class included. Hotch assures her that she will get through this rough patch, with or without these fake people. JJ suggests (Y/N) comes over to her home and she can participate in a family game night at their home.

When it’s Emily’s turn, she makes sure to get her message loud and clear by looking the teen in the eyes (not as deep as it sounds, because some people make an intense stare really uncomfortable): “If those kids give you a hard time again, tell me. I’ll pay them a visit in classic protective godmother fashion, because nobody traits MY godchild like this. Just give me their names and I’ll handle the rest.” Obviously she doesn’t say this aloud in front of everyone, else Hotch will have her head, knowing she goes through with her threats. Instead she whispers it into the teen’s ear. Still, it makes (Y/N) smile, having such a strong support net.

Sensing the family’s need for time of their own to talk about the whole situation, the team leaves the room. Spencer gestures to her to take a seat after moving two chairs opposite each other. He wants her not to feel trapped.

“Do you still want to talk about it? It doesn’t have to be now, we can do it tonight, tomorrow, in a week or in a month. Just, please don’t shut me out. I know it’s difficult to be a teenager, especially in times like these. But it won’t do you any good keeping all of this for yourself. Today you took it out through anger. How will it look next time?

I don’t want to pressure you into talking. We don’t need to. We can find other coping mechanisms. We can try and reduce your stress. Anything. But we both know that this is not the right way.” While speaking, he takes his daughter’s hand, making her look up to him.

(Y/N) nods. Her eyes fill with tears. “I just can’t keep going like this.” She whispers, feeling all the stress, pressure and the intensity of the last few weeks crashing down on her. Quickly Spencer gathers her in his arms, letting her cry in his embrace.

After calming down, she looks up to her father with bloodshot eyes. “We can talk tonight. But I need you to do me a favor.” “Anything”, he assures her, stroking a hand along her back. “I, uhm, I need a new phone. I may or may not have thrown mine against the wall after getting a text from Tyler.”

Spencer looks at the crooked cell laying on the floor, the screen cracked. “I think we can get that sorted”, he tells her with a smile and gives her a kiss on the forehead.

The two of them leave the office earlier, having many things to talk about and many problems to solve. But with the help of her family (Y/N) gets through this, a time where people unfortunately only like her for her smarts and not being herself.

Taglist:

All works:

@dindjarinsspouse @big-galaxy-chaos @jswessie187 @kneelforloki

Criminal Minds:

@averyhotchner @mggsprettygirl @herecomesthewriterwitch @ash19871962 @ellyhotchner

[unolvrs]

hi uno! do you have any book recommendations?

yes! though, i haven't read much books for a long time because of school and maybe lots of these are ones you've read before. but here are most of what i like! i’ll just drop three recommendations for now!

please ask me for anime and manga recommendations.

the temple of the golden pavilion

“Mizoguchi, an ostracized stutterer, develops a childhood fascination with Kyoto’s famous Golden Temple. While an acolyte at the temple, he fixates on the structure’s aesthetic perfection and it becomes the one and only object of his desire. But as Mizoguchi begins to perceive flaws in the temple, he determines that the only true path to beauty lies in an act of horrendous violence. Based on a real incident that occurred in 1950, The Temple of the Golden Pavilion brilliantly portrays the passions and agonies of a young man in postwar Japan, bringing to the subject the erotic imagination and instinct for the dramatic moment that marked Mishima as one of the towering makers of modern fiction.”

rating: 5/5, goodreads: the temple of the golden pavilion

opinion: still one of my most favorite works of all time. as you all know, this was based on a real story of a buddhist monk burning down the golden temple, kinkaku-ji. the way the burning was written was so stunning and i continuously reference it in multiple works of mine such as among dawn flowers (the face of god) and today, i, too, because of it’s stunning imagery and the meaning behind the whole story.

the diving pool by ogawa youko

“From Akutagawa Award-winning author Yoko Ogawa comes a haunting trio of novellas about love, fertility, obsession, and how even the most innocent gestures may contain a hairline crack of cruel intent. A lonely teenage girl falls in love with her foster brother as she watches him leap from a high diving board into a pool—a peculiar infatuation that sends unexpected ripples through her life. A young woman records the daily moods of her pregnant sister in a diary, taking meticulous note of a pregnancy that may or may not be a hallucination—but whose hallucination is it, hers or her sister's? A woman nostalgically visits her old college dormitory on the outskirts of Tokyo, a boarding house run by a mysterious triple amputee with one leg.”

rating: 4.5/5, goodreads: the diving pool

opinion: as an afab, this appealed to me in a way a few books did. ogawa-sensei wrote three short stories about a teenager, a college student, and an adult woman to portray the perspective of a woman, and god, was it so beautiful and painfully real. the characters are unique in their own ways, and do some irredeemable stuff as well, but that’s what makes everything so beautiful. you know the feeling when you’re in a pool or at the very least, underwater, and everything is quiet but heavy? that’s what reading this felt like.

a monster calls by patrick ness

“At seven minutes past midnight, thirteen-year-old Conor wakes to find a monster outside his bedroom window. But it isn't the monster Conor's been expecting - he's been expecting the one from his nightmare, the nightmare he's had nearly every night since his mother started her treatments. The monster in his backyard is different. It's ancient. And wild. And it wants something from Conor. Something terrible and dangerous. It wants the truth.”

rating: 10/10, goodreads: a monster calls

opinion: i cried. i sobbed. i shat myself. there’s a movie and it’s also stunning. that’s all.

lolita by vladmir nabokov

“Humbert Humbert - scholar, aesthete and romantic - has fallen completely and utterly in love with Dolores Haze, his landlady's gum-snapping, silky skinned twelve-year-old daughter. Reluctantly agreeing to marry Mrs Haze just to be close to Lolita, Humbert suffers greatly in the pursuit of romance; but when Lo herself starts looking for attention elsewhere, he will carry her off on a desperate cross-country misadventure, all in the name of Love. Hilarious, flamboyant, heart-breaking and full of ingenious word play, Lolita is an immaculate, unforgettable masterpiece of obsession, delusion and lust.”

rating: ... 0/5 for the main character but 5/5 for the writing, goodreads: lolita

opinion: i’m sure many of you have heard of this book and have some opinions about it. humbert humbert is disgusting and dolores definitely deserves a lot more than what she went through with him. don’t get me wrong. i despise the main character with all my heart but this is such a well-written and beautifully-written book that i still come back to it every now and then to get some inspiration. it shows very good characterization and how an unreliable narrator can affect the perspective of the readers and the whole story in general. in literature’s perspective, it’s amazing. so beautiful, but vladimir nobokov didn’t read this to glorify or romanticize humbert humbert but to show how disgusting he is.

also, if any of you are planning to purchase this, i highly suggest buying the ones with a cover that doesn’t cater to the male gaze like certain body parts of a child, because that makes it seem like dolores was enticing humbert when it’s not. anyway, i hope you read it! but it’s okay if you don’t too. my copy of it has the same cover that caters to the male gaze because it’s hard to find one that doesn’t!

i was supposed to recommend some more like but my whole draft wasn’t saved for some reason :””) 

[fancytrinkets]

Necromancy (The Western Approach)

Note: This is just me trying to reconcile the game mechanics of necromancy with how necromancy is written about in the codices... Not sure if I get it right, but it’s an attempt. Also, this scene is written as Dorian/Inquisitor, but honestly when you take this piece out of context, if you really want to read this as pre-relationship Adoribull — or else as the start of Dorian/Inquisitor/Bull — you totally could and I would support you.

Shit.

The thought flashes through Trevelyan's mind at the exact moment he feels the nerves prickle across the palm of his hand. From the noise behind him — a sudden whoosh like the rushing of wind or water — he knows that a rift has just opened. He doesn't need to look to confirm it, but he does anyway, hoping against hope that he won't see demons yet. But of course there are.

"Shit!" he says, counting four wisps and an arcane horror.

"Not good," Bull says through gritted teeth as he takes stock of the change in their situation.

He's been holding his own against two Venatori warriors. Neither opponent can match his strength and skill. But it's two against one and they're both relying on the unfaltering strength of their barriers. Three spellbinder mages are keeping them shielded. They're also carpeting the ground underfoot with fire and ice glyphs — very dangerous if stepped on.

Trevelyan and Dorian have been dispelling everything — barriers, glyphs, and ambient hostile magic — as quickly as they can. All the while, they're casting and recasting barriers with frantic speed to keep their own party shielded. But it means they can't launch aggressive attacks of their own.

If they could take out even one of those spellbinders, they'd gain an immediate advantage. And Sera's been trying. She's targeting the mages and hoping for a lucky hit. But the spellbinders are all reinforcing each other, and her arrows glance harmlessly off each renewed barrier.

As soon as the rift opens, she spins, aims, and starts picking off wisps one by one.

"Look out!" she says.

Trevelyan turns just in time to see the arcane horror cast its spell. Spurred on by a rush of nerves, he jumps aside as a green burst of deadly energy spirals past him. It hits one of the Venatori warriors to devastating effect. The remnants of a barrier spell burn away to nothing. Thick plate armor is sundered and the warrior staggers, struggles to remain standing, and then collapses.

"Maker," Trevelyan says, breathing the word with effort and relief.

That could easily have been him lying dead in the sand. No question about it, that arcane horror needs to be dealt with — and since its weakness is the spirit magic he wields with his spectral blade, he's their best chance at stopping it quickly.

Though I wouldn't mind if it takes down another couple of Venatori first.

It's a passing thought, nothing more than a flash of grim humor to ease the reality of death on the battlefield. But then, with sudden clarity, he knows exactly what they have to do. He snaps his fingers at Dorian, catching his attention, then points to the arcane horror.

"Spirit mark," he says.

A flash of recognition crosses Dorian's face, and without a word, he casts behind them. His magic hits the arcane horror, marking it to entice the lesser spirits when it falls.

"Yours now!" he calls out, because what's next is to kill this thing, and he, too, knows that Trevelyan can do it better than anyone.

And so Trevelyan takes a breath, casts his Fade cloak, and then charges towards it unseen. He reemerges into the world with a burst of damaging energy. It stuns his enemy for a second and allows him to follow up with four swift hits from his spectral blade. He's grown more powerful thanks to frequent practice, and the arcane horror doesn't stand a chance. The demon falls, destroyed, and immediately rises up again, lit by the purple glow of necromancy. Guided by Dorian's magic, it sets to work targeting one Venatori after another.

When it's all over — when their enemies lie dead and the rift is sealed — Dorian jogs over to talk to Trevelyan. He's grinning with pure delight.

"Excellent thinking! I'm impressed," he says. "Most people don't know it's possible."

"What do you mean?" Trevelyan asks, because he's not really sure what Dorian's on about.

"Ah," Dorian says, launching straight into explanatory mode, "yes, well, as everyone knows, a lesser spirit isn't typically strong enough take on the powers of an arcane horror once you've vanquished the original pride spirit possessing the mage's corpse. But, if you've got an extremely masterful necromancer like me around..."

His voice trails off, and his expression changes from jubilant to concerned.

"Oh, I see," he says. "You didn't even realize, did you?"

"Probably not?" Trevelyan's not still quite not sure what he's missing.

Dorian chuckles, though he doesn't seem amused.

"I turned an arcane horror for you. That's impressive magic. Not just anyone can do it. And you didn't even know enough about necromancy to realize that."

Trevelyan winces.

"No, I guess not."

The Circle didn't teach him about necromancy at all. As a topic, it wasn't banned; it was simply omitted. Everything he understands about it now is from Dorian having explained it to him. And for the first time, Trevelyan realizes how frustrating and lonesome that must be. Dorian is a researcher, a true intellectual with interests spanning several fields of advanced theoretical magic. He deserves to have a community of scholars around him. But all he has here is basic battlemagic and frequent treks through the wilderness.

"Well, never mind, it all worked out," Dorian says.

He looks around, spots a flat rock nearby, and sits down to unlace his boots and pour the sand out of them. It's obvious he's annoyed.

"What am I even saying?" he asks. "Of course it worked out. You're the luckiest bastard I've ever met. Everything works out for you."

Trevelyan sighs, still feeling sheepish in his ignorance, and digs in his pocket for the hair tie he borrowed from Varric earlier. The wind is picking up, and even with the relative protection of a hooded cloak, his hair keeps blowing across his face. It's been bothersome.

He's busy tying it back when the Iron Bull saunters over. The edge of his axe is still bloody — from striking down the last Venatori once Dorian's spell ended and the arcane horror fell.

"You should put that cowl back on or you'll get sunburned," he says.

Bull is strangely doting sometimes, like a giant mother hen. Trevelyan grins, glad to be distracted from his thoughts.

"I'll be fine for a while without it. I'm no Qunari, but I won't burn in two minutes like that one."

He points towards Sera, who's busy checking the corpses for coins and amulets. Her face is a painful-looking shade of bright pink despite the hood she's been wearing all morning.

"Hey," Bull says, "I'm just looking out for you. Humans are delicate."

"Delicate!?" Dorian stops relacing his boots to glare up at him.

Bull's immediate reply is gleeful laughter. Dorian's indignation was obviously the reaction he was hoping for.

"Not you, big guy," Bull says, reassuring him. "I meant all the others except for you."

"Oh, for Maker's sake!" Dorian rolls his eyes. "You don't need to patronize me."

Bull turns back towards Trevelyan. "I can see why you like this guy. It's fun getting him all riled up."

Dorian rolls his eyes again and sets to work tying and buckling his boots, now free from sand. But he seems more at ease somehow, and less annoyed.

Trevelyan tilts his head, curious and assessing. He's starting to suspect that Bull came over here with the explicit purpose of cutting through the tension. It happens from time to time: Dorian gets his feathers ruffled; Trevelyan falls quiet and serious for a while. They always work it out before long. Under normal circumstances, it's not a big a deal. But threats are everywhere out here and they can't afford to let even minor conflicts fester. As an extremely perceptive former spy, Bull would know this.

"You're in a better mood than I expected," Trevelyan says.

"Yeah," Bull says, "but not really, though. Demons, Vints, bunch of creepy magic shit. It's not my favorite. Hence all the joking around. A man's got to cheer himself up somehow."

"True enough," Trevelyan says, and then he looks up to scan the horizon.

From somewhere in the distance comes the blood-chilling roar of a dragon.

[imagine-loki]

Of Numbers and Strange Friendships

TITLE: Of Numbers and Strange Friendships CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 62/?

AUTHOR: nekoamamori ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki being friends with Peter Parker RATING: T

NOTES/WARNINGS: None so far.  Also on AO3 here

The brothers landed outside the tower.  Unfortunately, the Bifrost never had the ability to set someone down gently.  So Loki’s knees jarred as he landed hard.  Thor’s grip on his arm steadied him as he regained his balance.  He nodded a silent thanks to his brother for his help and support. 

Thor nodded back, and Loki noted that his brother was on alert for danger.  He saw Loki as injured, which he admittedly was, and was taking up the protective position.  Thor spotted something and his grip on Loki’s arm changed.  He pulled Loki closer, shifting their positions so Loki was on his other side.  Loki saw why immediately, the press had spotted the Bifrost lights and were coming to get a glimpse of the Asgardians, of the Avengers.  Thor and Loki both didn’t want them seeing Loki’s mouth sewn shut.  “Can you get us inside?” Thor didn’t think Loki had enough ability at the moment to teleport them. 

Loki shook his head.  Under normal circumstances, teleporting that far would be no trouble, but his mind and magic were muddled with pain and healing drugs.  He couldn’t safely teleport them.  He could and did summon a hooded cloak over his shoulders and pulled the hood up to hide his face.

“That isn’t suspicious at all,” Thor said dryly.  Loki rolled his eyes and elbowed him hard in the ribs, which made Thor chuckle.  Some things about his brother hadn’t changed at all.  At least he hadn’t gotten stabbed for annoying Loki.  “Let’s get inside,” he said and led Loki into the tower, keeping himself between Loki and the press so the press couldn’t bother his brother, couldn’t find out about the stitches in Loki’s lips.  None of them wanted to explain that to anyone, but especially not the leeches who were the press.

Once they made it through the front door of the tower, they were safe.  Or safe enough.  The press couldn’t come in, the security and receptionist would make sure of it.  The brothers strode past the security, Thor and Mjolnir getting them passed without Loki even having to lower his hood.  Loki finally lowered the hood again when they entered the private elevator that took them up to the common room. 

“Everything will be alright, brother.  I’ll make sure of it, I swear it to you,” Thor reassured him.  Loki heard that there was more behind the words, more than just this immediate situation.  Thor was going to go back and deal with Odin for this atrocity. 

He just wanted Loki safe before he did.  He wouldn’t risk his little brother.  Not again.

Loki laid his head on Thor’s shoulder and purred softly, accepting the reassurance that Thor gave him.  Thor pulled him closer, though was careful not to squish Loki and upset him.  “I’ve missed you purring.  You used to all the time when we were children, before you realized that it made you different.  I was sad when it vanished, though, as I could always tell when you were happy when you would purr,” Thor explained, his arm around Loki’s shoulders.  He then considered.  “You’ve truly been unhappy all that time,” he said softly, as the realization truly dawned on him.  “When we grew apart, when you were in my shadow, when father gave me undue praise and gave you nothing. That’s when you stopped purring, that’s when you stopped letting all of us but Mother in,” he said, horrified that Loki had truly been so unhappy all of those centuries.  Loki didn’t answer, but his slightly bowed head was answer enough.  “I won’t let you feel like that again,” Thor swore to him.

Loki nodded, hearing the truth in Thor’s words.  Thor would keep his oath, no matter what it took. 

Thor’s grip remained firm around Loki’s shoulders as the pair walked out of the elevator and into the common room.  The entire team was there, clearly waiting for the brothers.  It was just as clear that they’d gotten some of the story from Peter and Tony.  Peter was pacing anxiously for the brothers to get back and Loki could see clearly that he’d hated being sent home early, hated not staying behind to help. 

Peter whirled to the elevator when he heard the doors open.  He ran over to Loki, worry rolling off of him in waves. “Loki! We were so worried, we thought you were getting punished and-“ he stopped short when he finally looked up into Loki’s eyes when he finally registered the thick black thread through Loki’s lips. “Loki-? How-? What-?” He asked, flabbergasted and stunned.

Loki stiffened, afraid of the rejection, afraid of more pain.

“I will explain what happened.  Right now, Loki needs to get off of his feet, spider child,” Thor told the teen gently. 

Peter blinked and took a minute longer than he would have liked to process those words.  Then he took Loki’s hand to drag him to the couch.  “Of course, c’mon witch,” he said, his usual self, despite that he was stronger, warmer, more solid, and now Asgardian.  The change was subtle if you weren’t looking for it, but Loki was, and noticed the change in his blood brother.  Knew the apple would keep slowly changing Peter as it fully took effect. 

For now, it was enough that Peter was alive.

Loki let himself be led to his favorite couch and sat next to Peter.  Thor sat on his other side.  Wanda moved to curl up in the closest chair to them, worried over Loki as well.  The entire team was filled with horror and disgust over what happened. 

“What happened after we left?” Stark demanded.  Even though he and Loki didn’t usually see eye to eye, he couldn’t stand the thought of Loki being tortured like this.  Not for the crime of saving Peter’s life. 

Loki squeezed Peter’s hand while Thor started to talk.  He as glad Thor was taking the lead and explaining things to the team.  He couldn’t exactly do it at the moment.  The horror and outrage in the room only grew as Thor told the team what happened. 

Peter was still beside Loki and Loki could feel his rage.  Peter had learned to hate. 

It was a lesson Loki had never wanted Peter to learn.  And one he needed to nip in the bud now.  He squeezed Peter’s hand again to get his attention.  Peter looked up into his eyes, anger, pain, rage in his eyes. 

Loki’s lips twitched up into a smile to reassure his friend, his blood brother.  It was a pathetic attempt at a smile, but the reassurance was there.  Loki would be ok.  Loki would heal.  Peter was alive.  Thor would take care of Odin. 

Everything would be alright. 

Peter squeezed his hand.  “What’s the number, witch?” He asked, trying to keep his voice strong, trying to keep himself strong.  Loki could see it in his eyes. 

He nodded with that same tiny smile and squeezed Peter’s hand again before he dropped it to hold up his fingers.  He held up six of them.  Loki wasn’t exactly having a good day.

Peter frowned.  He considered and rummaged in the drawer next to the couch for a pen and a piece of paper.  “How can I help?” He asked as he handed the items over for Loki.

‘I just need rest’ Loki wrote in his elegant scholar’s script. 

Peter nodded. “Do you want to keep listening to Thor?” He asked softly.  Loki nodded and let Peter pull him down so his head was on Peter’s lap, his feet in Thor’s. He didn’t know or care where his shoes had gone.  The next moment, Peter was petting his hair and Thor was rubbing his feet.  It didn’t erase the pain in his lips, but it did feel nice. 

Soon Loki was purring for them, relaxed and safe with his brothers. 

Peter gasped at the sound.  “You can purr!” He exclaimed, amazed, and in awe.  It seemed to him that Loki was a giant cat, which was wonderful and perfect in Peter’s eyes.  Loki stiffened and immediately stopped purring, knowing it was strange. Asgardians and humans couldn’t do it.  Not like that. “No! Please don’t stop, I love it!” Peter exclaimed.

Loki looked up at him, a question in his eyes.  Peter went back to petting his hair gently.  “Yes, I mean it.  You could tell if I lied.  You are the god of them after all,” he teased fondly.

Loki laid his head back on Peter’s legs to let the teen pet him.  It felt good and he could forget about his pain while Thor droned on about what had happened.

Something teased Loki’s senses while he was half dozing.  He couldn’t quite place what it was, so he extended his magical senses, trying to figure it out. 

/Loki??/ he heard the voice in his mind.  That wasn’t strange in and of itself.  Loki was a telepath.  So was Wanda.  Those two were always speaking telepathically.  Though this voice wasn’t Wanda’s.  It was male. 

Loki also realized that he wasn’t just overhearing a stray thought, which was also known to happen especially around untrained mortals.  He usually tuned those out. 

No, this was something different.

Loki jolted up when he realized what it was and looked to Peter.  /You hear me?/ he asked Peter, speaking magic to magic.

Peter lit up in delight, clearly having heard Loki.  The discarded pen on the table started to float with a few other odds and ends nearby.  Peter’s eyes widened.  “I-I’m doing this?” He asked as he looked around in awe, seemed to see the shimmer of gold magic between him and the floating items.

There was no denying it.  Peter had gotten Asgardian magic in the transformation.

All Loki could do was nod.  It looked like he’d just acquired another student.

[abigailzimmer]

Favorite Reads of 2020

In this year of slowness, thank god for books to make the world a little larger again. I read several classics for the first time—Shelley’s Frankenstein and Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring and Bernadette Mayer’s Midwinter Day—all of which felt important to return to the source material, to see how these books shaped those that came after them. And I delved into new books from favorite authors whose words I will always seek out—like Kelly Schirmann’s The New World and Heather Christle’s The Crying Book—and I branched out into mystery and romance books because they kept pages turning and tidied everything up so neatly at the end, which if not my usual fare, was sorely needed in this strange year. But since I do love a list, here are the books that sung to me / inspired me / shaped me:

1. Exquisitely told and inventive in form, Women Talking by Miriam Toews centers on a group of Mennonite women in South America who discover they're being drugged and raped during the night by the men in their community. While the men are away, the women meet to decide whether they will stay and forgive their attackers, as their community’s religious leaders ask them to, or leave the colony and start anew. Their conversation over the course of two days questions the role of women, what freedom and forgiveness really mean, how to fulfill one’s calling as a woman, mother, and believer, whether one must choose one thing over another, and whether staying or leaving carries the greater risk. It’s a thoughtful and creative approach to hard questions and the complicated reasons why there’s never a right answer.

2. Ilya Kaminsky's collection, Dancing in Odessa, was one of the first books of contemporary poetry I ever read, lent to me by a friend in college, and I remember being stunned at what poetry could be and do. Deaf Republic stuns in the same way. The poems are incredibly cinematic, telling the story of an occupied town and its people and a couple who fall in love. When a young, deaf boy is shot by the soldiers, the entire town pretends deafness in rebellion, finding excuses to not understand the soldiers. They bear witness to the boy’s death and honor his life. Though a fictional town, the call to political action, to really see those who are being oppressed and stand for justice with them, is resonant for any time and place. Plus, Ilya writes the most beautiful love poems.

3. Another cinematically-inclined poetry book is GennaRose Nethercott’s The Lumberjack’s Dove. In this long poem/myth/fable, a lumberjack accidentally cuts off his hand, which turns into a dove, and then a story parts ways. The lumberjack is not just a lumberjack and the hand-turned-dove is not just a hand-turned-dove, and the story visits both an operating room and a witch, and the story, of course, is one you've heard before and one that brings surprise and wonder to the telling. I simply adored it.

"Living creatures believe they own something as soon as they love it. They refuse to believe otherwise, no matter how many times a beloved vanishes."

4. I fell in love—hard—with The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller and her exquisite, queer love story between Achilles and Patroclus. Miller’s writing is wonderful and after reading her novel Circe as well—another fantastic retelling of Greek myths—I spent the remainder of the year searching for a novel that compared.

5. Some books meet you in the right moment. The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth Tova Bailey is a slow and attentive book on small things, which in 2020’s period of waiting and uprootedness was a gift. Due to chronic illness, Bailey finds herself confined to a bed with little to do. Her friend brings her a potted plant and a snail whose pace of life, matching her own, becomes a comfort and lessons her loneliness. As she watches, she learns intimately the snail's eating and sleeping habits, its daily adventures, and the conditions it best thrives in. Later she delves into the literature and science of gastropods and weaves her notes in with her own observations and stories of the snail. Her writing is light and funny and holds such tenderness for this very small creature.

"In the History of Animals, Aristotle noted that snail teeth are 'sharp, and small, and delicate.' My snail possessed around 2,640 teeth, so I'd add the word plentiful to Aristotle's description....With only thirty-two adult teeth, which had to last the rest of my life, I found myself experiencing tooth envy toward my gastropod companion. It seemed far more sensible to belong to a species that had evolved natural tooth replacement than to belong to one that had developed the dental profession. Nonetheless, dental appointments were one of my favorite adventures, as I could count on being recumbent. I could see myself settling into the dental chair, opening my mouth for my dentist, and surprising him with a human-sized radula."

6. Insecurity System by Sara Wainscott was one of my favorite books published in 2020. The poems in it make up four crowns—a series of sonnets in which the last line of each poem becomes the first line (or an echo of it) of the next. The playfulness of the form as well as the topics give the book an energy: Sara muses on time travel, levitation, memory, flowers ("people who read poems know a rose / is how the poet drags in genitalia"), motherhood, Mars, and mythical transformations (children tell their mothers they have turned to seals “and it is true”). Sara is funny and wry, and yet she also captures some difficult emotions of grief and depression, a struggle with complacency amid daily obligations “Sentences become drawn out affairs / but I am doing what I can / to answer one word each day.” The poems move from the mundane to a hard feeling and then onward to wonder and a bit of the fantastical, which I guess is just how life goes—I love how these emotions are all rolled together and always shifting.

7. Asiya Wadud’s powerful long poem Syncope is one I’ve returned to often throughout the year. She tells the story of 72 refugees who fled Tripoli in an inflatable boat in 2011 and were stranded for 14 days, despite the presence of 38 maritime vessels who could have rescued them, but didn’t. Instead, only 11 passengers survived. Syncope is both an indictment against those who did not act and a eulogy for the dead, returning humanity to people who were deemed not worth saving but who were “luminous in that / we were each born under the / fabled light of some star.”

“We began as 72 ascendants by that I mean we were a collective many each bound for greatness merely in the fact that we were each still living”

8. Eula Biss’s Having and Being Had is a thoughtful and exploratory conversation about capitalism and its effects on what we do and how we think. In a series of short vignettes, Eula picks apart what consumption, work, accounting, and investment mean on a personal and everyday level (albeit a white, middle class level). Who defines value among boys trading Pokemon cards and how did Monopoly's origins in economic injustice shift to pride in bankrupting players and if one of Eula's favorite things about being a new house owner is easy access to a laundry machine, is her house merely a $400,000 container for one washer and dryer? Her essays bounce from work that is valued, unseen or shamed; the perceptions and realities of being poor or rich; our approach to gift-giving and art-making and pleasure—weaving together research, observations, and conversations with friends.

9. In Grief Sequence, poet Prageeta Sharma’s grieves the loss of her husband in a kind of journal, tracing the memories of his diagnosis, the hard and normal days, the days before diagnosis, and the days after he is gone during which she tries to make sense of her new reality: “How gauche it is to be in this body being unseen by you now,” she writes. “You are not you anymore and I am trying to understand how a human with feelings has disappeared.” Her writing is excellent but it is hard to sit with and next to her pain, and it makes me wonder: when does one read such a book? When you’ve also lost a beloved to cancer? To be in conversation with someone who has, with Prageeta? Do you read for the sake of the living or to honor a body who was once here? Prageeta writes, “Poetry and grief are the same: you are taught to care about it when it happens to you.” I don’t know who to recommend this book to, but it spoke to me, and I’m glad she wrote it, as a monument, of sorts, to a specific togetherness and to a person.

10. The Lives of the Monster Dogs by Kirsten Bakis is a strange and sweet book about a race of genetically-engineered dogs, created initially to be soldiers, who move to New York in the ‘90s while still holding onto the customs and dress of nineteenth-century Prussia, which is to say: I don't know if I ever would have picked this book up had a friend not recommended it. Told through news clippings, letters, journal entries, an opera(!), and the first-person account of a human who befriends them, their story has echoes of Frankenstein as the monster dogs reflect on their creator and what it is to be human, to have purpose and hope, to wrestle with a clouded past and an uncertain future. "It's a terrible thing to be a dog and know it," writes one monster dog scholar after some of the dogs begin to revert back to their primal state. I loved the varied forms, the piecing together of the dog’s history, and the surreal mark they left in the book’s world and my world.

For more books throughout the year, follow along on Instagram at book.wreck.

[hlupdate]

So what does a young superstar spend his time thinking about? Classic rock, mostly, along with the occasional movie or TV show. Harry Styles has always been a voracious scholar of pop history — the kind of guy who obsesses over John and Yoko album covers and Fleetwood Mac deep cuts. “We’re all just fans,” he says. “I’m just a music fan who happens to make some.” These are just a few of Harry’s favorite things — some influences, some inspirations, some heroes.

Listen along to our Harry Styles playlist here.

Van Morrison The Irish blues bard was down and out in Boston when he wrote his brooding 1968 song cycle Astral Weeks. “It’s my favorite album ever,” Harry says. “Completely perfect.” Harry recently posed with his idol for a backstage photo — inspiring Van to smile, which doesn’t happen too often. The grin is so out of character for Van, Harry jokes, “I was tickling him behind his back.” (He’s kidding, obviously.) On his first tour, before going onstage, he played “Madame George” over the speakers — the epic ballad of a Belfast drag queen. “‘Madame George’ is one of my favorites — nine minutes. I’ve got some long songs but not my nine-minute one — it hasn’t quite come through yet.”

Joni Mitchell Harry got so obsessed with her 1971 classic Blue, he went on a quest. “I was in a big Joni hole,” he says. “I kept hearing the dulcimer all over Blue. So I tracked down the lady who built Joni’s dulcimers in the Sixties. She still lives around here.” He not only found her, she invited him over. “I went to her house and she gave me a little lesson — we sat around and played dulcimers.” She built the dulcimer Harry plays on his new album. “Blue and Astral Weeks, that’s just the ultimate in terms of songwriting. Melody-wise, they’re in their own lane. Joni and Van, their freedom with melodies — it’s never quite what you thought was coming, yet it’s always so great.”

Etta James The hard-living R&B legend could do it all, from raw Chess blues to pop-soul torch ballads. Harry is a devotee of her 1960 debut album At Last! “This whole album is perfect. On that record you have ‘I Just Want to Make Love to You’ going right into ‘At Last,’ which has to be one of the greatest one-twos ever. Her ad libs are so intense. It’s like, ‘Come on, Etta — tell us how you really feel.’”

Wings Paul McCartney’s 1970s band left behind a slew of shaggy art-pop oddities. Harry swears by London Town and Back to the Egg. “While I was in Tokyo I used to go to a vinyl bar, but the bartender didn’t have Wings records. So I brought him Back to the Egg. ‘Arrow Through Me,’ that was the song I had to hear every day when I was in Japan.” The 1971 suite Ram was divisive for Beatles fans at the time, but for Harry it was a psychedelic experience: while making the album, he and his band enjoyed it while lying out in the sunshine on mushrooms. “I love Ram so much — I used to think it was a mixed bag, but that’s part of its beauty. And the one that’s just called McCartney, with the cherries on the cover and ‘The Lovely Linda’ on it.”

John & Yoko: Above Us Only Sky Documentary A deep dive into the world of John Lennon and Yoko Ono, during the making of Imagine. “I watched Above Us Only Sky on Netflix,” Harry says. “Seeing him play ‘Imagine’ on piano made me want to take piano lessons.” One of his favorite Lennon songs: “Jealous Guy,” especially the Donnie Hathaway cover. “Have you ever heard the original version of ‘Jealous Guy’? It was called ‘Child of Nature.’ Every time I play ‘Jealous Guy,’ I can’t help singing ‘Child of Nature.’ I really like Mind Games too. My favorite-ever album cover is the John and Yoko Live Peace in Toronto. So beautiful: it’s blue sky with one cloud, and that’s it.”

Carole King For a playback of his new music, Harry arranges to listen at Henson Studios in Hollywood, which used to be the old A&M Studios, in Studio B. Why? “It’s the room where Carole King recorded Tapestry.” Obsessive pop scholar that he is, Harry reveres King as both a singer and songwriter. His favorite: “So Far Away.” “How do people make shit like this?”

Crosby, Stills and Nash These three hippie balladeers summed up the mellow West Coast soft-rock vibe, despite their chemical wreckage. (For the full story, see the great new band bio by Rolling Stone’s David Browne.) “Those harmonies, man,” Harry says. “‘Helplessly Hoping’ is the song I would play if I had three minutes to live. It’s one of my ‘one more time before I go’–type songs.”

The Other Two TV Series He’s a big fan of the Comedy Central series. “It’s a brother and a sister — they’re the Two — and their younger brother becomes a viral YouTube sensation. He’s a Justin Bieber–type thing. He’s 13, and it’s basically those two dealing with that. It’s really funny.” (He’s got a thing for absurdist pop scenes like this — he also recommends the documentary When the Screaming Stops, about a bizarre reunion gig from the Eighties twin-brother duo Bros.)

Paul Simon “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover,’ that’s the greatest verse melody ever written, in my opinion,” Harry says. “So minimal, but so good — that drum roll. ‘The Boxer’ is a perfect lyric, especially that first verse.” Paul Simon was one of his childhood soundtracks, with or without Art Garfunkel. “I grew up in a pub for a few years when I was a kid and Simon and Garfunkel were just constantly playing, always. Every time ‘Cecilia’ started, I’d be like, ‘I think I’ve heard this a hundred times today.’”

Hall and Oates “For my 21st birthday, I had a big party, and I convinced myself I really wanted Hall and Oates to play. I knew it wasn’t going to happen — I just had to ask. But just a few months before, they went into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, so whatever it was, it was now three times as much as it used to be. Their rate just tripled — ah, fuck.”

Peter Gabriel, “Sledgehammer” Video “The greatest music video ever. I also love that Eighties synth pan-whistle sound — it basically just exists in this song and ‘My Heart Will Go On.’”

Elvis Presley “The first music I ever heard was Elvis Presley. When I was little, we got a karaoke machine and I sang Elvis, because that’s what my grandparents listened to. I made my grandfather a tape of me doing Elvis songs on one side and all Eminem on the other side. Unfortunately, I accidentally played him the wrong side.”

Harry Nilsson The legendary L.A. eccentric could croon middle-of-the-road hit ballads like “Without You,” but also a crazed weirdo who caroused with John Lennon and pursued his own lunatic pop fantasies. In other words, Harry Styles’ type of guy. “I think of all the great songwriters I love — but they all had their pop songs. Joni Mitchell with ‘Help Me,’ Paul Simon with ‘You Can Call Me Al,’ Harry Nilsson with ‘Coconut.’ You have to conquer the fear of pop.”

Stevie Nicks The Gold Dust Woman and her “little muse” are everybody’s favorite rock friendship. At the Hall of Fame ceremony in March, the sight of Harry dropping to one knee as he hands the award to a radiant Stevie — one of the iconic cross-generational images of our time. They first sang together in L.A. two years ago, when she made a surprise guest appearance at one of his first solo shows. “One of my favorite-ever musical memories. We sang ‘Landslide’ as a soundcheck, and that was even cooler for me than the show — just me and her, in an empty Troubadour.”

They just sang “Landslide” at a Gucci event in Rome, with Harry hitting impossible high notes on the final “snooooow-covered hills.” “We practiced in the dressing room,” he says. He’s got the rehearsal footage on his phone — when he hits that note, guitarist Waddy Wachtel is too stunned to keep playing. “That’s my favorite bit,” Harry says. “Practicing the song together. Just the two of us.”

[sammyspreadyourwings]

Harmony in my head (love in my heart)

I am a simple author, I see a soulmate AU prompt and I write it. And much to my surprise, I have an entry for Maycury week day 1, so that’s exciting. Everything will be cross-posted to AO3!

Their language is music.

Brian isn’t entirely surprised, but he reads every dissertation that he can on the Language of Soulmates and why one would be chosen over the other. Outside influences? Internal influences? Fate? The last one seems impossible and so many scholars agree that because soulmates are rarely a decade apart that it’s a combination of both, what culture is rising at the time and a common interest.

Most people have a shared spoken tongue. A few people, predominately within the deaf community, form a visual language. Brian reads about Languages because he’s never heard anyone have the language of music. Lyrics, yes, but that’s an offshoot spoken languages. No, theirs is in scales and chords and keys.

Always has been even before Brian heard his first guitar and they communicated in xylophone notes. They sort of formed a code. But then Brian fell in love with guitars and his soulmate fell in love with, he guesses, piano. Then their conversations became a continuous ebb and flow of emotions.

His tended to stay within minor keys and frequently followed a diminuendo because he didn’t want to bother his soulmate. He learned in his youth that their time zones hadn’t quite lined up, but then one day, he was hearing his soulmates music at the same time he thought of a questioning crescendo.

Brian soon learned that his soulmates music was typically a major key espressivo, but it wasn’t uncommon to hear a cacophony of notes, scattering Brian’s thoughts as effectively as nails on a chalkboard. It takes him years to realize that was the noise his soulmate made when they were anxious.

While his classmates had learned all about their soulmates, because they could get such simple things as addresses and names and favorite colors, Brian started composing songs matching his day and emotions. Occasionally, on very good songs, he would add lyrics. Excited to say everything he’s ever put into the shared music in their head to his soulmate when he meets them.

The first day he plays the Fireplace in all of her glory, varnished and sealed, he heard a crescendo in his head. Unaware that he can translate the sound of his guitar into the music of his head. He shouldn’t be surprised but then he feels a soft song swirl around his head, littered with excited sharps.

He smiles and plays more on the Fireplace, and each round is followed by a mirroring song. The excitement is palpable, and Brian can’t wait to combine their music in the real world.

At twenty-one, Brian nearly thinks Roger is his soulmate. The blond talks about hearing music in his head too, but when pressed his talks about it being very rhythmic, steady.

“Something a drummer like you would like, eh?” Brian laughs.

Roger rolls his eyes, “at least I know they can stay on time. I think they might play bass.”

“You should find them and then recruit them into our band.”

“Wouldn’t Tim get upset?” Roger raises an eyebrow.

“His vocals are better than his playing,” Brian shrugs.

It isn’t saying much. Brian hates to think it, but sometimes he wonders if Tim treats music with the same seriousness that he and Roger do. They learn that he does when he bids them a fond farewell before jumping to a band called Humpy Bong.

“Should we be offended?” Roger asks, “or take this as a new start?”

“Find that bassist of yours and we’ll see,” Brian counters.

“Well, you find your pianist.”

“I think they sing now.”

“Oh, you can hear both?” Roger tilts his head, “I think mine can hear my vocals, but I never hear theirs.”

“Maybe they just don’t sing?”

Brian pops open a beer and takes a long sip. Roger shrugs and steals his bottle. He pretends to be offended for a second before his attention is captured by a new song from his soulmate. It’s catchy, and Brian sinks into it. Closing his eyes and bobbing to it.

“I think we need to find yours mate,” Roger tilts his head.

He’s about to comment on Roger’s unusual seriousness when a wide grin splits the blond’s face, “because then you might have something else to bob on.”

“Oh, piss off.”

“And leave you lonely? What kind of friend would I be?” Roger clutches at his chest.

“A good one,” Brian grumbles.

Roger barks out a laugh and then hands the bottle back in a peace offering. Brian smiles fondly and thinks that life won’t be so bad if he has Roger at his side. Musical genius soulmate or not.

“Oh, speaking of friends, you still haven’t met my flat mate, Freddie?”

“I haven’t.”

“We’ll have lunch tomorrow,” Roger says, “stop by. Freddie’s mum gave us curry last time he stopped by.”

Brian grimaces.

“Don’t worry, most of it is vegetables,” Roger takes the bottle back, “although I really don’t understand why you’re on this kick.”

He opens his mouth. Roger sticks the bottle in it, “doesn’t mean I want the lecture.”

Brian finishes off the beer and then sticks his tongue out at Roger. The imp just keeps smiling before staring off into space with a cocked head. The smile shrinks into something delicate.

“They’re happy that I’m happy.”

“Mine’s composing.”

“Tragic.”

⭐⭐⭐

He shows up at Roger’s flat with a bottle of wine, even though it’s a casual lunch this is his first introduction and his mother’s lessons about manners scream in his head. Bring wine if nothing else. Red, because most people eat red meat so it’s a safe guess. Flowers if there’s a woman. Don’t slouch!

Brian straightens as the door opens. He had also bought flowers, even though he knows Freddie is a man. Roger is usually thrilled to have something in his flat that isn’t brown, matte, or disgusting.

Roger laughs, “this isn’t a first date, Bri.”

“Damn, I wore my good trousers too,” he laughs.

“Oh? They’ll look good on my carpet, that is?”

He tosses his hair. It’s not straightened for once since it took him so long to pick out the exact brand of wine to purchase. Tim (and doesn’t it get awkward at times when they still live together) is probably going to ask about the seven different wine catalogs on their kitchen table he borrowed from their neighbor.

“I hear I’m quite the conversation starter.”

Roger rolls his eyes, “come on then, curly boy. Woo me.”

“Have you raised your standards?”

He ducks to avoid Roger’s swat but then realizes his mistake when he ducked straight into the hand. Roger tilts his head up in victory, before strutting off to the kitchen.

“Freddie! Come here! We’re day drinking!” “On Sunday?”

His soulmate starts up with an amused etude. Brian tilts his head, wondering how badly he is causing a cacophony in his soulmate’s head.

“Absolutely scandalous.”

“What’s scandalous is you not wearing pants! We have company!”

Brian flushes when Freddie struts out into the walkway in nothing more than a silk robe and boxers. He looks away to conserve some of Freddie’s modesty before looking at him anyway. Freddie is gorgeous. His jaw pops open. Roger is stunning, but Freddie is just as stunning, if not more. Especially with how he has kohl framing his eyes.

“Oh, you didn’t tell me we had a man over,” Freddie blows him a kiss.

A flirty harmony starts in his head. Harmony? Brian frowns. Is his soulmate flirting with someone? He feels jealous for a moment, before getting distracted by Freddie strutting towards him.

“Hello.”

Brian squeaks. What does he even say? You’re gorgeous. I’m Brian. Okay. Flirting or classic. Simple. He can do this.

“I’m gorgeous,” is what comes out of his mouth.

Roger lets out a strangled noise before bursting out laughing. A loud thud tells him that Roger has fallen off his perch. Brian looks up to the sky in mortification. The etude is back, with a slightly shy tilt to it now. His is probably a dirge because he wants to die. He had one chance to not completely mess this up.

“You certainly are,” Freddie winks, “can I get your name, gorgeous?”

All he has to say is Brian.

“You’re Brian.”

Fuck.

Brian feels tears prick at the corner of his eyes. Roger is still cackling in the background.

“No, I’m Freddie.”

Freddie is just smiling at him. Staring at him in wonder, even. Brian smiles a little sheepishly.

“Want to try again?”

“Not in particular. I think I’ve made enough of a nonce out of myself.”

“Nonsense, Roger’s done that plenty for you already.”

For some reason, the embarrassment melts away as the song in his head grows gentle, entrancing. A love song. What the fuck is happening?

Brian decides that too much is happening.

He takes a deep breath and extends a hand, the one with the flowers, “I’m Brian May, and it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“It is a pleasure,” Freddie purrs.

Roger stops laughing abruptly, popping over the back of the couch, “oy! I said you can’t fuck him the first time you meet him!”

“Unfortunately, your descriptions gave me an entirely different person in my head, and therefore our deal is void!”

Brian smiles wryly. At least today will be interesting.

⭐⭐⭐

Much to Roger’s chagrin, they do end up making eyes at each other for the entire lunch, which sends the blond to the nearest pub to nurse his wounds from being ignored.

“I’m going to find someone to love me! Freddie, don’t break Brian!”

Things were awkward without their third party. Freddie turns from a charismatic personality into something Brian is more comfortable dealing with. He does much better with shy personalities and quieter people as a whole. Roger is an outlier, but he does have his calm moments.

“So, what’s your language?” Brian asks.

That’s a thing people ask strangers, right? Or was that just a secondary school thing? Ah, well, he can’t get a much worse opinion than his first introduction.

“Music,” Freddie says dreamily.

Brian blinks, “same here.” “I can't wait to meet him,” Freddie says, “he sounds quite interesting. Sad, though. Brilliant too.”

“I understand that my soulmate is going through a very… fantastic mood right now. They all sound sort of dream-like? A fantasy.”

Freddie perks up, “think you could play something of that?”

“My guitar is in my car,” Brian gestures, “I couldn’t play it on the piano to save me. I can play the piano though, just. Not like that.”

Brian hurries out to his car. Excited that hasn’t blown this badly enough that Freddie still wants to try making music with him. Roger had mentioned when he called earlier that he wants to ask Freddie to join Smile as Tim’s replacement.

He climbs up with his case. Freddie tilts his head as he examines the Old Lady.

“What is that guitar? Roger said it was homemade, but I didn’t think it was anything special.”

Brian feels offended, and tries to push it to the side, “she’s incredible.”

He plugs into one of the spare amps Roger must’ve stolen from one of their shows. Brian spends a few seconds tuning, and strumming. Freddie sits on the couch, chin on his hands, smile bright.

They nod and Brian launches into the first song that he can think of. He stumbles over the chords in unfamiliarity. The guitar responds eagerly, singing out her song. His soulmate song filters into his thoughts, but he doesn’t pay much attention to it. Freddie is putting his hand over Brian’s.

“Huh?”

“I should’ve gone to one of your shows earlier,” Freddie mumbles.

“Why is that?” Brian tilts his head.

“Because then I would’ve known that your guitar is the guitar.”

“I don’t follow?”

“My soulmate’s guitar.”

“That’s impossible, she’s the only one like this in Britain. The world probably. One of a kind.” Freddie raises an eyebrow.

Brian frowns. Thinks about the words for a moment. Then his eyes widen, “oh.”

Freddie laughs, “Roger mentioned you’re a little daft, despite your intelligence.”

Brian shrugs. Freddie is reaching out to touch his face softly.

“So, you’re my soulmate.”

“I suppose so,” Brian looks away with a flush, “er, I don’t exactly know what happens now.”

“We can kiss or continue playing or never speak to each other again,” Freddie shrugs, folding in on himself.

Brian considers his options for a second, “I want to continue playing and then kiss. I guess we could kiss first, but I want to make our music finally.”

Freddie smiles at him, for the first time since they’ve met he doesn’t cover his lips. Brian echoes the look; a happy song harmonizes in his head and he leans forward to place a light kiss on Freddie’s cheek.

“I wonder how amazing we’ll be.”

“Oh, we’re going to be fucking rock stars, darling.”

He can’t wait.

[chapitre7]

Alexandria Chapter III

The Untamed [陈情令] | Mo Dao Zu Shi [魔道祖师] fanfiction

Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Yīng | Wei Wuxian (Wangxian)

Time Travel/Sci-Fi AU

Chapter I | Chapter II

Read on AO3

Maybe he said the right thing then. Or maybe they were trying something new, after monitoring him doing nothing for days on end. Whatever it was, the balance of his days is tipped in his favor as Wei Ying is let out again the next day, and the day after, and the day after that. He makes a quip about it, something spontaneous that barely filters in his mind, and Lan Zhan stuns him with a simple, “Wei Ying is not a prisoner.”

 Wei Ying has a vague notion that he was once imprisoned in his life, but it felt like it was dirtier, miserable, undignified. And if they hadn’t kept him in that room for so long, observing, measuring him from the strands of his hair to every component of his blood, what would he have done after taking his first breath? If he had simply been unleashed into the endless hallways as soon as he had woken up, might his heart not have stopped at the first sight of the monstrous machines used to study the sciences and man? It’s too complex a thought for Wei Ying to ponder, so he just settles for the fact: he’s not a prisoner, and Lan Zhan shows him everything.

 There’s a room full of objects kept inside glass boxes. Swords, armors, handwritten notes on tattered paper and cloth, women’s hair accessories, and even clothes. His own robes are at the center of the room, perfectly propped up as if he were inside them, the informative sign only indicating his approximate time period.

 Lan Zhan doesn’t look him in the eye when he says, “They said they can only name renowned figures in history...”

 Wei Ying just laughs, brushing his embarrassment off. “And there are no records of a conqueror Wei Ying, right?” He holds his chin in mock contemplation. “But I’ll have you know that I was fairly well-known in my time. Every time I entered a big city, people would go, ‘Wei Wuxian? Get that troublemaker out!’, and I had to use all talismans at my disposal to lose them!”

 Lan Zhan tilts his head slightly, slowly blinking. “Wei Wuxian was your... courtesy name?”

 “Yeah! The sects learned it quickly because I wasn’t, er, particularly known for respecting their inner rules.”

 Lan Zhan nods. “Wei Ying was a deviant.”

 He gasps, at both the tone and the slow blinking of his eyes. Lan Zhan! Teasing him! His voice is a pitch higher when he bites back, “I was once a distinguished sect disciple too! Lan Zhan!”

 He doesn’t need to know their language to understand the scholars’ glares as he runs after a rather smiling, enabling Lan Zhan, and, biting back a grin, feels that he’s slowly regaining his place in the records of infamy.

 ***

 The moment he steps into the library, Wei Ying knows it’s his favorite place in the whole facility. Even though he has never been a good student or a friend to books, he’s certain about it. There’s no other place with such wide, clear windows, from where he can see, but not hear, the rustling branches of ancient trees. Every scholar in the common room only has eyes for their portable computers, tapping away in what Wei Ying has learned is a form of writing, or making waving motions to read complicated texts that make them frown. Here and there, Wei Ying spots someone with a physical book, the kind he’s familiar with, and he’s thankful that not all things have to die.

 Lan Zhan slides open the doors at the center of the common room and keeps them that way only long enough for Wei Ying to waltz in. Soft blue lights against a dark atmosphere take the place of the gray, overcast sky of the common room. Every other space in the massive building is cast in such bright, white lights that Wei Ying can’t help but marvel at the faerie lights that seem to float like lanterns cast into the night sky.

 “To preserve the books,” Lan Zhan says beside him, voice low, too close to his ear. Wei Ying suppresses a shiver and enters the maze without a plan, brushing a hand against his cheeks, suddenly too warm.

 His fingers hover over the spines and he’s more disappointed than he thought he would be that he can’t read any of them. Every time someone enters the same aisle he is, he turns his back and walks away, never in the mood to be scrutinized, especially when he’s unable to use any of his usual defense mechanisms of deflection.

 After a while, despite thinking the archives are pretty with the lighting, setting him in a paper forest, he wants to call Lan Zhan from where he’s watching him, from the other side of the aisles, and ask for a livelier place, maybe where there’s food and less grumpy faces, and he really is walking towards him when he catches something out the corner of his eye.

 He can read that spine. He stops and pulls, gently, hoping the book won’t fall apart in his hands. What are the odds he had already read it once? Low, but when his eyes fall upon the verses, he can’t help but let out a curt, delighted laugh.

 “Lan Zhan,” he calls out and winces once his companion approaches him. He feels inappropriate despite Lan Zhan not chastising him to be respectful in that section, that pocket space with no one around to hear or see them. Licking his lips, he tries again, in a loud whisper, “I can read it!”

 Lan Zhan hums. “This is the collection that I helped put together.”

 Wei Ying’s starts, head turning in his direction, fingers still barely touching the words he didn’t know he had missed. Lan Zhan seems to admire the collection with as much wonder as Wei Ying feels.

 “You did?”

 “Yes. A portion of them is from my family’s private archive, whatever we could save from the fire. The rest I gathered from all over the country.”

 He pulls another book from the shelf; there’s no dust to brush away, though those pages carry the weight of centuries.

 “Whenever we were called about an uncatalogued tome, I’d go and bring it back here.” He puts the book back, aligning it perfectly with its neighbors. “We have representatives in many cities.”

 “So that’s what you did before you were in charge of me, huh.” Wei Ying focuses back on the book, flipping the pages with the respect he had for Lan Zhan’s work. “Must have been an adventure for you. Wandering around, rescuing books.” He chuckles at the image, at the absurd seriousness of Lan Zhan retrieving books like they’re his precious children. Maybe they are, if a single poem Wei Ying read in his youth can bring him so much familiarity, such unexpected comfort.

 “...I volunteered for you.”

 He freezes, having half a mind to close the book and hold it with two hands, lest he drops it from his loose fingers. He looks up and Lan Zhan holds his gaze, eyes dark in the blue light, but he knows they’re clear as a cloudless day. There’s no pretense in them, no gloating or teasing, just the truth, fluttering an echo in Wei Ying’s stomach.

 “Wei Ying is not a prisoner.”

 The proximity is suddenly too much for him. He wants to go, shifts to put the book he’s holding back in its place, but there’s warmth pressing against his side, a hand covering his before he can let go of the book. Wei Ying lets Lan Zhan pull his hand down, and gently pushes it against Wei Ying’s chest.

 “Take it,” he says, words direct but falling into the cadence of a question, a request that Lan Zhan can’t phrase well, perhaps just as taken by the sudden gravity between them. It ought to be studied, Wei Ying vaguely, inanely thinks, and smiles in spite of it, or maybe because of it.

 “Thank you,” he says, this time to Lan Zhan’s face, this time definitely basking in his small, shy smile. As they walk back to the entrance, Wei Ying quips, “Ah, if only my teacher could see me now, willingly reading the poems he tried to make me memorize!” As if he really could remember the face of his strict, sputtering teacher at the Cloud Recesses, who used to yell at him for being the worst student he ever had.

 As if he were going to think about anything other than Lan Zhan opening that book in a faraway city, long fingers flipping the pages as if touching a flower’s petal, reading the same words of longing that Wei Ying could, pale sunlight at his back and that smile on his lips.

 ***

 “You mean we are at the Cloud Recesses?”

 “It’s not called that anymore, but yes. It’s where it used to be.”

 He honestly feels a bit stupid. It’s not exactly an unfamiliar feeling, in either phase of his life. Having been a student at the Cloud Recesses in his youth, he should have remembered the way of the mountains, the seriousness of the sect members, their dedication to knowledge and discipline, and, well, he should have caught it at the Lan. But in his defense, he’s an amnesiac warrior who just happened to travel several lifetimes into the future, so Lan Zhan would forgive him for his slip.

 Lan Zhan never teases him as he would, if their positions were switched. Not that Wei Ying is a bully (he could be, if he wanted to), and not that Lan Zhan doesn’t have his own moments of mischief, though they’re sparse, barely even there, like meaningful blinks as Wei Ying reads a character completely wrong when he’s supposed to be very much literate and very much the former disciple of one of the big sects. There’s all that and then there’s the unwavering attention he gives him, like the duteous student Wei Ying has no doubt he is. All of it, sitting with him, drinking tea, supplying him with books that were published long after he had been gone from the world but still in a language he can understand, Wei Ying knows it’s all part of his job, but there’s also a sense of comfort, of uncomplicated friendship. Wei Ying had broken off his deepest relationships, had barely connected to anyone again after that, but he holds on to this fragile hope. If he didn’t, if he believed his time with Lan Zhan was all simple research, waking up to the future would be so much harder.

 “What was it like?”

 And Lan Zhan makes it so easy. He adapts to his rhythm, as if Wei Ying had never been playing the wrong notes in their song. Turning his eyes up and his focus inwards, he paints all of the images that his mind can conjure. The flowing white robes as the disciples walked through the halls, the yelling of his teacher when he gave the most outrageous answers to his problems, stealing fish at the back of the mountain with his friend instead of attending his afternoon classes, the snow reflecting a timid sun in early spring. When he mentions the time he saw bunnies with colors and spots as diverse as the many sects on the land, Lan Zhan shows a small, barely perceptive smile, and he files that away with all his good memories. Lan Zhan really makes it easy, even to remember, even if it’s just flashes, by allowing him to become a familiar figure at the facility and the facility to become familiar to him. If he had never trusted him, would he still be wilting away in his glass case? And if it were anybody else, would his own laughter resound, defy his neighbors’ white noise, and cause the past and the present to converge, like two rivers that finally meet as one?

 “Ah!” He snaps his fingers, causing Lan Zhan to blink. “Gusu Lan sect members used to be proficient in music, even going as far as to use it as a weapon. Can you play any instrument, Lan Zhan?”

 Lan Zhan hesitates before shaking his head, and Wei Ying deflates.

 “Can Wei Ying?”

 “I can, actually!” He’s quick to place his elbows on the table again, leaning forward, looking up at Lan Zhan. “My mother taught me how to play the dizi, but I haven’t played one since...” He waves his hand, recovering with a smile. “Do you guys have one? Or something like it?”

 Lan Zhan brings a finger to his lips in thought, and Wei Ying files that image, too.

 “I’ll look,” he concludes, and the promise is enough to make Wei Ying glow.

 It takes a few days of Lan Zhan masterfully dodging his eager eyes until the morning he walks into Wei Ying’s room, as usual, and just stands at the doorway for long seconds.

 “Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying questions with a tilt of his head. Lan Zhan opens his mouth once, closes it, then speaks.

 “Come.”

 He goes, because Lan Zhan calls and because Lan Zhan rarely calls, curiosity and anticipation tingling inside of him. They tread through corridors Wei Ying must have seen a hundred times already — although he wouldn’t be able to tell you which way was which still —, being so bold as to wave at the scientists he walks by. When Lan Zhan takes a turn and they reach double doors Wei Ying is certain he has not seen before, his cheekiness dissipates.

 Wei Ying wishes he knew why this ice tower that replaced the airy Cloud Recesses couldn’t afford to have a single open area. He’s deeply ignorant of how much the weather has changed, the phrase “We’re burning down the world” still replaying in his mind whenever he glimpses at the outside, but he wants to fill his lungs with the chilly air, run and lose himself in the smell of wet leaves, crush the pristine white rocks that paved the courtyard under his feet. What he gets, as Lan Zhan leads him to a new, different building, is a long corridor surrounded by glass walls and ceiling, like they’re on exhibition to the creatures outside. “Ancient troublemaker in black and his well-mannered, good-looking companion who tries to keep him out of trouble”, reads his mental sign of them. He chuckles at the thought. What would Lan Zhan have been like in his time?

 The new building is so much somber, Wei Ying resents that he’s spent all this time plagued with mourning white. The walls are blue, still light, but easier on the eyes, and the floors aren’t as shiny, as echoing. Every door they walk by has a different cloud design and it’s so strikingly dissonant with the impersonal building he had come to know that he realizes there’s no way he is in anything other than the facility’s personal quarters.

 Lan Zhan’s room is around a corner and there’s no room beside his, only one across from his own. A window touched by the rain is placed between the doors and Wei Ying wonders if Lan Zhan looks outside every day, at this place that used to be the Cloud Recesses. Would he think of the past that he studied or the future that no one yet knew?

 Most of the room is carpeted in dark blue, and only modestly furnished. There’s no clutter or unnecessary item of any sort; in fact, the only things that catch his eyes other than the small kitchen in the corner, the closed cabinets and dresser, are a few books, stacked neatly in a suspended shelf; a clear, thin vase devoid of flowers on a nightstand by his bed, and a simple incense burner next to it. Even Lan Zhan’s bed is hidden away by curtains of a sheer fabric, like a starlit sky, and along with the incense, it slightly shifts Wei Ying’s impression of the man. That maybe his direct words and straight posture hide a child-like dreamer at odds with the rest of the stern scientists. Given the far look in his eyes when he took Wei Ying to the projection room where he stood with him in the depths of the ocean and the poems he picks for Wei Ying to read, it’s a harmonious image. Wei Ying is suddenly consumed with the thought of driving that side of Lan Zhan out, to play with it like they’re still teenagers, and not men in their twenties, hiding away from authority figures so they can sneak out after curfew.

 There’s something else that catches his attention. On the low table at the center of the room is a black box, which is exactly what Lan Zhan motions to him before he walks away to make them tea.

 Wei Ying sits on a cushion and brings the box closer to himself. There’s an elegantly thin, golden line running along the edges, and Wei Ying traces it, excitement fluttering in his stomach. Flipping the latch open, he can hear Lan Zhan speaking in the background as he gasps. “I had to reach out to correspondents farther than I had initially thought would be necessary. I’m sorry it took so long.”

 It’s more than worth the wait. In fact, looking over the sleek, black instrument, and the striking red tassel adornment that mesmerizes Wei Ying when he picks it up, it’s probably a lot more worthy than his own technique. How long had it been since he last played, and how much longer still for his stiff, thousand-year-old body to remember the positions of his fingers, the correct way to breathe?

 Wei Ying had nothing to worry about in the end. As soon as he brings the dizi to his lips, he remembers, much like he would always remember his master’s fighting style, the way to run from one roof to the next without ever losing his footing, like a cat. The melody that blows from his lips is a sweet nothing, an invitation from him to himself, come, come sing with me again. Opening his eyes, he glances at a Lan Zhan frozen in place, a teacup in each hand, eyes only slightly widened, lips slightly parted, staring right back at him. The attention delights Wei Ying, and so he takes the dizi back up and plays him a song.

 The songs from his hometown are lively. His fingers work with enthusiasm, his eyebrows rising at Lan Zhan, who forgets to touch his tea, before he closes his eyes and immerses himself in reliving the melody. The rhythm mellows, a cue for dancers to go to their assigned spots, before it picks up again, dazzling like a bird perched on a branch, singing at the clear, early morning sun. As he finishes and reopens his eyes, he sees that Lan Zhan is smiling the widest he’s ever seen. Why would they deprive him of the simple happiness of music? Lan Zhan’s fingers twitch in the momentary silence, ready to move along the notes again.

 “Any requests?” Wei Ying asks, a little teasing, mostly overflowing with pride, heart beating unusually loud against his ears.

 “I don’t know any songs. Wei Ying should choose.”

 Wei Ying smiles a crooked smile, half heartbroken, half contemplative. Since he’s in the Cloud Recesses and in the presence of a Lan, surely there’s something he can—

 Ah.

 Wei Ying’s notes rise and fall, like the course of water, carrying, carrying one’s consciousness, a leaf helpless against the current. The long notes take a swirl, enrapturing the listener, the leaf dancing around itself in the water; a singer’s lullaby. He remembers being told by arrogant Gusu Lan sect members that the Song of Clarity was one of the hardest melodies to learn and that was precisely the reason why he did his best to learn it. And in that room with such an honest admirer, Wei Ying can even feel his golden core come to life again, just barely a spark, infusing the section of the song with the tranquility of a night’s sleep.

 Breaking away from his own spell, he lowers the instrument and looks at Lan Zhan’s reaction. His eyes are half-lidded, lost in a moment or a note or a thought.

 “Do you like it?” He asks and Lan Zhan nods, humming his answer, still taking a few more seconds before meeting his gaze. He doesn’t say anything but Wei Ying doesn’t look away; he rests his chin on his palm, elbow propped on the table, and leans closer to his friend. “I can teach you.”

 He looks visibly shaken to Wei Ying, though none of his gestures are capable of being loud. Chuckling, Wei Ying raises his free hand, index finger pointed up.

 “On one condition.”

 Lan Zhan seems to hold his breath, but Wei Ying might be thinking about himself.

 “Can you teach me how to read and speak your language?”

 Lan Zhan blinks and Wei Ying leans closer still, letting out a dramatic sound, forehead touching Lan Zhan’s shoulder in one of the techniques that used to do him wonders when he asked his sister to make his favorite dish.

 “Please? I feel like I’m constantly at a disadvantage by being illiterate in a place full of scholars.”

 “I’ll teach you.”

 The answer is so swift that Wei Ying chokes on air, coughs a few times, feels Lan Zhan’s hands touch his elbows in support.

 “Really? You don’t have to ask for permission?”

 He’s too close. He can see how long Lan Zhan’s eyelashes are when he blinks, likes the angle of his bangs and how they barely cast a shadow on him, can’t help looking at his lips when he repeats, “I’ll teach you.” Then Wei Ying is nervously backing away, hands quickly acting to place the dizi back on its case to save face, clearing his burning throat, unable to stop the pulling sensation at his middle.

 “Thank you, Lan Zhan!” He says quickly. “I’m going to be the best teacher and student!”

 When he gathers the courage to look up, Lan Zhan has a skeptical eyebrow raised, because he did pay attention to all the stories of Wei Ying’s youth, and the laugh that bubbles out of Wei Ying is easy and genuine.

[bhaalble]

Alistair: A Defense, a Critique

I PROMISED AN ESSAY

I DELIVER AN ESSAY.

So here we go. What’s up Ferelden, its him, ya boi

So, let’s start off by clearly delineating some things that Alistair is, and more importantly, what he is not.

I think there’s a tendency with Alistair critical posts to treat the worst possible version of Alistair as the “real him”, which is more than a little unfair. Unhardened, kinda bitchy Alistair is a part of him, yes, but its a part of him that only arises when your Warden is continually a dick to him, and I think it’s fair to say that none of us are the best versions of ourselves when we’re constantly being treated like shit or ignored. Furthermore, this isn’t really something we do when we talk about the other characters. Zevran straight up tries to murder you if you don’t have his approval ratings high enough and somehow most people don’t see Zevran as inherently a backstabbing little shit.

So, let’s run down the list of common accusations and overturn them

Alistair is not stupid. He’s just…not. Morrigan jokes, yes, but Morrigan tends to see everyone as an idiot for not sharing her worldview, including your Warden. The one who jokes about Alistair being stupid more often than anyone is Alistair, but as we see time and time again, he’s rarely the most trustworthy source for his real complications.

Alistair may not be a scholar and can make some pretty boneheaded statements, yes, but he’s hardly alone in that department for the DA:O crew. His retorts show some real wit behind them at points. He can demonstrate great social awareness (e.g. catching on to the fact that the Grand Cleric sending him, an ex-templar, to interact with the Circle Mages was definitely an intentional slight). Furthermore, I’d like to point out that he managed to catch on to the Chantry’s bullshit all on his own, before he racked up dozens of counts of mage abuse (*cough* CULLEN *cough*). He still shows some effects of the templar’s training, (especially in his treatment of Jowan and Morrigan) but I’d argue that this is hardly a surprise. He’s been subjected to it 24/7 since he was a child. But he’s aware, and based on the other templars we meet throughout the game that on its own shows some serious introspection and critical thinking.

Alistair is not selfish. While he has his moments, I don’t think that’s really who he is, deep down. Take, for instance, his forgiveness of Arl Eamon. He hasn’t seen Eamon for years. The expected arc would be that he waits for Eamon to wake up, gets an apology, and then forgives him. But based on how he talks about him when you enter Redcliffe, its clear that he’s already forgiven Eamon, and is honestly more than a little ashamed of his behavior. Frankly, this is more selfless than even I would be: imagine being twelve, having lived your life as a street urchin because your adoptive father simply won’t treat you any different than he treats his paid employees, only to be sent away from the only home you’ve ever known because your presence embarrasses his wife. Frankly, I think Alistair would be justified in resenting Eamon for it, but it’s clear that he doesn’t. He calls him a good man from beginning to end.

Furthermore, I think what the Guardian says to Alistair is telling. He doesn’t just feel sad that Duncan is gone. He feels guilty. He, deep down, genuinely believes it should have been him. He wishes he could throw himself on the sword to save his mentor. Then there’s the ritual to consider. It takes some convincing (because of course it does) but with little fuss, Alistair will sleep with a woman he genuinely dislikes (which hoo boy does this make a consent conversation more than a little shaky) to conceive a child that he will never get to see. He, a bastard child cast away from his father, is essentially doing the same thing. All to ensure that he won’t risk his friends dying. Even an unhardened King Alistair casting off a non-human non-noble Warden, while it of course hurts, to me shows a sense of latent responsibility. He genuinely loves and cares about your HoF, but he has the sense that this matters more. That even though he never wanted this burden, he has to carry it as best he can.

What Alistair is is immature.

I want to draw a fine distinction here because I think we tend to use immature interchangeably with “selfish” and “stupid”, so it can sound like I’m contradicting myself. So, to explain myself: I use “immature” in the sense of a symptom, rather than a personality.

For an example of “immature as a personality”, look no further than Tony Stark in like, the first half hour of Iron Man (arguably Tony in the rest of the movies too but ashfagdkh follow me here)

Early Tony Stark is very much someone who is irrepressibly immature. He is capable of being an adult, but he chooses not to be, valuing his own desires above pretty much everyone else’s. He acts out simply because he knows no one will stop him, chases the shiniest, biggest toys he can get, and throws a fit when he doesn’t get his way. He treats other people’s time and needs with a flippant attitude, generally behaving like they are literally side characters who only matter so long as they help him get what he wants.

This isn’t to say there isn’t a reason Tony is the way he is (his relationship with his father being a big contributor), but what is important is that Tony is fully capable of being otherwise, knows it, and chooses not to. He revels in his shamelessness, believing that his immaturity is a sign of his intelligence. Everyone else acts like an adult because they have to, but Tony acts like a child because he is smart enough and rich enough to get away with it. Call it a sort of Capitalist Peter Pan syndrome.

By contrast, Alistair strikes me as immature as a symptom. First off, his age is important to factor in here. Alistair is 20 (my age, which is trippy as fuck). He is barely done being a teenager by the time you meet him.

There are further factors that have stunted Alistair’s emotional maturity, even for the average 20-year-old. He jokes about having been raised by Mabari, but its very clear there weren’t a lot of adult influences in his life at a young age. He mentions Isolde ensured that the castle wasn’t home to him long before he was sent to the Chantry. Imagine being under ten and feeling like you were unwanted by a person who has the power to make your life miserable in every imaginable way.

Then, once he was moved to the Chantry….well, if the Circle is any indication, the Chantry doesn’t exactly know how to accommodate children. Alistair made life a merry hell for the priests but it’s clear he wasn’t treated very well by them. Then straight into templar training. All of this while barely interacting with the outside world and shunned by his peers for his status as a bastard. Kids need to engage with other people in order to grow up effectively. With that in mind, it’s frankly stunning that Alistair has as much care for other people as he does.

The observation of Alistair’s immaturity is exactly groundbreaking either. Think about his dream in the Fade. We see Alistair at his most honest and vulnerable, fully convinced of the illusion. And it seems his greatest dream is to have the family he never got as a child, via his sister. Alistair behaves childlike to the point of parody in this dream. He pleads like a child and tries to entice the Warden to stay by begging his mom sister to make a special meal, his favorite. Hell, the whole “hardening” subplot is basically about the Warden forcing Alistair to let go of the childhood he never got to have and moving forward into adulthood.

His immaturity doesn’t just express itself in the obvious childlike behavior, however. Even though we tend to forget that Alistair is a junior member of the Wardens and is barely more experienced than the HoF in terms of actually fighting darkspawn, I think we can all agree that tossing the decisions on someone who’s barely past their Joining probably isn’t great behavior. Pretty much every comment he makes, about mages, blood magic, elves, even women, also read as the words of a man who simply does not have the world experience yet to really know how to engage with people who aren’t like him. It doesn’t mean these comments don’t….yanno, suck, but there is rarely any real malice behind them. Despite the hardships in Alistair’s life (of which there have been many, I grant), he has still been on the receiving end of certain privileges by virtue of being a man and being human non-mage, and it is clear he is still unlearning the prejudice inherent in that. His youth doesn’t excuse how hurtful or ignorant his comments can be, but its the unfortunate truth that, especially for those of us who grow up relatively privileged, being mindful of the Other is a learning process.

However, the main reason I view this immaturity as a symptom more than a personality is that I think Alistair has a genuine desire to grow past this. He acknowledges that he complains a lot, with an additional note that “and you haven’t been having an easy time of it either”. If you push back on his comments (or at least when the game gives you the chance to), he’ll usually apologize for it. And as I said, the hardening storyline to me indicates that Alistair is more than ready to grow up. He’s just still learning how to do it.

None of this, by the way, means that you have to love Alistair. Its more than easy to be annoyed by him, especially for a non-human and/or non-noble character. In the interest of full disclosure, it took me romancing Alistair to move past simply tolerating him. But I think its time for all of us to stop pretending Alistair is something he isn’t. He isn’t really a side character as much as he is a deuteragonist. More than any other companion (except, arguably, Morrigan), Alistair has a character arc that acts in response to your own characters. He grows and changes over the course of the narrative in a way that parallels how the story treats him, and if you create an Alistair that behaves like an asshole, well, you might want to take a look at how you’ve been treating him

to

[reapersbarge]

Voynich

A belated happy birthday and get-well present for @colubrina. You inspire me and delight me and I'm so happy to call you my friend. You mentioned once about being a sucker for coffee shop AUs and picked this when I asked you for a pairing. The working title was "Wtf Collie" since blending them proved hilarious.  

Special thanks to cheerleader, beta-reader, all around fantastic human @moonlightmasquerade. This wouldn't have gotten done without you.

Cross-posted on Ao3. 

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“Grande cappuccino for…Ab?” a barista called out into the packed café.

A light haired man dressed entirely in a close-fitting suit wound his way through the other patrons to the counter. A briefcase was clasped in his left hand while the left picked up his drink. He turned to quickly make his escape.

And ran straight into another and poured both of their drinks all over his new boots.

“Hey! Watch where—“ the blond’s objections were promptly halted as he looked up. He was momentarily dazed. The black-clad phantom was the prettiest man Abraxas had ever seen. He looked like a knife one would willingly throw themselves upon just to be closer to his brilliant gleam. Abraxas had always been fascinated with shiny things. “My mistake. Let me buy you another.”

“Considering you spilled my last one, I would hope you would replace it. Grande Americano. Meet me over at that corner table,” drawled the shorter man before moving to the counter to mop himself up. Abraxas retrieved the drinks and strolled to the table. His new companion had several textbooks and a notebook filled with symbols spread across the workspace. He carefully set down the drinks and held his pale hand out.

“Abraxas Malfoy. My apologies again for my clumsy actions earlier. Might I sit with you, as there are no other free tables?” he said, trying for the smoothness Nott had always accused him of using in the boardroom to manipulate clients. His hand hung there for a beat before it was shook.

“Tom Riddle and that’s fine. Just don’t spill coffee on my books,” he answered with a suggestion of a smirk.

Abraxas’ cheeks pinked at the reminder as he took the seat across from Tom. The symbols and text in the books looked like no language Abraxas had ever seen before. Vibrant pictures of greenery and women spun around and between the words. While it was certainly old, the images were fascinating.

“The Voynich manuscript,” Tom offered after he had been studying Abraxas surreptitiously over his notebook for a moment. “Circa early 15th century Italy or Prague.”

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Tom had picked the book up as a lark one day. His history professor had mentioned it in passing while discussing fascinating tomes of early history. He had tuned out much of the lecture as he had looked into several of the discussed books, but when it had been mentioned that no one in several centuries had been able to decode it, Tom was hooked. The idea of his name going into the history textbooks as the one who finally uncovered the mystery behind the manuscript was enthralling. It would cement his place as the foremost historical scholar.

Abraxas’ eyes widened comically at the revelation. Tom to the opportunity to look him over more fully. He was fair, so pale he looked as if he had been left in some dark place for too long. There was no denying the pleasing symmetry to the other man’s face. His hair, almost white in the darkly lit café, reached almost to his elbows. The suit he wore probably cost more than Tom’s laptop, but he wore it well.

“I’ve heard of this. It’s rumored to have driven men mad trying to decode what the symbols mean,” Abraxas said. He glanced at Tom’s face curiously before staring back down at the strange book.

“Those claims haven’t been substantiated actually,” Tom explained. “Most people usually have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“I’m not most people.”

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Later, Tom would wonder if it was the arrogance Abraxas carried—that sureness of his place in the world and everyone else’s place underneath him. Tom spent so much of his time discretely fighting: to be the top dog in class, to prove that he was the genuine article, to be taken seriously as an intellectual and not be a scholarship kid who got in on pity. It was difficult with his out of style clothes and his secondhand bag. He worked backbreaking hours just to afford his rent. The laptop, his first new purchase upon entering graduate school, had felt like a treasure he wasn’t supposed to touch.

Abraxas had chided Tom over the state of his clothes, the ponce.

“How am I supposed to be seen in public with you if you insist on dressing like a street urchin?” he said one day a few weeks into their acquaintance.

“I wasn’t aware you were intending on taking me in public,” Tom retorted, offended on behalf of his patched coat.

He was promptly thrown back on his bed and shut up.

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Abraxas was true to his word and they went out often. Symphonies, plays, and more museums than even Tom could keep track of. The blond had no concept of money and seemed intent on draining his coffers to amuse Tom. It came to a head over take-out, of all things.

“Let me grab it,” Tom said as he stood up from the couch to grab the door. Abraxas let out a laugh.

“Love, I’ve already paid. It’s an online carrier service.” He held up his phone as if in proof. Tom closed the door on the delivery driver, who seemed to tremble at the wrathful look on his face.

The mood of the room shifted from movie night to morgue. The clacking of cheap wooden chopsticks was incredibly loud in the silence. Tom refused to fight across cardboard containers of stir fry. He would not involve himself in the stereotypical couple fight about money. He was better than that.

Abraxas, for his part, wanted no part in dramatics. Tom would sulk, they would discuss, and then silently apologize. His father had raised him to not make a scene, even in private. Abraxas had never even heard his mother raise her voice. Such things were Not Done.

After dinner, rather than engage in a argument, Tom dragged Abraxas by the hair to his bedroom. The containers could wait until morning when their anger was much subsided.

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Three weeks later, more discord was sewn between the pair. Abraxas sat watching a mindless police procedural as Tom attempted to make tea. Grumblings from the kitchen about how apparently two bachelor’s degrees and a master’s were apparently not enough to make the cooker work alerted Abraxas to his lover’s issues. He glided into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Tom’s waist as he argued with the kettle.

“Move in with me,” Abraxas said without preamble. Tom set the kettle down slowly and turned around in his arms.

“What did you just say?” he asked, brow arching dangerously. Abraxas seemed unperturbed.

“Move in with me. Break the lease on this flat. Half of the appliances have a mind of their own and your upstairs neighbors never stop screaming at each other,” he murmured into Tom’s neck. “I can set up a study for you off of the library and—”

Tom shoved him away and stalked into the living room. “I’m not having this discussion.”

Hurt registered on Abraxas’ face, but the younger man wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he was pulling his hands through his hair and scrubbing them across his face.

“I will not be kept, Abraxas,” Tom said lowly. “I know your father intends for you to marry the oldest Rosier daughter. I will not be kept in the same house you fuck that woman in.” “Christ, Thomas, is that what this is about?” Abraxas was across the small room and in front of Tom in a flash. Carefully, he replaced Tom’s hands on his face with his own. “I told Father I would not marry her. I want you, you idiot, not some simpering gently-bred harpy.”

Tom said nothing, but looked into Abraxas’ guileless grey eyes. The pleading innocence was startling and frightening. Tom had been expecting one of two scenarios to be the end result of this dalliance. Either Abraxas would toss him aside for a debutante or he would attempt to hold on to Tom as an affair. Neither were particularly appealing. Staying together, damn the consequences, had never entered Tom’s mind. And he was suddenly terrified.

“Okay,” Tom whispered finally. Abraxas’ lips came to rest on his forehead. “Okay.”

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Relationships rarely run smoothly and Tom and Abraxas’ was no different. They fought over closet space (Abraxas owned far too many suits for one man), linens, and library cataloging systems. Maximilian Rosier was apoplectic at the failed betrothal between Drusella and Abraxas. A copy of the announcement between her and Cygnus Black was mailed to Malfoy Manor with a snotty and homophobic note. The paper also featured an anonymous account of the scandalous relationship the Malfoy heir was engaging in. Tom idly looked into the financial records of Rosier’s company and anonymously alerted the tax authorities to several profitable errors that were being swept under the rug.

Tom’s relationship with the Malfoy patriarch was tumultuous to say the least. At first, Armand wanted nothing to do with Tom and repeatedly introduced him as Abraxas’ “school friend”, even though they had never attended the same school. It took Abraxas’ mother’s quiet persuasion before Armand saw the truth of the situation. It helped that the disappearance of Rosier from the financial sector made their company quite a good deal of money. Armand purchased an expensive watch for him in thanks. The inscription on the back read, “Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.” Abraxas was stunned at the gift and informed his lover later that that was akin to an open arms welcome to the family.

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Six years later after their first meeting, Abraxas found himself in his favorite café. After balancing several drinks on a tray, he turned to make his way back to their table. A dark-haired child ran straight into his legs, causing the tray to tilt dangerously. Abraxas righted the tray and looked down at the pouting girl.

“Ariella! What have we said about running?” he asked, smoothing her wild hair back. His daughter widened her eyes in innocence and glanced down at her feet.

“Running isn’t ladylike and I’m not to prance around like a wild beast,” she mumbled. Abraxas laughed and she looked at him shrewdly, mirroring her father’s frustrated expression exactly.

“Your eloquence is definitely genetic, Ari. Come along. Papa’s going to be put out if he has to wait for his coffee any longer.”

Tom Riddle was attempting to wrangle a blond toddler into a highchair and failing miserably. Nicholas appeared very put out with not being allowed to sit in his father’s lap. That he had drooled all over priceless manuscripts and had attempted to eat a Montblanc fountain pen was of no consequence. All was to be available to the small dictator and finding out this was not true was distressing.

Abraxas set the tray down and traded Tom children. Nicholas leaned back on Abraxas’ chest and looked smugly in Tom’s direction. Tom had the unkind thought that only a Malfoy could manage that look at two years of age.

“How has your latest paper been received, love?” Abraxas asked as he sipped his drink.

“Wonderful, of course. Professor Halting has done nothing but praise the work. I expect to be offered another grant through the university to fully examine the implications of the study,” Tom said. He had finally cracked the Voynich manuscript three years ago and was making waves in the academic community because of it. “It has the possibility of offering a new look on--”

Abraxas was saved from his husband’s lengthy discussion by his mobile ringing. After thanking the caller and arranging for a meeting later that afternoon, he hung up and stared at Tom. The inquiring eyebrow raise seemed to shake Abraxas out of his stupor.

“Mrs. Pitchins from the adoption office just called,” he stuttered out. “A little girl was just brought into the Whitechapel office.” Tom flinched at the mention of his former home, but finally grasped what Abraxas was saying.

“Her name is Katarina and she’s just three. Mrs. Pitchins wants us to come immediately to meet her and think about adding her to our family,” he continued.

Tom looked down at Ariella dozing against his shoulder and Nicholas in Abraxas’ lap. He hadn’t expected this gift. He remembered standing in that very office, a dump of the highest order, and watching day after day as other children were taken home. The thought of getting someone out of there captured Tom. It wasn’t as if they wanted for money or space or nannies. He looked up at his still shell-shocked husband.

“Let’s go,” Tom said suddenly. “And try not to spill your coffee when you pick up our son.”

Thank you for reading!

[vreugd-madelon]

The Way of Kings Review

The Way of Kings Part 1 by Brandon Sanderson is a 592 page High Fantasy novel. The original is over 1000 pages long, but this brittish edition is split into two parts. It's part of the Stormlight Archive series. And I picked up this book when I saw it in a second hand bookstore for a really good price and I always wanted to read a Brandon Sanderson. To be honest Regan from PeruseProject on Youtube swayed me into getting this one.

What happens when a king is murdered, and a country goes to war? This is what has happened in the world of Roshar, where Kaladin, Shallan, Dalinar and Adolin live. Kaladin is an soldier turned slave, branded as dangerous. The young Shallan is an excellent self-thought scholar, on her own mission to save her family. Dalinar and Adolin are father and son, uncle and nephew of the current king. One suffers from visions, the other torn between family and country.

Will they thrive, or will the war swallow them whole?

I rate this book 4.75/5 stars, because the one major issue I found with this book was the large amount of typos that I found. It's the only reason it's not 5/5 stars.

The first thing I wanted to mention is that I absolutely love and adored this book. The worldbuilding was amazing, the character were incredibly well constructed and I had an amazing time reading it. It took me a moment to get really into it, but when I did it was an absolute blast. I had to take breaks often while reading, but it was so easy to pick up where I left off. If I had to pick a book that I look up to, it's definitely this one. The second point I want to touch is the plot. While I called the first plot twist, I was kinda upset about it but the rest of the story took me by a complete surprise. Gradually we learn about Stormlight while we see it used in action. Hints are spread throughout the story about all the things it can be used for, and it's incredible. It's a source of magic and lighting. A system of payment and healing. This book is a good example of Show, Don't Tell. I really like the flashbacks of Kaladin when he was 12 years old. It gives us a sense of background while still being relevant to the overall story. Which was the intent of Brandon Sanderson, so that worked out. Third, are the characters. What I dislike most are the names. Some of them are completely incomprehensable for someone with dyslexia, such as myself. While they are often not around for long, I hate to read a name like Tvlakv or Vstim, because I don't even know how to pronounce it in my head. I just called him Tlak, much easier. A character I adored is little Syl. She is funny and whimsical, and most of al adorable in the way she acts. And to me she has the most character progression. I like how near the end we get to see the POV of Gaz. His motivations and actions become so much clearer. Between the three main characters, Dalinar, Kaladin and Shallan, I like to read about Kaladin the most. If I were to be like one of them it would be Kaladin, because of the way he is there for people, and his skill in survival. Not only literally, but also his mental capability to handle all his struggles. We have yet to see him fail in that. The fourth thing I like to touch on is the writing itself. What really pulled me away from the story, was the many typos that I've found. While no book is written flawlessly, I found one in roughly every 20 pages. Most of them are in the beginning, but it really bothered me. I like the pacing in the first few chapters, all really high energy stuff. Then it dies down a bit as we learn new characters, just before it picks back up again. Really nicely done. Chapter 13 'Ten Heartbeats' is truly amazing and my favorite by far. It finally shows some action and has some real character and story progression. Lastly I'd like to touch on some miscellanious topics within this book. In the beginning there are famous last words of seemingly random people, and to this day I've never figured out why. Suddenly they stopped, and it bothered me. Hopefully in the second volume that becomes more clear. The drawing and notes on various pages within the book looked absolutely stunning and they are well done. They give an added feel to the grand world that we are exploring while reading all about it.

If you have any questions send me an ask here on tumblr or tweet me. If there are any books that you want to recommend, be sure to let me know!

[bradleyhartsell]

Who is Thom Galt?

Radiohead- In Rainbows 2007 (32nd of Top 100)

It’s funny how a subgroup takes an already-menial fragment of culture and erects its own tenets. Pavement fandom, for instance, is on the margins, but inside the rock intelligentsia, the band has two accepted masterpieces (Slanted and Enchanted and Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain); yet there’s been a groundswell in the last decade or so to say you know, Wowee Zowee is actually their best work. Animal Collective, in honor of a 10-year-anniversary, had some extolling pieces written this year about their magnum opus, Merriweather Post Pavilion, but die-hards prefer Sung Tongs or Feels. Similarly, the Radiohead community seems to have dismantled the established twin gold standards of OK Computer and Kid A in favor of In Rainbows.

A part of that may steam from the disparity of The Establishment favoring context and cultural narrative, while the community cuts through the bullshit to find the best songs. OK Computer and Kid A had their respective myths built for them (the moment when solipsistic art rock became commercially viable; the moment when that same band rejected that trailblazing notion, alongside the supposed last-gasp of The Album in the wake of Napster). In Rainbows, in many ways followed suit, albeit of the band’s own making, as Radiohead helped pioneer self-released, name-your-price digital delivery method. Perhaps because that model was fairly brief, as streaming subscriptions and their algorithms became dominant (for more mythmaking, see also the comically myopic “newspaper album” that is The King of Limbs). If OK Computer is eternally a sonic alternative rock landmark, and Kid A is the signpost for intrepid career U-turn, In Rainbows gets left behind when name-your-price is draconian compared to the $9.99 Spotify everything.

Still, to the band’s community, late ‘90s sonic upheavals, new-century influence, and Napster are too-worn talking points when the community’s thesis is which songs are best. Hence the chic pick nowadays is to say In Rainbows. Of course, I’ve already played contrarian, to both The Establishment and, likely, the said community, by asserting Amnesiac is definitively Radiohead’s best work (and my former all-time favorite album; still third). But even devaluing a band’s narrative and social context, as I’m want to do, I still think, on balance, the twin purported masterpieces rate a little higher than In Rainbows, though even I have my days where it’s fluid. And regardless of these inconsequential squabbles, there’s little question of In Rainbows as one of this young century’s greatest records.

While everything about In Rainbows is resolutely Radiohead, it does mark something of a subtle departure for them. Consider that coming without the fanfare, Amnesiac expertly blended their jagged, claustrophobic rock with isolating electronics (and unfortunately, Hail to the Thief came off as a bloated, uneven imitator). With In Rainbows, the band found a way of faithfully representing this hybrid DNA in fresh, more buoyant ways. Despite comparable running times, In Rainbows feels like Radiohead’s leanest work, as the songs are open and breathe in a way divergent from the panicky restlessness they’d so well done previously. Distortion and crunchy riffs get traded in for clean, Sunday morning arpeggios (so much so that they seem to meta-name “Weird Fishes/Arpeggi” after it); industrial mechanizations get replaced with billowy strings and hovering atmospherics.

That’s not to say In Rainbows is a bright springtime record—the stretch from “Nude” to “All I Need” is as sonically sobering as they’ve been, while “Videotape” is the bleakest song they’ve ever recorded. In fact, even apart from its dour soundscape, their 2007 record seems to have perfectly captured delusion, taking the character in “Karma Police” to its logical conclusion; whereas the “Karma Police” narrator is deliberately played as a product of manipulation (“Phew, for a minute there / I lost myself”), it’s not even safe to say Thom Yorke is playing a character. “Videotape,” for instance, is the most beautiful, yet heartbreaking kind of cognitive dissonance, in what could easily been seen as a suicide note: “This is my way of saying goodbye / Because I can't do it face to face…No matter what happens now / You shouldn't be afraid / Because I know today has been / The most perfect day I've ever seen.” “All I Need,” meanwhile, is equally played straight, as Yorke delicately and sincerely sings a love song, except he’s comparing himself to a “moth / Who just wants to share your light…I only stick with you / Because there are no others.” Like an insect or “an animal / Trapped in your hot car,” the feeling is genuine, even if it’s unhealthy. On “Weird Fishes/Arpeggi,” Thom insists he’d be “crazy not to follow…where you lead” but it’s merely a “way out,” even if it means following to the “edge / Of the earth…And fall off.”

The sonic choices faithfully score York’s being unencumbered, however deluded, with fuzzed-out, solitary bass plucks of “All I Need” leading one of the band’s most spare choruses, before piano and strings swell into a lovely power ballad (a dutiful ode to someone/thing, no matter its degrading qualities). The breeziness of the shaker and Red Hot Chili Peppers-esque arpeggio guitar (for better or worse, though it’s a lovely riff) in “Reckoner” threatens to blow away if not for Yorke’s ultra-silky falsetto, followed by piano, strings, and subdued bass line managing to ground the song, ultimately making it the heart of the album (even if it’s not the album’s best song, it’s a worthy candidate).

Conversely, Radiohead has a bad habit of putting head-scratching, out-of-place songs on its albums (“Electioneering”; “Optimistic”). “15 Step” never quite seems in league with those missteps, maybe in part because it’s unburdened as the opener, and maybe simply because it’s really good; it’s muscular, yet economical, with Yorke nailing a charged hook: “How come I end up where I started?” And apart from the comparatively jarring aggro-Aphex Twin breakbeat (especially as it’s the only song with drum machine-based percussion) and stormy atmosphere anchoring the song, the melody and its flourish still has a HSN-ready arpeggio and a repeated snippet of children cheering, both of which do hint at the core sound of In Rainbows—something naïve, carefree.

After the jagged, Hail to the Thief-seeming “Bodysnatchers,” In Rainbows settles into being the best possible version of Red Hot Chili Peppers singles if they were both ondes Martenot-forward and Ayn Rand scholars. It’s even likely those two songs give the album the muscle it needs to keep from evaporating into the sleepiness that doomed The King of Limbs. In fact, In Rainbows does err a couple of times with “Faust Arp” (among Yorke’s least compelling performances, as he fails to meet the music’s heightened airs) and “House of Cards” dozing off, the latter with the unique distinction of joining “Electioneering” and “Optimistic” as conspicuous black marks while still being completely on-brand for the album in question. If “Electioneering” and “Optimistic” are unnecessary throwbacks to a rock period they sonically outgrew, then the longest song on In Rainbows is doubly a drag, with a lifeless hook underscoring Yorke’s overproduced vocals (“Forget about your house of cards / And I’ll do mine”), even as its clean arpeggio saunters around a thoughtful string arrangement, not unlike the vastly superior “Reckoner.”

I’ve argued that sequencing redeems In Rainbows, as “House of Cards” being the penultimate song quickly would sink this album closer to the hit-and-miss Hail to the Thief. Instead, the record concludes with its two best songs, “Jigsaw Falling into Place” and “Videotape.” The fingerpicked acoustic riff and Phil Selway’s racing drums chase each other on “Jigsaw,” as York offers a stunning performance—first speak-singing right in your ear before wonderfully opening up on the second “The beat goes round and round.” Interestingly, Yorke plainly sets a will-they-won’t-they in a club, which feels so apart from the edge-of-the-world, lambs-to-slaughter pathos he commonly evokes. Most successfully, the infectious energy of the song makes it feel like the congenial successor to “Idioteque.”

Moreover, In Rainbows is Yorke’s most immediate and beautiful performance. No song here is garbling or digitizing his voice; in fact, the worst song is the one oversaturating his voice in echo effect. Yorke’s elegant register is the connective tissue to so many of these songs, like the stellar “Nude,” when he snakes alongside Colin Greenwood’s sultry bass line before delivering an enshrined vocal take on par with the end of “Life in a Glasshouse” and “It’s gonna be a glorious day” from “Lucky”: “You’ll go to hell for what your dirty mind is thinking.” You don’t realize how much Yorke relies on his angel hair falsetto during the album until he pulls you aside to talk to you during the opening verse of “Jigsaw”; and then, in one of his most intimate performances, Yorke sings right into your ear on “Videotape,” so much so that you can hear the P-sound popping in the mic when he says “pearly gates.” With no “Fitter Happier,” no instrumentals, no digitized dystopia, it’s fitting that In Rainbows is the band’s warmest album to date.

That’s not to discount Radiohead at their most paranoid and icy; the satellite-beamed anxiety of OK Computer can still be more thrilling (and equally contemplative); Kid A (mostly) feels exotic, as if from some dystopian planet; Amnesiac is equally mysterious, except its predecessor’s interstellar relay gets subsumed by a technocratic Dante’s Inferno. The allusions here aren’t nearly as arresting—an Atlas Shrugged-versed Chili Peppers is comparatively tame—but In Rainbows is the most direct, distilled version of what makes Radiohead great. It’s also the album that finds the oft-cagey and anarchist songwriting recalling some faux-peace, as if coasting off laudanum drips, thus making the record’s narrative point of view the band’s most nuanced. And when projecting to Radiohead’s aforementioned community, perhaps grassroots support for In Rainbows is simply due to it’s being the band’s most “chill” album to put on while hitting a bowl.

When reviewing the album, Pitchfork had a joke of name-your-own-score. But I bypassed that contrivance by snagging an In Rainbowstorrent. I listened to my music the way I always had. And while a fickle and temperamental culture quickly buried In Rainbows’ meta-narrative, it’s reassuring to know there’s still a niche community more interested in textual greatness than contextual machinations.

[filmstruck]

Reassessing the Critical Response to PEEPING TOM (‘60) by Kimberly Lindbergs

When you mention PEEPING TOM (’60) to classic film fans the response is typically “That’s the movie that ended Michael Powell’s career!” and a quick Google search will unearth countless critics and film historians repeating a similar refrain. While it is true that PEEPING TOM received a brutal lashing from the British critical establishment that deeply affected Powell, the facts surrounding the film’s distribution, reputation and impact on the director’s career are much more nuanced and complex.

Contrary to what you might have heard, Powell’s career did not come to a screeching halt after he made PEEPING TOM. In fact, Powell went on to make five more films including a magnificent production of Béla Balázs’s opera Bluebeard’s Castle, released as HERZOG BLAUBARTS BURG (’63), and the very successful Australian comedy AGE OF CONSENT (’69). He also went on to direct episodes of popular television shows such as THE DEFENDERS (’61-’65) and produced one of my favorite spy spoofs (SEBASTIAN [’68]) but the British film world was drastically changing in the 1960s. The Technicolor fantasies conjured up by Powell and his creative partner Emeric Pressburger in the 1940s were being replaced by gritty kitchen sink dramas. Film audiences that had once sought out escapist entertainment from the horrors of WWII were now eager to watch films that spoke to the very real problems they were facing at home. Powell, who prided himself on his imaginative set pieces and baroque vision, had no desire to make films in the kitchen sink mold. This disengagement with popular taste and trends undoubtedly made the director, who was nearly 60-years-old when PEEPING TOM was released, somewhat out of step with the times.

The first film Powell made after PEEPING TOM was THE QUEEN’S GUARDS (’61). I haven’t seen it myself but as critic Kim Newman pointedly observed in a recent review,

The story goes that Michael Powell was run out of the business after the controversy of Peeping Tom. . . but the film he made immediately after that hot potato was this eminently respectable picture, with a relatively high budget and tons of cooperation from the sort of Establishment bodies (including the army and, implicitly, the Royals) who wouldn’t have liked Peeping Tom.

Unfortunately, THE QUEEN’S GUARDS was a box office and critical flop. Powell himself referred to it as the worst film he ever made so it’s quite likely that its failure to win public approval had just as much of a negative effect on Powell’s career as PEEPING TOM did.

It's worth noting that Powell had plenty of previous problems getting his films made before he added PEEPING TOM to his oeuvre. He often went overbudget in an effort to bring his fanciful ideas to the screen and butted heads with producers on more than one occasion. THE LIFE AND DEATH OF COLONEL BLIMP (’43) faced intense scrutiny from the British government with Winston Churchill leading the charge against its favorable depiction of Germans during wartime. And THE RED SHOES (’48) suffered extreme scrutiny from producers who couldn’t appreciate it and didn’t know how to market it while some critics complained it was “too long” and the characters “clichéd.” But there is no escaping the nasty tone of the reviews Powell received after making PEEPING TOM. British critics were appalled by the film, which was part of what film historian David Pirie has dubbed Anglo-Amalgamated’s “Sadian trilogy.” The two other films that make up the trilogy include Arthur Crabtree’s HORRORS OF THE BLACK MUSEUM (’59) and Sidney Hayers’s CIRCUS OF HORROR (’60). Together with PEEPING TOM, this trinity of exceptional thrillers became some of the most reviled and influential horror pictures produced in Britain.

The so-called “Sadian trilogy” share many similarities including sympathetic madmen that meet gruesome ends. They also encourage audience participation with an abundance of POV shots that ask viewers to experience the terrors they unleash through the eyes of victims and villains. And last but certainly not least, the films combine inventive modern set pieces with striking Eastman Color photography. Blood reds, putrid greens and pulsating purples swirl and shudder across the screen creating a fantastic miasma of horrors that left spectators, accustomed to monochrome thrillers aimed at a much younger audience, dazed and reeling. PEEPING TOM is the most admired and celebrated of the three, but all of these Anglo-Amalgamated productions combine violence with surprisingly adult themes into a potent cinematic cocktail that shocked and stunned audiences at the time.

To get a sense of what critics had to say about PEEPING TOM when it was unleashed into British theaters in the summer of 1960 I’ve compiled excerpts from a few of the angriest reviews:

I have carted my travel-stained carcass to (among other places) some of the filthiest and most festering slums in Asia. But nothing, nothing, nothing - neither the hopeless leper colonies of East Pakistan, the back streets of Bombay nor the gutters of Calcutta - has left me with such a feeling of nausea and depression as I got this week while sitting through a new British film called Peeping Tom. (Daily Express, 1960)

Obviously, Michael Powell made Peeping Tom in order to shock. In one sense he has succeeded. I was shocked to the core to find a director of his standing befouling the screen with such perverted nonsense. (Daily Worker, 1960)

The only really satisfactory way to dispose of Peeping Tom would be to shovel it up and flush it swiftly down the nearest sewer. Even then the stench would remain. (The Tribune, 1960)

Today these incensed responses appear isolated and extreme, but they were typical of British critics in the late 1950s and early 1960s who regularly attacked horror films and relished the opportunity to denounce them. The early color films produced by Hammer studios were similarly condemned such as Terence Fisher’s CURSE OF FRANKENSTEIN (’57), which The Tribune called “Depressing and degrading for anyone who loves the cinema.” And HORRORS OF THE BLACK MUSEUM, the first film in Anglo-Amalgamated’s “Sadian trilogy,” barely got past censors who responded to the script with “Throw it out and let there be no mercy!”

The critical beating PEEPING TOM received in Britain has led many to believe that it had a limited release and was never shown outside of the country, but nothing could be further from the truth. Powell’s film was actually considered a modest commercial success in the United Kingdom according to film historian and author Kevin Heffernan (Ghouls, Gimmicks, and Gold: Horror Films and the American Movie Business 1953-1968), which was largely due to its inclusion of a topless scene with popular pin-up model Pamela Green.

In France, Powell’s film found a receptive audience who appreciated the director’s surrealist tendencies and mature subject matter (I.Q. Hunter, British Trash Cinema). And when the film finally reached American theaters in 1962 it was accompanied by an extensive ad campaign and greeted with cautious applause by critics in Ohio, Alabama and Pennsylvania who repeatedly singled out Carl Boehm’s (aka Karlheinz Böhm) performance calling it “brilliant” and “superb.” They also described the film in glowing terms as “An exciting new drama” and “One of the most unusual psychological thrillers in years” (Standard-Speaker, ‘62).

Despite plenty of evidence suggesting that PEEPING TOM wasn’t exactly the critical disaster it has often been depicted as, there’s no doubt that Michael Powell was deeply wounded by the negative reviews he received. Critics in Britain went after him with self-righteous abandon, asserting their moral superiority as if they were personally being attacked by the film and maybe they were? PEEPING TOM is unabashedly vicious and extremely critical of our shared voyeuristic tendencies. It asks the audience to question their own motives and examine their participation as passive spectators. This must have rocked journalists to their core in 1960 and they responded by lashing out instead of looking inward and asking tough questions of themselves and the cinema.

In the years since its release PEEPING TOM has become a critical darling and a favorite among academics and film scholars. It is one of a handful of nontraditional horror films or thrillers (pick your poison) along with Alfred Hitchcock’s PSYCHO (’60) that is universally praised and singled out for its brilliant direction, provocative ideas and analytical depiction of filmmaking. So, did PEEPING TOM destroy Michael Powell’s career? I think that assertion is highly questionable, but it definitely helped to cement Powell’s reputation as one of Britain’s greatest filmmakers.

[multipleservicelisting]

Caligula’s Garden of Delights, Unearthed and Restored

The fourth of the 12 Caesars, Caligula — officially, Gaius Julius Caesar Germanicus — was a capricious, combustible first-century populist remembered, perhaps unfairly, as the empire’s most tyrannical ruler. As reported by Suetonius, the Michael Wolff of ancient Rome, he never forgot a slight, slept only a few hours a night and married several times, lastly to a woman named Milonia.

During the four years that Caligula occupied the Roman throne, his favorite hideaway was an imperial pleasure garden called Horti Lamiani, the Mar-a-Lago of its day. The vast residential compound spread out on the Esquiline Hill, one of the seven hills on which the city was originally built, in the area around the current Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II.

There, just on the edge of the city, villas, shrines and banquet halls were set in carefully constructed “natural” landscapes. An early version of a wildlife park, the Horti Lamiani featured orchards, fountains, terraces, a bath house adorned with precious colored marble from all over the Mediterranean, and exotic animals, some of which were used, as in the Colosseum, for private circus games.

When Caligula was assassinated in his palace on the Palatine Hill in 41 A.D., his body was carried to the Horti Lamiani, where he was cremated and hastily buried before being moved to the Mausoleum of Augustus on the Campus Martius, north of the Capitoline Hill. According to Suetonius, the elite garden was haunted by Caligula’s ghost.

Historians have long believed that the remains of the lavish houses and parkland would never be recovered. But this spring, Italy’s Ministry of Cultural Heritage, Cultural Activities and Tourism will open the Nymphaeum Museum of Piazza Vittorio, a subterranean gallery that will showcase a section of the imperial garden that was unearthed during an excavation from 2006 to 2015. The dig, carried out beneath the rubble of a condemned 19th-century apartment complex, yielded gems, coins, ceramics, jewelry, pottery, cameo glass, a theater mask, seeds of plants such as citron, apricot and acacia that had been imported from Asia, and bones of peacocks, deer, lions, bears and ostriches.

“The ruins tell extraordinary stories, starting with the animals,” said Mirella Serlorenzi, the culture ministry’s director of excavations. “It is not hard to imagine animals, some caged and some running wild, in this enchanted setting.” The science of antiquities department of the Sapienza University of Rome collaborated on the project.

The objects and structural remnants on display in the museum paint a vivid picture of wealth, power and opulence. Among the stunning examples of ancient Roman artistry are elaborate mosaics and frescoes, a marble staircase, capitals of colored marble and limestone, and an imperial guard’s bronze brooch inset with gold and mother-of-pearl. “All the most refined objects and art produced in the Imperial Age turned up,” Dr. Serlorenzi said.

The classicist Daisy Dunn said the finds were even more extravagant than scholars had anticipated. “The frescoes are incredibly ornate and of a very high decorative standard,” noted Dr. Dunn, whose book “In The Shadow of Vesuvius” is a dual biography of Pliny the Elder — a contemporary of Caligula’s — and his nephew Pliny the Younger. “Given the descriptions of Caligula’s licentious lifestyle and appetite for luxury, we might have expected the designs to be quite gauche.”

The Horti Lamiani were commissioned by Lucius Aelius Lamia, a wealthy senator and consul who bequeathed his property to the emperor, most likely during the reign of his friend Tiberius from A.D. 14 to 37. When Caligula succeeded him — it is rumored that Caligula and the Praetorian Guard prefect Macro hastened the death of Tiberius by smothering him with a pillow — he moved into the main house.

In an evocative eyewitness account, the philosopher Philo, who visited the estate in A.D. 40 on behalf of the Jews of Alexandria, and his fellow emissaries had to trail behind Caligula as he inspected the sumptuous residences “examining the men’s rooms and the women’s rooms … and giving orders to make them more costly.” The emperor, wrote Philo, “ordered the windows to be filled up with transparent stones resembling white crystal that do not hinder the light, but which keep out the wind and the heat of the sun.”

Evidence suggests that after Caligula’s violent death — he was hacked to bits by his bodyguards — the house and garden survived at least until the Severan dynasty, which ruled from A.D. 193 to 235. By the fourth century, the gardens had apparently fallen into desuetude, and statuary in the abandoned pavilions was broken into pieces to build the foundations of a series of spas. The statues were not discovered until 1874, three years after Rome was made the capital of the newly unified Kingdom of Italy. With the Esquiline Hill in the midst of a building boom, the Italian archaeologist Rodolfo Lanciani nosed around freshly excavated construction sites and uncovered an immense gallery with an alabaster floor and fluted columns of giallo antico, considered the finest of the yellow marbles.

He later stumbled upon a rich deposit of classical sculptures that, at some point in the horti’s history, had been deliberately hidden to protect them. The treasures included the Lancellotti Discobolus, now housed at the National Museum of Rome; the Esquiline Venus and a bust of Commodus depicted as Hercules, now at the Capitoline Museums. In short time, the sculptures were carted off, the foundation of an apartment building was laid, and the ancient ruins were reburied.

The latest excavation of the horti unfolded under the detritus of the residences, which had been evacuated in the 1970s in the wake of a building collapse. Much like the 2012 exhumation of Richard III in Leicester, England, the unburying involved a modern parking site.

Sixteen years ago, the three-and-a-half-acre property was purchased by Enpam, a private foundation that manages pensions for Italian doctors and dentists. Exploratory core drilling for a new headquarters and a six-level underground garage brought forth a wealth of first-century relics, from the type of window glass described by Philo to lead pipes stamped with the name of Claudius, Caligula’s uncle and successor.

As construction crews erected the five-story office building, archaeologists in a trench 18 feet below street level gingerly screened and scraped away soil. In a study lab across town, paleobotanists and archaeozoologists analyzed fragments, and researchers painstakingly repaired a 10-foot-high wall fresco painted with pigment made from ground cinnabar. The entire $3.5 million conservation and restoration project was underwritten by Enpam.

Ground was broken for the Nymphaeum Museum in 2017. “The new space, in the basement of Enpam, brings to light one of the mythical places of the empire’s capital, one of the garden residences loved by the emperors,” said Daniela Porro, the museum director.

What all of this does for Caligula’s seemingly irredeemable reputation is an open question. He emerges from Suetonius’s “The Twelve Caesars,” written 80 years after the emperor was bumped off, as utterly depraved: having incestuous relationships with his sisters, sleeping with anyone he liked the look of, using criminals as food for his wild beasts when beef became too pricey and insisting that a loyal subject who had vowed to give his own life if the emperor survived an illness should carry through on his promise and die.

Mary Beard, a professor of classics at Cambridge University, posited that while Caligula might have been assassinated because he was a monster, it is equally possible that he was made into a monster because he was assassinated. In “SPQR,” her rich history of ancient Rome, she argues that “it is hard to resist the conclusion that, whatever kernel of truth they might have, the stories told about him are an inextricable mixture of fact, exaggeration, willful misinterpretation and outright invention — largely constructed after his death, and largely for the benefit of the new emperor, Claudius.”

Whether Caligula got a raw deal from history is a subject of hot and unyielding debate. “There is clearly some bias in the sources,” Dr. Dunn allowed. “But even without that, it is difficult to envision him as a good emperor. I doubt these new discoveries will do much to rehabilitate his character. But they should open up new vistas onto his world, and reveal it to be every bit as paradisiacal as he desired it to be.”

from Multiple Service Listing https://ift.tt/3bDBxNi