#like there is nothing confusing about “willing to defy God for their lover” other than maybe wondering how someone can feel thay

[kurara-black-blog]

Lucifer, in the middle of a crying fest because someone asked about his divorce:... And what if she left me for someone else? Someone better?

Alastor, Done™: Someone better than the man who defied Heaven's will not once but twice so he could be with her and make their shared dream become true? Honestly, sire, out of all the absurdly stupid things you've said, that might be the greatest of them

Lucifer:... Marry me–

Alastor: *loud radio static* NO.

[rabid-heart]

Through the Threads of Space and Time (I’ll Always Love You)

Kicking off Sefikura Week!

For @sefikuraweek 2021. Day 1 - Prompt: Meeting In Another World

After living and dying countless times, Sephiroth and Cloud finally find paradise, with each other. But all good things must come to an end.

Rating: Teen and Up

Warnings: Some implied sexual content and a description of a serious injury.

Read on Ao3 here.

--- 

It took them far too long to come together. They had danced in a battle across the threads of time and space, the clash of their blades louder than any words or feelings they might have wished to share. At the start, there was nothing more than bitter rage and anger – how could Cloud feel anything else toward the man who seemed destined to destroy every world he awakened in?

But then something changed. It might have been the hundredth meeting – might have been the thousandth, for after years and lifetimes, it was hard for Cloud to keep track – but this time, when his sword cut through Sephiroth’s body, the man did not look at him with shocked arrogance or disdain. Instead, those green eyes were glazed with tears of longing, of hope, of relief, of thanks.

When Cloud awoke the next time, he was haunted by those eyes and the ghosts of unspoken words that swirled behind them. Over the following lifetimes, over the repeated sight of those green eyes, Cloud had tried to push the dangerous thoughts away – the traitorous what ifs that kept him up at nights, that made him hold his sword with just a little bit more uncertainty. He had stubbornly convinced himself that there was no other path to follow. And why wouldn’t he? In all the lives he ever lived, there was only one constant: Sephiroth would destroy and Cloud would be his executioner.

Maybe he was tired. Maybe there was a part of him that thought to simply try something new. Or maybe the thought of seeing those eyes grateful for the death that Cloud had given them had vexed Cloud’s last nerve. Because at one point, finally, the warrior had had enough.

When he let go, stepped back and let that long silver blade pierce straight through him, Sephiroth’s green eyes were not thankful. They were not triumphant either. They were afraid. They said, pleaded, begged, please don’t leave me alone.

In the next life, that was all Cloud could think about.

In hindsight, the fact that it took them this long, this many cycles, this many lives, to get to this point was ridiculous. Cloud and Sephiroth were tied together, irrevocably, inescapably. It was a fact of the universe as was the force of gravity. No matter how far they were at the start, they would always collide. But this was a different type of collision – not of swords, but of lips and limbs and bodies and hearts and souls. It only took one night together for the realization to sink in: this was what they were meant to be. For there was no one else in the world that understood the dark crevices of Cloud’s mind and cherished him for it. And in turn, there was no one else in the world that Sephiroth knew would never truly leave him. It was perfect.

But the Planet itself seemed to disagree. It clawed its way between them, tried to tear them asunder, tried to set them back on the fated paths they were always meant to walk. It was too late, though. Cloud now knew what paradise felt like and it was waking up to silver hair and dazzling green eyes and warm arms. And if Sephiroth kept one thing from his repeated reincarnations, it was obsession. They would never stop fighting for each other, even if it would tear the strands of the world apart.

In the end, they had decided to run – find a corner of creation that would be theirs and theirs alone. And it is here that Cloud finds himself now, in a meadow of wildflowers and late summer breezes and clear blue skies. He feels like he once did as a young child, without worries or care, warm inside like nights by the fire with a mug of hot cocoa. He is walking as he does on some mornings, listless and barefoot, letting the flowers and tall grass graze through his fingertips. In the bed inside the house up the hill, Sephiroth is still sleeping.

Cloud rarely wakes before the man, but when he does, he walks. Because it is in the hazy morning light that Sephiroth looks the most human, asleep with his hair falling out of the tie that had come undone during the night. When Cloud sees that profile, feels the soft breath on his forehead, hears the steady heartbeat under his ears, it is just shy of overwhelming. The sight never fails to awaken something in Cloud: the mounting of a thousand promises, of heartfelt devotion, of the desire to remain there pressed into that man’s chest forever. Because in those mornings, he is reminded that he loves Sephiroth so much, that he can hardly breathe for it.

So, Cloud gets up and walks, for fear of drowning. He knows now that Sephiroth does not mind. He even understands, watchful eyes always assessing, always knowing, always wanting. He will stay in bed until Cloud is ready to come home, offer the fond and sleepy smile that he has now learned to give so freely, and allow the blond to climb onto his lap and show him just how much he loves him. It is a ritual now that feels even more exhilarating than the battles they used to perform (though every once in a while, they dig up their blades from storage and enjoy a dance or two, for old times’ sake).

Cloud thinks about that routine now and looks back at the house, anticipation and excitement and joy curling in his heart. He begins to make his way up the hill, when he notices dark shadows rumbling over the grassy fields, green cracks of lightning shooting through the sky. The edges of the world around them begin to dissolve, like sand in water, and as the air begins to thicken with smoke, so too does the fear grow in Cloud’s heart.

They’ve found us.

He runs, bare feet pounding hard against the dirt, still wet from the morning dew. Though it has been many years since he called upon it, the old speed still has not left Cloud, and it only takes seconds before he crosses the threshold into the cottage. He tracks dirt in as he makes his way to the bedroom, and belatedly thinks about how Sephiroth would chide him for the messes he makes.

“Sephiroth,” Cloud breathes, standing in the doorway in his mud-covered feet. The man in question had still been asleep when the blond had wandered in, though Sephiroth was now groggily starting to stir under the sheets. Cloud moves to the side of the bed, shaking him more urgently. “Get up, we have to run.”

“Run?” Sephiroth counters cautiously, still blinking away the sleep from his eyes. As a by-product of no longer spending the days fighting, the former General had begun indulging slow rises, among other comforts he had not enjoyed before this life. It is almost endearing, seeing him this way, vulnerable and confused and still unbelievably handsome all the same.

But Cloud does not have time for this, not if he wants to keep this life he’s built alive another moment. He takes the other man’s face in his hands, brings it close, their eyes locking, and says, “The Planet, it’s come for us, Seph.”

It takes a moment for the understanding to dawn. When it does, Sephiroth shoots off the bed. He moves toward the closet, pulls on a shirt and some pants, and states, “Get your things. I’ll get your swords.”  

Cloud does as he is told. He shoves a bag full of some of clothes, and rushes to the front closet to grab their boots. By the time he returns to the bedroom, Sephiroth has retrieved First Tsurugi and its accompanying harness from the storage closet in the basement. Cloud does not bother with the harness, simply grasps the combined blade. “Can you get us out of here?” he says, pleadingly.

Sephiroth closes his eyes for a moment, trying to dust away the cobwebs of the old magic he used to wield so effortlessly. After he had created this space for him and Cloud, he hardly practiced the art anymore. Most of his god-like abilities, he had abandoned, and if his wing ever made an appearance, it was only in bed and at Cloud’s request. The reduction was a sacrifice he had been willing to make for a lifetime with his love. But neither of them had counted on this.

The man tries to conjure a portal to another world, but the threads of the spell slip from his fingers. “I’m sorry, I’ll need time.”

“We don’t have it,” Cloud says, slinging the bag over his shoulder and moving closer to the silver-haired man. “But maybe we can buy ourselves some.”

Sephiroth nods and wraps his arm around Cloud, holding the smaller man as to him as tightly as possible. He conjures his wing and a moment later the two of them are in the sky, soaring far away from the cottage they had lived in for nearly countless years now. As they fly, Cloud watches as the dark shadows and green tendrils begin consuming the entirety of the peaceful meadow, swallowing their home whole.

Cloud tries not to let the feelings overwhelm him now, but they are there, building armies in his mind. Despair, for one, which is ironic and terrible and cruel in itself. But there are others, like fear and anxiety and desperation, too. He had thought that they successfully escaped from it, the cycle of repeated lives and lies and deaths, the dreadful fortune the wheel of fate continued to turn and turn for them. He had thought that they had defied destiny itself. But despite all their strength and power, they had failed. And now, they could lose everything. That alone was enough to break the dam of his tears, and Cloud finds himself crying soundlessly.

Destiny, it turned out, was a stubborn mistress.

“Cloud,” Sephiroth whispers, pausing for a moment mid-air. He notes the dampness of the shoulder of his shirt. “You’re crying.”

“I’m fine, keep moving,” Cloud whispers, curling into his lover tightly.

Sephiroth opens his mouth to say something, but lightning strikes suddenly through the sky, and the next thing Cloud knows, they are falling. He sees Sephiroth’s eyes, wide with a fear that the man rarely shows, and Cloud knows own his eyes mirror the same expression. The inevitability begins to sink in as gravity takes over. And still, Sephiroth grasps him tightly, shifting their positions to brace their fall, and before Cloud can protest, they land in the dirt, hard and with a sickening crack.

For a moment, there is silence, and Cloud wonders if he had briefly passed out, if this is all just a terrible nightmare, if he will just wake up and be in that bed that he had made with his own two hands, in the arms of the man that he loves more than the world itself. But unfortunately, when the blond opens his eyes, only the latter is true. Sephiroth is still holding him, but his breathing is ragged, as if he is trying to stifle the pain that keeps rising out of his throat. Quickly, Cloud rolls off of Sephiroth and surveys the damage. The man’s wing had torn into shreds from the lighting strike, the bones of it broken and jutting through the feathers from the stun of the fall. He looks at Cloud now with watery eyes that still hold such fondness, such resilience, such power, such grace.

Like a fallen angel.

“Are you alright?” Sephiroth breathes, reaching out to Cloud.

Cloud just sobs in response, moving to cradle Sephiroth’s head in his lap. “Oh, Seph, I’m so sorry, I—”

“It was my fault. I shouldn’t have stopped.”

But he did, because Cloud was crying and Sephiroth, for all his logic and strategy and intelligence, loves him far too much to not try and comfort him. It is so bittersweet that Cloud apologizes again anyway, pressing kisses to that perfect face. He can taste the hint of salt on his lips, but whether it is from his own tears, or Sephiroth’s, he does not know.

“Is it bad?” Sephiroth asks, half-jokingly.

Cloud hates it, hates that the man has tried to develop a sense of humor to entertain him over the years, hates that he is using it now. But he leans forward and presses his forehead against Sephiroth’s and says, “No, it’s fine.”

Sephiroth closes his eyes, because he knows Cloud and knows well enough when he is lying. “Then you have to go.”

“No.”

“You are running out of time.”

“I am not leaving you.”

“You have to.”

Cloud shakes his head furiously. “No. No. I’m never leaving you. I’m never leaving you, ever. I’m yours and you are mine and we are never going to be apart, ever again.”

“If only that were true, my love,” Sephiroth murmurs back, and reaches a hand up to tangle in those blond spikes.

“I’ll make it true,” Cloud says. “With everything I have.”

But as the words leave his lips, they both can feel it, the dark shadows approaching. They had ages here, in this world they created, days and months and years folding into each other. And somehow now, with only minutes left until the end, Cloud feels that all that time is not enough. He wants more. He wants forever, an eternity. He wants Sephiroth, the only thing that had filled the empty chasm in his soul, the only thing that makes him feel real and whole.

Sephiroth looks at him, and Cloud swears he can see the man’s heart breaking. “You must go, Cloud.”

“No.”

“They’ll take you. They’ll take you and take me and in the next life, they won’t let us be together, not again.”

“Then I’ll make them,” Cloud fires back, and in his eyes are anguish and fear but also devotion and steel, all the things that make Cloud so utterly irresistible and utterly unbreakable. Sephiroth wants to believe him, wants to believe in that strength that had challenged and defeated him again and again, wants to believe that it may be enough. He looks at that sunflower hair, that freckled face, those dazzling eyes, and thinks that there cannot be anything more beautiful to believe in than this. For if there is something more stubborn than destiny, then it had to be Cloud Strife.

 And Sephiroth himself never went down without a fight.

“Then I will find you. In the next life, I promise, I’ll find you,” he says.

Cloud responds, “And I promise, I’ll save you.”

Sephiroth seals the vow of meeting again in another world by pressing his lips against Cloud’s, fierce and full of all the longing in a heart that he had thought lost all capability to love long ago, in a heart that he knew belonged to this man, forever. Then, the darkness descends upon them, tumbling through their bodies and ripping their souls apart and away, leaving nothing behind at the edge of creation, except the ghosts of that kiss and the last words they whispered to each other.

I’ll always love you.

[stetervault]

Hello! Do you do rec lists? Would you be willing rec some Steter fics that aren't the most common/popular ones? If not, no worries!

Technically this isn’t a rec-finding blog lol but I do make rec lists sometimes if someone asks and I have the time and I feel like it. Here are some (I think?) less known Steter fics, oldies that people may have missed or forgotten (Idk how well I succeeded, I just picked a bunch that have significantly less reads/bookmarks than the really big fics):

Fear (Doesn't Mean I Can't Fight) by azerblazer

Peter is the damsel in distress, the Sheriff is the hostage, random unnamed hunters are the bad guys.

Stiles has a bat, a hoodie and a willingness to do anything to protect those he's loyal to.

Bring it on.

A Lean and Hungry Look by kototyph

The woods aren't the only place you find wolves.

You're Mine, Valentine by orphan_account

In which Peter decides to court Stiles, and does so by leaving him hearts.

Bloody ones.

Zodiac by Green

"You know, Taurus and Libra make a good match," Peter says with a sly smile.

Stiles looks away. "Yeah. I looked that up, too."

Surviving Peter and the Zombie Apocalypse by Nopennamesleft

Its the end of the world and Stiles has run out of luck. He saves a werewolf from certain death. Will they begin to rely on each other to survive or will the wolf just eat Stiles for a midnight snack?

He Is A Villain By The Devil's Law by neglectedtuesday

Stiles’ lungs are burning, blood is pumping through his veins and he’s pretty sure that if he stops running then he’ll just keel over into the gutter. But God does he feel alive. The sirens are wailing, loud and clear. Just one more block. One more block. Stiles ducks down an alleyway, the bag full of bank notes swinging behind him. It hits his side with a dull thud. The alley smells like cat pee and yesterdays trash so Stiles breathes shallowly through his mouth. He continues walking down it until he reaches the end. It opens out onto the street. He stops just shy of the exit, waiting. He waits a bit more. Then he kicks a can lying idle on the ground. He whips out his burner phone, punching in a number.

“Where the fuck are you?” Stiles growls, “Where’s my goddamn getaway car?”

“Change of plans Stilinski, you’re gonna have to get away on your own. Also ditch the phone.”

Fascinated by lemonstiles, migratoryslashfan

Stiles pontificates over Peter's naked body.

Night-blooming Flowers by imriebelow

Peter always gets what he wants. Stiles learns to live with it.

None of These Things (Are Happening) by Horribibble

After years away, Stiles returns to Beacon Hills just in time to put Isaac's insides back where they belong.

It's cute how people think he's trustworthy.

-

Peter can smell the violence inside him, the urge to do something grand and possibly cataclysmic. It’s there—mixed with a balance and natural calm, but in the undercurrent, it’s there. He has seen things beyond the scope of Beacon Hills’ petty horror show. He has learned things.

The Terrible Things We Do (For Love) by rospeaks

Being a demon, he’s seen some of the pretty nasty things that humans are willing to do for love. Things that, were he still alive (and human), would make him hesitate to be in a relationship with anyone lest his partner start getting some funny ideas. That said—

"This seems a little desperate for a kid your age," he says to Stiles.

Spin, Sweet Clotho by ChuckleVoodoos

Oh, it’s a beautiful thing to watch, the way they dance around each other, spun in sugar and glittering glass. Like a fragile little fairytale, a tender rosebud just waiting to unfurl. It makes Peter sick.

Because love is a fairytale, and his dear darling nephew does not deserve a happy ending.

whisper by tricksterity

Stiles was tired.

He was done of people pushing him and his pack around. They’d already lost so much and he was damned if he’d let them lose anyone else, especially to this psychopath who had no reasons for what he did other than he liked it.

And that’s when the whispers in his mind grew louder.

Remember Darling, All the While by Sang_argente

It was fire, ice, electricity. It was the first kiss, the last kiss, and every kiss inbetween. It was lips parting, tongues sliding, hearts beating.

Impress Me by ToAStranger

Their new English teacher has gone missing.

Falling Upward by moonstalker24

There is nothing quite like flying. There is a calm and a peace found in the sky that cannot be found on earth. All the chaos of the world is below you and there is no sound save that which the propeller makes as the engine turns it. You are free and unfettered and the clouds are close enough to touch; all you need do is stretch out your hand to grasp them.

Stiles takes Peter flying after he gets out of Eichen House.

Sweeter Than Gingerbread by taylorpotato (Stetallison)

The saying goes that lovers who commit suicide together start their next life as twins. Perhaps that's why Stiles and Ally feel the way they do about each other.

The Shadow Effect by Mysenia

What was the fun in being a twin if you couldn't trick a person or two?

Deep under by Sashaya

There's a reason Stiles knows so much about drowning. He'd rather not remember why...

All the World's a Stage (but the light design is subpar) by BonesOfBirdWings

Peter Hale is a successful Off-Broadway actor, and Stiles is a stage lighter who literally falls into his life.

Peter smiled at him. "Thank you, Stiles. But should I take this to mean that you don't want a meatball sandwich from Banh Mi Saigon?"

Stiles' mouth dropped open. "You - I - Yes, I want! Oh my god, you do the best apologies! Can you piss me off more, please? I accept all future apologies enthusiastically!"

Peter chuckled. "I'm sure that won't be a problem, dear boy. I've been informed that I'm an asshole by a very reliable source."

Stiles beamed. "But you have good taste in food, so things balance out?" he ventured.

Peter threw back his head and laughed. Stiles' grin brightened in answer.

The D.C. Backroom Deal by septima_sum

Stiles is a regular prostitute with moderate life goals – until his current client makes him an offer he can’t refuse.

Strange Duet by BelleAmante, thiliart (thilia)

The past three years have been a series of shocking, or not so shocking, successes for 2018 Tony award winner and two time Grammy nominee, Stiles Stilinski. You don’t typically find classically trained opera singers singing alternative folk rock to crowds at Coachella. Nor do you find indie singer/songwriters winning best actor awards at the Tony’s for their Broadway debuts. Stilinski has made it his lifetime habit to defy and exceed all expectations.

-or-

A Steter fic loosely based on Phantom of the Opera

Hold Me Down by sneksonaplane

Waking up in Peter Hale’s bed was weird. Waking up in Peter Hale’s body was even weirder. Stiles had been disoriented and confused when he’d found himself in a plush, king sized bed in an unfamiliar bedroom instead of in his own room (and seriously, why did Peter even need a king sized bed? Why would anyone need a bed that big?) It had all come back to him when he’d glimpsed the body he was inhabiting, one that was shorter but more defined than his own, and older, and kind of hot.

OR

The one where Stiles and Peter swap bodies, Peter relives his adolescence, Stiles suffers, and then suffers a little less when he discovers Peter's fetlife profile where he's listed as a submissive seeking a daddy.

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night by Guede

This is a ghost story. It’s not straightforward.

Put My Faith in Something Unknown by Twisted_Mind

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, suspended between thought and action, unable to feel. At some point, he becomes aware that there’s a hand on his face. A warm palm cradles his jaw, and a thumb brushes across his cheekbone tenderly.

The Rest of Our Lives by mia6363

“I don’t know, as a kid I watched a lot of movies, you know? And at first I figured like… I’d be on some great adventure that would take me away from it all, you know? Like Indiana Jones comes around and is all, ‘Hey Stiles, buddy, come with me we’ve got to go save the world.’ Then… you and… everything happened… then I just… I figured I’d die before I was eighteen.”

Enemy Action by pprfaith

Once is chance, twice is coincidence and three times is far too many bodies on the ground.

Buy Me a New Pair by Julibean19

"I don't practice law much these days."

"And why is that?" Stiles asked, wondering why a handsome and presumably successful lawyer wouldn't want to continue working.

"I've been drawn away by more pleasurable pursuits," Peter said, lips quirked upward as he spoke.

Tale as Old as Time by wynnebat

The one in which Lydia's got better things to do than be Belle, Stiles is a much more likeable Gaston, and Peter is a beast but not quite beastly.

The clothes make the man by FeelingsDusk

The trick to sneaking into a building where you shouldn’t be is to make it seem to all eyes like you should. Stiles has been doing this since he was a little older than toddler and he wanted to get back his Batman action figure from the evidence room in his dad’s Police Station.

(Spolier alert: just like back then, Stiles gets caught.)

Smile Like You Mean It by NinaRooxx

After sulking about the changing weather over the autumn, Stiles notices that despite the weather getting colder, Peter’s wardrobe isn’t changing at all.

Swing by ShippersList

Stiles wants to fly.

Angels, Devils, and Peter by Triangulum

Everyone has an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. They give advice, help guide their human through life. They tempt, they listen, they offer help. Everyone has one of each. Everyone except for Stiles.

OR

Stiles and Peter are murder husbands.

love and madness by sinequanon

Peter and Stiles haven’t seen each other in months when the alphas ask them to meet up to look over an abandoned house. Now, they’re going to be seeing a lot of each other for quite a while to come.

Not This Again by RebaK1tten

There's a rumor that the last episode of the show will have Peter getting killed, again. Perhaps to give him a redemption arc or something.

A Light at the (Near) End of the World by ladyoneill

The world he grew up in has ended in a supernatural war that devastated the human population. A survivor, Stiles lives a solitary, quiet life in Wales until there's a knock on his door.

Through Space and Time by MaroonDragon

When Stiles pulls the body of Peter Hale into his ship, he doesn't expect him to be alive. He also doesn't realise he might have gotten more than he bargained for.

His Color by SushiOwl

“Darling, have you been carrying a throw-away comment I made in your mind for almost four months?”

Stiles’s face felt like it was one with fire now.

After You by FlyAwayMeow (rjaejoo)

It’s true that sometimes what you want the most, you can’t have and that you’ll miss what you once had all along when it’s finally gone.

After breaking his engagement to Chris, Peter heads to New York to start over. He meets Stiles, a young author at his publishing house who helps him piece his confidence back together. When tragedy strikes, he discovers how to finally let go of his past and have the family and future he's always wanted with the pieces already in his life.

Looking After You by Slayer_of_Destiny

Can Peter be a chance for Stiles, can Stiles be a second chance for Peter? When Peter offers Stiles a relationship will the younger man take the chance with the werewolf?

Maybe We Both Are by lavenderlotion

The first time Stiles lets his fingers brush against Peter he wasn’t expecting the response he got. They were sitting on Stiles bed researching something. Or, they were researching. Now they were just talking. They did that a lot these days, just talked. They also ate together a lot. Or got coffee.

these words bear my scars (paint your love on my skin) by WindyRein

One day butterflies and childish codes change to I'm sorry you're meant for a murderer and he won't realize for years how much that changed his life.

Before you let go (and the light takes you in) by Issay

Stiles makes one last errand - goes to leave flowers on all the other graves. Fuck, so many graves. The grief is as endless and as inescapable as the sky.

He goes home and there is a thing wearing his father's face, waiting for him in the kitchen.

The Lady of Lightning by kiranightshade

"Those who foolishly sought power by riding the back of the tiger ended up inside"

Can You Use Lube For That? by AlreadyBoss

“You think your what is haunted now?” Surely he'd misheard. There was no way-

“My vibrator,” Stiles answered with alarming sincerity.

Well. He hadn't misheard after all.

Pianist Envy by Bunnywest

Stiles is the piano player.Peter can think of other things he'd like to see those hands do.Shame the guy's straight.

Everything You Deserve by Areiton

You think about it. More than you should, you think about it. About what would have happened, if you had bitten Stiles instead of Scott.

Home by Ragga

Don't be like him, they would say, and then add, or else you get burned.

Unable to bear the whispers any longer, This One left. He forsook those who forsook him, left him bear his scars alone, the scars he bore for his herd. It was better to be alone, stay off the currents, than swim with those most undeserving of his loyalty. So mote it be.

That is, until he met That One.

Lord Peter by Therapeutic_Steter

Peter rung out the rag before gently placing it on his mother’s head, reaching over to feel his father’s equally flushed features.

“Such a good boy,” his mother said, patting his arm with what little strength she had remaining. His father smiled softly at him even as his fell unconscious. Peter pushed back the lump in his throat, smiling shakily for his mother before venturing out into the living space.

knit me together by nezstorm

Peter asks Stiles to stay the night after a really awful day.

Warriors by CinnamonLily

Peter is ten years old when humans discover Azure, a planet not unlike Earth. From there on, he wants to learn everything about their new neighbors and the planet itself. It takes him over twenty years to get to Azure, but when he does, it's so worth it. His anthropologist heart is happy, and a new acquaintance in the form of an Azurian called Stiles might just make the rest of him happy, too.

[chrysalispen]

reverie (NSFW)

doing some bingo card prompt fills to get back in the swing of things.

prompt fill: masturbation

you know me, it’s my usual. brief nero tol scaeva/wol but mostly this is just poor aurelia being helplessly feral over the dick that cursed her. 

set sometime during the crystal tower raid storyline. NSFW under cut, as always.

=====

In short order she had drifted into a doze and the memory became dream. No longer curled in a thin bedroll upon rock and crystallized sand, she lay basking in the comfort of sun-warmed grass with the soothing scent of lavender in her nose. A warm breeze stirred her hair and the fine crepe fabric of the soft and comfortable dress she wore, the hem tickling her leg with its fluttering. 

Over long moments the scope of the dream shifted, almost imperceptibly, in the hazy and oneiric way dreams so often did, and Aurelia knew without opening her eyes that she was no longer alone. 

She could sense the warmth of another body nearby, someone she knew. 

She could open her eyes, but she already knew who it was. She'd had this dream before: her best friend from girlhood, alive and well, lazing next to her and watching clouds drift overhead. Despite everything, it was a dream that never failed to leave her feeling better when she had it. 

She was already smiling as she shifted herself towards him in a lazy roll to one side. 

A warm hand caressed her cheek. She threaded her fingers through his hair to tug him in for a kiss-- and the moment he responded in kind, she realized this could not be Sazha. The soft, warm mouth upon hers was too full, his face was not clean-shaven but bristly with overgrowth, the nose too broad-bridged and prominent. And also not a Miqo'te-- her fingers tugged ungently at soft, dense curls rather than the fine silky strands she remembered. 

She kissed him anyway. 

In turn, he devoured her.

She tore her mouth away from his to catch her breath and he continued his conquest down the column of her throat as he feasted upon her softness: biting and nipping in tandem with the descent of slim hands and calloused, dexterous fingers. He rucked the thin fabric of her dress to her waist, and when his fingers hooked with a deft surety into the laces of her smallclothes to loosen and expose, she felt only heady excitement. 

He surged forward, slotting one thigh between her legs; she found herself rolling smoothly onto her back to bear the weight of a body that was lean muscle and sharp angles. The muscles of her calves flexed to wrap about his waist for purchase and nearly in the same instant she felt the sensation of fullness and friction: heat stretching and sliding into her own, made smooth and easy with desire. 

She moaned, a guttural noise that was almost a growl, the sound of it swallowed by her lover's mouth on hers as he found his rhythm. The heat of the sun seemed to warm her blood with each thrust; she could smell lavender and musk and cut grass, and the irregular sighs from his lips warmed the column of her throat.

Those fingers tangled in her hair, the roughness of them gathering it like strands of spun gold. 

His lips caught her earlobe, moving in that soft spot behind its shell as he rasped, "You know me."

She did. She tried to remember his name, tried and couldn't, not with all her focus bent upon primal need. Even as she racked her memory, she twined her arms around his neck and tugged on his hair so she could kiss him again. Teeth and tongue together grazed her lower lip. 

"Yes," she panted against his mouth.

Each breath become more labored, seeming to lodge in her chest. His warm hands trailed down her thighs to tilt her hips up; she clenched around him and keened into his kiss, her hips canting hard enough into his that it should have hurt. If she felt pain at all, it went unnoticed; all that mattered was that thread of tension she could feel coiling on itself and the blessed relief that lay in sight, just within her grasp.

If she could just say his name-

=

Aurelia sat bolt upright in the darkness, eyes flared wide and chest heaving and skin dewy with sweat, her lips still trembling. She felt sure she must have cried out but if it had been heard there was no response. The tranquility of sleep still reigned over the NOAH campgrounds as far as the others were concerned, it seemed.

Sleep was now very far from her mind. The sound of her own voice still echoed in her ears.

She exhaled, a trembling whisper of sound, and let herself drop back to the hard and uncomfortable ground.

Well.

That had certainly just happened.

She'd ask herself why, but it would be nothing short of denial, and he'd been on her mind as of late, she wasn't about to deny it. In her defense, of course, Nero tol Scaeva had been on everyone's mind since the moment he set foot on the dig site (and it hadn't been so much 'set foot' as 'sauntered,' really)--

Well, what did it matter? The occasional strange dream was to be expected, especially when one was under duress- and she had certainly been given plenty to worry about as of late. The Doman refugees, Alphinaud's new grand company, the move to Revenant's Toll, meeting Ser Aymeric, dealing with a seemingly unending stream of summonings requiring her to stamp out fires (and gales, and earthquakes)...

These dreams are perfectly normal and nothing to worry about, soothed the calm and collected clinician's voice in her own mind. Certainly nothing to lose sleep over.

Except she knew the moment she shut her eyes that she wasn't going to put it out of her mind, much less find any peace in sleep. Lying in the close and humid darkness of the tent she remembered the sharp pale blue of his eyes, bright with triumph, watching with avaricious ferocity as he took her apart. Gods, the way it had felt. That hot and grinding ache lingered still, unwilling to let her go.

Damn it. He'd cursed her without laying a finger on her. Gods damn it all.

She wet her lips with her tongue, staring at the peaked canvas above her head.

With a furtive glance at the closed tent flap she rucked her sleeping robes to her waist and lifted her hips just enough to wriggle her smalls down to mid-thigh. Slowly she ran her palm along the curve of one leg from the rolled waistband of her underclothes to the delicate flare of her hip and then inward, index and middle finger carefully encroaching between her legs with a light and questing touch that was almost embarrassed.

But she had to do this quietly, she tried to tell herself, the harsh sound of her breathing alarmingly loud in her ears. If G'raha or Cid or Rammbroes (or worst of all without a shadow of a doubt, Nero) found her in this state--

Well, short of sinking into the ground of her own free will until the next Age rolled round, the consequences defied imagining. She'd be the Eorzeans' first Warrior of Light to perish from sheer mortification, that was all there was to it.

She'd been on the verge when she'd awakened; she could still feel the throbbing pulse of her heartbeat, everything between her legs still acutely sensitive. It was difficult enough merely to measure her pace but the hardest part was trying not to think at all- trying not to think about what she was doing or why so that she could concentrate only upon the sensation of her own fingers: not half as rough, smaller and more delicate, rubbing against slick flesh in slow and careful motions.

Slow and careful, rather, until neither of those things were enough to satiate.

As her concentration slipped, so too did her resolve to remain silent. The pressure of her fingers increased, along with the speed and urgency of her rhythm and that ghostly and half-remembered thread of impending release quickly returned, built back to its boiling point. 

A small keening welled from the back of her throat and buzzed through the lips she had clamped tightly shut; her back arched and her neck bowed, pressing the back of her head into the thin pillow of her bedroll.

She bit the soft inner layer of her cheek hard enough to taste copper on her tongue. It hurt but the urge to cry out passed with it, briefly.

Her free hand slipped beneath the thin pillow in some last-ditch effort at self-preservation, tugged just enough of it free so that she could cover her mouth, muffle the sounds that wanted to escape. Her teeth clenched against linen and hemp, and her last cogent thought was the memory of that dream-voice whispering in her ear, goading her to say his name. She thought of flaxen curls snared about her fingers, the breathy sound that whistled from his lips as she tugged at them in a demand for his attention. The sensation of the muscles in his back shifting beneath her fingertips. The glorious frisson and friction of his cock, pistoning inside her-

That thought did it.

The breath left her lungs in an explosive and half-choked gasp as that coiling tension snapped taut like a wire, heat from her release radiating out from her core into her limbs. She writhed atop her bedroll for an indeterminate amount of time, legs twitching with small spasms, helpless to staunch the small flood that wet her fingers.

After a handful of seconds the aftershocks began to pass, rolling like an undercurrent beneath the hectic slamming of her pulse. She lay quiescent in the darkness with damp strands of golden hair sticking to her neck and one hand still pressed between her legs, chest heaving and ears ringing.

Willing her breathing deep and regular, Aurelia carefully flexed her hand after a few moments more to shake out the ache of an incipient cramp. Beneath the giddy feeling of afterglow she felt a mingled jumble of emotions that she tried to ignore-- guilt, mostly, and no small amount of confusion.

Her eyes alighted upon her staff, laid neatly alongside her journals and packs. The faceted surface of a crystal caught what little light existed in the close space, glimmering feebly.

"You could have at least had the courtesy to let me dream about someone I actually like," she whispered. She laughed, but there was precious little mirth in it.

Aurelia sighed and rolled herself into a sitting position on still-wobbly limbs, reaching for something to pin back her hair, then rummaged in her bags for her canteen and a scrap of hemp cloth for washing. If she was to spend a sleepless night, she might as well tidy herself.

Maybe in the morning she’d be able to look him in the eye.

[atruththatyoudeny]

Monthy Reads | APRIL 2019

Happy 28th! Wow, April has been fantastic! Thank you so much to all the amazing authors and artists for sharing their work. @onedirectionbigbang​ started posting so make sure to head on over to their blog and check out all the fics and art!

Counterbalance || YesIsAWorld || enemies to lovers - motorcycle racing - ballet - implied/referenced homophobia - 44k Harry Styles loves two things: teaching ballet and racing motorcycles. Those two worlds collide when his greatest rival on the track, Louis “Tommo” Tomlinson brings his tiny siblings to Harry’s class.

Face Your Fears || SadaVeniren || a/b/o - mpreg - kid fic - implied/dubious consent - famous/ not famous - miscommunication - slow burn - angst - 92k Harry is a single father, pretending to be a beta after his alpha mated him and left him. He’s getting by just fine raising the twins when Louis walks into his bakery. Too bad him and Louis will never be a thing.

Latching Onto You || reminiscingintherain || famous/ not famous - 34k The one where Louis wants to book Harry Styles to perform at his best friends' wedding.

That's What I'm Here For || taggiecb || boss/employee relationship - age difference - farms - fluff - angst - friends to lovers - grief/mourning - depression - 46k Louis Tomlinson is a dairy farmer on a tiny farm in eastern Canada. His wife of nearly thirty years has left him and his children are all grown up and out of the house. Louis needs help running his business but has no idea where to even start looking. Luckily for him his children know just the man for the job.

(Something's Been) Hiding In My Heart || lululawrence || Sweet Home Alabama AU - exes to lovers - emotional hurt/comfort - mentions of miscarriage - implied mpreg - angst - 25k A Sweet Home Alabama AU where Louis comes home to finally get his divorce from Harry finalized so he can move on with his life. Alderford holds its own set of challenges when he returns, but by facing his past maybe he can find the healing he so desperately needs.

An Unbalanced Force || FullOnLarrie || divorce - miscommunication - 110k Harry has the rest of his life planned. Marriage. Career. Kids. Happily ever after. But sometimes plans don’t work out. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Fondre ton absence || scrunchyharry || amnesia - World War I - historical - 41k Harry had never really given much thought to the future. He preferred to let life steer him forward and to follow in the footsteps of Louis, his best friend from as far as his memory went, his lover, his everything. Louis knew better than he did what was good for him. It changed drastically when Louis was ripped away from him, drafted and sent to the front to fight in a war that Harry had always been sure would never reach him. Too young and too sickly to follow, Harry was left on his own for the first time in his life. When he thought things could not possibly get worse, Louis went missing at the Somme and was declared dead. While everyone buried and mourned him, Harry never moved on. If Louis were dead, he was sure that he would know it. Their lives were too entwined, he would know if half of his heart had died. Determined to find Louis, Harry did everything he could in his quest to be reunited with him, except prepare for the state Louis might be in. He did not prepare for the harsh truth he would have to face: was love possible without memories?

The Post-War BP || jaerie || a/b/o - mildly dubious consent - dystopia - post-war - mpreg - 17k The eight year war has left the country's birthrate severely stunted with a lack of virile alphas left to bring it back up. To ensure the survival of the country, the government opens The Breeding Program where young omegas can apply to carry an alpha's child in exchange for benefits. Louis' family is struggling and the BP is one of the only ways to secure a roof over their heads. Harry was drafted at the age of eighteen and spent six years of his life defending a country he doesn't recognize when he returns home. The government made the bed but it's Harry that has to lie in it.

Graphic design is my passion || FullOnLarrie || college/university - mutual masturbation - 6k Graphic design student Louis Tomlinson has exams to study for and final art projects to complete, if it would stop raining long enough for him to walk across campus. Luckily Harry Styles has an umbrella, and he’s perfectly willing to share. Louis doesn’t plan to get his heart broken and he doesn’t plan to make almost a hundred silicone dildos. One of these things definitely happens.

Fiction Romance || rougeandtonic || collge/university - blind date - misunderstandings - 17k Harry has a type. He likes older, sophisticated, mature men. Well-educated men. Men with life experience and passion for arts and social causes. Men who are established in their careers, who've sorted their lives out. Niall knows this. And so Harry can't understand why he's sat here opposite Louis Tomlinson. A punk Louis/uni Harry blind date AU.

Flawless || Throwthemflowers || strangers to lovers - injuries - angst - hurt/comfort - 25k After a debilitating surgery, former concert pianist Harry Styles isn't able to come to terms with his new reality. Sundered from his high standards of performance, Harry can't seem to feel anything anymore, except perhaps interest in his favorite coffee shop's barista, a man who seems wholly unsuited for the job and whose blue eyes hold in them the same pain that Harry struggles with every day. When fate renders them more than mere acquaintances, Harry is forced to deal with the insecurities of his condition and his stubborn pride. Louis wants to love him, but Harry can't accept that, because he can't accept himself. And besides, he's never loved. He doesn't know how. He just wants to be able to play his piano like before, because it was safe, because at its keys he could control the roiling of his heart and funnel it into music. With love, things are much too risky. Why would he ever take such a chance?

Snow Big Deal || FullOnLarrie || smut - 8k Louis is a professional snowboarder set to appear in ESPN The Body Issue and Harry is an assistant photographer working for the magazine. They have more in common than they think.

The Way Her Body Moves || dimpled_halo || Girl Direction - friends to lovers - 2k “Need help?” Harry jumps, her eyes widening as she drops the manual. She puts her hand to her chest, breathing deep. Her eyes meet Louis', her gorgeous co-worker who’s stationed in the office right next to hers. Harry has the biggest crush on her. She and Louis started working at the company the same day, right after New Year’s, and it’s been torture being around such a pretty person. Harry has caught herself multiple times staring at her, the way she talks with those soft glossy lips of hers, and her eyes. God, those dreamy blue eyes are embedded in Harry’s brain. She dreams about those damn eyes every night, she swears. Louis clears her throat, shaking Harry out of her thoughts. As much as she’s tried to get this chair together on her own, she needs the help. Harry was barely able to lift the backside of the chair by herself.

O! Yes! || homosociallyyours || a/b/o - omega/omega - sex toy store - 2k Louis is a somewhat sexually awkward omega into other omegas. When an omega-centric sex shop opens near his favorite coffee shop, he definitely doesn't plan to check it out. One friendly ambush later, he's standing inside and talking with a too pretty omega about things that definitely make him blush. He's not the only one blushing, though. Harry, the cute and enthusiastic toy store employee is too.

Small Voice In The Choir || Star55 || Girl Direction - homophobic language - 8k Louis is just a little lesbian who wants to audition for the school choir. She doesn't expect to gain a new friend from it.

All we can do is keep breathing || thealmightyavocado || Greys Anatomy inspired - medical AU - slow burn - angst - character death - grief/mourning - emotional hurt/comfort - 310k A fated story of two broken and battered boys who barely survived the unimaginable and how the love of one little brave girl defies all the odds and somehow puts them back together.

Drifting || noellehenry || enemies to lovers - implied/referenced homophobia - misunderstandings - 18k Canal Boat AU Harry becomes the owner of a shabby narrowboat, quite unexpectedly. He decides to keep it and make his longtime dream come true; he’ll start his own business, afloat. He embarks on a new adventure in a small village along the Grand Union Canal with his boat ‘Gay Tunes’ where his neighbours are the musician on the 'Black Velvet’, a fitness centre owner on the 'Slow’ and an extremely annoying bookshop owner on the 'Floating Pages’; seriously, what is Louis Tomlinson’s problem?!

Pillow Talk || FallingLikeThis || sexuality crisis - mutual pining - fake/pretend relationship - 26k When Harry starts having confusing feelings for a male classmate, his sister's best friend, Louis, helps him figure himself out. Cue lots of kissing, sex, and falling in love.

Naked Attraction || reader_chic_2 || Naked Attraction AU - meet-cute - famous/ not famous - 12k Naked Attraction: a gameshow where the contestant views 6 naked possible partners and narrows them down based off of pure attraction. Harry was not a fan of the shallow gameshow, so he decided to mix it up a little. Louis Tomlinson was the only gay and unfortunate staff member chosen to step in for one of the six possible partners when someone dropped out. He hated working there, and he definitely didn't want to agree, but it was too good of an offer to be turned down. Nothing would come out of it, surely, and they even agreed to keep his identity a secret. That all changed when famous singer Harry Styles walked out. Louis had no idea who he was, and Harry liked that about him.

Everywhere And Nowhere || 2tiedships2 || a/b/o - strangers to lovers - secret admirer - 16k Niall took a seat and said, "Apparently Louis' downstairs neighbor is a fan of giving Louis creepy gifts. Maybe I should go introduce myself and tell him that Louis actually prefers food." "What has he given you?" Liam asked. Louis shrugged as it were no big deal. "There was a rabbit's foot keychain on the door a little after he left from introducing himself and there was a small teddy bear sitting by my door tonight. Obviously I can't prove it's from him, but they seem to have his scent. I could be wrong though." "Wow," Liam said, looking deep in thought. "That's old school." "What's old school?" Niall asked. "Giving creepy gifts?" "I've never known an alpha to do it, to be honest, but he's courting you." Louis couldn't contain his look of disbelief directed at Liam. "He's courting me. Like some sort of romantic shit they'd do in the 1800s or something?"

Play It Back and Press Rewind || crimsontheory || childhood sweethearts - angst - mentions of death - 22k Harry and Louis were high school sweethearts until Louis broke it off when he moved away for uni. Ten years later they both return to their small hometown for a funeral.

Love Will Tear Us Apart || lovelarry10 || childhood friends - punks - friends with benefits - alcohol abuse/ alcoholism - drug addiction - drug abuse - recovery - angst - major character injury - 103k A story of two halves. Louis and Harry had it all - a career, friendship, and some of the best sex either of them had ever had. But Harry ruins it all with one life-changing mistake ... and Louis is left to pay the price.

Take Me Down Slow (Don't Let Me Go) || jacaranda_bloom || a/b/o - friends to lovers - omega/omega - 26k The one where Louis wants to find the right kind of partner to love, Niall hates snowboarding, Liam wants to settle down, Harry is really good with his hands, and mother nature could be the thing that changes everything.

Medicine || SophiaSoames || enemies to lovers - 23k I've had a few, got drunk on you and now I'm wasted. Louis Tomlinson doesn't do feelings. He doesn't do relationships. And when he has an itch to scratch there are always clubs and hook ups. Quick dirty encounters in dark places that feed the need that brews in the pit in his stomach. He works every hour of the day as the Front Office manager or the Clouds Westminster hotel in central London. He's a good boss, and he knows his shit. Then that asshat Styles swans in like he owns the bloody place and Louis's carefully managed world starts to fall apart. Harry Styles needs. He's impulsive and stupid and childish and probably the last person in the world who should be allowed to run the Food and Beverage department at the Clouds Westminster, however many brilliant ideas he has and seems to manage to miraculously pull off. He needs. And he needs Louis Tomlinson. It's a match made in hell. A recipe for disaster. There will be a bloodbath one day. They all know. Everyone knows.

Streetwise hercules || jacaranda_bloom || collge/university - fake/pretend relationship - 7k Uni AU, where Louis pretends to be Harry's boyfriend to scare away his one night stands.

[the-lightning-strikes-again]

VLD and Its Doomed Zonerva: A Copy of The Mummy (1999)?

Villainous romances and tales of ancient curses are nothing new. But as I watched the 1999 movie, The Mummy, I was struck by how excessively similar VLD’s environment and doomed Zarkon/Honerva setup was to Imhotep/Anck-Su-Namun’s. It makes me wonder if VLD creators didn’t take inspiration for Zonerva from this very movie, and here’s why:

They wanted to be together at the full expense of the universe.

What makes Zonerva unique from most doomed romances is that their love isn’t just about dying for the other or betraying colleagues—Zarkon’s love for Honerva ultimate leads him to betray the entire universe and jeopardize the ongoing existence of all things, just to be with her again. He just desperately wants his wife back.

Zarkon’s choice to widen the rift mirrors how Imhotep chooses to kill Egypt’s Pharaoh. Murdering such a king holds huge significance, because Pharoah was considered “god” to his people—the intermediary between the gods of heaven and the people of earth. Imhotep, as High Priest, is therefore willing to create an unbreachable rift between heaven and earth, just to be with Anck-Su-Namun—to betray his own station as High Priest, spiritually kill his own people, and defy all cosmic order on heaven and earth for the sake of one woman.

(Sound familiar?)

Anck-Su-Namun, like Honerva, approves of this plan. She is more than willing to risk her own life in pursuit of what she wants, just as Honerva is willing to risk everything for what she wants as well. Anck-Su-Namun fully believes that Imhotep can resurrect her through his powers—and Honerva encourages Zarkon to go into the rift to save her.

But their words are not empty pleas. Anck-Su-Namun and Honerva both genuinely knew the power at their disposal, through their loves. Ancient Egypt believed in deep religious magic in the same way VLD universe is marked by the properties of “quintessence,” or as Honerva says, ”Life itself.” Ancient Egyptians simply called this “ka” instead (not to be confused with “ba,” or a person’s soul). Anck-Su-Namun and Imhotep believe they can manipulate “ka” to preserve their souls, just as Honerva and Zarkon believe they can manipulate quintessence to defy all natural order.

It is additionally curious that not just Imhotep, but Anck-Su-Namun herself spurns the Pharaoh and is the first to stab him, later saying that she is no longer a temple for this “god.” In a metaphorical sense, Honerva likewise rejects Alfor’s cosmic wisdom regarding quintessence and defies him both in his absence and when he confronts her. In doing so, Honerva separates herself from the one who stands as Altea’s king and the alchemical representative of the Life Givers and the One Who Came Before (the intermediary between the mundane and magical).

But the cost of defying cosmic order is too great for Imhotep and Anck-Su-Namun, who like Zonerva, die in their pursuit. For all of their abilities to manipulate ka/quintessence, they cannot override that cosmic order.

Their deaths, however, are only the beginning.  

The very forces they sought to control in life (Ka/quintessence) are the very forces that then rule them in death/undeath. Imhotep is "bound by sacred law” to carry out the ten plagues of Egypt by virtue of the curse leveled against him. The terrible manner through which his ka/life force is taken away is precisely what gives him power to rise as the undead and wreak havoc on the world, even allowing him the opportunity to raise Anck-Su-Namun back from the dead with him.

In so many ways, this mimics how Zarkon is brought back by the properties of the rift itself, with an enhanced purpose beyond simply saving his wife. Post!rift Zarkon had his "humanity" stripped from him by quintessence, inspiring him to do terrible things even beyond what he would have done in life. He’s a corrupted, out-of-control version of himself, bound by the whispering fancies of quintessence to pursue power, domination, and immortality.

He, like Imhotep, also requires live sacrifices to exist as the undead, stealing others’ ka/quintessence to forever regenerate.

But while the curse itself gives Imhotep/Zarkon full regeneration, Anck-Su-Namun/Honerva does not have that. In the first movie, Anck-Su-Namun’s consciousness returns to a mummified body, and she requires an additional sacrifice that she cannot obtain herself, in order to be made whole. Imhotep fails to obtain this for her, and then she fails herself to kill her sacrifice, and so she never fully regenerates a whole body.

Likewise, Honerva is brought back by quintessence as the undead, but she is missing a huge part of herself. Zarkon fails to help resurrect her memory, and so she lingers once again in a strange purgatory, a victim to the whims of quintessence and cosmic order.

(As a side note, the Egyptian city of Hamunaptra shares many characteristics with Oriande. The fact that these places are hidden from view, contain deep magic of a past civilization, and stand as the seats of power/resurrection for both Honerva and Anck-Su-Namun is interesting.)

Fast forward to The Mummy Returns (2001). The similarities to s8 grow even more haunting:

This sequel reveals that Evelyn is the reincarnation of the Pharoah’s daughter. This adds more weight to Anck-Su-Namun’s desperate attempt in the first movie to kill Evie and take her life force. It mimics the way that Honerva was willing to force obedience and sacrifice more of Alfor’s people in order to achieve being alive again with her family.

And that’s something even stranger—that somehow, it’s not just Evie who’s affected by memories of a past life. A reincarnation of Anck-Su-Namun now exists, and she is recalling more and more about who she once was.

In doing so, the sequel really fleshes out more of Anck-Su-Namun’s personality and turns her into a major-character big bad, just like Honerva in s8. Anck-Su-Namun is both beautiful and underhanded, a warrior, with a ruthless lack of empathy for others. She threatens with a smile to kill Evie’s young son if he does not obey her. Her general personality and her behavior toward disobedience mimics s8 Honerva, down to even the fact that she threatens to kill child!Lotor when he refuses to accept her. Such behavior cuts straight to the heart of Honerva’s aesthetic—the undead, willing to do anything to get her original vision of happiness back, even at the expense of the happiness she could have in her new life.

Somehow, this reincarnation of Anck-Su-Namun has also managed to accrue quite the operation for digging up Imhotep’s dead body and securing their stability/earthly rulership via the powers of The Scorpion King. There are significant religious implications via Egyptian god Anubis as to the power she seeks—and precisely why so many carry out her orders. This falls in line with how Honerva uses religious tones to convince the Altean colony to martyr themselves for her.

In the Mummy 2, Acnk-Su-Namun's reincarnation spends incredible effort and energy to find the body of her lover, tearing up landscape and everything in her way to do it, just like how Honerva tears up the universal threads to get to the one where she can find Zarkon/her ideal reality.

But they always face resistance. Imhotep and Anck-Su-Namun are always plagued by the remnants of the Medjai who seek to keep them from destroying the world and living forever. The Medjai have several similarities in behavior to the Blade of Marmora, just as Evie, Ardeth, and O’Connell express collective characteristics of Lotor and Allura (and Jonathon to Coran/Lance/team Voltron?) in their attempts to stop total universal destruction.

In the very end, Anck-Su-Namun obtains her full memory within her renewed body. But when her and Imhotep's plots are foiled again, she has a breakdown. All of what she had been struggling toward for thousands of years is suddenly taken from her. This woman, whose spirit has felt only unrest, her reincarnation committing great acts of violence and crime to achieve her dream of love and power—is faced with the reality that her dream is impossible. In an attempt to preserve herself, she turns her back on Imhotep, to his deep pain and shock.

This mirrors, in many ways, the negative breakdown Honerva has to realizing that her ideal alternate-reality is not the way she wants it—as well as Alternate reality!Zarkon’s pain at realizing that his wife is a monster.

Both Anck-Su-Namun and Honerva achieve exactly what they want to some extent. But it is not their ideal vision, and so they reject everything. Their love for Imhotep and Zarkon, when ultimately tested at wit’s end, shrivels, and they guarantee their own destruction.

Conclusion

Voltron: Legendary Defender’s Zonerva is actually Space Mummy. The excessive similarities suggest the show writers may have taken inspiration from The Mummy movies.

(Also, both Zarkon and Imhotep are scared of kitties.)

Thanks for coming to my TED talk!

[faveficarchive]

Fire and Ice: Part 1

By Friction

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: In this uberfic, Danielle (Gabrielle) is robbed by a mysterious woman, and as a result, discovers a lot of new things about herself. 

Her uncle circled her like a mother hen. He was appalled that she had to endure such a thing and kept wandering into her room to make sure she was all right. Finally realizing there wasn't anything more he could do he let her rest.

Although tired, Danielle was too keyed up to sleep. Her mind was flooded with conflicting emotions. The police had handled her with care, as if she were in shock, and maybe she was. Why else would she have purposely misled them about his height and the color of his eyes? Although it made no sense, she felt reluctant to see him captured. There was something in his manor that had been almost apologetic. She blushed as she remembered how her skin had tingled when he touched the tip of his finger to her lips.

Danielle berated herself for these irrational thoughts. She could have been raped or killed. She was being foolishly sentimental. Still, somehow deep inside she knew that she had never been in danger. She was certain that he never would have harmed her, even though it defied all logic. Danielle shivered as she thought of his eyes riveted to hers, his gentle touch and soothing voice. Her senses had been keenly alert through the whole experience. She remembered the aroma of his leather jacket and something else, something that tugged at the edge of her memory. Danielle glanced around the room for an item that might have held his scent. There was nothing, even the scarf he had used to gag her was gone.

She scolded herself for romanticizing. He was a common thief, who had broken in, tied her up and taken what didn't belong to him. The safe had been cleared out. Over two million dollars in jewels and cash were stolen.

Even so, the loss was minor in scope of her uncle's wealth. But there was one item among the contents of the safe that could never be replaced: her mother's medallion. It had been handed down through the generations to the eldest daughter on their twenty-third birthday. In a couple of weeks it would have been hers. Now the tradition would end. The thief had taken a piece of her birthright along with the jewels.

The thought distressed her. Feeling too edgy to sleep, she decided to write in her journal and discovered it wasn't where she had left it. An exhaustive search of the house turned up nothing. A chilling thought occurred to her. Maybe the thief had taken it. The idea seemed ludicrous but she had no other way to explain its disappearance.

Her pulse quickened as she thought of him reading her private thoughts. What could he want with her diary? Was he hoping to find information, secrets? Her mind jumped to a variety of unpleasant conclusions. Luckily she had only recently inserted new pages, filing the old entries away.

She tried to recall what she had written in the last few weeks and groaned as she remembered the park. Was she allowing her vivid imagination to get the best of her? Surely if he had taken the journal, he would throw it out, probably without even reading it.

***

Alex poured herself another drink. Her behavior this evening was worrisome. She was indeed slipping. How else could she explain her phone call to the police? She squeezed her eyes shut. God, what had she been thinking?

She grabbed her leather jacket from the chair and pulled the colorful scarf out of the pocket. Her mind flashed back to the fear she had seen in the young woman's eyes and she winced. Remembering the woman's suffering distressed her. Hoping to erase the vision, she stuffed the scarf deep into the pocket.

Her reason for alerting the police was simple. The thought of the innocent woman bound and uncomfortable had been unbearable. She had to call.

Her actions were completely out of character. She never allowed herself such sentimentality. It was too dangerous in her line of work. But there was more to it than that. She couldn't shake the feeling that she knew this woman from someplace. Looking into those emerald eyes had felt like coming home. She had wanted to kiss her, to take her in her arms and protect her from the world. A ridiculous thought, considering she was probably the only one to ever pose a threat to the young woman.

Alex couldn't explain her feelings, but it was clear that her heart wasn't in her work anymore. She would have stopped years ago, but the decision was no longer hers to make. He was calling the shots now and she knew it would never be enough. He owned her.

She walked to the table and dumped out the contents of her bag. It had been a good haul. There was approximately $500,000 cash and an additional two million in jewels. They were high quality, many antiques. An unusual medallion caught her attention and she pulled it from the pile. It was oval shaped, made of gold with an intricate spiral pattern engraved on the front. It was obviously very old. Alex turned it over in her hands, examining it closely and felt a tingling sensation in her fingertips. She set it down and took another drink.

Her attention was drawn to the leather book. She picked it up and sat next to the fire, gently running her her fingers over the cover. This was old too. The spiral design on the front was similar to the one on the pendant, and there were symbols she couldn't decipher. Its pages were held in place with leather ties. The cover was beautifully cured and oiled. It must have meant a great deal to someone, as it was well cared for. She leafed through the pages and smiled. She loved the scent of ink. Ever since she was a kid she associated the aroma with pleasant memories.

She glanced at the first page. The handwriting captured her attention right away. It was written with an old fashion fountain pen. The strokes widened and narrowed with artistic flair. Looking at the page as a whole, the script formed a beautifully abstract design. The penmanship was flowing, pleasing to the eye. As she looked closely it became obvious that it was a journal. She took another sip of scotch and began to read.

7/1

It was another sleepless night in an unending chain. The darkness calls to me. I'm drawn to the risk, the mystery. The element of danger promises fulfillment, an escape from my ordinary life. I hunger for adventure.

I chose to walk through the park even though my uncle had warned me how dangerous the city was as night. The air was warm. I walked quickly, trying to cool myself with the breeze my movements created. I was lost in my thoughts, as I so often am.

A noise to my left caught my attention. I turned and listened. It was a deep moan. Curiosity drew me to the sound. The area was dimly lit and I had to strain to see two people in the distance. I edged closer. I was only twenty feet way when they came clearly into view. The woman was leaning with her back against a tree. Her lover was pressed tightly against her, their mouths locked in a steamy kiss. The woman was delirious with pleasure, her moans escaping the seal of their lips. I felt like an intruder, but I was transfixed. My feet wouldn't move. My eyes were locked on their undulating bodies. I stood frozen, watching his hands glide up the outside of her thighs, raising the light weight skirt above her hips. His lips were moving against her neck and I could see the intensity of her need in her expression.

The raw sensuality of it, stirred something in me, bringing me to my senses. I stepped back, intending to leave, when the unthinkable happened; a twig snapped loudly under my weight. I quickly glanced up to see if the couple had heard me.

They had, both were facing me now. I willed myself to run, but a realization settled over me and I hesitated. They were both women.

I ran. Flushed with embarrassment, feeling like a common voyeur.

My reaction to these women confuses me. My interest in this couple makes me more aware than ever that I need to get a life. I haven't been out with anyone in over a year. Dating has always been awkward for me. I'm uncomfortable in intimate relationships. There is no desire.

I thought for a long time that the sexual part of me was dead, but tonight, for the first time, I felt... something. Maybe I am capable of those feelings, maybe they are lying dormant, waiting to be awakened. For the first time in my life I have a flicker of hope that I might be capable of falling in love.

It's time I took the initiative, and tried another date. John, one of the sports reporters at work, has approached me several times. He's friendly and attractive, maybe the time is right. Tomorrow I will ask him out for a drink.

Alex was captivated. She felt like a bit of a voyeur herself. But the young woman's words drew her in and she couldn't resist. She smiled and took another drink. Closing her eyes she tried to picture the blonde woman coming across the couple in the park. Instead she found herself fantasizing about the young woman leaning against the tree while she kissed her. The image was so vivid it was like reliving a memory.

She frowned when she thought about the sports reporter. Something told her this date idea had disaster written all over it. Reluctantly she put the journal down. She needed to contact her fence. It would be dangerous for her mother and brother if she were late with her payment.

Alex walked through the dimly lit lot to the back entrance of the pawn shop. She rapped lightly on the door and within minutes Sal answered and ushered her in. He hit a button under the counter revealing a hidden panel. Upon keying in his code the wall behind him slid to one side. There was a metal door behind it. Alex stepped past him and walked in. Once inside he hit another button causing the wall to slide back into place.

He grinned at her. "The wonders of modern technology." He loved gadgets, anything and everything electronic fascinated him.

Alex frowned. "You always did have a flair for the theatrical."

She had known Sal since the early days. He had a bubbling personality, that, while on occasion grated on her nerves, she also found endearing. Their relationship was not built on trust, for Alex trusted no one. Rather she viewed their association as mutually beneficial. He had been fair in his dealings with her and was discrete. It was in his best interests that she not be caught because their association was very profitable for him.

Although the nature of her work demanded that she relocate frequently, she did business with Sal whenever possible. There was a familiarity with one another that gave her comfort. He represented consistency in a life riddled with change.

He carefully emptied the bag she handed him onto the table. "This stuff from the Palanos heist?"

"Yeah."

"Didn't think that one was yours." He eyed her curiously. "I've never known you to have any witnesses. What went wrong?" She shrugged in response. Silently wishing she knew the answer. He sorted through the pile of jewels and continued to make small talk.

"You made the front page of the early edition."

She looked at him with sudden interest. "What did it say?"

"Seems the witness is Palanos' niece, his sister's kid...Danielle something" The mention of the woman made her pulse quicken.

He picked up the paper from the chair and scanned the article "Yeah, her name is Danielle Stafford." He tossed the paper on the table. "Evidently she was just visiting for the weekend."

He looked up and smiled. "Guess she picked the wrong time to visit." Noting Alex's lack of reaction, he continued.

"Anyway she wasn't hurt and, if she saw anything, the police aren't disclosing it. She works for the newspaper. That's probably how they got the story so fast. I had to laugh though. The article says the man got away with about 2.5 million in cash and jewels." He saw Alex's uncharacteristically troubled expression and tried to cheer her.

"Hey, if she thought you were a man, she didn't get a very good look. My eye sight isn't exactly twenty-twenty but it's a mistake I would never make." He grinned at her.

"Don't be so sure. I wasn't dressed in typical feminine attire." She grabbed the paper and read through the article as he examined the jewels. "These are nice pieces. Shame to remove them from their settings. Hmm... this is interesting." He picked up the medallion and examined it closely. Alex looked up from her reading and took it from him abruptly. "I'm keeping this." She pushed it into her pocket. "How much for the rest?"

"I'll give you 1.5."

She shook her head. "And they call me a thief. Haven't you made enough to retire yet?"

"Alex, you know I'm not in it just for the money." He winked. "I get to meet such interesting people."

She ignored his comment and handed him a piece of paper. "Have the money transferred to this account by Friday."

Danielle arrived at the station early and waited outside Detective Bowin's office. There was something about the place that made her nervous.

Marisa Sands walked past Danielle and entered the office.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yeah, It looks like we might have a lead on the Palanos case. It seems our man left a witness this time.

"Well that's good news."

"I'll tell you though Marse, something about this doesn't feel right."

"You always look a gift horse in the mouth." She smiled and shook her head.

"Why after all these robberies would he slip up? It just doesn't make sense." Bowin puzzled.

"They all make mistakes eventually. Maybe this isn't one of his?"

"No, I'd bet money it is, too many similarities. I can feel it in my bones. And if I'm right, we don't have much time. If he holds true to pattern he'll be moving on soon ."

"Okay, so what's our next move?"

"I want you to sit in on this one. Keep an eye on her while I do the questioning". She nodded and looked towards the door.

"You think she's involved?"

"I'm not sure. Evidently she doesn't visit often. Makes me wonder if it's just bad luck on her part or something more."

Marisa shrugged. "Want me to call her in?"

"Yeah, lets see if she can tell us more."

Marisa led Danielle into the office. Detective Bowin stood politely to greet her.

"Ms. Stafford, thanks for coming down so early. I hope you're feeling better today.

"Yes, thank you."

He shook her hand gently. This is my assistant, Detective Sands."

Danielle nodded.

"We won't keep you long. I just had a few things I wanted to clear up." His tone was casual but he watched her carefully.

"You say the thief grabbed you from behind and held one hand over your mouth while he put a knife to your throat?"

"Yes"

"Do you remember which hand held the knife?"

Danielle thought of a moment. "It was the right."

"I would like to try a little experiment. See if we can trigger any memories, if that's okay with you?"

"All right."

Detective Bowin stepped behind and put his hand over her mouth pulling her back. It felt wrong to Danielle: his short stature, the body type, the grip, the very presence was different.

"Marisa give it a try." Marisa positioned herself behind Danielle.

"She's a bit taller than me. It will give us a different perspective." Bowin explained.

Marisa pulled Danielle against her, covering her mouth. A shiver went through Danielle. The detective was strong, forceful. She hadn't expected that from a woman. There were definite similarities and it unnerved her.

Danielle pulled away, obviously a little rattled.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, just brought back some unpleasant memories I guess."

"Please have a seat."

"So, was he closer to my build or Marisa's?"

She hesitated only a moment and lied, "closer to your height and stature, I think." Both detectives watched her shift nervously.

"When the thief was tying you up did you notice anything about him? You said his eye color was green.

"Yes, green I think." Her voice quavered slightly. But she recovered quickly. "It's kind of hazy and I was frightened."

"Of course, that's completely understandable. Was he white then?"

"I think so. He wore gloves and a mask. I never saw his skin."

"Hmm, but the eye color would indicate someone of light skin."

"Yes" Danielle was feeling uncomfortable with her lies. Why was she protecting the robber?.

"Did he speak to you at all?"

Danielle hesitated again. "No."

Bowin cast a quick glance at his partner, wondering if she had noticed Danielle's eyes lower. "Anything about him that was unusual? Mannerisms, walk?"

"Nothing I can remember."

There was something strange going on. Bowin could feel it. He decided not to press the woman too hard. He could always call her back later.

"Well, that's all I can think of for now. You'll be available if we have further questions?" He stood and smiled. Danielle nodded, wondering if he was asking or telling her.

She was relieved to be leaving. Her head was pounding. She could not imagine what had caused her to lie, but she had done it with barely a thought. It had almost been instinctive. Uncomfortable with her fabrications, she wondered if her face may have revealed her discomfort. She took a deep breath as she exited the station. It was over now and she would just have to deal with the consequences.

***

It was early morning by the time Alex arrived home. She poured herself a cup of coffee and settled on the couch. The journal lay on the table where she had left it. She ran her hand lightly over the smooth leather, her fingers tracing the curious design. ‘Okay Danielle, how'd the date go?' Turning the pages to the point she left off, she began to read.

7/2

The date was disastrous. We went out for drinks and then back to his apartment to see his autographed sports collectibles. God, how do I manage to get myself into these things? I knew early on it wasn't working out, but I wanted to give it a fair shot. After the second drink, his subtle advances escalated to heavy groping and forceful kisses.

He did all the things that make for effective love scenes in movies, the same things others before him have done. I felt nothing. Fortunately, he was oblivious to my disinterest and seemed genuinely reluctant for me to leave. At least, I didn't hurt his feelings. He even asked me out again. At least one of us had a good time. Of course, I declined. It wouldn't be fair to him. What's the point, I'm hopeless.

Whatever triggered the sensations in me last night in the park, wasn't there tonight. Was I attracted to the forbidden, the voyeurism, the sense of danger? Maybe it was the simple fact they were both women? But, my body had reacted long before I knew their sex, or had something deep within me known it all along? I'm curious.

"I'll bet you are." Alex smiled. Something told her that the young woman was far from hopeless. She had seen the fire in those green eyes. It was clear to Alex that the right person would have no trouble stirring the passion she sensed was smoldering below the surface. She got up to pour another cup of coffee, then sat back down to continue reading.

7/3

I made plans to spend the weekend with my uncle. He is such a kind and lonely man. I feel a little guilty for not making more of an effort to visit him since I've lived in town. He was so supportive of my decision to move here. Without his help, my parents would have made it even more difficult for me. They were dead set against me coming out here.

If it weren't for my grandmother, I would think that I was adopted. I have nothing in common with my family. They are appalled by my need for adventure and will never understand why I broke my engagement to Paul. It was the right decision. As nice as he is, I knew we weren't right for each other. I like him, but I could never love him, not the way he wanted.

My father will never forgive me for the embarrassment I brought to the family, breaking the engagement and leaving town. But, my leaving was hardest on my mother. It made the memories of my grandmother surface. When I left, I could see the pain in her face. I knew she was remembering my grandmother's scandalous affair.

It took all my courage to leave what was safe and familiar. I could have spent my entire life trying to fit in there. I never would have. I had to find myself.

7/4

I went to see the fireworks with some women from the paper. They were spectacular. I've always enjoyed looking up at the night sky. The stars fascinate me. My friends seemed much less interested in the fireworks than the men that passed by.

I feigned interest in their observations. Puzzled by what they found so alluring. None of the men we saw interested me physically. But then, they never do.

After the night in the park, I find myself thinking about women, wondering if that's where my attraction lies. I'm more aware of women since that night. I appreciate the beauty of the female form. The soft sloping curves of a woman's body are pleasing to me. Still, there is no physical attraction except for that glimmer of feeling I had watching the women in the park.

I will be twenty-three in a couple of weeks. That has been a milestone year for women in my family. My grandmother was that age when her life changed. Maybe it will be my year for self discovery, too.

7/5

Six years of journalism and I'm stuck writing obituaries. If only I could get a shot at writing a real story. I've only worked at the paper for five months but I've got some great ideas. I wish they would let me try one. I sent the outline for the domestic violence story to Liz, the editor of the women's section. I wonder if she bothered to read it. It's just the kind of story I have dreamt of doing. An opportunity to help people through my writing. Elaine encouraged me to follow through with my idea for the story and agreed to talk to the women at the shelter about setting up a meeting. She has been the director for a number of years. They have come to trust and respect her. I hope we are able to get a few to participate. She thinks it might give some women in abusive situations the courage to leave.

I owe Elaine a phone call. We haven't gotten together in a couple of weeks. She has been a good friend to me, but lately her attempts to set me up with her male friends have made me uncomfortable. She only wants me to be happy. I guess I'm going to have to work up the nerve to discuss it with her.

7/6

I have been trying to avoid John all week but today he caught up with me at lunch. I don't know how to let him down easy. Although he's a nice guy, I don't think that he has any close friends. I should have left things as they were. Now, our friendship seems strained. I'll have to talk to Elaine. She usually knows how to handle these relationship things. Who knows, maybe she could set him up with one of her female friends.

Maybe I should ask her to set me up with one of her female friends.

Since the night in the park, I haven't been sleeping well. I am restless. Until that night I thought little about sex. Now my dreams are filled with longing. I chase a stranger whose face eludes me.

7/7

I walk the park nightly, secretly hoping I will see the lovers. I can't stop thinking of them. They haunt me. I can't shake the feeling that they hold the key that would unlock my heart and end my loneliness.

I believe the answer is linked with this incident. I don't know what I'm searching for, only that I can't give up trying to find it. I feel on the verge of discovering something I once knew and have now forgotten. There is a piece of myself that is missing. Without it, I'm incomplete.

It's a promise of something wonderful, something I have waited my entire life for. My eyes linger on each woman I pass and I wonder if they are one of the lovers from that night.

7/8

An odd thing happened at the hair stylist's today. I was waiting to have my hair trimmed when I glanced at the woman seated in front of me. It wasn't the woman herself that caught my eye, but her hair. She slid a towel off her head, revealing long dark hair. It was wet and hung in tangles down her shoulders. I felt a shiver run down my spine. I watched entranced as she ran her fingers through it, shocked that I wanted to do the same. I don't know how long I stared at her. Time had stopped for me. My heart was pounding furiously. She turned to pick up a magazine from the counter and faced my direction. She was beautiful, but somehow I felt disappointed. What had I expected? Who had I expected? Did the woman against the tree in the park have long dark hair? I can't remember. I'm not sure that I even noticed. I only know since that night I have changed.

Alex put the journal down and stretched. She wondered for a moment what Danielle would think of her long dark hair. She ran her fingers though it and laughed at herself. What an unlikely pair they would be. They were as opposite as night and day.

Although they were worlds apart, the similarities in their circumstances hadn't escaped her. Something was lacking in her life too. Loneliness was a pain she had learned to bear. Like Danielle, she had never been able to commit to a relationship. She took care not to let her guard down. It was the one valuable lesson Julian had taught her. But, unlike this innocent woman, not committing hadn't stopped her from using lovers of both sexes. In her short life, she had slept with numerous men and women. But, for her part it was always a manipulation, she had never opened her heart to anyone. She never felt love for them.

Reluctantly, she closed the journal. There were many things she had to take care of and she needed to rest. Her fingers slowly caressed the journal's surface. The spiral design on the front fascinated her. Hesitantly, she laid it down and walked to the bedroom.

[academiablogs]

Is Genre a Four-Letter Word?

Here are the plots to three novels: can you tell which are fantasy novels? * The son of a twisted duke is killed in a bizarre accident, and his innocent fiancée finds herself a prisoner of a haunted castle, pursued by the duke himself. Only the strange, twisting corridors of Otranto can save her now, where statues cry bloody tears and giant helmets exact their unholy revenge.

* A sailor is shipwrecked on an island and wakes up to find that ant-sized people have captured him. They dub him the “Man Mountain” and force him to do various menial tasks (like saving the entire kingdom with his own urine), until, terrified by his potential power, decide to kill him and parcel off his body to various parts of the kingdom. But the “Man Mountain” has other ideas...

* Two knights are captured in battle and thrown into a dungeon for life. Through the bars, they glimpse a garden outside tended by a beautiful woman: both of them fall madly in love with her, and vow eternal hatred on the other, since only one can lay claim to her heart. Eventually, one knight is pardoned while the other manages through subterfuge to escape. Once free, the second knight prays to Mars to assure him victory, while the other prays to Venus; both god and goddess grant each one success in love and battle. This causes quite a debate in Olympus, and Jupiter has to stand in judgment as to which lover will live with the maiden—and which will die in defeat.

So which are the fantasy novels? The answer is simple: none of them. Each one is a work of “classic literature” published by academic presses and used in tens of thousands of high school and college classrooms each year. The first one, and the trickiest, comes from Walpole’s early gothic novel, The Castle of Otranto (1764). The second, a little more familiar to most, is from Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels (1726). And the final one, a plot which the author borrowed, and which Shakespeare also stole for a very late play, is from “The Knight’s Tale,” the very first installment of The Canterbury Tales (1476). So search as you will through the fantasy and science fiction section of the bookstore (or clicking through the same section in Amazon), you won’t find a single copy of these books. They’re all great literature, classics, poetry, or the more popular term, literary fiction.

And yet, if someone borrowed one of those plots today to weave together a novel where an astronaut lands on a strange planet of tiny aliens who abduct him, would that also be literary fiction? Or even just “fiction”? No, it would be science fiction, genre fiction, and to some people, merely “pulp fiction.” The same is true for any number of books with knights, haunted castles, shipwrecked sailors, or indeed, most works set in the ancient past. Fantasy. Juvenile literature. Maybe Young Adult at best. The implication is that these plots aren’t sufficiently literary to engage our minds or to make us think, feel, and examine the “human drama” that continues to be enacted.

Unless, of course, a book sells particularly well...then people start hedging their bets. The Harry Potter books, for example, have always held a respected place in the fantasy section...though you can also find them in Young Adult and mainstream fiction (depending on the bookstore). Or what about The Martian? Basically Robinson Crusoe set on Mars...yet you will rarely find it in the science fiction section. No, it’s “fiction” through and through. Why? Simply because it sells well and people like it—and that goes for people who have never watched an episode of Star Trek or read ten pages of Dune. So if a plot doesn’t doom a novel to a specific genre, why is that so often the case in traditional publishing? Why isn’t Frank Herbert (who wrote the Dune books) also found in fiction, when his books are more complex and interesting than The Martian, and why does J.K. Rowling get the literary mantle when it is forever denied to someone like Clifford Simak or Robert E. Howard (both of whom have sold countless books themselves)?

(Herbert’s Dune series pictured above). In the end, the problem lies with the bugbear of “realism,” which is hilarious given that we’re talking about fiction. If a book isn’t sufficiently realistic then it is seen as less important, or less serious, than the more “sensible” books in the market. Even among the science fiction community, there is often great snobbery about books that don’t pay tribute to hard science and instead fall back on the softer science of Star Wars (I’ve heard day-long debates on whether or not ‘parsecs’ is a measurement of speed or distance—as in Han’s comment, “it made the Kessel Run in less than 5 parsecs”). The Martian is given a pass since it’s composed of wall-to-wall hard science—and very impressively, too. Yet Dune, which is far less technical when it comes to “folding space” is seen as a talky space opera which is more suitable for nerdy preteens than your local biology professor.

Of course, fantasy is also expected to worship at the altar of realism—we need psychologically believable characters who are always consistent and plausible (and preferably, anti-heroes). With realism goes an expectation of defying the conventional tropes, even if doing so becomes a convention in itself: every heroine is a badass, basically usurping the ‘male’ role and saving the day. Wonderful on the face of it, but what about a novel that goes back to older traditions and stories? The beauty of folklore and fairy tales is their defiant refusal to make sense: characters act strangely, as in a dream; events appear and disappear following their own logic, and it’s the work of the reader to stitch them together. God help the modern novelist who attempts such innovation! Surely there are some women who long to be princesses, or who would rather be magic users, or bards, or scholars? Does ever hero or heroine have to wield a sword to be “heroic”? Is kicking ass the only way to “kick ass”?

Worse still, if you use magic, it had better work like science! The idea that magic should follow strict rules and laws probably comes from role playing games, where it does by necessity...but this is storytelling! In the Arthurian Legends, does Merlin explain the logistics of his spellcraft? What about Circe? Do we see the actual recipe that goes into her spells transforming men into beasts? Of course not. It’s fiction, fantasy, make-believe. The sense of wonder and mystery that surrounds it is half the fun, and all the author’s intention (whoever they were). If magic existed, I imagine it would work differently for each person, much the way writing does. No one writes the same way, or understands exactly how it works. It just does. That’s why there are so many self-help books for authors, most of them contradicting each other. Would it be any different for magic and magicians?

While we all like to read a story and believe in it—Coleridge called it the “willing suspension of disbelief”—we can also take it too far. An agent once told me that Young Adult readers will only read a heroine that is the same age as they are, more or less. They want to see themselves in the novel, like wearing a costume and playing make-believe. I couldn’t disagree more. I never read to wear borrowed clothes. I read to be a spy—I want to peek on a world of wonders that I don’t personally take part in, and that looks nothing like myself. I don’t need to see myself writ large (or small) in a novel; I just want to experience something mysterious and divine, or else see the mysterious and divine in the world around me. Either one will do, but I’m not a literary narcissist; I want to read beyond and outside myself. And I don’t demand that the books make sense or follow the rules of my own world. I only ask for one thing and even that is negotiable: make me never want to close the book. Keep me turning the pages in wonder, delight, confusion, anger, and frustration. Any story that does that, in any genre, has done its work.

In conclusion, I will admit that works of fantasy and science fiction (even if they’re not classified as such) tend to keep me turning the pages more than others. I read widely and in every possible style and genre, but nothing excites me more than a story set in the distant past or the far-flung future. These are stories that simply delight me. Even when they’re old, they seem brand new. The very cover of a castle enveloped by mist with twin moons on the horizon makes me eager to crack open the book and get lost in the pages. I wager that a lot of people would feel the same if we removed the stigma of genre of “fantasy” (or whatever other genre). Look at the run-away popularity of the Lord of the Rings movies; everyone seemed to love them, even people who would have gagged at the very sight of a hard bound copy of The Simarillion. Why? Because films are almost genre neutral, as we also see with superhero films (how many fans of Wolverine actually own any X-Men comics?); the point being, that when we look at books as books, and fiction as fiction, we expand our horizons. We look at stories, and not types or genres or categories.

Reading is fun. It makes life worth living. So why reduce it to a dry set of analytics or algorithms? Only a complete idiot thinks that numbers can encompass the diverse reasons that we read and value art. Or not “idiots”—that’s too strong a term. Let’s call them “people who don’t read books.”

[loveiscosmicsin]

Picturesque

FFXV Spoilers

I’m writing this by the ear and not using much reference or information. The timeline of FFXV is confusing so whatever. I wanted to write about Ardyn and Gentiana or Gentianardyn or Ardiana. There’s something going on, but nobody’s saying much about it (much like the plot of XV, basically). Can’t help imagining Ardyn/Gentiana/Luna except, not a poly ship, but a complicated love triangle of new loves, lovers spurned, and portions of hearts remaining with the other person. As far as this fic’s concerned, Gentiana had a thing with Ifrit, Ardyn, and Luna. Let me tell you that I prefer Brotherhood!Gentiana because at least she doesn’t speak in confusing riddles and actually was at Luna’s side. Might become part of a series: The Accursed and The Liars. Posted on Ao3.

-

She is free in her wildness, she is a wanderess, a drop of free water. She knows nothing of borders and cares nothing for rules or customs. ‘Time’ for her isn’t something to fight against. Her life flows clean, with passion, like fresh water. - Roman Payne

-

“Lady Lunafreya, would you like to hear a bedtime story?” Gentiana proposed to the former Tenebraen princess one night.

Lunafreya’s brilliant amethyst flickered to the older woman’s face. Her confusion was understandable. There was no precedence leading up to the inquiry. It came unexpectedly. “A little old for bedtime stories, I’m afraid,” she replied reluctantly, tucking short blonde hair behind her ears.

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret was a young woman  at the tender age of fourteen. Gentiana never paid much heed to mortal lifespans for she knew that when there’s a beginning the end not far behind. Everyday was either a celebration or a curse. Lunafreya attained an air of maturity for someone barely at the peak of womanhood but Gentiana would consider her a child.

“Forgive me. I mean no offense, I seek to assuage feelings of self-doubt and reinvigorate your will.” Gentiana hovered her hands over the girl’s legs and concentrated white magic over worn muscles, her eyes shut not to betray her thoughts. “Lessons can be interpreted from stories.”

Gentiana came into Lunafreya’s service as a lady-in-waiting and her Messenger two years ago. It won’t be until two years later Gentiana would re-introduce herself as the Glacian, Shiva, one of the Six Astrals that safeguarded Eos. Though the Fleuret heiress was destined to accept the role of Oracle in the near future, there was little that the two maidens knew about each other. Lunafreya was the youngest acolyte placed in Gentiana’s care but possessed great promise. She would make a powerful Oracle under firm guidance.

Before a woman of the Fleuret lineage ascended to her calling, she must undergo a set of arduous trials. Queen Sylva, the former ruler of Tenebrae and Lunafreya’s predecessor, too, endured the training.

The princess suffered considerably through hers. Her spiritual energy was spent after dispelling a miasma that Gentiana projected. It was minuscule in scale and non-threatening, but Lunafreya collapsed after containing most of it. She was unsuccessful today, but improving with each attempt, refusing to be discouraged by present limitations.

It was nightfall now. Lunafreya’s body was plagued by severe chills and cramps that left her whimpering involuntarily and restless, a frequent occurrence. Even as Gentiana tended to the young girl, sympathy for her charge was inevitable. Lunafreya had no liberty to protest about burden when so many cannot find solace in this world. A calling must be heeded and the Oracle shall go to those in need. She accepted the hardships rather than to defy them, an attitude Gentiana herself had fostered.

One day, Gentiana would instruct the rites and the Oracle must be ready to commune with the Six so the King of Kings could fulfill his destiny. By then, the Astrals shall bear witness to humanity’s determination. After all, Lunafreya had already won over the Glacian’s unconditional admiration.

Lunafreya was silent even after Gentiana ceased healing. The servant bowed her head, interpreting silence as an answer and it was her time to retire. But the girl spoke with unwavering resolve to compel the Messenger to remain, “I’ve a feeling that this isn’t a mere children’s bedtime story. If this one is as important as you assert, I’d like to hear it.”

“Very well,” Gentiana nodded.

Once upon a time, there was fox king. He was neither of light or dark. He alone illuminated the world and fearlessly ventured the bleakest regions no one dared walk. But for that, his people loved him. He possessed a pure, uncomplicated heart that rivaled even the brightest of stars.

The gods awarded him with a bejeweled crown in all the colors of the rainbow.

A beautiful crown fit for a spectacular king! Everyone, in all the land, lauded over it.

But the gemstones on the crown were heavy, so heavy, they banged against his eyelids and weighed him down.

No one, from anywhere, wanted to hear the king’s voice again. The neglected soul contested to remove the crown.

He walked to the ends of the world to uplift his burden, but to no avail. A hole awaited him.

The fox king fell into the hole. No one remembered the fox king.

Everyone had forgotten him. Poor king. Poor king.

Gentiana paused with a grimace. That tale went untold for over a millennia, but the wounds were as fresh as received on that day. Not a day went by that she hadn’t thought of him and the Messenger lived many years. She brought a hand to her breast, feeling the medallion concealed there. It was far more than a trinket, it was a music box, the melody jarring after it had been exhausted repeatedly. A memento of better times and what could have been.

“Is there more to the tale?” The girl asked, perturbed by the ending.

Yes, Gentiana thought immediately before resigning with a painful lie, “No. This was his fate.”

Lunafreya pursed her lips, pensive as she leaned in the palm of her hand. “Gentiana, did you know this fox king?”

Gentiana laughed softly but no humor came of it. “Is that assumption you have derived from the tale, m'lady?”

“If I may be so bold, I’d say that you knew this fox.”

“The fox’s tale is a chapter read and closed by those who walked that path until they met their demise. The fox saw the world through a different lens, did what he felt was right and perhaps condemned for a nature that was but a dark seed in his heart. Perhaps he was destined to bring ruin unto others. Who could say?” The Messenger paused, extending a finger over the promised Oracle’s heart. Perhaps the girl would understand the hardship. “Tell me, Lady Lunafreya. What is heavier? The world or its people’s hearts?”

Lunafreya glanced down at the Messenger’s hand, puzzlement touched her features briefly before an eerie answer left her mouth, “The heart holds as much as it would allow, Gentiana. If we were at any liberty to choose, the weight could be lighter or heavier as we wish it.”

Gentiana tilted her head, envisioning the girl who once sewn her crown with delicate blue flowers. A halo of holy light glittered around her, leaving the Astral enraptured. “You would submit yourself to the latter if you had the choice?”

“I would, but I already do. Even if it meant giving up my life, I will defeat the Starscourge. I must.” Unwavering dedication resounded in her words.

Gentiana took the girl’s hand between her own and the Oracle-to-be flinched, never had the attendant been so forward as to touch her. A mortal’s warmth was something the goddess hadn’t felt in a long time, chipping the glacier around her heart. Gentiana had known two great tragedies in her lifetime, there won’t be another, she would rather die first before anything happened to Lunafreya.

Both the girl and the fox were willing to sacrifice their lives for the greater good. Their hearts had the capacity to hold the world and its habitants, a pure and idealistic love, but naïve. The fox possessed the eyes to distinguish the light of expiring souls yet he was determined to avert certain death or at least, ease suffering. His final act of love should’ve marked him as the last king, unparalleled and forgotten by descendants after him. The kings of yore saw to this banishment of their ilk.

She cannot erase the fox from history, this Gentiana knew, but she wouldn’t make the same mistake with her charge. Lunafreya was a paragon of the peace and should she die, then the world would come to an end.

History had its eyes on Lunafreya, after all.

-

“I sense you, but I find your power wanting.” Ardyn Izunia hummed to the sound of his own noncommittal tune, swishing brandy in a glass.

The mauve-haired chancellor chuckled, finger tapping against the glass impatiently. It had been a millennia since he had been ignored, having grown accustomed to commanding gullible audiences who latched on to his every word.

The uninvited guest was nothing like that. A force of nature, elusive and omnipresent. While Ardyn’s words corroded and dominated willpower to a world he made for himself, planets orbited around her without consequence. It didn’t matter to her how many devotees clung to her tits like babes or treated her name as it was a curse in itself.

“I confess, I didn’t expect your intervention. I thought you would be too preoccupied mourning your darling Lunafreya. Extinguished like a star, that one.” Feigning pity, he raised the glass to toast in the late Oracle’s memory, “A shame that her lungs weren’t in agreement with the sea water.”

Silence persisted, but the room had progressively gotten colder. Frost crept up around the rim of the glass. He took a sip.

“The cold never bothered me anyway,” he chuckled as he finished the drink. The glass shattered in his hand, crystal fragments spilled on the floor. “Come now, do show yourself. I’ve no quarrel with you though my feelings are a little hurt.” He shook his head in dismay, clicking his tongue.

A flurry of ice stormed into the room, projecting frost within the vicinity. The dance ended as the crystal particles revealed a woman donned in a black and gold dress. Her ivory face was devoid of emotion, but her temperament spoke otherwise. That woman always had an inclination for the theatrics.  

“Ah, the heavenly ice goddess herself appears before me of her own accord.” Ardyn rose from his chair, removing his fedora as he bowed humbly. Though his grin was amicable, anger glinted in his amber eyes. “I must be truly blessed.”

“You lost the Gods’ favor.” The raven-haired woman brought her hands forward, the movement as gradual as glaciers coming together. “The stars no longer shine for you, fallen king.”

“I’ve made my dwelling in the darkness.” The man sighed as he readjusted his hat. “After all that has happened, still you live. I’m rather curious why you persist using that form, masquerading as something you’re not.” He paused, hissing a word as it was vile through clenched teeth, “Human.”

“A question I pose to you,” The Glacian reached out to touch the chancellor’s ageless and handsome mask. “You call yourself Ardyn Izunia.” The illusion came undone, gold pupils glinted violently through obsidian, tan complexion paled, and the ebony blood oozed from his hollow eyes and cracked lips, dousing the Messenger’s hand in its viscous taint. “Now the vessel emulates its essence.”

Demonic. Grotesque. Unclean. Accursed. Let the entire universe bear witness to his true face. The form bestowed when he was denied to pass over and condemned to eternal life. He was no longer human.

The Immortal Accursed snarled with penetrating roar and lashed out, his grip a vise around Gentiana’s throat. The Messenger’s head jerked back by the impact, but her emerald eyes bore down on him. His fingers dug deeply, searching for vitals to snuff out, crush and claw until nothing remained of her. It was unfortunate for him that the Glacian’s life couldn’t be ended in such a crude method.

Gentiana’s other hand joined on the Accursed’s face, fingers delicately wiping at the scorned sludge. They were reminiscent to tears though she doubted that he shed them still.

He was a vessel of darkness and it poured out of him endlessly; submerge the both of them in this very room, if it were possible. She soiled her hands, anointing the sanctity of her office with Ardyn’s taint. Before him, she was a sinner, embalming for a funeral, but the man knew no grave, thus, he had no need for one.

Ardyn ceased squeezing and in a huff of disgust, almost as if he lost interest, released Gentiana. The Astral lowered her hands, sludge evaporated harmlessly out of existence. The Accursed’s exposed mask lingered for a moment before the man she knew as the former King of Light stood before her. His face never left her dreams. Old wounds carved deeply into the goddess’s soul as Gentiana had guided and loved Lunafreya as immensely and passionately as she did this man.

He couldn’t end her life no more than she could his.

Even when she wished destruction upon the pariah who brought harm to the prophet.

Gentiana’s beloved Lunafreya. It wasn’t the Oracle who granted the Glacian reprieve and boundless solicitude, but the woman behind the authority.

The goddess felt the bonds she forged with the Accursed and the Oracle still, if not more strongly than ever. Those connections were all that remained. Time of separation and death could never sever them.

“Eirlys.”

Gentiana’s heart crashed like an avalanche  against her rib cage. She had not heard that name in a long time, having discarded it when she was reincarnated as Gentiana. Those that knew that name had been permitted entry to the Kingdom of the Dead, Ardyn was the only exception who bore knowledge of it. Eirlys was never Gentiana’s true persona, but it was an element of herself. Part of her resonated strongly to the past and all the memories she held dear and promises gone unfulfilled with it.

“Why are you here?” The inquiry was void of malice and honeyed threats. It was hollow and splintering. When Gentiana looked to him, Ardyn’s eyes were no longer hot coals in a fire but mirth curled a corner of his mouth. “Revenge? To declare war? To ask for my forgiveness? Why, my snowdrop Messenger, does the passage of time run by too slowly for the Six? Even though it’s you, I don’t sway to the temptations of the flesh as easily as I did in my youth.”

“It is none of your concern.” The frostbite in her tone went unheeded when the man clicked his tongue.

“Ah, a courtesy call then.”

“A courtesy call would be to those holding reputable offices, correct? What is yours when your actions vanquished an empire and ultimately betrayed those who trusted you?”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” Ardyn sighed deeply as he extended a hand to the ice goddess. “I hope you see the world has made liars and traitors out the both of us, Eirlys. Allegiances fickle affairs, promises are meant to be broken. Today’s allies become tomorrow’s enemies. What comes up, must come down.” He dramatically made a circular motion. “And etcetera, etcetera. You get the picture. Deities have witnessed the worst of humanity and are no strangers to it themselves.”

“An Astral’s word has and will always be their bond.” Gentiana asserted, apprehension boiled deep within her. It took her back to the day she saw Ardyn’s face and all those promises exchanged came crashing around her. Mortals were indeed cruel.  

“I recall that same gimmick that long ago so don’t delude yourself now,” Ardyn waved off as he walked past Gentiana. “And so you forged a covenant with the Chosen King. Your second choice and only hope. Save one, let your fair maiden die, too little, too late, to stop the darkness that’s to come.”

Lunafreya’s death was unavoidable but Gentiana didn’t expect her to fall at the Walls of Water. The Astral couldn’t bear the alternative even if the Oracle survived, a vessel of otherworldly power succumbing to rotting flesh and uncooperative limbs, her beloved Lunafreya paralyzed for life, losing all functionality of what made her human until her mind remained. Drowning was a mercy in comparison to fading out of existence and Gentiana knew she had no regrets.

Lunafreya had asked Gentiana not to intervene, to then form a covenant with the King of Stone to bring light back to the world. It was the most excruciating order the Glacian had to follow, she after all sought mankind’s salvation from the plague.

There was nothing else that needed to be said, Gentiana realized. She wished that she found solace in seeing her former charge and lover once more. The Glacian didn’t come to wish the peace or to free him from a millennia-old curse. There was only one king, rightful and true, who she willfully tethered herself to and even then, she had her own objectives to see to fruition.

Perhaps in another life…

“What will become of you, Ardyn Lucis Caelum?” Though Gentiana already knew the outcome of Ardyn’s plan. A goddess of death needn’t a crystal ball or tarot cards to predict the end of the Caelum bloodline. What began in blood, must also end in blood and the world would become whole again.

Would she see Ardyn welcomed to the Gates of the Undead?

“Never you fret, my dear. I’ve always been a man of no consequences. Ah, don’t tell me that there’s still a flame in that tundra you call a heart.”

Ardyn turned around, finding that the goddess was no longer there. She left no trace of her existence, but he would always remember this conversation until the end.

“My heart will always belong to you.” Ardyn whispered, remnants of his former self, a humanity he thought long forgotten, loathed the emptiness. “As it always had.”

[ecuenglishprof-blog]

Is Genre a Four-Letter Word?

Here are the plots to three novels: can you tell which are fantasy novels?

* The son of a twisted duke is killed in a bizarre accident, and his innocent fiancée finds herself a prisoner of a haunted castle, pursued by the duke himself. Only the strange, twisting corridors of Otranto can save her now, where statues cry bloody tears and giant helmets exact their unholy revenge.

* A sailor is shipwrecked on an island and wakes up to find that ant-sized people have captured him. They dub him the “Man Mountain” and force him to do various menial tasks (like saving the entire kingdom with his own urine), until, terrified by his potential power, decide to kill him and parcel off his body to various parts of the kingdom. But the “Man Mountain” has other ideas...

* Two knights are captured in battle and thrown into a dungeon for life. Through the bars, they glimpse a garden outside tended by a beautiful woman: both of them fall madly in love with her, and vow eternal hatred on the other, since only one can lay claim to her heart. Eventually, one night is pardoned while the other manages through subterfuge to escape. Once free, the second knight prays to Mars to assure him victory, while the other prays to Venus; both god and goddess grant each one success in love and battle. This causes quite a debate in Olympus, and Jupiter has to stand in judgment as to which lover will live with the maiden—and which will die in defeat.

So which are the fantasy novels? The answer is simple: none of them. Each one is a work of “classic literature” published by academic presses and used in tens of thousands of high school and college classrooms each year. The first one, and the trickiest, comes from Walpole’s early gothic novel, The Castle of Otranto (1764). The second, a little more familiar to most, is from Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels (1726). And the final one, a plot which the author borrowed, and which Shakespeare also stole for a very late play, is from “The Knight’s Tale,” the very first installment of The Canterbury Tales (1476). So search as you will through the fantasy and science fiction section of the bookstore (or clicking through the same section in Amazon), you won’t find a single copy of these books. They’re all great literature, classics, poetry, or the more popular term, literary fiction.

And yet, if someone borrowed one of those plots today to weave together a novel where an astronaut lands on a strange planet of tiny aliens who abduct him, would that also be literary fiction? Or even just “fiction”? No, it would be science fiction, genre fiction, and to some people, merely “pulp fiction.” The same is true for any number of books with knights, haunted castles, shipwrecked sailors, or indeed, most works set in the ancient past. Fantasy. Juvenile literature. Maybe Young Adult at best. The implication is that these plots aren’t sufficiently literary to engage our minds or to make us think, feel, and examine the “human drama” that continues to be enacted.

Unless, of course, a book sells particularly well...then people start hedging their bets. The Harry Potter books, for example, have always held a respected place in the fantasy section...though you can also find them in Young Adult and mainstream fiction (depending on the bookstore). Or what about The Martian? Basically Robinson Crusoe (which reads like fantasy) set on Mars...yet you will rarely find it in the science fiction section. No, it’s “fiction” through and through. Why? Simply because it sells well and people like it—and that goes for people who have never watched an episode of Star Trek or read ten pages of Dune. So if a plot doesn’t doom a novel to a specific genre, why is that so often the case in traditional publishing? Why isn’t Frank Herbert (who wrote the Dune books) also found in fiction, when his books are quite more complex and interesting than The Martian, and why does J.K. Rowling get the literary mantle when it is forever denied to someone like Clifford Simak or Robert E. Howard (both of whom have sold countless books themselves)?

In the end, the problem lies with the bugbear of “realism,” which is hilarious given that we’re talking about fiction. If a book isn’t sufficiently realistic then it is seen as less important, or less serious, than the more “sensible” books in the market. Even among the science fiction community, there is often great snobbery about books that don’t pay tribute to hard science and instead fall back on the softer science of Star Wars (I’ve heard day-long debates on whether or not ‘parsecs’ is a measurement of speed or distance—as in Han’s comment, “it made the Kessel Run in less than 5 parsecs”). The Martian is given a pass since it’s composed of wall-to-wall hard science—and very impressively, too. Yet Dune, which is far less technical when it comes to “folding space” is seen as a talky space opera which is more suitable for nerdy preteens than your local biology professor.

Of course, fantasy is also expected to worship at the altar of realism—we need psychologically believable characters who are always consistent and plausible (and preferably, anti-heroes). With realism goes an expectation of defying the conventional tropes, even if doing so becomes a convention in itself: every heroine is a badass, basically usurping the ‘male’ role and saving the day. Wonderful on the face of it, but what about a novel that goes back to older traditions and stories? The beauty of folklore and fairy tales is their defiant refusal to make sense: characters act strangely, as in a dream; events appear and disappear following their own logic, and it’s the work of the reader to stitch them together. God help the modern novelist who attempts such innovation! Surely there are some women who long to be princesses, or who would rather be magic users, or bards, or scholars? Does ever hero or heroine have to wield a sword to be “heroic”? Is kicking ass the only way to “kick ass”?

Worse still, if you use magic, it had better work like science! The idea that magic should follow strict rules and laws probably comes from role playing games, where it does by necessity...but this is storytelling! In the Arthurian Legends, does Merlin explain the logistics of his spellcraft? What about Circe? Do we see the actual recipe that goes into her spells transforming men into beasts? Of course not. It’s fiction, fantasy, make-believe. The sense of wonder and mystery that surrounds it is half the fun, and all the author’s intention (whoever they were). If magic existed, I imagine it would work differently for each person, much the way writing does. No one writes the same way, or understands exactly how it works. It just does. That’s why there are so many self-help books for authors, most of them contradicting each other. Would it be any different for magic and magicians?

While we all like to read a story and believe in it—Coleridge called it the “willing suspension of disbelief”—we can also take it too far. An agent once told me that Young Adult readers will only read a heroine that is the same age as they are, more or less. They want to see themselves in the novel, like wearing a costume and playing make-believe. I couldn’t disagree more. I never read to wear borrowed clothes. I read to be a spy—I want to peek on a world of wonders that I don’t personally take part in, and that looks nothing like myself. I don’t need to see myself writ large (or small) in a novel; I just want to experience something mysterious and divine, or else see the mysterious and divine in the world around me. Either one will do, but I’m not a literary narcissist; I want to read beyond and outside myself. And I don’t demand that the books make sense or follow the rules of my own world. I only ask for one thing and even that is negotiable: make me never want to close the book. Keep me turning the pages in wonder, delight, confusion, anger, and frustration. Any story that does that, in any genre, has done its work.

In conclusion, I will admit that works of fantasy and science fiction (even if they’re not classified as such) tend to keep me turning the pages more than others. I read widely and in every possible style and genre, but nothing excites me more than a story set in the distant past or the far-flung future. These are stories that simply delight me. Even when they’re old, they seem brand new. Even the cover of a castle enveloped by mist with twin moons on the horizon makes me eager to crack open the book and get lost in the pages. I wager that a lot of people would feel the same if we removed the stigma of genre of “fantasy” (or whatever other genre). Look at the run-away popularity of the Lord of the Rings movies; everyone seemed to love them, even people who would have gagged at the very sight of a hard bound copy of The Simarillion. Why? Because films are almost genre neutral, as we also see with superhero films (how many fans of Wolverine actually own any X-Men comics?); the point being, that when we look at books as books, and fiction as fiction, we expand our horizons. We look at stories, and not types or genres or categories.

Reading is fun. It makes life worth living. So why reduce it to a dry set of analytics or algorithms? Only a complete idiot thinks that numbers can encompass the diverse reasons that we read and value art. Or not “idiots”—that’s too strong a term. Let’s call them “people who don’t read books.”