#our eyes are on you gaiman

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Neil Gaiman and Rob Wilkins at the British Library event The Worlds of Terry Pratchett: Neil Gaiman and Rob Wilkins 21.11.2023

Neil: The weirdest bit, the one moment that I remember as being the strangest, most quintessentially writing Good Omens together moment was when we had to copy edit it. And we copy edited it in the basement of Victor Gollancz, which at that point was in 14 Henrietta Street. And the basement was a basement. There were chairs down there, no tables or anything. So we're sitting in these card chairs in this... my recollection is it did have a carpet. And the carpet was kind of damp. You know, beneath that carpet there was sort of strange puddles of... publishing. And Terry and I just sat there and we were both copy editing away. And then there was a point where Terry looked up and chuckled like anything. I said, 'What are you chuckling about?' He said, 'That joke you put in.' I said, 'Which one?' Because, you know, you want to hear which one. He read it out and I said, 'I didn't write that one'. He said, 'Well, I didn't write it'. And at that point you could tell from our eyes both of us had come to the conclusion that perhaps the manuscript was generating itself. And neither of us was prepared to say this out loud for fear of being thought a bit odd.

(you can watch the whole event here :))

[dduane]

I just received a copy of a book I've been very much looking forward to by a favorite author, but the quality of the book itself is... not great. Cheap paper, weak binding, even a weird illustration of the main character on the cover that I'm having trouble believing the author approved. Obviously, I don't want to leave a bad review on Amazon or GoodReads or anywhere, as I'm 100% certain the content is as excellent as her other work. But how can I best let the publisher (Baen) know I'm disappointed without threatening to never buy her books again? Because, well, if this is the only option, I'm gonna keep buying them even in my disappointment.

Well, the first thing I thought when I read this was "Wow, I'm really glad I don't have anything in print from Baen at the moment except a couple of anthologized short stories." :)

As for the rest of it, let's take it point by point.

Adding a cut here, because this will run a bit long. Caution: contains auctorial bitching and moaning, painful illustrations of cases in point, and brief advice on how to complain most effectively. (Also links to paintings of cats.)

Cheap paper: This has been an accurate complaint since well before COVID—and it's often been worse since, with supply chain issues also being involved. That said: one way publishers routinely save money on printing books, especially the bigger ones, is by going for thinner/cheaper paper. I remember one of our UK editors going on at great length and with huge annoyance—during one of those late-night convention-bar bitch sessions—over how the only way they could get some really good books published (because Upstairs insisted on reducing the per-copy production costs) was by reducing the paper quality to the point where you could nearly read through it. Sacrificing decent text size(s) also became part of this. Nobody in editorial was happy about the result: but there wasn't much they could do.

Bad bindings: Similar problem. Sewn bindings used to be a thing in paperbacks... but not any more: not for a good while, now. These days, it's all glue. Even hardcovers are showing up glued rather than sewn. Don't get me started. :/ (This is why I so treasure some of the oldest paperbacks I've acquired, which are actually sewn.)

Crap covers: I've had my share of these—though my share of some really good ones, too. And one of the endless frustrations of traditional publishing is that the writer routinely has little or even no influence over what the cover will look like... let alone how much will be spent on it, or (an often-related issue) how good the execution will be.

There are of course exceptions. If you're working at the, well, @neil-gaiman -esque level or similar in publishing, a lot more attention is going to be paid to your thoughts. You may even be able to get "cover veto" written into your contracts, so that if you disapprove, changes will get made. But without actual contractual stipulations, the writer has zero legal recourse or way to withhold approval. (And I bet even Neil has some horror stories.)

The normal workflow looks like this. After a book's purchased, its editor and the art director discuss what it's about and what the cover should look like. The art director then hires an artist and tells them what to do. After that, the artist executes their vision and gets paid. It is incredibly rare for a writer to have any significant input into this process. And as to whether or not they approve of the final result, well... the publisher mostly just shrugs and goes back to eyeing the bottom line, muttering "Who told them they get a vote?"

Now, I've been seriously lucky to occasionally be an exception in this regard. In particular, my editors at Harcourt (when Jane Yolen and Michael Stearns were editing Harcourt's Magic Carpet YA imprint) would ask me what I thought would be a good idea for the next Young Wizards cover, and I'd think about it a bit and send them back a paragraph or so about some core scene. They'd then talk to their art director, and after that send their notes and mine to Cliff Nielsen (who started doing the covers for the hardcover and mass-market paperback editions of the series in the mid-90s) or to Greg Swearingen (who was the artist on the digest-format editions). And the results, by and large, were pretty good. ...I also think affectionately of the UK artist Mick Posen, who insisted on seeing pictures of our cats before painting the covers for the Hodder editions of The Book of Night with Moon and On Her Majesty's Wizardly Service (the UK title for To Visit The Queen).

But this kind of treatment is a courtesy—not even vaguely suggested in the books' contracts, and very much the exception to the rule. And for every writer who's midlist, there are times when the luck runs out. For example: one time I wrote a book that was an AU-Earth-near-future fantasy police procedural, thematically pretty dark—dealing with issues of abuse of megacorporate power, institutionalized bigotry, and (explicitly) attempted genocide. And the cover, done by an artist who's a good friend and some of whose fabulous art hangs in our house, came out looking like this. It was... let's just say "not ideally representative."

So I was glad, when my local workflow allowed it, to recover the current, revised version of the book with something at least a little more apropos. But the original cover's not the artist's fault. He did what the art director told him... as a cover artist must do to get paid, and (ideally) to get hired again. At present, that's how the system works.

...So. You've got a badly-built and -presented book on your hands. How best to make your feelings known in some way that might make a difference down the line? (As you make it plain that you'll keep buying this author's books this way if you must.)

First of all: when (as part of my psych nursing training) we were taught how to complain most effectively, we were told that the first and most basic rule of the art is this:

Only Complain To Someone Who Can Actually Do Something About Your Problem

So I salute your desire not to waste your time taking the issue to the reviews on Amazon, or the pages of Goodreads... because they can't do anything. The odds that anyone from production at Baen is reading the comments there strike me as... well, not infinitesimally small, not being hit-by-a-meteorite-while-in-the-shopping-center-parking-lot small... but really low.

So: write to corporate.

In your place I would go online and rummage around a bit to find out who's on record as the publisher at Baen. I would then write them a letter on paper. And I would lay out the problem pretty much as you laid it out up at the top.

The tone I think I'd choose would be the more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger approach. I'd say, "I write to comment about your recently published book by [X Writer], whose work I love. I have to say, though, that I don't think the cover on [X Book] is terribly representative of the quality of the prose inside. And also, the construction and production quality of the book itself was a disappointment to me because [here spell out why].

"I'd really like to see [X. Writer's] books succeed with you, and I'd like to buy more of them without wondering whether I was going to be disappointed again. But if this is typical of how they're being produced, I'd also be concerned that the state of these books is setting up a situation in which the author's sales will be damaged, and you would stop publishing them... which would really be a shame. Whereas on the other hand, better production quality could keep previous purchasers coming back and buying, not only more books by this author, but books by others whom you publish."

This phrasing, as you'll have seen, walks a bit wide around the issue of your further purchases, while directing attention toward the bottom line... which will routinely be what the publisher's looking at from day to day. And—being, one has to hope, in possession of the wider picture as regards what's going on with their production costs—maybe they can actually do something about it.

Anyway, nothing ventured, nothing gained, yeah? It's worth a try. All you can do is hope for the best.

And finally: please know that I admire your commitment to the author: whoever she is, she's lucky to have you. It's a terrific thing to have readers who'll willing to spend the time to hunt you down, and who're willing not to judge a book by its cover. :)

[neil-gaiman]

hello, mr gaiman.

i recently read "the graveyard book" and i absolutely adored it. it is the first book of yours i read since your books are usually a little difficult to hunt down in my country, and i had only read "good omens" before that.

i wanted to thank you for the character of miss lupescu. i know she is not human so she can't be actually eastern european, but honestly this is the first time i meet an eastern european coded character that is not treated either as a comic relief, bad guy, or someone dumb and infantilized beyond measure. the word play with her name and her nature always makes me smile, the little inserts of romanian words in her speech, the homemade food, the attitude, it screamed 'home' in a way i've never seen done before by an author who is not from our region.

i loved her and i bawled my eyes out in the end.

so thank you, so much.

You are so welcome

I loved writing her.

[radfemsiren]

Internet culture is so fascinating because everything is out in the open, so concepts that feminists have been trying to make the general public understand are now in plain sight.

Do you remember the Bentellect situation? If his name does not ring a bell, that’s very expected. He was a low level TikToker that would make terrible react content of himself reading out normie humor tweets and laughing like it was the funniest thing ever written. The second he got followers he started exploiting that to pressure women into sleeping with him… and they released his sex pest DMs, making him a laughingstock.

With all these allegations coming out repeatedly of Cody Ko, Dr disrespect, James Charles, Kris Tyson, Neil gaiman, etc of men using the smallest amount of fame to immediately try to sexually exploit women and children … I’ve heard so many apolitical “normie” types say the phrase “Wow how come the second men get famous they immediately use it to try to fuck anything that moves?”

Like we’ve seen hints of this displayed out in the open with 2000s celebrity culture, and watching famous men switch out their wives to younger women immediately, or commit worse crimes… but they had enough power and influence to hide their misdeeds. It’s really not like that anymore.

Aesthetically and optically, it’s so extremely different. The words men would say to women in the dark are now on a bright screen, beemed to millions of people in the blink of an eye. Imagine being able to tell feminists that in the past. That there would be undeletable evidence that can be accessed by anyone in the world of the way men would abuse women in private.

My friends and I were walking to a dancing club last night, and were followed by a man in his car. We got our phones out and shouted we have his face and license plate and he immediately sped away scared.

Imagine telling women of the past that? Imagine telling them there are communities of women laughing and jeering at these imbeciles. From the safety of their own homes too! God imagine going the past and telling your ancestors that you spend your lunch breaks or quiet evenings relaxing and eating, while laughing at subreddits like r/menwritingwomen, what a luxury we don’t even realize we have! Of being able to mock and criticize men. Of taking them down from their flimsy pedestal.

The internet is making everything all out in the open, and while it can be scary when misinformation and propaganda spreads, it makes me have hope too that truth will also have so much more undeniable evidence to back it up constantly, instead of dissenting voices being quelled in the past. It’s difficult to see the hard evidence of female oppression constantly, but at least it’s being acknowledged, it’s being seen.

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Sunsweet Prunes

Ray Bradbury: submitted for the approval of the midnight society, i call this the tale of the lazy summer of youth Bradbury: long days down by the river, fishing in miller's pond, afternoons at the soda shop, ice cream sundaes with fabulous unicorn worlds built of whipped cream, nickels for a dime Bradbury: and becky miller's freckled-face kisses Bradbury: sweeter than sunsweet prunes

Bradbury: sunsweet prunes, i tell you Bradbury: the only prune that's sweeter than a nostalgic midwestern childhood Bradbury: and they come in these little individually wrapped plastic packs too King: Poe: Barker: Koontz: Lovecraft: Bradbury: I just think they're neat

Bradbury: according to my stories, in the far distant future of 2001 Bradbury: we shall travel in tubes Bradbury: we'll have flying cars Bradbury: and we'll all be eating our sunsweet prunes out of individually wrapped plastic packs Poe: wait you never said that in your stories Bradbury: i wish i had Bradbury: i would have been 1 for 3 at least

Bradbury: look, they individually wrap these sunsweet prunes in plastic Bradbury: what a world! Bradbury: its like living in the not too distant future Poe: doesn't that create a lot of waste Bradbury:

Bradbury: tearing open this individually wrapped snack pack reminds me of tearing open presents on christmas morning, snow on the ground, ma and pa taking the day off from working the farm, the whole family arriving in a caravan of automobiles, aunts and uncles and cousins by the dozen, oh my! oh my! uncles a little too loud after three egg nogs, cousins playing cops & robbers in the hay loft

Bradbury: and the feasting, the jollity! too many voices all at once, raised in laughter, in song. the twinkle in dad's eye, the red roses in mom's cheeks, grandpa's baritone chuckle. falling asleep to the sounds of bing crosby on the tombstone radio, surrounded by the warm glow of early evening King: wow these prunes sound pretty incredible King: i'm sold! Koontz: [tearing open sunsweet prune container] guys Koontz: i think my prunes are broken Koontz: i didn't feel any of that stuff ray said

Poe: ray are they paying you to advertise for prunes Bradbury: no no of course not! Bradbury: i would never accept money to tell you about the incredible health benefits of america's favorite prunes, sunsweet Bradbury: full of 12 different antioxidents King: can i buy them with my american express card

Neil Gaiman: but ray! Gaiman: using the limitless vista of your inpirational mind to advertise a mere consumer good Gaiman: such a tawdry use of the gift of imagination! Gaiman: it cheapens us as writers just as the low low prices of chipotle cheapens organic rice and GMO-free beans to bring wholesome healthy Mexican inspired fusion cuisine to the masses

Gaiman: you can't leash the phoenix of creativity to the millstone of commerce! Gaiman: she must fly free! Gaiman: free like the secret dragon sauce available now at now extra charge at your local chipotle King: neil's right! Poe: about chipotle? King: about everything!!

[yourplayersaidwhat]

Our DM likes to take inspiration for NPC's from books, movies, and shows she enjoys and is a known fan of Neil Gaiman. Us players are starting to connect the dots with some new NPC's:

*DM introduces an Aasimar Professor NPC, described as wearing soft colors, cold coco on his desk, and having many books in his office*

Players: Aziraphale?!?!?

*Professor has a good size black snake just chilling on top one of the bookcases*

Players:"CROWLEY!?!?!?!?"

*Players ask about an inn in a town they are traveling through, told about one with an owner that has owned it for a long time but doesn't seem to age much*

Players: *immediately suspicious*

DM: *Describes there being a large black cat with starry eyes lounging on the end of the bar at the inn*

The one player the DM got to watch Sandman with her: "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME"

[saudrag]

my take on the ending, especially aziraphale’s behaviour.

all this fandom talk “this couldn’t be our aziraphale”, “metatron put something in the coffee”, “everything in the end seems odd” really weirded me out. for me it’s equal to “i dont want all that complicated writing, for me the simple one is easier to process” like. i get it, really. but from writer’s point of view it sounds kinda… debasing. neil just gave us an amazing social problem analogy with organised religion slash abusive family and how it brainwashes & manipulates people who are so desperate to make any difference that they reach out to religion, their last instance. people abandon their loved ones for it, because they’re “unholy” and “sinful” and don’t want to join them.

there is that aziraphale/heaven parallel with nina and her ex. nina just realised that her ex was abusive and now she needs time to heal, but maggie would not abandon her, she would be right there.

it’s exactly what is happening and what will happen with azi in season 3.

aziraphale never truly left heaven, not in his mind, at least, and now, when he was the most vulnerable, heaven waved in front of his face with “you can come back, change everything and be with the person you love the most, so you can be all happy together” and azi just couldn’t say no to THAT. to his memory of angel!crowley, being so joyful and cheerful and happy with just bring able to create, to make beauty. what he didn’t realise is, that he was being manipulated. as a victim of brainwashing by my own parent for DECADES, I can tell you that azi couldn’t just “open his eyes” randomly and realise without something really PROFOUND happening to him. (that is remains for neil to tell us, what it will be).

for me it was separation, my parent’s fast decreasing mental health, and a LOT of outer influence (talks with my other parent, friends, discussions about the abuse of my other parent). the last straw was one of my visits.

we are yet to see it in s3.

aziraphale being an analogy for a victim of brainwashing by organised religion (“parents”) is a genius writing, something that you don’t see often in tv shows. but explaining his behaviour by “metatron just drugged him that’s why our angel is acting weird” is SO DEBASING and for aziraphale’s whole character, and for neil gaiman, and for me, as a victim

[coinsofmcguffin]

So we have all collectively decided to adopt @reallyndacarter into our hellsite family right?

I feel like we have just brought home an adoptive child to the Addams family house.

""Oh Hi @staff ". That's just our maintenance man. We aren't sure what they fix exactly but we keep them around cause they are always trying to be so helpful. Why yes the Site does always look like this! It's a little strange and nothing works like it should but we have gotten so use to it trying to fix it would be wrong! It's kind of like a Bloody Stupid Johnson...oh you don't understand that reference? It's ok there are a lot of them here from all over fandoms, you will just learn to understand it even if you don't know it"

"Now don't worry about uncle @neil-gaiman he's harmless but you do have to keep an eye out less he drops some new show or book and causes the creatures in the basement to get restless!"

"Why yes we do love the colour, it was inspired when we last visited a children's hospital"

"Oh him?! That's just cousin @wilwheaton No we don't know how he got here, but don't be surprised if you find him outside your blog late at night. He just seems to always be around."

"Now this is some very fine copper I have been assured. We keep bringing it out for blogs because it just won't tarnish no matter how much we use it"

"NO DONT OPEN THAT DOOR!! Sorry that's just where we keep the Blorbo and trust me you do not want that running free."

[embracing-the-ineffable]

Neil Gaiman does a podcast with David Tennant (2020)

The podcast is here, and there's a transcript of parts of it here. It's all really interesting!

Here's what really resonates for me. While talking about the opening flashbacks of s1e3 (emphasis is mine):

"Neil: It was utterly budget-busting and I also knew that it would make everything else work. And also it would make the scene I knew I was going to write in episode 3… it would turn that from a scene that was a bit sniffly into one that would break people’s hearts [yep, the bandstand scene], because you’d actually spent 28 minutes watching the ups and downs of these two on Earth for 6000 years becoming the only important thing in each other’s lives and here is this moment where there are actually… they have two utterly disparate philosophies of existing and Aziraphale cannot go off with Crowley and Crowley cannot leave without him but he has to, and you wind up with a ‘Have a nice doomsday’ line. But the excitement that I had of writing that stuff and the joy I had knowing that we’re going to watch the relationship open like a flower to us, ending in the 1960 with the hand-over of the holy water and there wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house - and I knew that because it did that for me - them watching what you and Michael brought to it and it became the most most glorious tentative friendship over thousands of years, that then becomes sort of peculiar and flirty and weird and prickly and funny and glorious, and, you know, it was the one that won me the Nebula Award."

This absolutely frames season 2 for me, and in particular the final fifteen minutes, which are season 2's heartbreaking bandstand scene. During season 2, we watched their relationship once again open like a glorious, flirty flower, still the only important thing in each other's lives, until their utterly disparate philosophies of existing separated them and broke all of our hearts.

But they came back together after the bandstand, and they will again after season 2 🤞❤️

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Neil Gaiman, co-author of Good Omens:

My first encounter with Terry Pratchett was The Colour of Magic, as read on BBC Radio 4's Woman's Hour. I was a young journalist and I reached out to his publisher for an interview, and thus became the first journalist to interview Terry Pratchett, in Bertorelli's Italian restaurant, in Gower Street. (We remembered it as a Chinese Restaurant in Goodge Street, demonstrating either the fallibility of memory or our fondness for Chinese food.) We became friends.

I was lucky enough to read Terry's books as he wrote them, to become one of his beta readers, and then to collaborate with him. Terry had a brilliant eye for the places where reality and narrative tradition intersect: he had a science fiction writer's mind, let loose on a fantasy world, and he loved to explain and show how things came to be. The last time we saw each other he told me I had to read a book about feeding Nelson's navy – and I still wonder, had he lived, about the Discworld novel he would have written, about ships, and naval battles and all, and the lessons he would have taught us. Because at his best, Terry was a teacher. The kind who makes you laugh while simultaneously realising that everything you have taken for granted so far is utterly wrong. I miss him.

[dduane]

Aurora update, May 13, 2024: 80% less shenanigans

This will be only a brief update, as I'm dealing with a local deadline issue at the moment. But for those who're interested: the current spate of auroral episodes seems to be over.

The auroral oval of "likely seeing" has pretty much vanished at the moment, except for that little smear of "quiet aurora" over Alaska and the Yukon.

The Kp index is at sorta-3-to-4 at the moment, which generally indicates a "quiet aurora" time.

Our favorite troublemaker, active sunspot region AR3664, continues to make trouble even as it exits stage left. Over yesterday evening and the early morning hours it coughed up a few more cosmic hairballs—a mixed bag of M- and X-class flares. (In fact, as I write this I see that it's just popped off another one, a "strong" M6.66 [...seriously? Hi there @neil-gaiman!], about half an hour ago. Truly this is a diva among sunspot regions.)

It's apparently shrinking, and has lost some spots, but I remain really interested to see what things are going to look like when this region comes around again from the Sun's other side in two weeks or so.

...So for the time being, it looks like those of us who've been watching this drama unfold can sit back and relax a bit, and wait to see what happens next.

(Meanwhile, I recommend the front page of SpaceWeatherLive.com for anyone interested in keeping an eye on this kind of thing from time to time. They also have nice apps you can download that will send you alerts when something interesting happens.)

[neil-gaiman]

Hello mr Gaiman, I was thinking a lot about the sandman. And those questions popped out in my head. (Hope no one asked that before)

1. Do Dream and other members of their family have gender? Or are they like angels and demons in Good Omens?

2. Does Corinthian see something? It looks like he can see when he moves, but how?

Sorry for taking your time. Thanks

They have gender. Dream, Destiny, and the other brother are, to our perception anyway, male; Death, Despair and Delirium are, to our perception, female; Desire has all the genders.

The Corinthian sees. He's a dream. You don't always need eyes if you're a dream.

[uglypastels]

Not Wholly Evil |IV| pirate!eddie

a/n so sorry for the long wait. Let this be a celebration of the beginning of summer :) and lets hope for many fics to come (i cant make any promises tho) I hope you enjoy this chapter!!! Please remember to support by reblogging and leaving comments on what you think of the story <3

Series Masterlist

word count: 7.5k

"semi dark fic" - READ the warnings:. (gun/sword)violence. blood. mention of severe wounds. minor character death. allusions to suicide. kidnapping. imprisonment. alcohol. open and deep sea. pirates are pigs: mentions of non-con, but it does not actually occur. malnourishment and weight loss. paranoia. mention of poisoning. abuse. manhandling. lying. religious (Christian) references.

There might be a mention of other ST characters, and for plot sake, everyone is an adult here, just coz I don't want fetus pirates running around, but they are not really relevant to the plot.

Chapter 4: Columba 

A philosopher once asked, "Are we human because we gaze at the stars, or do we gaze at them because we are human?" Pointless, really..."Do the stars gaze back?" Now, that's a question. ― Neil Gaiman, Stardust

‘We’re… lost?’ You stared blankly ahead.

‘I’ll admit, lost is a strong word, princess— Misdirected feels more accurate. Sailing off-course.’ 

You stammered for a response to the confession you just heard. ‘How– How could we be off-course?’ The captain’s words had not fully come through to you yet, perhaps by his casual stance and lack of urgency for a solution or panic. He stood there, arms behind his back, studying his map like one of the painting hanging on the Queen’s wall. And yet, according to this man, you were heading into uncharted waters. You have been heading towards them for God knows how long.  

‘It is quite simple. Here–’ he was still analysing the markings on the wall as he spoke, and he must have wanted you to step closer, for he looked at you expectedly. Something around his mouth twitched when he looked your way. The eye contact was piercing both ways with so much said between the two of you, and yet not a single word had been exchanged. With two ringed fingers, he pulled an invisible string that he hoped would have some effect on you. 

It did not. 

All you did was raise a brow in your expectation, ready to see what the captain would do now. Arms crossed, you remained in your place. 

‘Do not make me come over there, princess.’ 

‘Do not make me come over there, Munson.’ The words were bitter but tasted sweet, like honey on your lips. If you had blinked, and as luck would have it, you did not, you would have missed the captain’s reaction; a deep breath in as he hollowed out his cheeks, pushing back any clearer indications of frustrations or signs of weaknesses. The patience ran out of his dark eyes. Then, with a stretch of his neck, he returned to his first problem as if the short interaction between you had never occurred. He sounded entirely unphased as he, despite your distance, went to explain the conundrum. ‘Several days ago, the Hellfire stumbled upon a certain ship,’ he tapped one of his fingers on a small mark south of the map. It then dawned on you that, by surrendering to your stubbornness, he had won the bigger battle. Your curiosity was gaining on you, and from where you stood, you could not put much more meaning to his words, as the islands around it were unfamiliar. He knew this and could tell you were frustrated with yourself, but you were too stubborn to walk up and look at what he was showing you… yet where you stood now was no good either. The captain continued explaining as if you were right by his side, not addressing anything else of the situation. ‘Tonight, we were meant to have only been a week’s travel away from our destination–’ your home. This shocked you, for before, you had no indication of how much longer it would take—a week. What was supposed to have been a week is now an undetermined eternity as the ship sailed on.

The mention of your home hit you at the deepest level, overshadowing any other emotions you felt. Any stubbornness was pushed aside for anger as you crossed the room. 

Nothing was exchanged as you moved past the desk towards the captain. He did not look your way, but the grin on his face was undeniable. You could still feel it when he brought you closer to him with a quick pull, shaking you around practically like a rag-doll. You now stood between him and the map, his shoulder against your back. His breath on your neck. His muscles brushed over you as he moved his arm to point out the locations on the map. The flash of heat coming over you could not have been anything but the anger you felt at yourself for letting this happen.

‘To sum up, we met here, darling,’ he reached to tap the map again at a southern point, bringing himself closer to you with the excuse to reach the chart. His chin practically leaned on your shoulder, and his hot breath became overbearing to all your senses. All you could focus on were the rings that adorned his fingers in front of you—one of the few aspects of him you could always trust to remain constant. You watched him move his hand across. ‘—were meant to arrive here—,’ One straight line towards home with a dark, blotted circle on top of it. It made you wonder how long that ink sat upon the canvas. Had he written it once you came aboard, or had he been planning something much longer? Had your abduction been a plan all along? It was hard to imagine but not impossible. 

‘And now we’re… well, God knows where we are,’ he chuckled with wicked amusement, and you did not see the humour in being lost at sea. You did, however, see the irony of him speaking of God. He, a Satan’s spawn himself. It is ridiculous to think that he had the gumption to speak the Lord’s name so casually, especially with him being who he is. It simply did not sit right with you.

However, none of your concerns seemed to have drawn his attention as Munson went on: ‘I felt something was wrong as we were supposed to have arrived at Escondrijo last night, a rest stop we often sail past,’ he read out the name of this island right at your skin, the S slithering from his tongue onto you in shivers. ‘I thought maybe my calculations were simply off; the wind, after all, had not been the kindest. Of course, it could have been a delay– but alas.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘What we stumbled across was–’ He slammed his fist into the map, making you jump at the extreme action,  ‘Such a useless piece of land no one bothered to give it a name!’ He laughed away his frustrations, which chilled you to the bone. ‘Not even the damned sould that live there.’

Damned. That’s what he was. What all of you were as the ship sailed on.

You tried to take in everything that he had just told you. All the locations he had pointed to. Considering the unknown status of your location, the world must have turned upside down for you to arrive here. The fact the Hellfire had stumbled upon the nameless island must have been dumb chance in itself, and just as quickly as it had made itself shown, it was now becoming nothing more than a memory. 

Still, this island could be anywhere on the map, but it must have been close to the planned destination. The climate would have raised suspicions much earlier if it had been otherwise. And that is precisely what you suggested to the captain, hoping that giving him some kind of positive idea would direct him away from the anger he must be feeling. Not to mention, at this moment, you were both in trouble, in danger, and the only way out of it was to help him… as much as you disliked the idea of doing so. It was the only option. 

‘Yes, exactly. All my calculations had been perfect. That is why this is all so perplexing.’ 

You could name several more reasons why the situation was “perplexing”, including one thing you did not yet understand: 

‘Why did we even leave the harbour? Why not stay and orient yourself?’ There were people there, other sailors; naturally, someone could have helped track the right direction to sail onward to. Someone there might have had more information. Anything. 

And yet, the ship had already set sail into the abyss of the night. You could hear the waves sloshing around you, and when you turned around, the fiery light coming from the island was thinning on the horizon. 

‘You overestimate the usefulness of a drunken man. Or the charitability of a passerby in a midnight alley.’ Munson spoke, ‘Or perhaps, you simply underestimate my willingness to find a solution, for that matter. As if I did not try to ask for help—because, whatever you may think of me, I am not ashamed of seeking out outside recourses—’ There was that clicking sound of his tongue that announced nothing but smugness. Next thing you know, his arms had snaked their way down, wrapped around your middle, trapping your arms within his hold. His lips were at your ear, freezing you like a spell. ‘And here I thought you would know me better by now.’

You wished you did too, but the truth was much more brutal. With every moment you spent in the captain’s presence, he only seemed to be becoming more and more of a mystery to you. None of your million questions regarding the notorious Captain Munson had been answered. 

With a slow intake of breath, you spoke to him as calmly as possible: ‘Get off of me.’ 

‘Mmm,’ he hummed, swaying you back and forth, enhancing the ship's movements, ‘I don’t think I want to, princess.’ In reality, it was a loose grip that held no power, authority, or fear over you. All it did was plague you with his touch, scent, and sound; it was all over. You could feel him everywhere. The heat of his body was radiating onto you, boiling you alive. 

From this position, you could not see his face. Your peripheral vision only gave you a blurry profile of his features without indicating what he was doing. You both stood there for a long moment, looking at the map as if it would reveal some secret message. Something to magically guide you back on the right path. It was quiet around, with nothing else but the waves outside, the fire of the candles in the room flickering, and two pairs of lungs breathing. Two hearts, beating fast. 

His grip loosened, but you did not move. Too scared that any movement would remind him of you. Although, maybe he had not forgotten but simply lost interest, for the captain took a step forward, passing you right by. His eyes were locked in on a spot on the map. 

This silence had given you one thing, and it was the time to think. Maybe not clearly—that was barely ever possible with him around—but long enough to devise a train of thought. With that, one more question struck you. 

 ‘Why tell me all of this?’ Was he confessing this all to you because he was not planning on having you stick around for much longer? Airing out a confession to a soul that he had already sentenced, either way, leaving no trace of his mishappening behind? If that was the case, you had to leave this room quickly. Tell someone about all of this…Because what stopped you from going out there and telling everyone that their captain had failed them? Led them to be stranded at sea. This may be what you need. This may get them on your side. Maybe– 

‘Oh, it is wonderful how your mind works, princess.’ He turned around on his heels, and his hands found your shoulders, dug in like claws, shaking you lightly. Shaking you straight out of your escapist fantasy. ‘Truly, fascinating.’ The two last words burned with a growl. He chuckled a little bit more before redirecting himself towards his desk. The captain did not bother walking around the desk. Instead, he sat down on it and let his legs swing around, knocking several stacks of parchment onto the floor in the process. He did not even look down at the mess he caused. Instead, he slightly bent back to look down. His eyes shot down, an eyebrow was raised, and then he looked back at you. 

‘Nosy, were we, darling?’ There was a metal twinkle that piqued your interest, and you noticed the silver key hanging around his neck. He pulled it off and unlocked the drawer you had been toying with before his arrival. 

Had it surprised you that he pulled out a bottle of rum? 

Slightly. 

But you watched the captain uncork the bottle and take a large sip as he sat on the armrest of his throne. He was sloppy, and the liquid spilt down his chin. He was wiping it off as he extended his other arm towards you, inviting you for a drink. When you did not respond, the captain shrugged, mumbled something about stubbornness, and drank until barely anything was left. He put the bottle on the disorganised desk and roughly wiped his mouth with his sleeve. 

 He let out a satisfied sigh. ‘Mmm. Now, where was I,’ he tapped his fingers on his thigh, trying to remember the last seconds. Once he did so, he laughed.

‘It is so easy to think that one tiny mistake could cause a man’s respect, but these men—together with me, may I add—have been through a lot. We are a family, sweetheart, and family isn’t so easy to get rid of. No matter how hard or often you try.’ His dark eyes pierced through yours. ‘So, I hope you do not set your hopes on a mutiny too high because that just won’t happen. If my men wanted to get rid of me, they would have done so long ago. 

‘I’ve made much bigger mistakes that could have cost me my head, yet…’ he knocked his knuckles on the side of his skull, giving you an almost apologetic expression, indicating that he was still present and accounted for. ‘I’m sure they’re all aware of our little problem by now. Hell, it’s their fault, but I don’t want to vex them with this. They have enough work on their plates.’ 

‘So?’ You did not see the point of this anymore, not believing that he had no one in his crew that could help him right now. That would have been more helpful than you.

‘So,’ he mocked your inquisitive tone. ‘Out of everyone on board, you’re probably the last that needs a good night sleep–or at least can miss one.’ 

You wanted to argue with him, call him a monster for depriving you of simple decency such as a night’s rest, but then it dawned on you that he might have actually been right. While the floor gave you no comfort, you had, in a way, the luxury of sleeping as long as, and whenever, you pleased. Meanwhile, the crew got barely any sleep and then had to work most of the day to keep the ship afloat. That was a rationalisation of yet another lost battle, at least. 

‘Even if I did want to help you,’ you sighed in defeat, ‘how could I?’ You didn’t know how to steer a ship, let alone guide one back onto a correct route in the middle of the deep waters at night. Munson looked at you, still very much amused, and clearly held back his tongue with a comment on your words. Instead, he answered your question genuinely. Possibly doing so for the first time.

‘It is the middle of the night; the sky is clear,’ he spoke as if this all led to the most obvious of conclusions, ‘why not let the stars guide you?’ 

‘What makes you think I know how to?’ Did he think you had any experience in this field? ‘Well, I doubt you keep looking up there just because the stars shine oh-so charmingly.’ 

‘You do not think the night sky to be beautiful?’ You asked curiously. It would explain so much about the captain if he could not appreciate the simple beauty of such things. But, the man threw you in for a loop.

‘I do, but I also know it has many more functions than decor. You must know it too.’

‘I do.’ That was basic enough knowledge that you had picked up on as a young child, but was that it? Just because you were fascinated by the heavens did not mean you had any expert knowledge on the subject. Besides, where would you have even been able to acquire it? ‘And this makes you think I can steer us back on the right path?’

‘Call it intuition.’

‘And on the principles of your intuition,  you dare to put your fate in the hands of a…prisoner?’ You had never heard of such a tale for a captain to let his prisoner take the lead on the ship. Giving him their trust.

‘I think we are past such formalities, are we not?’ Were you? He must have read the doubt on your face, for he took the task of explaining: ‘You are no longer locked away; you have the freedom to go anywhere on this ship. I brought you a delicious meal—which I would still like to have received some gratitude for, but that is beside the point—and now I am asking you for your help. Some would say you are going up the ranks quite swiftly, princess.’

‘Funny, I do not recall you asking for my help at all? Just being locked away in a room for hours and given no choice but to do as you say.’

‘The pirate life!’ Munson spread his arms wide, slipping down into the seat of his thrown. You thought it would be futile to argue with him, seeing what humour he was in. The way he had just devoured the bottle of rum would not be helping your case.

‘Why me then? Why not do it yourself since you seem to know as much as me about the stars?’ You thought it would be easier and faster if he had done the work independently. It would already cost less time not to go through this discussion.

Like a thunderbolt, anger struck his face. ‘Because, I say so,’ he snarled before returning to his previous self, ‘and I thought you might like having something to occupy yourself with. Pushing around crates must become boring after sometime, does it not?’ 

‘How do you–’ He had seen what you had done with the lower deck. But… when would he have had the chance? You could not recall many instances, if any, of the captain coming down to see you after he freed you from your cell.

He pushed himself up from the throne and walked back over to you. Then, he began walking in circles around you, and you tried to keep up with him, but it quickly strained your neck. ‘Yes, I know all about your organizing down there. And about your inquiring nature.’ He nodded over to the desk you had tried to pry open. Something must have given it away. He clicked his tongue.  ‘Remember whose ship you’re on, darling. There is nothing that goes by around here without me knowing about it. If you do something, it’s because I let you do it.’

‘I hardly believe that.’

 ‘Well, believe this then: on any other ship, you could have gotten into a lot of trouble if someone caught you going through another man’s things—’

  ‘Don’t try and tell me all of that is yours. I know you stole it off other ships.’ You rolled your eyes. Munson played a victim, placing a hand over his chest, pausing in front of you with his big eyes, imitating hurt. 

‘Some of it very well may be. This,’ he flicked the collar of the shirt you were wearing, ‘for sure is.’ His fingers grazed at your skin, brushing over your throat hastily. ‘I could have you hung, you know. Or at least take off a few fingers.’

‘I doubt it considering you need me in one piece if you want my father’s money.’ 

‘Did you know there are hundreds of other man out there who’d pay double for a pretty face like yours?’ He waited for a crack to reveal the fear on your face and didn’t say anything until it showed. ‘Not to mention, I would not be risking arrest with them. Luckily, I am a man of my word. So, to your daddy you shall return.’ He reached for your shirt collar again, flattening it out carefully with a smile that could make you forget any of the horrific things he had just spoken of. ‘As I was saying, darling… I have a feeling you’d rather not end up like the other dirty thieves, so be a doll and prove to me that there was a use in letting you out of your cell after all.’ 

There it was. The reason for all of this. This was your punishment. Or some kind of redemption. He caught you going through his belonging, and now you had to pay for it— and pay with performing something you already felt to be impossible. 

 With him standing in front of you, hand still on your shoulder, you looked him directly in the eye. ‘How long do I have?’ 

The captain puckered his lips in thought and looked out the window. ‘As long as you can make use of the stars. Then I would really like to get back on course.’

Until sunrise, however long that could be.  You had a few hours to find your current location and a path back to where you were headed. 

‘What if I can’t do it?’ you pushed the question out of your tightening throat, scared of what the answer might be. 

‘That is no mindset for you, princess.’ He brushed some hair out of your face. ‘You’re too smart for that. Now go on; no need to waste even more time.’ And with that, he set you on your way. Or, more accurately, he let go of you and made his way to the bed on the opposite side of the room. In the meantime, you felt like your feet were nailed to the ground, unsure of what to do next, scared of taking the wrong steps. All you could do was look around as if the answers were hidden in the cabin. It had not even been a minute, and you could feel your heart getting stuck in your throat, panic setting in. To give up had never been a feasible option for you before, and it still pained you to think of doing it, but the words were ready to leave your mouth. You win. Your lips parted, and your vocal cords croaked when you noticed something. 

The letters were partly worn from contact but still reflected in the light. Either way, it wasn’t so much the letters that spoke to you, as you could not clearly read it from a distance, but the symbol above it. A golden star set on top of a leather book spine, winking at you in the fire.

Now with much more confidence, you took the needed strides towards the bookcase. It was pitch black leather, wrapped in a string to keep the delicate pages together. The book was situated on a lower shelf, pressed between other volumes, making it hard to remove. 

‘Need help with that, princess?’ Munson sounded from behind you.

Instead of responding, you pulled at the book again, and this time, it fell out from the shelf with a stir as a pile of books near it moved about. Still giving no reaction to the words spoken, you got up and moved to the desk, unwrapping the tie from around the covers and letting it fall open in front of you. The pages were nearly pristine, the ink dark, as if it had never seen the light of day. This ink depicted excellent illustrations of creatures and men. 

Despite being ignored by you, for once, the captain kept his distance and let you work while you searched for the correct pages. You could tell from notes that this was definitely the book you needed, as it told you everything you had to know, but the writing was small and not always legible. The pages were thin but rough to the touch. The writing was small, fitting as much information as the writer could cram between the covers. Most of it felt familiar, bringing you back to tales you had heard from your father or the governess. But navigating oneself with the stars' help required much knowledge and skill you still needed to possess. 

You tried to focus on it as much as you could, and yet, despite the silence and the space between you, you couldn’t stop glancing his way. The captain lay on the bed, his head toward the door, facing you. Each time your eyes met, you pulled yourself away from it, returning to the words and drawings on the pages, but you could constantly feel his gaze on you. It was unnerving. It was as if he was standing right there in front of you.

‘I promise you, I will be more effective if I do not have to endure your constant breathing down my neck.’ Maybe it was your surprisingly peaceful few hours in solitude on board, the tankard of ale streaming through your blood, or even the overall situation placing the captain in a new light, but you felt bold. ‘So, will you please stop staring.’ You looked up, not even surprised to see him still looking directly at you.

‘What would you rather have me do, darling?’ he asked, almost affectionately… though that could not possibly be what it was.

‘For you to leave, and do not call me darling,’ you dared to express. 

‘You want me to leave my own quarters?’ He raised a brow in humour. 

‘Yes, that is exactly what I want,’ you explained. 

‘Ah, well,’ he threw his hands up, rolling his eyes, ‘if it is exactly what the lady wants, that leaves me with very few options, doesn’t it?’ You watched him walk towards the door, perplexed at the ease with which he moved, …just to swerve around and lean against the door. ‘Oh, no, I suppose it doesn’t.’ He shrugged. 

You did your best not to pay attention to whatever the captain was doing—which, in that instance, seemed to be humming some song. You did not recognise it, nor did you have a need to learn it. Especially since, at this moment, any sound from him boomed in your ears like a canon. 

‘Must you be doing that? I am trying to concentrate for your own ship’s sake, if you do not recall.’ 

‘Apologies.’ He stopped, but the energy transferred into his legs, which shook his whole body with them, only softening the sound slightly, but the creaking of the wooden panels underneath him wasn’t much better. You couldn’t do this any longer. 

The only thing on your mind was frustration as you slammed the book shut, picked it up and walked towards the door. The captain took one smooth step to the side and, when you pulled at the door handle, had expected it to remain in its bolts, but it opened so quickly that your slight pull was enough to throw you sideways. The night darkness welcomed you together with the cold sea air and confusion.

‘How long has this been open?’ You did not want to look at him and did not need to. You could tell what kind of smile he wore and how he must have enjoyed this moment as he answered. 

‘Ever since I came back, princess.’ You could have left any time. You just took a deep breath and counted to three before turning his way and calmly saying something you had thought ever since your eyes fell upon him.

Well, at least better late than never. You stepped out onto the quarter deck without closing the door behind you. A man was half-asleep at the wheel, his entire body leaning on it. Luckily, someone had blocked it, avoiding the ship sailing in circles. 

Besides the sleeping helmsman, no one else seemed to be above deck, most likely in their beds as deep night had arrived. There were no lights besides the fire lit in the captain’s office, so you let the darkness take you as you walked down the stairs…. But midway, as the light from the captain’s cabin remained in the distance, you realised your mistake. 

‘For Heaven’s sake,’ you muttered under your breath and turned back around, climbing the steps, ignoring the burning hatred you felt in your body. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, you trotted your way back in. While your steps felt heavy, protesting your return into the room mentally, it was strange to walk so freely without all the layers your dress consisted of. With only a shirt over your upper body, you could feel each punch of the air on you, but in a strange sense, you welcomed it. 

But stepping back inside, you felt your body heat up again, mainly from embarrassment rather than the soft fire lighting up the cabin. It had not even been a minute, and you were passing the threshold again. You had not expected, nor wanted, to have returned so soon. If luck was ever in your favour, you would never see the interior in your life again, but, unfortunately, there was no escaping from this room for you, as you seemed to be coming back no matter what.

‘Back so soon, princess?’ In the short time of your absence, Munson had returned to the bed and tilted his head at your entrance, grinning, ‘You must have missed me more than I thought.’ 

You scoffed, ‘for your information,’ and grabbed a lantern on a dressing table closest to the door… which was still too many steps inside for your liking, ‘I am simply gathering some light. It is too dark outside, I cannot read what's on the pages.’

‘Ah. Is that all then?’ he asked, returning his head onto his pillow, closing his eyes as if he was ready for sleep, ignoring his clothes and the stoic position in which he lay. But as you moved around the cabin, he had opened one eye to look your way. ‘I’d suggest you take a jacket, princess. It can be quite cold out there.’

‘You could have made a fine gentleman, Munson.’ You held your head high, not looking at him. ‘It is a shame you let yourself deteriorate at sea like your ship.’ 

‘That actually almost hurt me, darling. I’m impressed.’ He chuckled, eyes already closed again. With nothing else to say, you passed the large wardrobe and walked straight out of the room. Once again, you walked down the stairs, celebrated when your feet touched the last step and walked onto the ship's centre. Along with the crashing of the waves, you could hear each of your footsteps. 

Something must have been in your favour, for the sky was without a cloud and in the darkness of the ship, you could see millions of stars twinkling. The moon was still but a sliver. It brought a similar-looking smile to your face. 

You searched for the page you had deemed the most useful beginning and spread the book in your arm. Now, with the book open in your arm, with the flames lighting the pages from above, you gazed up at the stars. After a short moment, this position would not be possible to uphold. The two objects you held were too strong to keep up in the air. Remaining as calm as possible, ultimately pressing the captain out of your mind, you reread the pages. 

To navigate through the stars, one must first find Polaris—the brightest star in the sky, right at the end of the Ursa Minor. The sky was clear, handing you the constellations on an onyx platter. The silver balls of fire were peppered around like crystals, gleaming and shimmering, but without a doubt, there was one that shined just a little bit brighter, calling to you with the direction of True North.

You had heard men talk of these methods at home and aboard the Red Tail, and they had always sounded relatively simple. If anything, you considered their constant complaints simply a part of manhood. Now that you were straining out your neck to look around at all the corners of the galaxy, you still did not think it to be much more complicated and so knew that the captain could not have felt any other way. 

You had figured out his plan to punish you, and now the rationale behind this specific task came to you. It would not have been unexpected if he tasked you with this hassling job simply because he was too much of a sloth to do so himself. There was still a dim light in the office quarters, so you assumed he had not gone to sleep yet… or perhaps fallen asleep with all the candles still flickering. For a moment, your mind wandered to where the candles tipped over, caught some of the wood around, and never stopped burning.

Just for a moment, until your lantern started to feel hot against you as you held it too close. It felt so heavy.  You had to set it on the ground, then sat down beside it with the book in your lap. 

Some time passed, but who knew how long precisely you had been sitting out there. Your knees had started to hurt, as well as your spine, but giving up was not an option. The ship swayed back and forth against the waves, blurring your view, only making things more complicated. The wind kept lashing out, but you persisted, trying to calculate the ship's position, flipping back through the book to the pages on which a map had been etched out. You would do this if it was the last thing you did. 

‘I will be done by sunrise, ’ you shouted as you heard footsteps behind you. The jingle of chains could have only been one person. You wiped some hair away that the wind blew in your face as you felt the captain’s presence behind you—like a deathly spectre hovering over you. ‘I– I promise.’ You said so more to yourself. Because while you had to prove yourself to him to live, you needed to prove to yourself that you could do this. You would persist and manage to find a way back home. 

The captain said nothing; he did not linger around, watching you. The only thing he did, was throw down a large coat onto the ground, which fell onto the floorboards next to you with a thud. You blinked slowly, then turned around to him, but he was already returning to the cabin. 

‘It will all be pointless if you freeze to death.’ And with that, he took his last steps and shut the door behind him. The light in his room immediately blackened, obscured by the stained glass in the small door window. 

You looked down at the jacket. Like all those the captain wore, it was black but heavily layered. Decorated in what seemed like hand-stitched gold but not in any fashionable manner. The stitching was uneven and needed a clear pattern. The sleeves were falling apart but tied together with what once must have been a silver necklace. Several of them, even. You glanced once more in the direction of the captain’s cabin before putting the coat on. It swallowed you up but immediately brought over a sense of comfortable heat over your body. The soft material protected you against the wind. Now not feeling like your bones were becoming icicles, you began to feel some pleasure in the whole thing. As you kept working, you slowly forgot why you sat in the middle of the ship and let yourself be emersed by the stars. Being out there on your own was actually freeing in a strange sense. The darkness locked you out of your extended surroundings, placing you virtually anywhere.

Well, not anywhere. The constellations held the password to where you found yourself, and you would decrypt it anytime now. 

But first, you needed to stretch your legs. The cracking of your joints was enough of a sign that you had sat on that floor long enough. With the lantern in hand, you walked in circles around the ship. The light swung in motion to your steps, in motion to the waves. When you looked out at the sea, you were greeted with two moons. One hung still in the sky while her sister swam in the waters. Mirrored images of each other, smiling and frowning in both directions, but never in reach. Conflicted, perhaps or maybe they simply managed to show you bits of yourself there?

You wanted to say something to them as you stood there, but no words felt right. So, peaceful silence it was. However, the longer you stood there, the more of an effect you thought from the hours you spent on the deck. And there was still so much you had to do. But you could do it. 

Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you leaned against the railing, placing the lantern beside you. The yawn pushed passed your lips without a choice but plenty of resistance. If you stayed there, you would probably fall asleep soon, which is ineffective. So, you grabbed the light, and with your free hand deep in your pocket to keep warm, you returned to your star gazing spot. But not one step in your brisk walk back, you halted. A feeling of something cold and hard against your hand occupied your entire mind there and then. When you pulled it out, you were unsure what it was, but the mechanism must have worn out through the years because it fell open in your hand, revealing a rose. Its arrow pointing right at you. 

A compass. 

Your head immediately shot toward the captain’s cabin, but the lights had gone out, and there was nothing more to make out of the darkness. Your eyes shut into narrow slits. He had brought you his own jacket and must have known what was in it. 

The question now was, why? Why did he give it to you? Was he trying to help you by giving you this tool? Did he think you needed help to get anywhere? Well, you certainly did not. Especially when it could be a trap. The device could very well be defective and put you on the wrong trail, and then, if you were to give the captain the wrong directions, you knew he would not waste a second by punishing you. And this time, correctly. 

Still, according to your calculations, North was meant to be behind you, so in that, the compass was correct, but you did not want to risk anything. An instinct told you to throw the thing away, right over the railing into the sea. Let it sink and make the captain watch. Just like you had to watch, your own ship disappear into the waters. It would have been a small taste of revenge, but it was a start. 

The idea faded as soon as you shut the compass. You looked at the engraving on it—a detailed depiction of a bird–which kind, you could not quite tell. Perhaps a hawk… could it be… no, you doubted it was a Redtail. It could not be. The simple idea of that brought chills down your spine. How could Munson possess such an item; engraved with your town’s crest? 

And it was old. As you had noticed, the clip keeping the two halves together was tethering on falling apart from frequent use, and the window of the rose was cracked. The metal of the shell had finger marks faded into it from the usual position it was held in by hands much larger than yours. 

Not wanting to see it again, you pushed the compass deep down the pocket you had found it in. Determined to have the images erased from your mind by the rest of your task and the time pressure put on it, you retrieved your book. 

It was harder done than said.

As you stood there, book and fire in hand, spinning around to position the stars as you pleased, the tiny silver lights blurred in your eyes. But you were so close, you could not stop now, not when you were so close. Ignoring the burn of the compass at your thigh as your mind whirred with solutions. With North decided for, and with the latitude… no longitude— and if the charts were pointed this way— then, God, you could not keep this book up anymore. Your arm screamed from the weight of the pages. 

Back on the ground, you resumed your final observations. Flipping between the map and the charts, exchanging glances with the book and stars. Yes, if that was North, then… then… you checked the map once more, locating your home definitively. 

You did it. You actually did it. It could have been minutes, maybe hours; you could not tell with certainty how much time you had spent on the task, but as you shut the book, so did your body. You fell back onto the deck with a tired smile. It could have been the fatigue, but the stars shone slightly brighter for you, gleaming with pride. 

They also became blurrier. Your eyes turned heavy. But you kept staring up with a smile. At least, you do not remember ever stopping. Even if it is possible you fell asleep at some point, you could not tell at what point exactly. All you knew was that you dreamt. And for once, your mind was free of nightmares. As much as your world was free of them, at least. But it had to be a dream. 

How else would he appear out of the shadows?  Why else did you see him looking down at you; impossible to tell for how long. His features free of anger, mischief or bad intentions, unnatural. He stood there at the balustrade next to the helm. It was impossible to tell how long he had stood there in the dark. 

And his walk. It was utterly silent, free of chains or heavy steps. That could have been only your brain letting you rest. His touch was feather soft as he picked you up in his arms. 

You shouldn’t have stayed out here this long. He sighed in disappointment, but not in you.

You told me to— you mumbled. 

I know. The floor became unstable. You were floating in the air, rising up. Only his hold there to keep you grounded. The one time you should have been stubborn and not listen. Why did you not just go to bed?

I want to go home, Eddie. Why else would you say this if it was not a dream? You could never imagine yourself opening up to him this way. Let him carry you like that. And if you had, it would never feel this good or safe to be held by him. 

I know. He repeated himself. There was a shift. No longer in his arms, you were floating on a cloud, but his voice echoed around you. I’m sorry.

None of this could have been real. These could not be the words of captain Munson. But they still stayed with you as your dreams ventured on into other stories. All just as pleasant, the nightmares of all the nights before merely bad memories, never to be repeated again. 

I did it, you said quickly before he disappeared, to be replaced by your new figment. North East. Go Northeast.

Here is your final reason. The proof you had dreamt it all. A silent moment, full of hesitation. Then, a fluttering touch of lips on your forehead and a hand brushing your cheek gently. If this had been real life, you would have turned away and let yourself burn in anger, but instead, your lips formed into a smile, and for the first time in forever, you felt at peace. 

And just like that, like in any other dream, he was gone while your mind brought you to other fantastical places and told you stories you would not remember. It was a night of wondrous bliss, of rest. Filled with dreams as the stars watched over you. 

Only at daybreak did it all change. When the morning sun glowed golden through the large window. Only at that moment you began thinking that maybe, just maybe, you were wrong. Perhaps not all of it had been a dream, for when you woke up, you were not on the ship's deck nor down in your cell. When you woke up, you did so in a bed.

The captain’s bed, of all places. 

Chapter 5

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[viscerally-tired]

When new episodes of The Sandman come out, and if we get more Hob and Dream scenes, what we are not going to do is be horrible to Neil or anyone else working on the show for not making a ship (that isn't canon in the comics) canon in the show.

We are going to be wonderful civil fans, and we can write and draw our beautiful gay little ship as we have been doing for a while.

No clawing out Neil Gaimans eyes. Thank you. I'm pretty sure he needs them for seeing and writing and making tea without burning himself.

[aziraphales-library]

Are you aware of any fics in which Neil Gaiman and/or Terry Pratchett are actually God? Or fics in which Azirpahale or Crowley meet Terry or Neil?

I can only find a few, a couple of which can already be found on our #metafiction tag...

Air Conditioning meets Neil Straightman. What happens next is shocking! by SillySlvt (G)

When Aziraphale and Crowley were summoned to the heavens, they didn’t know what to expect. A sixty three year old man was not what they were expecting. Or: Aziraphale and Crowley meet their TRUE creator.

How Neil Got Lost in a Good Book by siephilde42 (G)

An author falls into a reality where his book, or more precisely, the TV adaptation of his book, is real. Witnessing the onset of the apocalypse is stressful, even if you know how it is supposed to end.

The Nice and Accurate Prophecy of Neil Gaiman by oneofmyalters (T)

A day in the 1980's, probably a month of good weather. Neil Gaiman, a brilliant youngman at the verge of doing great things (as he always has been), is sitting over his writing desk, nothing but a plain wood table, a lamp and some pens and paper staring back at him. His eyes are lost in wonder, for his mind is plotting. Having fed it just with the right amount of fantasy from watching his favorite movies, having some nice conversations and meeting the right people, he is now ready to throw up. You can see the word vomit forming at the back of his neck, climbing upwards with the strength of thunder. His brain is ready to send the message to his arm, right hand and fingers. And once he does it, the words will flood... - It did not happen that way. - I thought I could put a nice spin to it. Make it sparkly with the magic of writing... - That would be lying to our readers. - This is fiction. Writers do that all the time. - You could say the same about lying. - Then, how DID it happen, Crowley? - Write it down, Angel.

Lit by fellshish (T)

Crowley takes a university course on literature and surprise! The book they’re discussing is Good Omens. Uh oh.

- Mod D

[humbledragon669]

S1E4 – Saturday Morning Funtime Write Up P2 - Saturday (The last day of the World) from The Fields of Megiddo to "You're better off without him."

Given the rather abrupt interruption I made to the previous part of the write up for this episode, let’s just get stuck straight in and pick up where I left off. Other than the lovely implication that selfies are the work of the devil, there’s only one thing I want to talk about in relation to this scene, and it’s the music. It’s been a while since I waxed lyrical over David Arnold’s soundtrack, so I’m sure it’s about time I brought it up again. We can hear a piece of incidental music playing throughout the conversation between Hastur and Eric (or Junior Demon if you’re looking at the original script), the character of which perfectly underscores the tone of the conversation. There are three sections to it – one for each iteration of the disposable demon, each growing less playful than the last (represented by the harpsichord in the orchestration). What I especially love about this little piece of music is that if you listen really, really carefully, you can pick out some instances of the motif from the theme music (played by a glockenspiel). It’s a lovely reminder of how much music enriches our experience of film and television without us even realising it.

Without giving a blow-by-blow description of what’s going on in the episode (which I’m sure you’d agree would be tedious both to write and read), I don’t have much to say about the next scene either, other than pointing out Anathema’s pathological desire to feed the kids whenever they appear. It makes me wonder if she’s like that with everyone (in which case Aziraphale would probably adore her) or it’s just children (in which case, creepy). It is interesting to see that Adam’s nature is starting to be corrupted by his powers – where the consequences were previously of a childlike innocent nature, they are now starting to manifest in his attempts to dominate others. We also have confirmation that the change in his nature is now being noticed by others in his vicinity.

Hastur’s next scene, other than providing some lovely moments of perfectly delivered black comedy, forms a mainly narrative purpose, serving nicely to remind us why Aziraphale was so incredulous at the Antichrist being left with an American diplomat’s family in the first place – they’re abhorrent. The Dowlings I mean, not all Americans. Or even all American diplomats. Not that I know any American diplomats to say any different. Anyway. We also see how quick Hastur is to come to the (correct) conclusion that Crowley is to blame for this monumental cock up. Given that Hastur shows his dislike of our demon just prior to the baby switcheroo 11 years earlier (and who knows how long he’s actually felt that way), it’s almost surprising that it’s taken him this long to find something concrete against Crowley.

Alright, Easter egg time! The scene of Crowley in the cinema has a couple. Let’s start with the one glaring at us from the movie theatre screen.

That’s our episode title, right there in front of our eyes! I don’t know whether these creepy little rabbits were always intended to be holding the banners and this is where the episode title came from, whether the episode title came first, or whether it’s somewhere between the two but I love the meta-reference nonetheless. Whilst we’re on the topic of those weird little fuckers, has anybody stopped to wonder why, in the name of all that is and isn’t holy, has Crowley would pick this film to watch? I know we get that deliciously dark sequence of a bunny massacring another bunny as a result, but it’s an odd choice for the demon you have to admit.

Second Easter egg:

The only other audience member in the movie theatre, in case you didn’t already know, is played by a certain Neil Gaiman. Who also happens to provide the voice for the cutesy-wutesy bunny rabbits on the screen. It’s tempting to ask the same question about why on earth an adult man would choose this child’s cartoon to watch, alone, on a Saturday morning but really I’m just chuffed to bits that they found a cameo for Neil.

As a quick side note, I also want to point out that the attention to detail has not been neglected in the cartoon – the frog (toad?) on Hastur’s head can be seen gesticulating in line with his speech. Not to mention you can sporadically hear a “ribbit” in the background. Bloody genius.

Back with Anathema (who, for once, does not offer her guest any food) and Newton, there’s an interesting return to the idea that the same word can be used to convey different meanings dependent on its recipient. Remember back when Adam showed up on her Anathema’s doorstep and she renamed herself to accommodate his preconceived ideas? Well she switches right back to calling herself a witch here, for the exact same reason, but with Newton instead. In fairness, he’s playing the same game in calling himself a computer engineer. And whilst I appreciate the need to remove matches from this particular individual, I wasn’t actually aware that he had any, though we do know he has firelighters.

Side note: there is a note written on a newspaper article pinned on the board in this scene:

It might be nothing at all, but if anybody has any suggestions as to whether there’s an Easter egg to be found here, I’m all ears.

Moving on into Adam’s rapidly increasing decline into his true nature, the only thing I have to say about the scene with The Them being dragged through the woods is that the speech delivered by the aspiring Antichrist here is incredibly relevant to current day.

Everything’s being killed or used up and no one takes it seriously. Everyone thinks somehow it’ll all get better again.

Makes it rather difficult to argue with him, doesn’t it? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe global extinction is the way to go about fixing things, but his point is valid. And from a child’s perspective, it might actually seem logical that the way to solve the problem is to just start everything from new.

OK, I need to take a moment here to do a little bit of an outline, because for some reason, my brain really struggles to comprehend the timeline of the Crowley and Aziraphale scenes for the rest of this episode. Which isn’t so unusual, given that we don’t see them all in chronological order, but there’s just something about these scenes that I find hard to make them piece together into a whole story. So, here’s the sequence as I understand it:

Crowley visits the movie theatre, where he discovers that Hell knows he has something to do with the Antichrist mix up.

Crowley goes to Soho to try and convince Aziraphale to run away together.

Aziraphale is confronted on the street by a group of archangels, telling him he has to choose a side (complete with a threatening wall slam).

Aziraphale attempts to talk to God, where he discovers that Heaven intends to have their war, regardless of any external circumstances.

Hastur and Ligur arrive at Crowley’s apartment (probably concurrent with Aziraphale talking to Metatron) to “collect” him.

Aziraphale calls Crowley to tell him he knows where the Antichrist is (and presumably to suggest they do something about it together), approximately 28 minutes after his attack.

Shadwell enters the book shop, triggering the Aziraphale’s discorporation and causing the fire to start.

Crowley leaves his apartment to go and get Aziraphale having heard the voicemail he left. This may or may not be after Aziraphale has already been discorporated.

I think that’s it. Even now I feel confused about it all, and I have no idea why. I probably didn’t need to spell it all out quite so explicitly for anyone other than myself but hey, this is my write up, so my rules.

OK, let’s move on to another horribly painful exchange between Crowley and Aziraphale, shall we? Before we get there though, it would be remiss of me not to talk about the Bentley’s registration plate. I *think* this is the first time we see it properly, as it’s obscured by the front bumper in most of the shots in episode 2.

It’s a pretty poor picture, but the registration is “NIAT RUC”. As in “curtain” backwards. As I understand it, this is a reference to some writing on the wall of a mausoleum in “Monty Python’s Meaning of Life”, paying homage to Terry Gilliam (one of the Monty Python members) who was involved in the first attempt to bring Good Omens to the screen.

Alright, first question about the upcoming scene. Why doesn’t Crowley just park the Bentley in his usual parking spot and go looking for Aziraphale? We can be pretty sure that the only reason he would be driving through that particular street in Soho is going to be something to do with Aziraphale. The space across the book shop is empty when he drives past it, yet he barely slows down to take the corner. Why not just park?

Next question about the exchange that takes place between our hero pair. What exactly is Crowley apologising for? By my reckoning it was Aziraphale that delivered the deciding blow during the breakup in the previous episode, even if his reasons were honourable.

My money on the answer to this question is that Crowley is in full panic mode at this point. He knows that apologising is likely the only way he’s going to be able to spark any sort of conversation with Aziraphale, hopefully taking him so off guard that he simply does as instructed. And it nearly works – you can see the angel’s relief when his shoulders relax.

He’s desperate – why else would he offer such a carte blanche apology for “whatever he said”? The fact that Hell have finally twigged to his involvement has sent him into full flight mode and the only thing he’s stopped to collect on his way out of dodge is the only thing that really matters to him – Aziraphale. He doesn’t believe he has time to talk about it – it has to be now and he’s asking Aziraphale to trust him. As a human resident on Earth, I feel obliged to side with Aziraphale on this one, seeing as he’s still trying to find a way to stop the obliteration of the human race. But that doesn’t make the rejection any less heartbreaking, even though he does seem to give it a micro-second of consideration before he digs his heels in.

And can we just take a pause on Crowley’s choice of words for his plea? “Run away together”, that’s what he says. This is such a clear indication of the true nature of their relationship to me – running away together is generally not the sort of thing people entertain in a platonic way, is it? Noticeably, Aziraphale doesn’t reject the idea of being “together”, which further serves to the idea that they are already familiar with exactly what the connotations of the word, and that it’s something he’s comfortable with. His rejection is actually grounded in the fact that he thinks he can still persuade the powers that be to just call the whole thing off by simply talking some sense into them, so he brushes Crowley’s panic off as “ridiculous” (side note: the music kicking in at this point should tell us that this discussion is on a road to nowhere – we’ve got slushy strings in a minor key again). What he fails to realise is that even if he can by some miracle (no pun intended) actually pull that off, Hell will still be looking to wreak some sort of personal revenge on Crowley for his involvement in the Antichrist mix-up. Crowley hasn’t forgotten that though, you can see the panic written all over his face as the realisation that Aziraphale isn’t on the same page as him.

What Crowley has failed to realise is that he’s not the only one panicking. Aziraphale is on that train too, but he’s taking a very healthy dose of denial with him. He simply cannot contemplate the possibility that the whole situation can’t be fixed. Crowley’s pleading might be painful to hear but I find it harder to watch Aziraphale’s version of the same emotion – you can almost hear him screaming at Crowley, trying to explain how terrified he is and how much he needs him on side.

Let’s not forget that Aziraphale desperately wants to be a company man. He wants to believe that his side is the inherently good side. That everything they do can be justified by sound moral decisions. Asking him to stop believing that would undo everything he is and ever has been. Even if it is completely ridiculous. We shouldn’t forget that because Crowley, in his panic, does.

You’re so clever. How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?

That one little line, emotionally vomited as it is, conveys so much about Crowley’s feelings. I’m trying to think of another instance where he reveals an opinion he holds about Aziraphale, particularly one that is complimentary, and I am coming up blank. Admittedly I don’t know the entire script by memory (probably not far off) so I wouldn’t swear by it, but I think those three words about Aziraphale’s intelligence are exceptional as far as Crowley’s talking of the angel is concerned. And then he has to go and spoil it by calling Aziraphale “stupid”. There is little doubt at how affronted he is at that particular term.

We all know what’s coming next. Aziraphale’s very own stick-the-knife in phrase to counter Crowley’s use of the “s” word.

It’s not the first time we have seen Aziraphale express a desire for Crowley to be forgiven, but it is the first time we see him actually offering forgiveness. When I watched this scene through for the first time, I found myself wondering what Aziraphale thinks he’s forgiving Crowley for, but having seen the fleeting looks of panic on his face we’ve seen throughout this conversation, I think it’s for not understanding he needs him to stay, for not hearing the subtext he has been trying to convey. I also happen to think that Aziraphale actually uses this 3-word phrase as a coded way of telling Crowley that the conversation is over, nothing more to discuss, not unless the demon makes a compromise. I will be talking about that a fair bit when I get to its use in the Final 15, but for now let’s just say it has its desired effect – Crowley’s response is one of frustration and the discussion is indeed over.

What I find interesting is that Aziraphale appears to be confused by the reaction he gets, before the pain of watching Crowley walk away again sets in. It’s almost as if he realises he might have misjudged the situation, failed to understand how frightened Crowley is, and I think we can see real self-doubt there for a second before the demon delivers the final blow as he characteristically runs away from the difficult situation.

I think there is likely a bit more than a literal meaning to Crowley’s statement that he’s going to be “off in the stars”, particularly given what we saw of Lesley demise earlier in the episode. As briefly mentioned, the concept of entities residing within starlight at the end of their mortal lives is something that Neil uses in other works too (and not just in his work – this idea can be found in varying guises across multiple faith systems). Perhaps this is part of the reason Aziraphale is so reluctant to go with him? Either way, I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say that Crowley is clearly bluffing with his departing line, and knows he is.

WON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT YOU GIF

The whole dismissal feels full of holes really, after all, why on earth why would you need to go and get anything at all if you were planning on leaving the planet? Why didn’t he just take the things he wanted when he left his apartment on his way to Soho in the first place? Honestly, I don’t think he thought he’d entertained the idea that the conversation with Aziraphale would have resulted in anything other than them joining forces again, one way or the other, but the fact that he announces to Aziraphale that he’s going home says to me that he has no intention of doing anything other than that. He knows he has to reassess his options now that he doesn’t have what he came for. And how much do we all love that passer-by? He sees their relationship for what it really is, just from a single line of heated argument.

I’ve been there. You’re better off without him.

Importantly, Aziraphale doesn’t try to correct him in his assumption that they are a couple. And the passer-by is wrong of course, we all know that Crowley and Aziraphale are much stronger when they’re together. Better together you might say. Even Aziraphale knows it.

Right, that’s the lot for this part! As usual, comments, questions, discussion, always welcome. See you next time 😊