#presumably because it is written in Norwegian

[isbergillustration]

Some exhibition shots of this scene :) if you’re in cardiff before thursday the 30th go see it :)

[bryants-things]

So I’ve been thinking about the ancient elves and the Dalish. And how apparently there is nothing left of the elves. Of course a lot was destroyed by the Humans but still such a big influential society just don’t disappear into thin air. The ruins scattered across Thedas are proof of just that.

Language and culture evolve such is the way things. So even with the elves being oppressed it’s very unlikely that their language and culture is completely gone.

It’s more likely that the information we have access to throughout the lore and codexes are seen through mostly human eyes. With exception of characters who have reason to know more aka Solas, Morrigan, Ablas and Fellasan to mention a few. And such the information regarding the elves is at best incomplete.

It makes sense that the Dalsih know a great deal more about their culture than humans an even Solas believe. After all he has (in game) not actually spent a lot of time with the Dalish only seen whatever remains spirits have picked up in the Fade.

And if we apply this theory to the games, one could imagine that Lavellan in particular would posses a good deal more knowledge than he (my Lavellan is male) lets on.

Something as simple as the glyphs in the exhalted plains. Lavellan get short burst of information from lighting them up. (This of course is probably true regarding every inquisitor no matter the race) but if we go on the in game information veilfire is elven magic. And so one would think one would need an elven mage to access them which I presume would be Solas with other races.

Although from a pure lore standpoint Solas claims he’s never seen veilfire only heard of it. Of course he could be lying but bear with me on a in game lore rant. Solas lived in a world where the Fade and Thedas was one. So the need for veil fire would be non existent. My guess is that the Dalish might use veil fire to write secret messages such as the way to Dirthramen’s temple or the location on an arthlahaven. And that the veil fire we find in the crossroads during Trespasser is purposely placed there by Solas to get Lavellan to follow the trail. Just a thought.

Another hint at this that I find interesting is the boy in the Exhalted plains that run away from his clan to impress the keeper. He found the location to Elandrias talisman but could not break the seal on his own and tries to summon a demon. How would he find the way without any information? Rumors might be a start but he would need something, say that there is a written account of Elandrias legend which would make sense. And that this is written in common tounge is unlikely. Why would the elves write down something so precious so a human could find it. No it would have been written in elven.

And there is more in the temple of Mythal Lavellan (going head cannon here) recognizes the language as ancient elven. He can’t translate but he does understand it’s elven. Which makes no sense unless he would know both how to read and write modern eleven and probably some ancient elven.

I’m Norwegian and interested in languages but I can tell you I would not be able to read Viking runes but because I’lve learned a little at school and through my own curiosity I can recognize that a text is indead written in Viking runes and not let’s say Latin or Celtic just for comparison. This would not be possible without pré knowledge. And I dare say that if you play a mage you are the keepers apprentice which mean he is very likely to have been thought a good deal of eleven even the ancient one. But he will say the same as a rouge. Which mean that at least the Lavellan clan know how to read and write elven and have been thought enough that they can recognize a language that is millennia old. I assure you the Norwegian I read and write now is nothing like what the Vikings used.

And from a pure evolutionary point of view. Language and culture evolve continuously and societies will have accounts a big one like Elvenan would have lots and no not all of it would be hidden in the crossroads or lost with Arlathan.

One does not stop speaking. So the elves that built Hamshiral, the emerald knights and last noble houses of Arlathan would have kept using their language.

If one think about it, speaking a language that no human in Thedas understand would have been an advantage they would have used.

When the dales fell the only elves who would benefit from not speaking elven would be the city elves.

And those who speak also write, messages, letters, lists and so on. Interesting fact there is a mosque in Istanbul that has a Viking rune carved in it. We’re talking 800 years ago some Viking dickhead with a knife carved Erik is awesome into a temple wall. So yeah. People leave traces. Not that I think the elves went around and carved dicks into chantry walls, but the plausibility is there.

The arrow stuck in the roof at Skyhold(just above the garden go check) has elven carved into it. Now someone at Skyhold would have translated that, highly likely someone went to Lavellan and asked.

Again people like marking there territory so to speak, the elves that fled the dales probably had quivers full of arrows saying things like “fendis shems”, or bags of herbs or food marked so one didn’t accidentally eat Raveshine which from what I understand is poisonous.

And they would have had beautifully carved weapons, cutlery, jewellery, books and other nick nacks. One does bring the most precious things.

Clothes as well, tack for their Halla. All of these things have as much impact on a culture as oral stories and legends.

The Dalish work to preserve what was, Bioware have chosen to focus on religion and how it evolves over time. But from a historical perspective religion is only a small part of what make our a culture. And a culture as powerful as the elven one are no small matter to erase.

So it makes no sense at all that all the Dalish are left with is a warped religion, useless tools and simple phrases.

But in a world like Thedas where the elves are hated and feared it makes more sense to hide.

The Dalish keep their cards close to their chest. What would make sense is that they speak elven amongst themselves and common tongue when needed. Coming from a minority language myself there are benefits to doing it that way.

And what we hear in the games might be as simple as that some words are difficult to use in any other language than elven.

In Norwegian “hæ” is a very oral way of saying “what” it’s so stuck in my speech pattern that even when I speak English I end up saying hæ. But I have lived on the British îles for such a long time I say Sorry instead of “unnskyld” And “au” which roughly translates to “ouch”.

Such is the way when one deal with several lanauges on a daily basis. I have a Belgian friend that grew up in Dublin and she can figure out using “pradon” and “great craig” in the same sentence.

I’m a handweaver I work on a loom that has not changed it’s design for 500 years or so. The loom itself is 10-15 years old, things that work move on. And things one always need like clothes, bowls and tools. A hammer might be made of steel instead to iron but it’s still a hammer.

My point is the Dalish elves have learned to adapt to stay alive, but when no one is looking they speak the same words sing the same songs and cook with the same things the elves of Arlathan did.

Right game rant done

[the12thnightproject]

Hi. I love your stories. From what I've read in current Mitsuhide's story, I was wandering if you are a native speaker of Portuguese or at least have a good knwolege of the language.

Hi Anon!

Thank you very much for the love. I very much appreciate it.

The short answer to your question is no - my native language is not Portuguese. I know almost no Portuguese. My native tongue is English.

The longer answer is that I have tried to learn the following languages: Hebrew, French, Spanish, Danish, and Norwegian. The operative word is tried. The technical term is failed. At best, I can somewhat read French, and at one point, I could manage to figure out newspaper articles in Danish with some context and a good dictionary.

Part of this might just be that I am a language dunce, and not capable of learning another language. Part of it might be more that in the United States, in public schools, students do not have the opportunity to take language classes until age 14 (an even then it is an elective and not required), and that's probably too late for most of us.

I wish I were better at language acquisition and greatly admire anyone who is fluent and able to communicate (speaking and writing) in multiple tongues.

As for the fic itself - though my main character Katsu has learned Portuguese, because the story is written in first person, I don't actually have of the dialogue written in Portuguese. Instead, I just note that such and such character (usually Francisco, but there will be a couple of others in later chapters), spoke in Portuguese, but because Katsu understands that language, she's already translated it in her mind, so whatever words the original speaker used, was already translated in Katsu's head.

Examples below the cut of how I work around it:

“Lord Mitsuhide – stop. That’s my partner. Francisco.” I pushed past him and called down to the lower level. “Francisco, up here. Don’t worry. I’m safe.” Then, because Francisco’s apt to forget his Japanese even in the calmest situation, I repeated myself in Portuguese.

Moments later, a puffing Francisco breached the top of the stairs and rushed into the room. His face was red and there were sweat stains visible on the shirt he wore under his jerkin. “Katsu. You are here. When I learned someone bought you, I thought, Akihira will murder me.” He paused and drew in a long panting breath. And then another. “I got lost and went to the wrong ship.”

Of course he did.

Note to self. Next time find a partner who can find their way from one end of the city to the other.

He was still speaking in Portuguese, so clearly his language skills (such as they were) had deserted him completely. I hurried to reassure him. “An acquaintance of Aki’s recognized me and purchased me. If you can repay him… and maybe give him a bit extra for his trouble, then we can be on our way.”

.....

In the next chapter, we get Mitsuhide's POV of the same conversation:

Shouts from below disrupted that thought. He couldn’t make out the words – it sounded like the Nanban tongue. Had her would-be purchaser found them so quickly and returned with more reinforcements? If so, it was a poorly thought-out ambush that would alert the victim to a pending attack.

He grabbed his sword and turned just as Akihira’s daughter yelled, “Lord Mitsuhide – stop. That’s my partner. Francisco.”

She rushed past him and called down to the lower level. “Francisco, up here. Don’t worry. I’m safe.” She then added something in Portuguese. Presumably to calm the man down but given that Mitsuhide did not speak the language he could not be certain of it. She could have given this ‘Francisco’ the opposite instructions in Portuguese and Mitsuhide would never know.

She understands Portuguese.

A useful skill.

Too useful to ignore.

He kept his hand on his sword, just in case as a short, stocky Westerner rushed into the room, his words tumbling over one another. Mitsuhide caught the words “Katsu” and “Akihira,” and none of the rest.

The daughter followed the gush of words without any problem and replied to the man in the same language. Not just familiar with the language. Fluent. Which turned her from an annoying impediment to a potential tool. Unfortunately, an aggravating tool.

-------------------

Granted, the fic would be much more realistic if I put the dialogue into the language it is being spoken in... but to do that I'd have to rely on google translate, and there's too much possibility of error that way.

This is more or less how it's handed when writing film and television scripts too. If the intention is that a character is speaking in another language, in the script that's signaled as "(speaking in Spanish)" but you write the dialogue in English. With spec scripts there is no guarantee that the whoever is reading your script (be it a producer or a contest judge) speaks that other language, so writing it in that language would cause them to miss potentially important information.

The intention is that if the script is ever filmed, they would either hire an actor fluent in that language and/or hire a translator, so those lines likely would be filmed in Spanish (or whatever language), and then subtitled.

Again, thank you for asking!

[moonyartsblog]

Today June as...

Series 6 Post 22: Goddess of love, eroticism, beauty, gold, seduction, fertility, seiðr, war, death and prophetic virtues. She belonging to the lineage of the Vani, after the peace that concluded the conflict between the two divine lineages, she was sent to the Ases as a hostage and she lived for some time with them.

🌸 Her name, Freyja in Old Norse (meaning Lady), is sometimes found written in other forms (Freia, Freya). Freyja, in Norse mythology, is sometimes identified with Frigg, goddess Asinia wife of Odin, with whom she shares the protection of fertility and fecundity and the role of protector of pregnant women.

🌸 Loki defines her as a nymphomaniac, always ready to satiate her desires with any type of partner, from the Jǫtunn to the Elves, and in fact her irrepressible desire is sung in the Mansǫngr, literally songs for men, amorous lyrics, officially forbidden, but widespread in alcoves.

🌸 She is the daughter of Njǫrðr and stepdaughter of Skaði, sister of Freyr and wife of Óðr, because of whom she suffers love pains, since he leaves her to undertake long journeys, forcing her to fruitless pursuits, during which she lets herself go crying of golden tears. Together with her husband, she gives birth to two splendid girls, with emblematic names: Gersemi and Hnoss, synonyms of "treasure".

🌸 Freyja loves songs of love and incites lovers to invoke her; she also adds that Freyja rides into battlefields and is entitled to half of the fallen she will lead into battle during Ragnarǫk, while the other half is from Óðinn. At the end of the war between the Vani and the Asi, she goes to live with her brother among the latter. She dwells in the Sessrumnir palace, meaning "of many chairs", located in Folkvang, "battlefield"; she gets out of it every day traveling in a gleaming wagon pulled by two cats (presumed to be of Norwegian Forest breed).

[thorraborinn]

Really interested in the yr rune but I’m having trouble finding information on it that isn’t “death rune” garbage. Could you point me in the right direction?

Sure, that is one of the more difficult ones to find good info on because the Icelanders who did a lot of compiling of poetic material didn't totally understand it. The /ʀ/ sound that it wrote in early Old Norse was long gone, and by the 1700's /y/ was gone too. If I remember correctly, Grunnavíkur-Jón Ólafsson wrote that it came "from Ireland" -- participating in a long tradition of attributing things that are difficult to explain to people the audience won't know anything about. Several hundred years earlier, Ólafr hvítaskáld, author of the Third Grammatical Treatise, said it came from Hebrew (and although he was talking out of his ass there is a possibility that he was slightly less off than you'd imagine).

The best source concerning rune meanings is Inmaculada Senra Silva's "The Significance of the Rune Poems" available here: https://idus.us.es/handle/11441/15113. It's believed that while it's graphic shape and use in writing came from the *algiʀ/elhaʀ rune ᛉ/ᛦ, that it's name and meaning come from the *ī(h)waʀ rune ᛇ. So if you're interested in the history of the rune before Nordic-specific developments, you will want to read about that one in the Old English Rune Poem.

The word ýr literally means 'yew (tree/wood)' but it's actually somewhat rarely used that way in Old Icelandic. Generally ýr means 'bow,' though there is surely some selection bias because so much of Norse poetry is about battle. The Old English and Norwegian rune poems refer to a tree, but in Iceland (where yews didn't grow) the poem and kennings refer to a bow.

Old English Rune Poem (Halsall 1981):

The yew is a tree with rough bark, hard and firm in the earth, a keeper of flame, well-supported by its roots, a pleasure to have on one's land.

Old Norwegian Rune Poem (my translation based on editions in Senra Silva):

ᛦ is the tree (which is) greenest in winter; it is expected that, that which burns, scorches.

Icelandic Rune Poem (my translation):

ᛦ is a bent bow and unbrittle iron and arrow-thrower.

In Sweden its name had changed by the early modern period when evidence for the Swedish Rune Poem was being compiled. Senra Silva (p. 252) has stupämaþr ('fallen/sloped/stooped man') and oRmahr; Rune Hjarnø Rasmussen (edited from Stiernhielm) gives Aur madur (and translates 'rich man', from öre, money/currency); presumably this is all reinterpreted based on the visual similarity to the maðr 'man' rune ᛘ.

Here's a selection of dylgjur collected by Jón Ólafsson, with my quick, rough, sloppy translation:

bendur bogi 'bent bow'

fífu fleytir 'arrow-flinger'

Fenju angur 'Fenja's (giantess's) grief'

bogi spenntur 'tensed bow'

tvíbentur bogi 'twice-bent bow'

uppdreginn álmur 'drawn-up elm'

skotmáls ör 'projectile-range's arrow'

píla á streng 'arrow on a string'

bardaga gagn 'battle-gear'

fífu fax 'arrow's mane (fletching?)'

handa raun 'hands' trial'

firða armbrysti 'men's crossbow'

stutt fjör 'short life'

ævibann 'life-ban'

fár fugla 'birds' misfortune'

See also: "Runes, Yews and Magic" by Ralph Elliott.

If you're more interested in how it was used in writing, that's complicated and I'm not sure of anything written that breaks it down, but that's something I'll hopefully be working on eventually. The overly-simplified version is that it was used to write the r-like /ʀ/ sound that comes at the end of many Old Norse words until that sound was lost; it was also used to write a few vowels and ultimately settled at /y/, in accordance with the principle that runes should have a name that indicates their phonological value in writing.

Here's a selection of appearances (including Elder Futhark algiʀ/elhaʀ):

By sheer numbers, short twig ᛧ is probably most common. The two-sided arrow shape ᛨ is distinctively Icelandic.

[twh-news]

Loki: Sophia Di Martino Talks About Songs, Sexuality, Scoring The Role Of Sylvie And More

Sophia Di Martino was launched into the pop cultural consciousness thanks to her role as Sylvie – AKA the Loki variant on Marvel Disney Plus series Loki, where she trades barbs and shares background stories with Tom Hiddleston's God of Mischief.

Episode Three of the series found Loki on a wild adventure with Sylvie, after he accidentally sent them both to the doomed moon Lamentis-1, on a collision course with a planet. Facing an apocalypse, the pair hatches a plan to find the escape vessel that some of the moon's wealthier residents are hoping will carry them to safety and, while on the train to the ship, they discuss everything from the nature of love to their respective magical abilities.

When the opportunity arose to talk to her, we naturally jumped at it, so here is part of Chris Hewitt's conversation with Di Martino, who was frank and funny while chatting about getting the job, Loki's sexuality and more.

The last two weeks in particular must have been a heck of a whirlwind for you. What's it been like being at the centre of the storm?

It's been a strange one. Because I feel like I've been waiting in the wings for quite a while. And I haven't been able to talk to anyone about this until today. So, it's been a really strange few weeks, just watching the show start and listening to people's reactions, but not being able to talk about it. I don't feel like I've been in the centre of the storm at all. I feel like I've been watching it play out.

Have you been able to say anything to anybody, family friends... Postmen?

Absolutely no-one! My mum has no idea where I've been for the past two years. It's been really difficult. But to be honest, I'm actually really good at keeping secrets. So, I've perhaps been too good and haven't told anyone, anything. My agent, no one knows anything! I’m taking it really seriously, maybe a bit too seriously!

You and director Kate Herron have worked together in the past. Is that how it began for you?

Kate and I worked together on a short film of hers a few years ago now. And we stayed in touch, we're mates, we'll go out for coffee and do a bit of improv. We exist in the same circles in London. I'm trying to remember how exactly it happened. I was shooting another film in the UK, and I think I got a message from Kate saying, “I'm on this show, I'm not allowed to talk about what it is... There's a role, we'd like to see what you do with it. I can't tell you anymore. Just wanted to give you the heads up...” A really vague WhatsApp message. So, then I got a request for a tape through my agent. But obviously, my agency also couldn't know anything about what was happening and what it was or anything. I was given a really short scene, made a tape of this scene and just had to guess what it was about. I think it was actually what ended up being the scene from Episode Three, which is Loki and Sylvie on the train. I think it ended up being that scene, but it was very different when I did the audition tape for it.

Did it have the word Loki in the script at any point?

No, no, no names! I think it was Bob and Sarah or something completely different. I didn't have a clue what it was.

"I was really interested in how angry she is and how sort of laser-focused she is on this mission that she's given herself."

At what point did the penny drop? At what point did you realise that you were auditioning to play a Loki on Loki, and then this incredibly complex character?

I can't remember what happened first. It might have been the news that Kate was directing the new Loki came out. And then I was like, “Oh, maybe that's what I read for...” Or if it was that I was just offered the job, and they told me what it was. But yeah, it was a surprise. And I had a chat with Tom on FaceTime because he was in New York. I never actually met anyone because I was nine months pregnant, I couldn't fly anywhere. So, I was in London, everyone else is in the US. So, it was just that tape, it was all based on that. And obviously, I've worked with Kate before, so she knows that I'm not some weirdo. And she must’ve convinced them to cast me!

Let’s talk a little bit about Sylvie as we now know her. What's clear to me is that you're not doing a Tom Hiddleston impression. This is not your take on a Tom Hiddleston Loki, this is a very, very different iteration of their character. So where did you start?

Well, probably exactly there, making that decision that I didn't want to go in and do an impression of Tom, because that would have been awful. I'm really bad at impressions for a start! Sylvie’s very different to Loki in a lot of ways. There's the chaos and there's the mischievous, which are very, very Loki traits. But for me, I was really interested in how angry she is and how sort of laser-focused she is on this mission that she's given herself. And I think that plus the playfulness really helped me get into the character. And, and so that was the way I started.

The stunt training and the fight training really helped me with her physicality, and we were all really keen on her being a really strong, sort of street fighter, almost. She's not as elegant as Loki. She's fit and rough around the edges, she's had a harder time, in a way, she's been on the run for the majority of her life, getting into scraps. And I like the idea that she really enjoys fighting. And she'd really get something out of it. Because she knows that she's probably going to win. Right? And that's where her cockiness comes through, maybe. And so that was part of it as well. And then as soon as you put the costume on, you're there.

What was that like? Because the costume says so much as well. There's the headpiece, which obviously has a missing horn, which says a lot about the scrapes, that she's gotten into in the past. And also says that this isn't the Loki we might be expecting.

We were really keen on making the costume look like it's been through the wringer a bit. And she's sort of gathered bits of it from places that she's been throughout her journey. We didn't want it to be too clean and shiny. And it was also important to me that it was a really comfortable costume and that I could actually fight in it, and I could kick in it and just do things that I needed to kick not have to worry about breaking it or being uncomfortable. And then Christine Wada, the costume designer, was amazing at just making it super comfy. But I still felt like a badass when I put it on.

The train scene that wonderful moment were you’re talking about your romantic pasts, and Loki confirms that he is bisexual, which has been received rapturously since the episode came out. And it's such a huge moment and I know it was important to Kate, as well. What can you say about that? First of all, about filming that moment? Did you get a sense of its momentousness when you were filming it?

I knew how important it was, yeah. And I'm just so pleased that it's been received so well. And people are super happy to have seem that scene. And like I said, the show is inspired by the comics, and the comics for a long time have alluded to Loki being bisexual or pansexual. And his sexuality is not straight. And even back to Norse mythology. So, it was important to Kate, and it was also important to me and Tom, that this was represented in a six-hour story about that character. Because representation is important.

And it's such a beautifully written scene as well. Can you just talk about your memories of filming those exchanges? Not just seeing Tom singing in what I presume is Norwegian, and what that was like for you? But also, just that exchange about love and how important it is for these two characters. Because we've only just met Sylvie, of course. And we haven’t seen Loki consider the idea of love or falling in love or being frail or vulnerable in that way before. So, it seemed like a fairly important exchange...

It’s a super important scene. And it was interesting to shoot it because it's the first time that you see Sylvie vulnerable. And it's just a really important moment for the two of them to understand each other in a different way, and not just be miffed by each other for the first time. And when we were filming it, it is quite a long scene. And it just felt really good to do a long, talky scene. It didn't feel long when we were doing it. But it was nice to get into those characters, and it sort of felt like doing a play, when you go a bit deeper and it’s great. It's just another way of understanding the character that you're playing. And listening to Tom singing was also an experience! Didn’t he do such a good job of learning all those words? I was just amazed that he could learn a song in a different language. And he did it so quickly! Like, one day he got the words and the next day he was fluent in Norwegian! That’s Hiddleston, isn’t it? He’s just so smart!

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Something Held | Feeding Habits Update #8

Hi all!

Not me not realizing it’s been 3 months since I posted a Feeding Habits update hahahahahaha. Today let’s chat chapter nine, SOMETHING HELD. This also marks the last chapter in Harrison’s POV so prepare to say goodbye to this icon!  TW: body horror, mental illness, trauma

Just a reminder: This is my original work and plagiarism of any form will not be tolerated.

Scene outline, excerpts & a little reflection on making difficult decisions that my not particularly benefit the book but benefit you as the writer under the cut because this update is GIGANTIC.

General taglist (please ask to be added or removed):

@if-one-of-us-falls, @qatarcookie, @chloeswords, @alicewestwater, @laughtracksonata, @shylawrites, @ev–writes, @jaydewritesfiction, @jennawritesstories @eowynandfaramir, @august-iswriting​, @aetherwrites​

Scene Breakdown

Scene A:

It has been two weeks since Lonan found Harrison at his shared apartment with Suzanna and things are getting strange. Lonan and Suz are getting closer, Harrison is getting more distant and slowly losing it. One morning, Harrison wakes hearing Lonan and Suz’s laughter, and crawls to the kitchen to investigate. When he reaches them, Suz is evening out Lonan’s hacked haircut and they’re both sobbing.

Scene B:

Shortly after this bizarre encounter, Suzanna steps out of the apartment for a breather because her son is sort of terrifying her! So Lonan and Harrison double-team to clean up Lonan’s hair shavings. Harrison begins eating the hair while Lonan stares and they have a conversation about the state of their friendship.

Scene Ba:

This scene is gross and confusing! More hair is ingested. My god.

Scene Bb:

After the above ordeal, both boys rinse off because they’ve been rolling?? around?? in??? hair?? but also?? things don’t stop being a little gross

Scene C:

An air of calm finally settles over the apartment. Lonan brews earl grey tea for him and Harrison to share and Harrison asks if he abandoned Lonan in the final chapter of Moth Work. Lonan doesn’t really answer this question so Harrison continues on his confused, but finally lucid (one-sided) conversation, admitting he understands he burdens his mother, who still has not returned. They circle back to the question of abandonment and Lonan answers Harrison the way he wants to be answered (yes), and this is a moment of freeing, where he feels some sort of responsibility in this irresponsible new life he’s led in NYC. They sort of agree to be friends again.

Scene D:

The boys head into the city to find Suzanna, heading to a bakery near the Hudson River. Lonan drives in his used car, a strange experience since Harrison has not seen him drive in years. Taking the opportunity, he searches through the car and finds a map in the glove compartment. The map is erratically scribbled over and it takes him to moment to realize this is Lonan’s map and the first indication that Lonan, who he has assumed is this stable, perfect person, is not as unscathed as he seems.

The boys pass the waterfront and Lonan nearly crashes the car into an oncoming truck. Harrison regains control of the vehicle tucking them into a side street. Shaken, Lonan apologizes for the mess he’s created both physically from his nosebleed and between Harrison and his mother, which gets Harrison a little antsy because he doesn’t like the suggestion that he’s going to leave. Lonan clarifies, stating he won’t if that’s what Harrison wants.

Scene E:

Later, everyone is back at home and Harrison wakes up to a Lonan-less bed. He gets up to investigate the strange dripping coming from the bathroom and opens the door to find Lonan precariously teetering over a sink filled with water. Harrison, concerned, moves him away and tries to ask why Lonan is presumably going underwater, but doesn’t push. They both stand on opposite sides of the bathroom until the sun rises.

My process:

Honestly, writing this chapter was a huge up and down. The first half of it came much easier to me, but the rest was a literal hellfire to get through. I think I was incredibly fatigued with writing in Harrison’s POV as I’d been writing it since June (I finished this chapter in either December or January). This book has been a pain in the ass to write despite me liking what it is, and I really think it being the only place I’ve physically “gone” since the pandemic makes it even harder to write. I felt claustrophobic in Harrison’s POV since I’ve been writing it for half a year, and in a lil ~breakdown~ my beautiful sister reminded me of something she’d previously told me, “it's not about what works, it's about what you want”.

Let’s chat about this for a sec! I think I was watching a Harmony Nice video on her “hard-to-swallow” self-care, and she basically outline (I’m paraphrasing here) that it’s critical we care for ourselves in ways that might not necessarily be easy to do. Honestly, leaving Harrison’s POV is one of those hard-to-swallow self-care things I literally had to do because my mental health was not happy with me! Y’all know my boys are very close to me, and I’m not picking favourites but Lonan is 2500 times easier for me to write with at the moment. I think Harrison’s situation and how he deals with it is much too similar to mine but in a way that is difficult to place (Lonan and I are unfortunately similar but in a way that is easier for me to understand about myself!). From the beginning of writing his POV I’ve been in Struggleville, but kept pushing through hoping the next chapter would be “the one”. Not to burst my own bubble but there is no such thing in the state of mind I was in! I was pushing myself to find something that doesn’t exist because my brain was really not equipped to do what I needed it to do. I really, really did not want to quit on Harrison’s POV, but I had to, not because I don’t like him (he’s my baby) but because I needed a moment to myself. I felt way too seen in ways I don’t really know how to address in myself, so writing him was horribly frustrating at all times (my fault, not his).

My characters really do live in my head rent-free lol. They live in there! They take up space! They take up energy! They take up concentration, and resources I need for myself! Empathy is so integral to my process, that I give a little part of myself in everything I write. This is a blessing because I really get to dig my heels into the mind of another person, but a curse because I’m not a machine (and sometimes I forget that). It is a lot of emotional energy and labour to give everything you have to fictional people. I don’t think an artist needs to be tortured to create good art (this is not it!) but I never truly practiced this well? In my attempt to be empathetic, I was torturing myself a little bit, not going to lie!

So to combat this, I decided I needed a change. Hence, this chapter is imperfect and probably needs some stuff added to it, and while I’ve only written little of Lonan’s second POV, I’m feeling a lot better! It’s nice to get “outside” in a different place lmao this is so sad (pandemic writing things).

Excerpts:

I wrote the beginning of this in a livestream I hosted on my YouTube channel! There’s also a shoutout here to my dragon tree Lisa <3 miss u boo

Two weeks go by. Lonan sleeps on the couch. Harrison wakes up at dawn—no earlier, no later. Suzanna buys a plant: a Madagascar dragon tree she names Lisa. June grows into the collar. Lonan plays sudoku in the newspaper. Harrison learns to bake focaccia, gluten-free, whole wheat. Suzanna learns to palm read, tells Lonan he’s experienced great betrayal (they stop the reading immediately; Lonan goes back to the newspapers). Harrison begins burning incense at sunrise—frankincense. The dragon tree nearly dies (Lonan saves it). It rains every weekday that contains the letter T. Lonan shifts stacks of soggy newspapers onto the breakfast table, answers crosswords with the help of Suzanna (four across, nine letters, Something held). Harrison burns a baguette. Suzanna buys a hanging basket of pothos. The power goes out for two days and the icebox floods the kitchen tile (Lonan mops it with old newspapers, the ink running like jellyfish). June barks for the first time. Harrison eats a bundle of dried bay leaves. Suzanna waters the plants with rainwater, icewater, wrung into a coffee tin. Harrison leaves the stove on while sautéing shallots (he eats them whole). Lonan wakes up feverish and fills out four newspaper crosswords, then falls asleep on the coffee table. Suzanna moulds panna cotta in coffee mugs and shares the batch with Lonan when they won’t tip out. Lonan teaches her how to propagate the pothos and soon they have twenty empty cans of cuttings poking from the windowsills. They rearrange the furniture, the couch facing the kitchen instead of the TV, the dining table right outside the bathroom, then put it all back the next day. They birdwatch from the tiny window with binoculars and a magnifying glass. They sort coupons. Whittle soaps. Watch Norwegian films without the subtitles. Discuss cliff diving. Make matching anklets (blue beads, elastic string, the plastic clacking how Harrison knows they’re coming). All of this they do as Harrison lies on his bed for two weeks, counting the corners of his ceiling and trying to determine a way to multiply them telepathically.

This is the very next paragraph!

At first he assumes they’re laughing. The sun nearly rising between other high rises, blotting his room with dawn. This is not a surprise. They are probably making pancakes out of buckwheat and discussing the hilarity of whole grains. They are probably laughing at store-bought cherry preserves. Too sour. Their cheeks puckered. But then the laughs get louder, and the sun rises higher and it’s not laughing at all, but gasping.

Here’s Harrison crawling!! is this straight out of the exorcist probably!

Harrison’s instinct is to crawl. As if his smallness against the ground will stop anyone from hearing him, even before he unlocks his door. On hands and knees he shuffles from his bed to his doorframe, edges the door open with his shoulder. On hands and knees he hikes through the hallway, the gasping getting louder, shuffling until he sees them. Lonan sitting on one of the kitchen stools, a grocery bag wound around his throat. Suzanna clacking scissors in two hands so their blades ping in the sun. Her fingers loped around his hair, knuckle-deep, the blades snipping, the gasps growing, them both sobbing, the hair falling, the sun stalking, their bodies rocking. Harrison takes it in from his crawl. Experiences it all on his knees.

So this excerpt seems really you know, normal:

They clean up the hair. Harrison with the dustpan, Lonan with the broom. Harrison still kneels. Lonan still cries. The only thing that has changed since crawling into the kitchen is that Suzanna is taking a walk around the apartment complex. She needs air. Room. If she cries long enough, a cigarette. So Lonan sweeps. Harrison collects. This repeats.

The kitchen smells of nutmeg. Freshly grated from a whole club over espresso, Harrison imagines. He smells this as he tracks Lonan with the dustpan, hovering its open belly for clippings of hair. And Lonan is so compliant, brushes cuttings of himself onto the plastic surface so Harrison can trash it. As Harrison looks on from his knees, Lonan diffuses in sunlight, the window illuminating only his edges. A body so familiar Harrison knows exactly where it flares with light or absorbs it. A body with skin like mulberry silk. A body he could recreate in charcoal with his eyes closed. His archangel translucent and luminescing.

Skip this excerpt if you don’t want to read about Harrison eating hair!! i’m sorry!

Harrison picks a bundle of fallen hair from the dustpan. It’s airy from being recently shampooed, smells faintly of pear, maybe even ginger. This hair, touched by a woman, or a few women, and cut by one, or a few, in different contexts. Eliza’s hands deveining the roots, and then Suzanna’s, trying to fix them. So Harrison eats it. That bundle like a toothpicked cube of cheese. He puts it in his mouth and swallows.

Lonan watches like he’s unconcerned. He watches this feral animal—Harrison must be something feral, starved of something and ravaged by that hunger. Chewing mouthfuls of hair like that will quell of him of what is missing, if there even is anything missing, something unidentifiable in this bland circuit of New York City, this time-loop of sonhood, this fresh start a dousing of flatness. As Harrison eats, he understands he consumes that something like it’s holy communion, reuniting with that something by absorbing it. And still, that hunger moves him, from finishing the dustpan of hair, and closer to Lonan.

“Do you think I’m a bad friend?” Harrison asks, wringing the corner of his lips clean from loose hairs. From this perspective, Harrison on his knees collecting hair, Lonan’s eyes look bluer. Maybe their saturation has nothing to do with the angle, but Harrison feels this is true; his eyes are so crystalline, they are temptingly edible. Like two plump blueberries. Or a matching set of clear glass marbles. Harrison swallows. He repeats, “Do you think I’m a bad friend?”

Lonan swallows, adjusts his grip on the broom. “We’d have to be friends for me to answer that.”

“Aren’t we?”

And here’s the rest of this scene!

“You’re my mother’s friend,” Harrison says. “She trusts you.” He crawls closer to Lonan. “You’ve got secrets. Rituals. Tell me her favourite finger-food and who she wants to marry.”

“I don’t know your mother that well.”

Harrison wraps a handle around Lonan’s ankle. A muscle there jumps like a dolphin breaching the water. He’s memorized this plane of skin, could rebuild it from single grains of sand while blindfolded. He furls his hands across its surface, unfurls.

“You garden with her,” Harrison says. “You share a plate for dessert.”

“She’s kind to me.”

“You cook her breakfast.” Harrison tugs on Lonan’s ankle, knowing it won’t raze him, knowing he’ll come down anyway. “You know the exact temperature she drinks her coffee down to the last digit.”

“I’m trying to be hospitable.”

“You’re trying to be a son.”

Lonan kneels. Crouching so they’re huddled over each other, so it’s nearly impossible to distinguish one body from the other, which one sinks, which one rises.

“My mother’s only got one son to live with,” Harrison says, his voice thin from a clogged throat. He reaches for Lonan’s scalp, scrapes a line down the centre, now an even plane of cropped hair. “And it isn’t me.”

“You’re unstable,” Lonan says, burrowing his face either into a cabinet or Harrison’s shoulder—neither can tell. “You won’t let yourself have friends.”

Farther, toward the tile they go, a pile of hair scattering. “My mother wants me to forgive you by replacing me with you.”

“She’s grieving,” Lonan says.

Harrison loses his hands. He doesn’t know where they disappear to, if he touches skin or tile. “I haven’t died,” he says. Skin or tile. Skin or tile.

Here’s an excerpt from scene C ft. this memoir bit from the time I was shocked that this university I visited had real FANCY teabags:

Lonan brews tea. Earl grey, from a tin. Harrison doesn’t know why he expects it to come from a bag. An individual paper sachet, or if he’s lucky, one of those fancy ones woven from nylon. But it’s from a tin. Two teaspoons into the bottom of a single mug they pass back and forth, wordless at the kitchen table. Strung in the bathroom, Harrison’s t-shirt hang-dries, nearly figure-like, an unfilled phantom. He tugs a throw around his shoulders and stares at his hands. Each crest of cuticle. Each bulb of knuckle. Each maze of fingerprints.

He is material. This is fact. Not just outlines. He’s got skin that goes pinkish when pinched, a pulse that juts from his wrist, two eyes that burn at the scent of lavender, ten fingers. But as he holds his hands up, studying them in the faint moonlight, it is difficult to believe his tangibility. In the city, he has lived as a haze. Fogging over grocery stores, eateries, nondescript. Fresh start has always implied an air of zest, a zing that should have fueled him to plant roots in this restart. But Harrison is rotten, aphid infected, overwatered, underwatered, then not watered at all. He flexes his fingers. He pops the joints. He tries to press his pinkie to the back of his hand. But none of this brings him back to himself. His hands continue feeling like someone else’s. His body invisibly marred in some way he can’t reverse, disconnected in retaliation.

Harrison reflecting on his relationship with his mother:

Suzanna has never left him alone this long, and to her detriment. He imagines her now, living the life she always should’ve lived, the life she lived before he crosscut his way to her most important thing. She’s probably at a salon, having her hair twirled with a round brush, making dinner reservations at some place always too expensive for two (extra points if it has a French name, more if she has to wait a half hour before getting a table). When she talks to her stylist, she doesn’t mention a son, but plans to travel up the west coast, all the way into Canada if she’s feeling adventurous. She’ll buy crime novels she’ll never read at duty-free, reapply a lipstick that cost her a paycheck in the reflection of a hand-dryer. After the salon, she’ll meet a woman at a wine bar, converse about children, and still not mention a son. Suzanna’s singleness will be a celebration.

The boys finally trucing it out <3

When Harrison finally opens his eyes, Lonan is staring at him. His eyes two reels of the Pacific. They cycle in blue. So much of him has changed, and yet he is still the same. Beyond the haircut, Lonan isn’t that much different. He can’t be much different. But as Harrison searches, splaying his palm on the wet table, he knows this is untrue. Lonan is hollower than he was last summer. A little more haunted. They have this in common, then.

“Can we be friends?” Harrison asks. With his pinkie, he finds himself writing against the damp table just as he did Lonan’s scalp not too long ago. Lonan’s gaze follows each loop of each letter, Harrison’s steady left hand.

Lonan is consumed studying what Harrison has written, where each letter connects in near-cursive scrawl. After a moment, he nods, once, twice, and then reverts to staring at the table’s new inscription. On its surface are two words: something held.

The boys in the car like old times <3

Lonan drives. This is strange because Harrison has not seen Lonan drive a car in over a year. Usually, Harrison takes the wheel, but tonight he guides them through the city, in search of Suzanna. His car is clean. This isn’t unexpected. A cherry-coloured hatchback that rattles whenever he makes a left turn. It smells vaguely of cotton air-freshener and the undercurrent of cigarettes.

“You still smoke?” Harrison pokes at the plastic nob for the radio, and it crackles to life. Synth and electric guitar pulse in 4/4 time.

“I bought it used.”

They’ve agreed to get to know one another while they search for Suzanna. Another restart, some attempt at an honest hour. As Lonan changes lanes, Harrison pokes open the car’s glove compartment. A tin of nicotine gum falls on the mat. A hot pink feather pokes from underneath the driver’s manual. Harrison hauls out both, runs the feather along the gum tin, then the back of his hand, and then Lonan’s cheek. When that rouses nothing, he unlocks the tin and removes a slit of gum. Right as he’s about to pop it in his mouth, Lonan says, “I wouldn’t eat that.”

“Why?” Harrison asks. “Did you lace it?”

“Like I said, I bought the car used.”

Harrison puts the gum back, and then the feather. He sticks his hand farther into the glove compartment, feels around until he drags out a map of the state, bilgy and half torn. He unfolds it, careful to avoid the rips, and flattens it against the dashboard. Almost immediately, it wilts against the cold, faded from time in the sun. It’s been marked up. Half with pencil, half with a red ballpoint pen. After a few minutes, Harrison understands the previous owner’s route. Or at least he does at first. Following the red pen arrows, they started at Long Island, then reached Manhattan. Then a much longer arrow takes him from Manhattan to Geneva, and then Buffalo. And then the red pen circles, once, twice, three times, four times, and what is in the centre doesn’t even have a city name. What it does say is HELP, in all-caps, each letter then melting into an illegible scrawl. Harrison sees bits of words: Luke, woe, hands, clay, guard, stray, each wobbly and disappearing into the other, becoming cities of their own, destroying others. He tries to understand the route, but the farther he pours over the map, recircling each line with his finger, the more lost he gets in the ink.

“Is this your map?” Harrison asks. There is no proof that it is. Even the handwriting is all wrong. Ragged. Confused. Desperate. Not like Lonan’s careful, hesitant print.

“Like I said, I bought the car used.”

“But is it your map?” Harrison asks again. Gently, he creases the paper and then slots it back into the glove compartment. Outside, they pass three convenience stores in a row, a flock of couples emerging from a bowling alley, tipsy and cradling leftover deep dish pizzas and mozzarella sticks. They pass two more convenience stores before Lonan finally answers.

“I was confused,” he says.

“This is more than confused,” Harrison says. “It’s disturbed.”

“I’m not disturbed.”

“But something is wrong with you.”

Lonan slows at a crosswalk. A group of teenaged girls whisk by in glitter and lip gloss.

“Yes,” he says.

This is Harrison trying to stop Lonan’s nosebleed after their bizarre swerve which I think is kind of <3 tendy <3

Harrison reaches for him. One hand on the back of his neck, and the other reared toward the red stream. His touch is tactful, so faint his fingerprints wouldn’t even be left behind, but still, the dabbing with his jacket’s hem is enough to redirect the blood’s flow from Lonan’s upper lip to the cuff of leather. The radio is still on, garbled like an unmassing of crepe paper lanterns.

This is the final excerpt for this update that takes us to the very end of the chapter! Harrison has just found Lonan supposedly head-first in the sink and though he asks at first why he is doing that, takes an alternate approach as the chapter closes:

Harrison gets up, his knees popping like gnawed bubble gum. He decides he will handle Lonan at a distance, if he chooses to handle him at all. Like a timid pet owner trying to tame their suddenly-rabid yorkie. Like a friend not trying to tip the full glass. To let its contents film at its surface, but never spill.

Somewhere in the apartment, Suzanna probably listens to them. If Harrison didn’t know her better, he’d imagine her pressed neatly against the door, waiting to hear the shuffle of their bodies or the tang of an argument. Instead, he imagines her at the kitchen table, gripping a glass of water for so long, half of it evaporates.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Harrison says, stepping back until his spine hits the counter’s lip. He curls his fingers under the granite. Looks toward the window, now a faint periwinkle. Lonan heaves. His fingers caging his face, an animal restrained. They stand there until the sun rises.

So that’s it for this gigantic update! I have like four short stories to update you on so I hope to be back soon!

—Rachel

[tamorasky]

Rise to Me Chapter 7 - January 1947

Summary: 1947. It had been nearly four years since she had received a letter from her sister. Now with the end of the war and her impending wedding, Anna Rendelle is more determined than ever to find her sister.

1943. All her life Elsa Rendelle had been told to be good, know her place and to marry well. When an opportunity arises to make something of herself, finding herself in Occupied France as a part of a larger network of secret agents.

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Anna/Kristoff, Elsa/Honeymaren, Anna/Hans (Briefly)

AO3

It feels odd not wearing her engagement ring underneath her black suede gloves, nor carrying her purse, but Anna remained firm to leave all her valuables at home, save for a few coins in her coat pocket.

Her gaze remains forward, firm not to make eye contact with any of the beggars on the street or the men calling out to her. She had lied to Gerda this morning when she left the house, knowing the Norwegian woman would have a fit if she learned Anna was going to Spitalfields this afternoon.

She hadn’t even brought a piece of paper with the address written down, ensuring her pockets are bare if she is to be accosted. Walking through the crowded street, Anna repeats the address in her head over and over again, ensuring she will not forget it. Her memory has never been reliable.

Even as she walks down the street, Anna feels as if she should know this area as she walks along Thrawl Street. Much to her annoyance, the sidewalk ceases at the bend, causing the young woman to walk along the road surrounded by brick structures.

Anna shoves her hands into her green coat pockets, her fingers brushing against the satin inside as she approaches Flower and Dean Walk. She’s slightly uncomfortable by the idea of walking down the quiet street as if anything could jump out at her at any moment. But continues down the road, nonetheless.

She glances behind her periodically to remain aware of her surroundings as she searches for house number 37. It is the last of the rowhouses on the block before the street turns into a courtyard surrounded by other brick houses. These Victorian neighbourhoods always unnerved Anna.

Anna lifts the brass knocker as she approaches the door, which slips from her hand, causing the brass to hit against the door louder than she intended. She steps back from the house with wide eyes, worried about how the disturbance will be perceived, especially for a man who lived in such a place.

Jumping at the sound of the door opening, Anna tucks her hands behind her back as her heart pounds in her ears. A man emerges from the house, ducking slightly as he walks through the short doorframe.

He wears a plain cotton t-shirt and brass-coloured trousers with a green coat in his grasp. His blonde hair is ragged and unkempt as his beard is. The man raises a brow at her, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Can I help you?” He asks, his foreign accent resounding through Anna’s bones as she stares at the man standing at least three inches taller than herself. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out, trying desperately to say something as the man is growingly frustrated with her.

“Bjorgman,” She manages to say, closing her eyes at how dim she must sound to him. “That…is…I mean. Shit.”

The American man can’t help but chuckle at this awkward British woman standing on his doorstep, shaking his head. “You wanna try that again?”

“Yes, I’m looking for a Kristopher Bjorgman.” Anna sighs, thankful she is finally making sense. Convinced it is this neighbourhood that is having an effect on her.

“Um…” The man glances behind himself momentarily, then back to the woman, glancing at her up and down. “He isn’t home.”

“Oh, well…might you have any idea of when he’ll be back? You see, it’s about this letter I have, well, a letter that was actually sent to my fiancé from Washington. He’s American, you see and has been helping me with some things…an-”

“He probably won’t be back for some time.” The man cuts her off, shutting the door behind him as he places on a coat which resembles Hans’ military one; the same olive-green colour but shorter in style with the buttons covered by a front panel with an insignia of an eagle sewn on the shoulder.

“Oh, I see. Well, might I leave my information? You see, I don’t often get into this part of town, and my landlady will have the skin off my back if she ever found out I came here.” Anna explains, trying desperately not to be awkward as Hans always teased her about being.

The man runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Yeah, just leave your name and phone number where he can reach you at.” He reaches into his pocket, presumably for a piece of paper and a pen.

“Perfect! So my name is Anna Rendelle, and I can be reached at…” She trails off, noticing the man isn’t writing any this down but pulls out a cigarette and lighter instead. He lights the cigarette, taking a drag of it as he stares down at the woman.

“Alright, Anna Rendelle. I’ll tell him you came by.” The blonde nods, taking a step forward towards the street. Abruptly the wooden door swings open once again, revealing a short elderly lady with a red shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“Mr. Bjorgman,” She calls, stopping the blonde man in his tracks. Slowly, he turns to face the older woman with a grimace. “May I inquire when you might pay your rent for last month…and this month.”

“I’ll umm…yes. I will have that to you soon, Mrs. Anderson.” The man, apparently the vary man Anna had been searching for, responds.

“You better. The food for that mutt of yours isn’t cheap.” The white-haired woman places her hands on her wide hips.

“Yes, ma’am. I will have this and last month’s rent soon.” He bows his head, avoiding eye contact with the young woman standing before him.

“When Kristoff?” The older woman snaps as the young man turns from her.

He holds up his hand with his index finger extended. “Soon, Mrs. Anderson.”

“It better be!” The older woman shouts at the young man, who was walking away, before she glances back to Anna sternly. “Who are you then?” Anna opens her mouth to speak but doesn’t, instead her gaze going back to the man making his way down Flower and Dean Walk.

“Hey!” She yells after him, racing to catch up with the tall man. As she comes to stand next to him, her pace remains increased to match his stride. “Mr. Bjorgman, my name is Anna Rendelle, and I was hoping to speak to you about a matter regarding my sister.”

“I don’t know anyone by the name Rendelle.” He curtly responds, turning left onto Thrawl Street.

“No, I’m sure you don’t. But I believe we may have a common interest in this particular instance.”

“What? Is your sister a part of a country club that needs someone to work the grounds? Because I can assure you, I’m not interested.” He responds, raising a brow at the young woman as they turn right onto Commercial Street.

“W-wait what? No, I m-mean my sister has gone missing.” Anna explains as they cross the street.

He stops in front of a corner building, huffing as he throws away his cigarette. “I’m sorry to hear that, but I can’t help you.” Without another word, he disappears into the building, stepping through the glass and wood door.

Anna follows him, only to stop in front of the door for a moment, collecting her thoughts before pushing into the building. The Ten Bells pub had seen better days, the establishment’s wooden interior worn, and the stairs to the second floor blocked off by several chairs.

Mr. Bjorgman sits at the wooden bar on a tall barstool. She marches towards him, her brows knitted together, and her mouth pressed into a thin line as she climbs on the barstool next to him.

“Listen, I need you to take me across the channel.” She states. Trying to remain firm in her resolve while squaring her shoulders, attempting to look strong and confident.

Kristoff sighs, finally glancing at the young woman. He hadn’t expected her to follow him into the pub. “And why would I do that?”

“I heard from Frederick Westergaard about you. That you’re also looking for someone.” Anna explains, wishing she had brought her purse to show him the letters.

He visibly stiffens at that, eagerly reaching the beer the bartender places in front of him and takes a sip. A vein visible shows on his forehead as he places down his pint. “I think you have the wrong man.”

“My sister went missing during the war, I-I don’t know when. I think sometime in 1943, I’ve been looking for her since then. Last I heard is she was enlisted with something called the Special Operatives Executive.” Her fingers brush against the rough wood of the bar. He finally looks at her, turning slightly to face her as he pulls out another cigarette. “I need to find her before I leave for the United States with my fiancé.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He responds, his honey-brown eyes boring into her blue ones. “But I can’t help you.”

Anna stares at him, carefully examining his features, noticing the way his eyes crease as he apologizes. She recognizes that look all too well. “Who did you lose?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He takes another sip of his beer. “Listen, even if you can get across the channel, it doesn’t change the fact that she could be anywhere in Belgium, Germany or France.”

“The ferries have been operating across the channel again. There won’t be an issue with that.” Anna shrugs, shaking her head as the gray-haired bartender offers her a drink.

“And your fiancé? How does he feel about you going off on this wild goose chase?” Kristoff raises a brow questioningly as he takes a drag from his smoke, exhaling away from her.

“Hans is…supportive.” She drags out her words, not having told Hans about her plans to travel to the continent. “He’s been helping me with finding her.”

“So why doesn’t he take you to the continent?”

“H-he’s busy with work, you know and trying to make travel arrangements back to the States. I couldn’t possibly bother him with this stuff.” She excuses, increasingly becoming frustrated with the stranger.

“Sounds like a real knight in shining armour.” He rolls his eyes, finishing his beer and ashing his cigarette.

“You know what?” Anna slips from the stool, her heels hitting against the floor as she narrows her eyes at the stranger. “I don’t need this. I can find my sister by myself; I have been doing it for four years now, and I don’t need your help.”

Kristoff shrugs, his brows lifting slightly as he takes a sip of the freshly poured pint in front of him. “Fine.”

“Fine!” Anna retorts, uncaring if she sounded like an insolent child as her mouth purses, “You may be satisfied sitting here like a sad drunk all day wondering what happened to your person, but I’m not. Good day sir.”

“No. Wait. Stop.” Kristoff calls sarcastically, his eyes focused forward on the mirror behind the bar. For a moment, Anna does stop to turn and look at him but observes he is unbothered by her words or her leaving.

She rolls her eyes in frustration while spinning on her heel, stomping towards the door before pushing through onto the street. The young woman walks quickly to the closest bus stop, not wanting to remain in this awful neighbourhood any longer.

Anna wishes she had refused to take Kathryn’s shift the next evening, her mood still soured by her interaction with him from the other day. She had never understood the stereotype of the “rude American” until meeting Mr. Bjorgman. Certain she would tell Hans about all of it when they meet for dinner tomorrow night.

Throughout her entire shift, Anna is fuming, trying desperately not to be short with customers or Mrs. Steiner when her supervisor scolds her for the run in her stockings. The very run Anna had fixed a week ago in the same pair of stockings. It was inevitable, she would have to buy a new pair.

Groaning in frustration as she glances at the gold clock on the wall, noting that she only had 40 minutes left of her shift. She decided at that moment that she needs a drink after work, tired of everything the last couple of days had thrown at her. As she stands in the department store, Anna decides not to think about it, in fear of bursting into tears on the sales floor.

Instead, she smiles at customers and discusses her wedding with her swooning co-workers in her spare time. After 4 years, she had perfected, pretending everything is fine in her life. As Anna smiles and jokes with Mary, a familiar voice resounds through the salesfloor, instantly souring her mood once again.

She huffs in frustration, blowing her bangs out of her eyes before turning towards the department store entrance. The blond man stands at the front makeup counter, wearing the same clothes from that afternoon and still looking ragged. It surprises her that the security guard isn’t following him through the store as he meanders, looking a little lost through it all.

He slinks through the salesfloor. His gaze searches every makeup counter until they finally fall onto her. As he awkwardly makes his way past customers, Anna watches as he apologizes to the various women he accidentally brushes against.

Kristoff stands at the makeup counter Anna is occupying, drumming his fingers against the glass case as he carefully thinks over what to say.

“Can I help you?” Anna snaps quietly, feeling bad for a moment as she sounds harsher than intended.

“Yeah, I uh…” He scratches the back of his head awkwardly, not making eye contact with the young woman. “I came to apologize.”

“Did you?” Anna inquires, cocking a brow as she crosses her arms. She cannot bring herself to believe him quite yet, as he had yet to make eye contact with her.

“Yes!” He barks, frustrated by this woman’s pride. Kristoff takes a deep breath to calm himself. “It was brought to my attention that I was a real asshole yesterday.”

“Really?” Anna responds flatly. “And what gave you such an idea?”

“I-It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to come here to apologize…and to talk.” His gaze drifts to the glass case, focusing on his hands.

Anna’s gaze drifts away from Kristoff for a moment, noticing Mrs. Steiner staring at the two of them with interest. “Meet me at The Clarence pub in about 30 minutes.”

“What?” Kristoff questions, his brows furrowed in response.

“Have a drink while you wait.” Her eyes dart back to Mrs. Steiner to see the older woman inching close. Anna plasters on her best fake smile at the young man as she uncrosses her arms. “Yes, sir, as I mentioned before, you’ll find cookware on the third floor.”

Kristoff stares at the young woman as if she had lost her mind at that moment, trying to understand what the hell she is talking about. Her eyes rapidly shift from him toward her supervisor, causing him to glance over his shoulder to understand what is happening.

“Ah, yes. Well, thank you for all your help.” Kristoff responds somewhat stiffly before turning away from Anna, shoving his hands back into his coat pockets as he walks toward the door. Anna huffs that he doesn’t move towards the elevators to keep up their charade.

Panic instills in her as Mrs. Steiner stands in front of her, glaring at the girl coldly. “What did that customer want?”

“I’m not sure,” Anna shrugs, noting the look of disdain on her supervisor’s features. “He came in asking for a lipstick that would make his girlfriend look like Gene Tierney. I started showing him some samples, and then he asked about cookware. Then he just left.”

“Hmm…how odd.” Mrs. Steiner comments, her gaze not leaving Anna for an instant.

“It really was.” Anna nods, her fingers playing with the cuffs of her forest green collared dress. She learned not to play with the pussy bow on this dress around her supervisor, who would snap at her for fidgeting.

Without a response, Mrs. Steiner glances down, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “Clean your counter in the last 20 minutes of your shift.”

Anna stares at her supervisor in confusion as the older woman strides away from her. She had cleaned the glass earlier this morning. The young woman looks down to the glass, only to find finger smudges from where Kristoff had stood.

She huffs in frustration. He really isn’t making this easy on her.

Anna could hardly wait to leave work once her shift had finished. Rushing towards the lady’s breakroom to grab her coat and purse. She huffs upon leaving the department store to find it is raining, she had forgotten her umbrella at home. Quickly, Anna races down the street towards The Clarence, not caring if her braids were unravelling.

As she reaches the pub, Anna pauses outside the building in the rain, catching a glimpse of herself in the door’s glass. Her eye makeup is slightly smudged from the rain, and her lipstick clinging to the creases in her lips. Her auburn hair now in loose brains and whisps of her hair sticking to her cheeks.

Pushing open the door, Anna steps into the building in her wet clothes, shivering as warmth begins to overtake her body. She glances around the bar, spotting Kristoff in the same spot she had sat with Olaf only a week ago. Her gaze focused on the man; Anna moves through the crowd.

He already has a dark beer in front of him, nursing it while he waits. Anna occupies the seat across from him without a word, shrugging her wet green coat from her shoulders as he watches her.

Her dress’s cuffs are wet, causing the young woman to unclasp the cuffs and roll them up to her elbows. She wonders what this man in front of her must think of her looking a mess. A server quickly rushes to their side.

“Can I get you anything?” The young woman asks, not bothering to take out the pad of paper in her apron pocket.

“Could I get a pint of Newcastle?” Anna asks, feeling awkward as she orders. She never ordered beer anymore since she started to see Hans. It felt unladylike for her to do so.

The server nods with a polite smile before turning to Kristoff. “How are you still doing?”

“I’m good, thanks.” Kristoff offers a polite smile back, his face falling as the server walks away from their table. It falls silent between them once again. Before Kristoff mutters, just barely above a whisper. “You’re right.”

Anna stares at the young man, initially shocked. A smile crosses her features as she flutters her eyelashes innocently, cupping her hand against her ear. “I’m sorry. What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the crowd.”

Kristoff rolls his eyes, glancing around the pub with only two other men in the room. “You were right!”

Anna sits back in her chair, cockily, crossing her arms over her chest as her smirk grows. “Well, I’m glad to see you can be reasonable, at least some of the time. Maybe I should’ve found you at the dingy pub yesterday.”

“The bar isn’t dingy it’s just…historical.” He shrugs. The server places the pint in front of Anna before moving onto the other table without another word.

“I felt like I was going to be murdered in it,” Anna states, using both hands to pick up the heavy pint glass to take a sip from it. A small smile ghosts over his features at her comment, which makes Anna pause for a moment. If he were to trim his beard and hair, actually take care of himself, she could understand why one might find the man in front of her to be quite handsome.

“You would have been fine.” He responds, taking a sip of his beer.

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re a giant yank!” Anna exclaims. “Any person in that neighbourhood wouldn’t dare to pick a fight with you.” “I really think you’re over-exaggerating.” Kristoff pulls a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it before inhaling. He reaches over the table with the pack of smokes, offering her one.

“No thank you, I don’t smoke.” Anna refuses, her finger twitching at the urge. Smoking was a habit of hers, which is in the past now; she hadn’t smoked since she worked in the factory during the war.

Kristoff nods, exhaling the smoke away from Anna. Silence falls between the pair once again. The sound of glasses clinking against one another echoes throughout the pub as the bartender puts them away. She suppresses the urge to bite her nails with a sigh, drumming her fingers against the table.

The man sighs, taking another sip of his beer. The pint glass thuds against the table as he places it down, his eyes meeting hers once again.

“Why did you ask me here? I assume it has to do with my attempt to reach out to you the other day” Anna inquires, unable to take the silence any longer.

“It is…” Kristoff sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been searching for…someone since the war ended, and I haven’t gotten anywhere.” His eyes drop to the table, staring at the wooden surface dolefully.

Anna stares at the man across from her. A very different man from the one earlier this evening and the other day. She wonders if perhaps that man who poked fun at her and drinks away his days in the pub is somehow a person who tries to forget. Someone, just like herself.

“I know how you must be feeling.” She nods, her fingers brushing away the condensation away from the pint glass. “I-I’ve been searching for her four years now. Every time it felt like I gained an inch, I went back one foot.”

Kristoff slowly glances up at her. “I gave up. My letter to the Pentagon last year was my last attempt, but then everything was classified.”

“Yet you stayed in England?” Anna inquires without thinking. He goes quiet, avoiding eye-contact with the young woman. She feels a twinge of guilt from unable to control her impulses. It was something her father and mother always scolded her for, recalling her mother nearly shouting at her after an incident.

You need to learn to think before you act, Anna Margaret Rendelle.

Even as an adult, those words rang true. As she opens her mouth to apologize, but Kristoff simply nods in response as he takes another drag of his cigarette. “Yeah…I did. Just in case I heard anything about her.”

“Who was she?” Anna can’t help but ask, placing her elbows on the table and cradling her chin in her hands. She wonders if he is searching for his lover, Anna always had loved romance. It was something Elsa used to tease her about a lot, back when they were close.

Kristoff finishes his beer, placing the glass loudly on the table and exhales loudly. “It doesn’t matter.” His entire demeanour changes with that, as if pulling himself away from how he feels about this. “What documents do you have to help your search?”

“Oh! Umm…” Anna trails off, unprepared for that question as she grabs her purse. Pulling out the envelope from her bag and sliding it across the table. Kristoff opens the folder, glancing over the documents. “I was given a copy of my sister’s enlistment forms. It says she parachuted into France near Arras.”

“Alright, here is what I suggest. We’ll drive to Folkstone an-”

“I don’t have a car.” Anna blurts.

“Just listen, I do.” Kristoff calmly explains, closing the folder with the documents. “From there, we’ll take the ferry across the channel to Le Havre.”

She stares at him, a small smile crossing her features. He had come to the pub with a plan. No one had ever gotten this far with planning her search. “And where would you propose we go to next?”

“From Le Havre, we’ll drive to Arras…and I guess…just hope someone knows something.” Kristoff sits back in his chair, sliding the documents back to Anna as he crosses his arms over his broad chest.

Anna glances down at Kristoff’s empty glass and her nearly empty one. She stands from the table with her hands on her surface. “What are you drinking? I’ll buy us the next round.”

“Guinness draught,” Kristoff responds, smiling up at the young woman. Anna nods, tapping the table twice with her right hand before meandering towards the bar. It is going to be a long night.  

Author’s Note: I apologize for any bad edited, I'm so tired but so excited about this chapter!!

Also, Kristoff will get less confrontational over time!

I kinda went down a rabbit hole with the geography for this, but basically like Dean and Flower Walk, and Thrawl were like the worst crime streets in London during the victorian era. And Ten Bells is an actual historical pub in the neighbourhood.

[noshitshakespeare]

I'm wondering if the literary James I may have been one of overthink a problem, and to rely on compromise in order to avoid war even though he believed in divine right of Kings. And, much energy was being lost in internal strife. Moreover, his Queen was from the Danish / Norwegian 'tribe'. I can see the themes in Hamlet being very 'stimulating' for them. I was wondering if you have thought about what Shakespeare AVOIDS writing given the what may have passed for Political Correctness in 1609?

Why 1609? Almost all current critical consensus points to Hamlet having been written around 1600-1601, and the Stationer’s Register records ‘A books called the Revenge of Hamlett Prince of Denmarke as yt was latelie Acted by the Lord Chamberleyne his servantes’ on the 26th of July 1602, with the first Quarto published a year later... So even at latest it’s hard to believe it was written during James’ reign. Of course, Shakespeare may have predicted the succession of James, but that remained very much in doubt until the very end of Elizabeth’s life, so it’s a little bit of a stretch to assume that the play is fundamentally referring the James’ political ideas and beliefs. There’s too much speculation here for my liking. 

I see your point about James’ interests and Anne of Denmark, but topicality is a difficult subject in Shakespeare Studies, because he’s rarely very obvious about it. And if the play is based on ur-Hamlet, or on whatever other stories Shakespeare may have consulted, the location of Denmark is one present in the sources, not an active topical choice (see this post). Yes, one might select a story based on the topicality of its location, but given that the story is already in circulation in Elizabeth’s reign and before Shakespeare takes it on, there are too many possible reasons he could have chosen this story.  

What does Shakespeare avoid writing? Well, he avoids or doesn’t write about a lot of things.  Some of those things maybe he just wasn’t interested in writing about, others, perhaps he felt he couldn’t, but there’s no knowing what interested him and what didn’t. Again, there’s little point in speculation. As a scholar I can only really comment on what he did write. Still, ‘Political Correctness’ in the seventeenth century could be an issue of life or death (or imprisonment and a hefty fine), so the stakes are high. I try not to ascribe too much of a personal biographical reading to the sonnets, but he does write in sonnet 66 that art is ‘tongue-tied by authority’, so presumably he knew what it meant for there to be things you couldn’t write about. And he’s good at it, because unlike many of his contemporaries, he never seems to have been involved in very serious treason or libel cases. 

The question is far too broad to answer in any level of detail, but I think one way Shakespeare avoids writing about things that might get him in trouble is by not going into too much topical detail (and setting his plays abroad). He does have some topical references through which people date the plays, but not as much as a lot of his contemporaries. And in some of his plays Shakespeare does get into a little trouble, so he has to do things like rename Oldcastle Falstaff in the Henry IV plays. There’s a flattering imagined description of Essex returning from Ireland in Henry V, but it’s not present in the Quarto version, maybe because Essex was disgraced by the time that was published. Polonius is often considered to be based on William Cecil, Lord Burghley, Elizabeth’s advisor... But here we start to see more how Shakespeare works, because it’s not a direct parallel, nor quite a parody. It’s more that some parts of Polonius draw on things Lord Burghley did. The same goes for Falstaff, in fact, because, whatever the name Shakespeare chose, the original Sir John Oldcastle is nothing more than a point of departure for the character Shakespeare created. Once the name is changed, it’s hard to say Falstaff is a direct parody at all. These characters are seldom 100% nasty or good, and even in instances where people say Shakespeare is flattering a particular figure it’s always ambiguous. So Banquo is presented as the ancestor of James, but while not a co-conspirator of Macbeth’s, he’s not exactly Duncan’s protector either. the Duke in Measure for Measure is widely recognised as sharing many of James’ characteristics, but the resemblance isn’t complete, and there’s no consensus on whether it’s the portrait of a wise ruler or a sinister spying tyrant who controls his people through dubious means. Shakespeare avoids making direct comments by creating ambiguous characters who are not simplistic parallels of existing people. In most cases, if a censor asks ‘is this meant to be so-and-so?’ you could easily say, ‘No, not at all, this is how different my character is’. 

It always seems to me that the way Shakespeare approaches certain themes is much like how he draws on particular characters. He may write a play that could appeal to a king interested in witchcraft, but Macbeth’s witch-like figures are the weird sisters, and never explicitly referred to as witches. The queen was getting old, and the succession crisis was a serious political concern in England when he wrote Hamlet, but Shakespeare explores the question through an old story, and never completely specific to the circumstances of the time. It contains a queen whose marriage and sexual fidelity raise questions about heirs and succession, but Gertrude isn’t Elizabeth. It contains spying as a means of control, but it’s never entirely successful, and Polonius isn’t the prudent Lord Burghley. It shows a foreigner coming in at the end to take over a country left without a successor... A potential outcome of the queen’s childless reign, but brought about by the stock mass death of a revenge tragedy, not because of childlessness. All the circumstances depicted are only laterally related to the issues in England at the time and could easily be dismissed as a chance resemblance, rather than a direct comment, just as Hamlet’s complaint about ‘the law’s delay, / the insolence of office, and the spurns / That patient merit of th’unworthy takes’ (III.i.72-74) could refer to any society.

There are no doubt resonances and thoughts that happen because one lives in a particular time, but frankly, topical references in Shakespeare are not what interests me about his writing. While thinking about his writing in terms of contemporary events and references can reveal new and interesting things about them, that approach can never explain the plays completely. It’s very easy to end up reducing the plays to just another historical document, and losing what makes them so interesting and artistic.  

[cynicalclassicist]

Education, Education, Education

Set between The Sound of Drums and Last of the Time Lords

Written by FELIX O’KELLY

The Year that Never Was

The Valiant

The Master sat in the Valiant, looking out across the world he ruled supreme. He smiled. Construction on the ships were on schedule. His remodelling of the Lincoln Memorial had gone well, despite some resistance his forces had entered the Capitol and established his rule. Construction at Rushmore was going perfectly, after he’d had a few public executions. There had been a few rebellions in Scotland, helped by friends of the previous Prime Minister, but a short sharp shock had put those down. Despite that trouble with the Loch Ness Monster. The Norwegian resistance was giving him some trouble, spray-painting Quislings onto the local security offices and disappearing into the woods. But the woods were being chopped down to fuel his industry and soon there would be nowhere left to hide.

And meanwhile, as Earth groaned under his rule, he ripped it up, its plains, its valleys, opening its hills with spacious wounds, digging out masses of minerals to fuel his fleet. The Earth Reptile bases occasionally found as the Earth was torn apart were an utter joy. The Master could sometimes get so tired of only oppressing humans, killing a few Earth Reptiles could add real spice to otherwise dull weeks. Sometimes they even made good slaves! And some new weapons for his fleet as well…

The Master glanced at a map of his world. The Doctor did like those lovely crinkly edges of Norway. Maybe it was time for a bit of remodelling.

There was a cough behind him, and he turned. “And what can I do for you!”

Captain Ironside, who the Master had given the role to partially because he liked the name, saluted. “Master. We’ve brought him.”

“Splendid!” smiled the Master. He glided gleefully down the rail as a figure was dragged in, beaten and bloody.

“Nicholas Clough, I presume!” said the Master.

He recognised the man of course. Nicholas Clough had been one of the rising stars of politics only recently, being promoted to Education Secretary by Harriet Jones. Yet when the fall of Harriet Jones happened, he had left the Cabinet with her. In the election in which Harold Saxon had finally risen to Prime Minister, Clough had announced he was stepping down as MP for Hazelhurst East, a position he had held since the 9th of April 1992. It was the first time Saxon had seen him since then.

The man looked up, through a black eye. “Saxon.”

“Oh, that was the name I used, but you know I am the Master!” sneered the Time Lord. He whipped out his laser screwdriver at which the guards stepped back. But the Master laughed. “Not yet! Haven’t had a good chin-wag since I had that Shaw brought here. Though she was a tad disappointing… not even killing her was exciting.” He turned and grinned horribly at the Doctor, who sat there in his wheelchair. “But the look on your face made it all worthwhile! Just like when I told you about Miss Grant and the grandchildren she… had.”

The Doctor’s face burned with hatred at this.

“Why do you want to talk to me?” asked Nicholas.

The man he had known as Harold Saxon pirouetted round like a ballerina. “Well, you have been spreading some very hurtful things about me” he replied. “And I heard that you met a certain… Martha.” He savoured the word a moment, then spat it out, trying to stay composed.

Nicholas smiled. “Yes. We talked a bit about the Doctor. I’d been wondering who that fellow was ever since Harriet Jones made that broadcast on Christmas.”

“Well, here he is!” The Master pulled the Doctor out of the wheelchair. “Here you are, Mr Clough! Here is the wonderful Doctor!” He flung him back in, the Doctor remaining silent, with the aura of one used to this humiliation.

Nicholas looked worried but composed himself. “Well, there are plenty who resist you still.”

“Yes… Harriet is proving a bit elusive herself” said the Master, his face turning ugly again. “But of course, you were close to her!”

“I left when she did,” replied Nicholas.

“Loyalty… an unusual trait in a politician” replied Saxon. “I should know! Plenty were happy to flock to my banner!” He laughed. “Remember that loathsome Oscar Sudders? Harriet’s Health Secretary? Jumped at the chance to become my Defence Secretary! And that idiot from Richfield South. And of course, the old fool Dumfries! The look on their faces when I made the reshuffle…”

“I’m certainly glad I didn’t take the chance to be your Education Secretary!” said Nicholas.

“So much for wanting to educate!” laughed the Master. “I know how much you politicians talk about education, education, education!”

“Well, I was leaving politics anyway,” said Nicholas. “And I am happy to keep educating people.”

“Oh, what would you need to educate them about!” asked the Master. He pointed upwards. “I have my network, broadcasting the right ideas into their minds! I even have a few loudspeakers set up if I want to give a message!”

He pushed some buttons as if playing a piano, pulled a lever and yelled down the receiver. “PEOPLES OF EARTH! THIS IS YOUR MASTER! JUST TESTING!” He smiled at Nicholas. “It’s 1:15 in that part of the world, it should make the people jump!” He gave a laugh. “Not that it’s too dissimilar to many politicians in the days before my rule, this sort of propaganda! The sheer amount of awful Parties I had to go to to get Ru…” He paused and looked sullen at this memory, then brightened.

“But enough of that! I recall a piece you wrote about me, just before the election! It was called Why I will not be voting Saxon!”

“I think there are a lot of people who regret voting for you now” replied Nicholas.

“Well they should have thought of that beforehand. Not that they ever read your magnum opus. It got pulled due to a word from his Lordship the Paper’s owner, but he was kind enough to send me a copy!”

Like a conjurer the Master produced a paper. He smirked at the Doctor. “I’ve been teaching myself magic! I recall you liked those when you were that little man with the umbrella! Travelling with that… what was it… Dorothy?”

“Ace” said the Doctor. “Her name was Ace.”

“Oh yes! Ace! I remember telling you about her last stand with the Nitro-9… excellent chemical, I’m bottling a bit of it myself for a rainy day! Where was I… ah, the article!”

The Master began reading.

“Let’s see… Clough calls me the most dangerous man in Britain.”

“I was too kind, you’re the most dangerous man in the world” replied Nicholas.

“Oh, still too kind, the Universe!” The Master continued. “Brings up… oh yes, that little car accident which meant I just happened to be elected an MP! Poor old Charles Lichen!” He chuckled horribly. “Talks about dubious businessmen… Well, Salamander is doing some good work for me. And Van Statten’s collection has all sorts of lovely weapons for mass-production!” He commenced skimming the article. “Badmouths me, surprisingly nice about the Shadow Attorney General, badmouths Brian Green… Brings up Lazarus…” The Master was practically blushing as he read of his sinister deeds and scheming. “You’re too kind! I almost wish I could give you a job!”

“Well there will always be people like me, ready to educate against people like you!” said Nicholas. “And that’s what Martha is doing! Giving people hope!”

“Your pathetic people haven’t got a hope!” spat the Master.

“Doesn’t matter how many times you say that, it doesn’t make it true!” replied Nicholas, standing defiantly. “I kept telling people what Martha told me and I’m happy to have done so!”

A smile formed on the Doctor’s face, the first proper one in weeks. The Master glanced around, and his eyes narrowed. He turned back to Nicholas.

“Perhaps.” He took out his laser screwdriver and fired it, blasting Clough to the ground.

“Leave it wherever you found it,” he laughed to Ironside. “I’ll tell the people it’s an education!”

“You didn’t need to do that” said the Doctor angrily.

“No. But it’s fun!”

The Master turned to his transmitters. “Peoples of the Earth, please attend carefully.” He winked at the Doctor. “I always love saying that.” He continued. “I had a meeting with Nicholas Clough. A most educating experience. Just thought I’d let Miss Jones know that! And that I look forward to meeting her!”

But far away Martha continued telling her stories, telling the people of someone who fought against evil. Of giant crabs, of Daleks, of atmosphere-cleaning whales intended to destroy humanity, time-travelling assassins and more. And eventually the stories she told grew in the minds of the people and ended the tyranny of the Master.

And on that day, time snapped back a year. The Toclafane decimation vanished and few remembered the rule of the Master. Instead they watched as the Prime Minister was shot and died.

But they moved on and life went on. The papers about Saxon were covered up by the Lord High Chancellor Brian Green, including Clough’s Why I will not be Voting Saxon, citing security concerns.

Though with plenty more troubles and tricksters like the Master the world was not yet safe…

28th February 2021

England

Nicholas Clough glanced at his article, Why I will not be voting Saxon, written all those years ago. After some lobbying, he had finally been able to get it released for the memoirs he was writing, probably helped by the fact Brian Green was no longer in Parliament. Not many people seemed interested now in history. He sometimes wondered if the country would ever learn, especially as they kept making the same mistakes, falling for the same tricks. Not just in this country even!

But he had to keep trying. And maybe, one day, people would learn. Maybe they would see through the lies that the powerful told. Where there was life, there was hope. Even in the darkest of times.

[language-dragon]

Origins of Some Common Norwegian Expressions, Part 2

Part 1 is here! 🇳🇴

Blåmandag: a day you don’t feel great, especially because of a hangover.; lit. “Blue Monday”. Derived from the Norse name of Shrove Monday, the day following Fastelavn (Northern European version of the Carnival before Lent). The association of the colour blue and feeling down is also found in English (”feeling blue”).

Du store alpakka! An expression of surprise; lit. “great alpaca!“ Originates from the book series “Stompa” from the 1950s

Griseflaks: to be in great luck; lit. “pig’s luck”. Probably originates from Danish (”svineheld”) and pig farming. Pigs could easily die, which would entail great economic loss, but with good care one had a bigger chance of success.

Hardhaus: a tough person. Composed of "hard” (”hard”) and Norse “haus” (”head”). A hard head could be seen as a negative thing (consider “treskalle” (”wood head”, foolish person), but in this context, the hard head entails that the subject can endure many a hardship and is a strong character. 

Kladeis: a splotch, daub, or blob. Derived from “kladas”, meaning “blob”, and again related to “klatt” (again “blob”) from Low Saxon “klask”, a soft, wet lump.

Klappet og klart: everything is ready; lit. “clapped and ready“. Likely originates from an old wedding tradition where, when the marriage was arranged, one would slap their back, so that they would not forget. Presumably, the expression used to be “å bli klappet sammen” (”to get clapped together”) which later evolved.

Lapskaus: untranslatable. A thick stew of meat and vegetables. From English “lobscouse” which means roughly the same. Unknown origin, but possibly composed of “lob” (lump) and “course” (like in a main course), which could then be taken to mean a dish made out of lumps, which is rather fitting.

Overhodet: “at all”, “completely”; lit. “over the head”. Of the same origin as Modern German "überhaupt". When people in Middle Low German times bought cattle, the entire flock was bought which was “over the head”; i.e., “at all”.

Skippertak: a desperate last-minute effort, all-nighter; lit. “the skipper’s effort”. A piece of tough work that even the skipper (captain of ship) had to contribute to while at sea.

Stopp en halv: “wait a minute”; lit. “stop a half”. Also from the boating domain, from English "stop and haul”, which sounds similar. The command was used when knots had to be tightened on the rig. “Stop en halv” is etymologically incorrect, since “half” has nothing to do with “haul”, and the correct version “stop en hal” (stopp and pull/drag) also exists but is far less common in writing.

Tigerstaden: Alternative name for Oslo; lit. “the tiger town”. Outside of the main train station in Oslo is a big statue of a tiger. The tiger originates from a poem written by national writer Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson, in which a horse and a tiger fight. The fight is a metaphor for the city brutally attacking the rural towns. In the poem, the tiger is meant to be a negative symbol, but today, the statue is a popular tourist attraction and most inhabitants associate it with strength and pride.

Å ha svin på skogen: to not inform about income or valuables one possesses so as to avoid having to pay tax for it; lit. “to have pigs on the forest”. Originally from old farmers’ strategy of sending pigs out into the forest to avoid them being counted as part of the tax they had to pay to the king. 

Å snakke fra leveren: to speak openly, frankly; lit. “to talk from the liver”. In times when anatomy and bodily functions were still largely unmapped. It was believed that the emotions came from the liver, and that whatever a person was saying was a result of their feelings. Being moved to say something honest was thus a result of whatever was going on in their liver.

Å være en kløpper: to be someone very handy. Another naval expression that originates from clipper ships (merchant ships). The name of the ships comes from “clip” (to cut or to move swiftly) which meant that the ships were very fast-moving. The crew was consequently called clippers, which became “kløpper” in Norwegian. The crew members were known to be exceptionally skilled and hard-working, and the term soon encompassed all kinds of talented people.

[skamenglishsubs]

Subtext and Culture, Season 3, Episode 5

Blink and you miss it: Even is wearing the Jesus T-shirt now. Given that they came home dripping wet from the pool, Even probably had to borrow a lot of clothes from Isak. Blink and you miss it: Isak never bothered putting in a proper blackout curtain, he just threw an orange blanket over the white curtains Noora left in the room. Subtext: The reason Isak never bothers telling Even the rest of the story is because we, the viewers, already should have pieced together what happened in season 2. Eskild found Isak at a gay bar, felt sorry for him, and set up a spot for him to crash in the basement. Isak lived there for a month or so, until Noora moved out and Isak could take her room. Subtext: What’s happening in this scene is that Noora is falling back into obsessive compulsive behaviors as a way to cope with her anxiety over her relationship with William, and Eskild is trying to signal this. Isak nods back, so obviously both of them know what Noora is like and what she’s doing, which is why they’re both quickly restarting the conversation to smooth it over. Also, Noora and Eskild are totally on a fishing expedition, trying to get Isak to open up about that guy they saw in the apartment earlier in the morning.

Subtext: No-one believes Isak’s lie about the family dinner, they think he’s acting weird and distant, which is why they’re also shutting him out by not telling him what happened between Magnus and Vilde. Subtext: The irony of the stupid conversation the boys are having, is that Isak just spent the entire weekend kissing someone with stubble, and he loved it, while the boys are treating it as a weird and horrible thing.

Subtext: Even’s clothes signal his mental state. The more he covers his head, the more down he is. Beanie + hoodie + jacket + scarf signals that he’s had a difficult conversation with Sonja which left him depressed, and he’s been skipping school for a couple of days because of it. Note that he never answers Isak’s question about where he’s been, because he’s not yet ready to tell Isak about his own mental illness and what it does to him. Subtext: Ironically, while Even is trying to avoid the topic of mental illness, Isak uncomfortably brings it up in the context of his mom. But Isak talks about it in such a way that it scares Even off. Lost in translation: This piece of dialogue was extremely tricky to translate. In English, there is a stronger difference between a past tense hypothetical, and a future tense hypothetical. A past tense hypothetical is used when you talk about something that didn’t happen or was never going to happen, while a future tense hypothetical is used when you talk about things that could happen or will happen. In Norwegian, this is more ambiguous, a past tense hypothetical can be used for things that might happen, and throughout this conversation, both Isak and Even are talking in past tense hypotheticals. A more literal translation of what the characters are saying is: Even: “What do you think your parents would have said if you got together with me?” Isak: “I think it would have been fine. Or… dad probably wouldn’t have had anything against it.” […] Isak: “What about your parents, what do you think they would have said about me?” Even: “I think they would have loved you.” Keeping the past tense for the entire dialogue in English is wrong. It makes it sound like they are never ever going to come out to their parents, as if they wish they could, but can’t. But that’s not what they mean, they are discussing how their families are going to react when they make their relationship official. So why wasn’t this script written using future tense hypotheticals in Norwegian? It wouldn’t have been wrong, it would have had the same meaning on the face of it. But I think that this was on purpose, I think Julie Andem wanted this to be ambiguous, she wanted to hide subtext in this dialogue. Because in hindsight, you can read Even’s parting words either way: “I think they would love you” (when you get to meet them) “I think they would have loved you” (but you’re never going to meet them) Switching this entire dialogue over to future tense hypotheticals in English makes it closer to the apparent meaning of what they’re saying. But it completely loses the subtext, the ambiguity, the double meaning of Even’s words. And this is why I kept the past tense on the last sentence in this translation, to preserve some of the feeling that this whole meeting-your-boyfriend’s-parents-thing might not happen after all. Unfortunately, this makes it stick out more to the English reader, than to the Norwegian listener, but I think it’s the better choice. Subtext: The tragedy of this scene is that Even decides then and there to break it off with Isak, and kisses him goodbye one last time, which is why he looks so sad when he leaves. While Isak thought this scene went really well; Even came clean with Sonja, Isak shared sensitive info about his mom, they discussed a future as boyfriends, and kissed each other goodbye. So this is why Isak looks really happy at the end, oblivious as to what just actually happened.

Culture: Operation Day’s Work is a charity event where school children work for a day and donate their earnings to youth- and school-related projects in developing countries. It started in Norway, and exists throughout Northern Europe. If you followed the social media for this episode, there were chats and Instagram stories showing how Isak helped the groundskeeper for the apartment building with various chores, such as cleaning the stairwells. Blink and you miss it: Eskild complained in the first episode that Isak’s room smelled like fart, and that it smelled like lavender when Noora lived there. Subtext: Isak has such a hard time saying that he is gay, or that he likes boys in general, so he describes his experiences as having “a thing” with Even. They’re “doing stuff”. Soapbox: Even though Isak puts his foot in his mouth and deserves the smackdown Eskild gives him, he actually has a point in that stereotypes are harmful for everyone. Isak has such a hard time accepting that he is gay, because there are almost no role models for boys like him, boys who like beer and skateboards and FIFA and snapbacks and 90′s hip-hop and football, and beer… and boys. He feels alienated from both the straight world and the gay world.

Blink and you miss it: Magnus says there’s just three of them, presumably to make it sound like there’s not a whole gang of boys coming to crash the party, just a couple of guys who want to join. Blink and you miss it: Sholess girl is so mad at someone at the party that she left without shoes, while flipping them all off. Blink and you miss it: Eva making out with P-Chris. Blink and you miss it: Sana seeing Isak and greeting him.

[inmyarmswrappedin]

DRUCK reactions - s4 ep3

Featuring: the clip that made me infinitely more interested in the season.

Oops, I forgot to link to the Nadia clip twitter thread. It’s there now!

(Thanks again to @wodrueckts! 💛)

CLIP 1: What is this, a tent for ants?

LISTEN. Tua is already the smallest in the girl squad, and that tent doesn’t even look like she can lay fully stretched out inside.

I was so disturbed by this that I looked up 1-person tents, and they don’t look that small! They are longer and thinner.

Amira’s mom comes outside and she’s also disturbed, but not by Amira using a toddler-sized tent, but Amira going camping at all. She’s like, we’re going to have a conversation about traveling while hijabi, but Amira isn’t in the mood.

And her mood is further spoiled because Sam texts her hoping that she can hook her up with Mohammed.

Amira’s mom brings her some pepper spray, and holy shit! Is that legal in Germany? (Answer: yes, it is, but it’s sold as “animal repellent.”)

I’ve traveled on my own before but I’ve always stayed in B&Bs, hostels or hotels. Ngl I wouldn’t even couchsurf at a stranger’s without some kind of protective device, like a portable door lock. I would never carry a weapon because you never know if you’re going to use it properly in the heat of the moment, but something like a personal alarm for runners would work in a camping setting. Take care of yourself if you’re traveling on your own!

CLIP 2: Lemonade pining

Jonas is going on about supporting sea rescue efforts of African migrants in the Mediterranean Sea, a big topic last year because of the Salvini administration (in Italy) approving a law to fine migrant rescue ships. Salvini has been ousted since, and sea rescue has disappeared from the news what with 2020 being a dumpster fire and all.

Essam, high on power, demands that his slave Amira makes him some lemonade, but I already described my issues with this storyline last week. After threatening Amira with the ever classic sibling-on-sibling physical violence, Amira relents.

Mohammed comes in as Amira is sulkily preparing some lemonade for Essam, and he makes a flirty comment about Amira’s ice cold stare again.

The sweet thing about Mohammed is that he fully admits that he finds Amira intimidating, like he totally recognizes that Amira can be unapproachable when she wants to (even though Amira M. is also one of the friendliest Sanas), but like… For one thing he doesn’t neg her about it. He’s playful about Amira being scary, but he’s not trying to bring her down. And for another, Mohammed tries to find ways in which he fits into Amira’s life or can help her in some way.

This will keep coming up with them, but it happens here when he thinks of a way to prank Essam and, as a result, cheer Amira up.

Peep at the interaction between Amira and Mohammed when they come out with the lemonade. They don’t exchange a word, but they’re such a team.

CLIP 3: Beware bicyclists

Amira, apparently still on a high since the lemonade prank, is strolling down the street singing to herself, as I believe most of us have done at some point.

Jonas asks for Amira’s help with his solidarity party, further characterizing Amira as the one they all go to for help.

Sam also texts Amira. She’s found Mohammed’s insta, which makes Amira’s face fall for a moment… Even though Mohammed keeps seeking Amira out, it feels like Sam might be able to hook up with him through sheer force of will? Or maybe Amira is kinda hoping Sam’s crush goes away, but it ain’t.

There’s something really Formal about that family photo that makes it lowkey funny, like I can imagine that pic being one Mohammed’s family sends to their relatives (caption about family and all), instead of one would post on instagram. Somehow, you can feel Mohammed’s latent dad energy just waiting to be discovered.

Even though this wasn’t the way Amira wanted to come across that pic, Mohammed just looks so damn fine that she can’t help but zoom in on his face, a Druck classic at this point.

And she’s so focused on the thirst that she almost gets run over by an islamophobic bicyclist, who thoroughly spoils her day.

This is such a Northern Europe thing btw. I think each one of my friends who has lived in the bike using part of Europe for any period of time has a story about a bicyclist yelling profanities at them. It’s like they’re saving the planet with their lack of gas use so they have to be extra dickish to compensate for their do gooding.

Amira also looks around as this happens, maybe to see if someone else witnessed what happened (for support?).

Anyway, Amira is so angry that she double texts Sam (or possibly just texts? I checked a couple times and it isn’t clear that she sent Sam the text where she translates the caption about family) to be careful with Mohammed as Arabs will fuck you over. She does a double take to herself, like she’s checking with herself that this was appropriate, and seems to decide it is.

I really dislike the context here. When this happened on Skam, it was part of a larger conversation between Sana and Noora where it was clear that Sana was repeating stereotypes in order to discourage Noora’s interest. And even in that conversation, what Sana said is that Muslim guys will sleep with white Norwegians because they put out, but in the end they marry Muslim girls. So rather than saying, he’s gonna fuck you over, Sana explains how. What Amira tells Sam is so lacking in context, so random as a response to Sam asking what the caption says, and like… You kinda have to have watched the Skam scene in order for Amira not to come across like a total dick here.

It also makes no sense because Sana knew that Noora had been hurt in the past by guys using her for sex and then discarding her, but a no strings attached hook up is exactly what Sam is after. So like… How would Mohammed wanting just sex and nothing else fuck Sam over anyway?

CLIP 4: Sam is interested in getting fucked (over)

Amira and Sam are doing boxing intervals, and Sam is a bit taken aback by how intense Amira is at something Sam is presumably doing just for fun.

Now imagine they’d actually written a scene around that difference between both girls, instead of a brief subtextual moment for us to read into.

Mohammed comes in during a pause, which Amira is using to get a bit more practice in whereas Sam is showing off to Kiki (sensing a theme they could’ve explored, here).

It looks like he’s going to go say hi to Amira, but Sam gets there first and starts flirting with him, hair twirling and all. Amira looks upset and goes back to boxing.

CLIP 5: Nadia! [crowd cheers]

At this point when the season was dropping, I was, to be completely honest, a little bored. Like the clips were cute and all, but I wasn’t excited. (Of course, you have to keep in mind that this was in comparison to my excitement levels during Matteo’s season, where so much as a glimpse of David made my synapses light up.)

I loved this clip and immediately posted a full on analysis on twitter (which you can read here if you’re interested, but I’ll be rehashing most of it in this post), and it still holds up in rewatch even though they didn’t mine the Nadia/Amira dynamic for all it was worth.

So we open on Nadia and Amira and they’re already looking tense as shit. It doesn’t help that Amira’s mom seems, like, almost relieved that Nadia hasn’t totally cut ties with Amira lmao. And she’s like, “omg you must have so much to talk about!” even though we just saw them looking quiet and uncomfortable.

Amira is all, “never thought you’d be the first one to marry,” and to Nadia’s credit, she takes this comment, which could read as shady, as a friendly observation. She talks a bit about how Ahmed is not like the other dicks, but Amira isn’t convinced, and now she’s definitely shading Nadia.

She also gets on Nadia’s case about going to Dubai for their honeymoon, but Nadia doesn’t defend herself and just looks sheepish.

Kiki comes in with some vegan cupcakes that she made to thank Amira for her help last episode, and you can see how Amira is much more at ease with Kiki. Tbf they did see each other last week, whereas we know Nadia has been out of the picture for a while. Anyway Kiki seems to feel the tension in the air, so she tries to excuse herself.

At this point, Nadia finds her voice to ask Kiki to stay. Is it because she thinks that with Kiki around conversation will flow more freely? Or maybe because she’s hoping that Amira’s irritation will be redirected to this Alman?

After Kiki admires the vegan spread Amira’s mom prepared, we find out that Nadia’s intention is the latter. She all but tells Kiki that Amira told her Kiki was a racist piece of shit. So this is how Nadia gains the upper hand after Amira’s earlier comments.

Amira looks alarmed, but Kiki is like pfff yeah, I was so into Alexander Humberbumber that I might have been the worst s1 Vilde until Amber made her appearance, but now I’m getting dicked down by a good man and I see Amira for the Muslim goddess she is (I’m paraphrasing but not that much!).

Amira looks really touched by Kiki not just 1. Not picking up Nadia’s intention, but also 2. Swiftly clearing the air and complimenting Amira in the process.

Kiki figures out that Nadia is the friend who’s getting married and declares her love for weddings of all kinds but especially Bollywood-style ones. Nadia looks really amused at this and looks at Amira like, “get a load of this girl!” Amira looks a bit embarrassed.

Sidenote to say Druck started building up to Kiki’s love of weddings last episode when she was paging through a wedding magazine spread. Like, they really put in more work into this Kiki/wedding storyline than most storylines last week.

And when Kiki asks if Nadia’s marriage was arranged, Nadia makes fun of Kiki to Amira. Like I would love to say that Nadia isn’t being mean to Kiki, but she is, and the point is to bring Amira down a notch. Now Amira really does look embarrassed, because in some way she’s supposed to be responsible for Kiki not saying something islamophobic. Kiki isn’t Amira’s responsibility, and I’m sure Nadia would agree in other circumstances, but… That’s what Amira gets for calling Nadia out for the Dubai honeymoon!

But as the conversation goes on, it also kind of seems like Nadia takes a liking to Kiki? (I’m mostly assuming because Nadia later invites Kiki to that pre-wedding event.) They talk a little bit about Nadia and Ahmed, and Kiki’s like, “I want to go to a Muslim wedding so fucking bad, Amira, please!”  It’s like… At the moment Amira is the only single female friend Kiki has, but Kiki’s just like, can’t you just get married now though.

Amira’s like NO WEDDINGS, Australia first. And tension falls around the table again, because of course, Nadia didn’t know about this, but Kiki knew about it, so like… It’s just another way in which Amira has become a different person as far as Nadia is concerned.

Let us now talk about Kiki. Like I said, I really loved this clip. In general I love Skams clips where the dynamic feels so lived in and nuanced and multifaceted. This is the first time we see Nadia in the flesh, but we get so much information just from looks and tone of voice. Nadia’s actress and Tua El-Fawwal just rock this scene.

When it aired I took Kiki’s words at face value. Like, this was the way the writers had decided to resolve Kiki being a racist in earlier seasons, and I accepted it. It wasn’t until later that I read criticism of the scene and thought about it a bit more.

In Skam, Isak apologizes to Eva in three separate scenes. In s1, episode 10, she says to Eva, “I fucked up,” “[if I had known Iben was a psycho] then of course I wouldn’t have done it.” In episode 11, “I know it might be hard to believe, but I never wanted to hurt you. It just turned out that way. I’m sorry.” And in s3, “I just want to say sorry for that stuff last year. When I was ruining things for you and Jonas.” Like. You can say that Isak only said sorry because he got caught (though I personally believe he was genuine every time, if not entirely truthful), but the point is that Julie Andem thought it necessary, in order for Isak to remain a likable character, that he apologized three times.

The girl squad never apologized to Sana, they just showed up with the Los Losers van one day.

And while Druck also thought it was necessary for Matteo to be full of self-loathing over what he did to Hanna, they didn’t think Kiki needed to apologize on screen.

One of my least favorite Skams characters is Basile Savary, because he was a total creep to the point that, during s3, Skam France had to release a damage control text out of Lucas L’s POV because people were worried that he might have done something to Daphné while she was drunk. Basile was a creep who respected no boundaries (including dry humping Daphné against her will on social media, which played off as a joke!) until one day he wasn’t and became the perfect boyfriend. No arc where he learned to be a doper person, Skam France said, no we are not going to examine how nerds get away with being gross creeps.

And as much as I would like to say otherwise, Druck did the same with Kiki. Kiki was one of the most overtly racist Vildes in s1, was still making offensive comments about Amira’s and Sam’s hair in s2, and then… Season 4 rolls around and Kiki just says, “oh yeah I was a dick before but now I know Amira is a great Muslim.” Like… At least it didn’t happen from one day to the next, but no, there wasn’t an arc where Kiki is taken to task for her racism, nor a scene where Kiki apologizes to Amira.  

This is an issue specifically because Amira’s season hinges on the Kiki/Amira friendship, like they pretty much got rid of most other conflicts or didn’t explore them fully, choosing instead to focus on this dynamic.

And I don’t think it was because Lea and Tua are such good friends irl (which they are! Lea even attended Tua’s engagement party! I love them!), because like, Tua is also good friends with Carl (Stefan) and we never got an Amira/Stefan scene, did we? I think it was simply that this season was too packed with people of color, and either funk or the writers needed a white character to anchor the season.

I still love Kiki and Amira obviously, I ship them (in fanon) and I love their scenes, because I love Lea and Tua and their friendship, and their characters. All I wanted from s4 of Skam was Vilde supporting Sana in the way Sana had supported Vilde for three seasons, and Druck gave me that. But here’s one thing where the writers dropped the ball, and it’s a massive mistake because the emotional core of the season is this friendship.

This also made me think about how the change of writers resulted in character arcs being dropped left and right. Now that two writing collectives are about to pick up Druck’s next gen, I think there’s an idea that the change in writers in the first four seasons wasn’t noticeable, but honestly… It kind of was. I would argue that a lot of the things that were set up in s1 and s2 got dropped and didn’t go anywhere. To wit:

Hanna’s arc in s1 is trashed in s4. Jonas is set up with a redemption arc in s2 that isn’t explored past that season. The Winterberg of s2 has nothing to do with the s4 ship. Kiki is still being racist in s2 and a shining example of allyship in s4. The little depth that Sam had in s1 and s2 gets dropped. Amira’s delivery job… Enough said. The one character whose character arc through the seasons was done justice I would argue is Matteo. He gets a shift in characterization after s1 to make the storyline with David make more sense (more on this if I ever write Matteo’s season meta), and retains that characterization to the end. Of the minor characters, Carlos and Abdi also come out well. David gets introduced in s3 when Q3 took over the writing, so he wasn’t affected.

Anyway, this clip totally revitalized the season.

CLIP 6: Amira praying, that’s it, that’s the clip

Mohammed is at the door waiting for Amira, and when Amira asks him if Sam is already there, he says he’s not here because of Sam. And I’m like, does he mean that literally? Like Amira could’ve assumed Sam invited him to this party, but Mohammed did meet the squads last episode. Maybe he asked Jonas if Amira was coming or got himself invited some other way.

Amira’s like sure, and gets inside. And Mohammed looks at her in such a way that even I need to fan myself a little tbh.

Hanna compliments David’s design, and Matteo’s like yeah, David is great, but I’d rather shit on Stefan. Idk, I feel like the Matteo in my mind would want to hype David up a little more before moving onto shitting on Stefan, but it’s a small quibble.

Amira goes to help Sam in the kitchen, and they both have some trouble making German food. I can’t tell if it’s because they’re generally bad at cooking or this is a commentary on white people’s palates. Or Abdi’s palate since he’s still going on about hollandaise sauce.

Oh, Sam explains that she told Mohammed about the party and he got on board. So he is there because of Sam, kinda.

They also talk about Mohammed having the coolest insta (pro: Mohammed has at least one topless pic, con: Mohammed has a pic wearing flip flops with socks), and how Abdi doesn’t compare because he doesn’t have an insta (yet). I mean… Damn, Sam. You can’t argue with logic like that.

But Sam calls Amira out on being weird lately. Again, I really wish this conversation didn’t rely so much on subtext, so it could be properly developed. Also, a new version of Snow’s Informer is playing in the background during this conversation and I can’t help but love the mood whiplash of it all.

Then something confusing happens when Jonas introduces the music act and says they come from Lebanon and traveled to Germany by train and then the lead singer says they’re from Berlin. They’re called Feedback and I tried googling them to find out what that’s all about, but with that name I didn’t get any results about them.

At least this is the kind of band that would play at an event like this, like they seem good enough to do a performance, but not big enough that there’s no believable way Jonas could book them.

Amira and Mohammed have a ~Moment~ when the audio switches to the version of Sand performed by Lary, and the sexual tension is so overwhelming for Amira that she immediately leaves to get some praying done, in the privacy of the venue’s backroom.

This scene is so iconic and beautiful. That shot of Amira being lit from above, looking up with her hands held before her? Talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, etc. The kind of sequence that needs both a Muslim performer and behind the scenes respect for said Muslim performer.

Amira overhears some argument as she’s folding the carpet she was using, and then she sees that Mohammed was blocking the door, so that she could pray in peace. Can we get a #notallmen here? Thanks. Again, Mohammed just finds little ways in which he can help and support Amira without being intrusive.

Mohammed compliments Amira’s friends for trying to help refugees (although sea rescue is more about migrants in general, rather than refugees). I think something that is lost in translation is that German is obviously not Mohammed’s first language, so I think this scene is more significant and subtext-laden for German speakers.

Amira is probably still smarting from her earlier run in with the racist biker, so she (who’s always said she wants to be Chancellor) says that Jonas will probably become Chancellor one day. Mohammed says no! Amira should be Chancellor, but Amira doesn’t think anyone wants that. 🙁 But Mohammed says he does, and he says “we” need someone who fights for “us” (which Amira probably interprets as “us Muslims,” but Mohammed might mean more like, “us refugees”).

Also, Mohammed thinks that Amira was trying to matchmake him with Sam, which we know it was more like the opposite, but it’s very in line for Mohammed to think Amira was trying to get rid of him.

Then Mohammed asks Amira for her phone and is all, “don’t you trust me?” and Amira’s like, “no,” which is hilarious. After a while, Amira wants her phone back and Mohammed notices Amira accidentally cut herself with the knife earlier. He puts a cute bandaid on it, and they have yet another Moment. They’re so into each other that Amira goes, “omg I love this song! Let’s go in!” But Mohammed is now sure his feelings are requited.

Social media

Kiki slept at the new apartment even though it’s falling apart, a sign that that she can’t stand being at her mom’s house. Later, Zoe texts her and Kiki says she’ll be available whenever Zoe needs her, but she also just… doesn’t want to live at her mom’s.

Matteo and David (but really just Lukas) attended the Berlin CSD (Pride) march.

Mia posts a pic of a cortado coffee, and I totally believe this was taken in Madrid. 👌

Carlos missed the Abiball because he failed his History resit, then he missed Jonas’ birthday because he was sick, and this week he’s visiting Brandenburg with Kiki, and what I’m getting from all this is that maybe Carlos’ actor had other commitments during this time lol.

Amira and Mohammed both post pics acknowledging their Moment under the lights/with the bandaid, showing Amira is getting more emotionally committed to this relationship.

Final thoughts

While I did have some issues with this episode, it was much more solid overall than episode 2. Nadia’s actress really delivered in her intro clip and I wish they’d explored that dynamic a bit more, but the character kind of takes a backseat after this. Although I don’t feel like Amira and Mohammed have a motif or object that they keep revisiting (like Jonas and Hanna with Hanna’s nose, or Mia and Alex with Hotel Hardenberg, or David and Matteo with the sandwiches*), I like their dynamic where Mohammed is supportive of Amira’s endeavors, which this episode solidifies. I also really love the significance of Amira getting to complete her prayer thanks to Mohammed. In Skam, Sana gets constantly interrupted until later in the season, where she gets to pray for all her friends.

[* I thought about this a bit more, and I think one motif Mohammed and Amira share is music, and singing to each other.]

I discussed this episode with Michi, and we came to the conclusion that the root conflict between Amira and Nadia is that Amira feels like that, to be with a man, is to compromise yourself and your principles. Nadia didn’t use to be the person who’d be the first to marry, or who’d go on a honeymoon to Dubai, and Amira sees that chance as Nadia losing sight of her ideals. But, in the last clip, Mohammed’s actions allow Amira to be who she fully is, and to finish her prayer. So the idea is planted, that Amira wouldn’t necessarily have to compromise her principles if she got into a relationship. Of course, Mohammed is probably one of the people who’d most compromise Amira’s ideals if she were to date him, but we’re not at that point yet.  

[cooltrainererika]

Alt-talia: It’s Starting to Feel Like Christmas

Hello, hello everyone! Joy to the world!

For some reason I thought this event began today, not yesterday, until pretty recently… but fortunately, while it’s a day late, I got to write this! I did plan on others, but I’m releasing this now so I can get it out just in case, especially since the two others could also fit on another day. This is mainly for 12/16: Presents, but it can also fit under Decorations and Traditions, so three in a row! Woot!

This time, I want to write more about characters I may have missed during Hetaween, since my character pool ended up narrower than intended. ...And saying that, I’m writing about two characters I’ve written twice in that event! Yay!

I debated whether to write about this topic in general or about it specific this year, but chose the latter. I hope I’ll get to release a more in-depth fic about it in general some other time. So yeah, I’m using some really fresh material again this time.

Oh yeah, BTW, most of my fics take place in my “Alt-talia” semi-AU where I aim to capture history and culture more faithfully and most importantly overhaul the many characters who make no sense drastically. This will especially be noticeable for England. So yeah, you have been warned. Though maybe he’s a bit OOC here compared to how I usually write him? Also, it should be noted that I use country names when talking about the characters as countries, and with human names when referring to them as individuals; while in Alt-talia the difference can be more hazy than canon, I mean more talking purely about their personal interactions and the like. 

Also, this is not intended to be shipping! 

This was supposed to be like a few lines with no real arc, but whelp. At least I still kept it short. Also there’s a deleted scene I didn’t know how to end as a bonus at the end. 

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(Oh, and those who read my fics; please comment or reblog? I work hard on these, and they would be highly appreciated.)

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It’s Christmastime Again, Lukas Haraldsen

Every year since 1947, Norway had a tradition of sending special Jul presents to a certain nation very dear to him. 

His Norwegian Spruce trees were prized by all; he regularly got bidders from all over Europe, and had witnessed many a fight over them get ugly. But the best of the best were only reserved for a certain United Kingdom; and the best among these, the Queen of the Forest, nurtured by the songs, voices, and arms of some of the world’s best, most loving foresters, for England. Specifically his capital, London.

After all, nothing could make up for the debt he had for him. In the dark days of Nazi occupation, London for him was hope; it was where England protected his royal family as they awaited the Nazis’ demise, from where the radio blared and urged him to fight on, where the skies have become a proving ground to show that the Nazis could be vanquished. 

He knew this year had been a mess for his friend, and his recent election, the second one that year, had done nothing to mitigate it; and while even Norway knew only he himself and his uncharacteristically impulsive decision really was to blame for his current situation, hopefully, this would improve his mood for the uncertain road ahead. 

Norway was a quiet, unassuming man, but he took his presents seriously. And he also took Jul seriously. 

And this year was no different. While he sent many trees every year to different cities in the kingdom, including to some of Scotland’s, the most important was of course the one sent to the City of Hope itself. 

And now, in the heart of Trafalgar Square, wearing a traditional sweater which may as well have been a T-shirt compared to the attire of the Londoners passing by as they started their day, whistling En stjerne skinner i natt and Vårres Jul to himself. 

“Mmm… Ah, Arthur!”

He waved and smiled gently as the man in question, dressed very much warmly in a thick duffel coat and wool knit scarf, came into view. 

“Ahem. I’m here too.”

Today beside him was one Peter Bates, or Sealand as he preferred to be called, adorably bundled up in a woolen coat, mittens, knit hat, and light blue scarf, now crossing his arms. 

“Right, right. Sorry.”

“Ello, Norway. Don’t mind him, he said he wanted to see the tree again and ‘His Highness’ Prince Bates told me to take him with me. Bloody cold here today, isn’t it?”

He was shivering a bit, his nose a noticeable red and his breath a white mist. 

“Nothing I’m not used to. I’ve been waiting for you here. I chose one which is much older and taller than usual. See for yourself.”

Norway moved aside so that his gift would be in full view of his friend. It was a product of the forests on the banks of Trollvann lake, raised with love as any tree worthy of Trafalgar Square would be, almost twice as tall and two or three decades older than the first tree to have had the honor to have the honor of being offered on this annual occasion. 

England stared at the tree. 

Silence. 

“Wow, it’s huge!”

Peter was the first one to speak, his eyes sparkling. 

“England? ...England?”

Norway asked, watching his blank expression. 

“Well… I know that I am causing quite a bit of annoyance, but if I remember correctly, you weren’t in the EU, right?”

Norway was now perplexed. 

England looked to him with a with an expression that could only be said to be both a gentle smile and disappointment at the same time. 

“It seems like it needs a drink, does it not? It looks a bit dry and quite thin.”

Norway thought he felt his heart sunk a little. 

Peter sharply elbowed England in the side, making him gag. 

“Sealand, please don’t.”

“It’s a present, you jerk! ...Don’t listen to Scrooge over here, she’s beautiful.”

“Well you do live on a metal platform in the ocean…”

He jabbed him again.

Norway’s face went a bit red. 

“She’s much older and taller than the usual ones. It won’t look just like a smaller one you would have in your living room.”

“Sorry. I’m just saying it looks a bit sparse, is all.”

Norway lifted up one of many boxes of lights. 

“Mmm… Well, will you be too busy to help?”

“Yes, am afraid. More negotiations and all. So I am presuming it will be lit in the cucumber style as per usua- ach!”

Peter this time kicked him in the knee, making the older nation’s legs buckle a bit. 

“I’ll help, Mister.”

The boy said. 

“No, no, you don’t have to.”

————

Norway had to admit; maybe he had gone too much for size this time around. But Peter insisted that it not looking completely picture perfect was what made it look real instead of “Plastic tat”. 

And, as usual, put up the lights his own way, pure white streaks from top to bottom, “cucumber style” as England called it. 

And despite his complaints, on the night of lighting two days later, as the streams of light lit up in the heart of London in the crisp air and Norway listened to Peter cheer loudly with the crowd, the mayor of Oslo give her speech, and children caroling, amongst a sea of Londoners peppered with tourists, England stood beside him. 

“Well, it indeed finally feels like Christmas now.”

Norway looked to his friend, whose eyes were on the star, towering almost 25 meters above. 

“Well… maybe it is not quite up to your usual quality. But stability has been hard to come by nowadays; this tree being here every year, that I can rely on.”

Norway merely gave a quiet “Mmmm.” in response. 

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So that’s that. If anyone desires an explanation, I’ll provide it in a reblog or something, but I’d rather my stories inspire further research.

Also, “Lukas Haraldsen” is the name I’m using for Norway now, since a lot of Norwegians don’t seem to like “Bondivik”. “Haraldsen” because the founding king of the country is said to be King Harald Fairhair, and as Alt-talia nations can choose their surnames I thought it would be fitting if the surname Norway chose was “Son of Harald”. This name isn’t final though. Especially “Lukas”; does baptism change names again? Also Sealand has been renamed to “Peter Bates” instead of Kirkland; I don’t know why Hima chose that surname, since Sealand’s whole shtick is that he wants to be seen as an independent country. Why would he have the same surname? “Bates” is the surname of his owners, BTW, if that wasn’t clear. 

Again, this wasn’t really supposed to be a complete story with a neat conclusion, and not as heartwarming as intended. Kind of a similar case to Keep Calm actually, which also just happened to involve England. It was an opportunity to show England being a d*ck because, believe me, Alt-England can be an absolute d*ck when he wants to be. But despite the fact that he’s one of the characters whose d*ckery I actually kind of enjoy writing in a Love to Hate way, I haven’t had the chance to do that so far in these events... and I guess I got halfway there? I guess just ending it on England passive-aggressively insulting the tree was just a bit too meanspirited for me. 

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Deleted scene

<F%CKYE4H: Wow, it’s like ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’ in real life! What, are you gonna break out the aluminum trees now?>

<StillInInferno: Mate, at least you have a real tree, because down here it’s not only hot as hell but if I had any Christmas trees to begin with, they’ve already fucking burned to shit.>

<MooseOfMaple: Dad… With the hassle you’ve been causing everyone you might not have the right to complain about someone showing kindness and holiday spirit to you.>

Arthur huffed as his children ribbed him in the family chat that night. 

<RuleBritannia: Don’t preach to your father, we went over this.>

<F%CKYE4H: Still, giving, not receiving, y’know.>

<MooseOfMaple: Dad, please… As someone who knows spruce trees very well, I do question Norway’s decision, but still. The world doesn’t revolve around you anymore.>

<RuleBritannia: I do not think that. Please stop accusing me of it.>

<BlacKoru: Yeah. It revolves around America. Make of that what you will.>

<F%CKYE4H: Kiwi! I can see that!>

[jasonsutekh]

Cold Pursuit (2019)

A man mourning his son hunts down the people responsible for his murder.

 This was a fairly typical Neeson film since it follows the tradition of many of his previous action films to the point that you can predict most of the narrative from the title and the fact that he’s in it. The location was interesting and there was a little variety added to stop it feeling too desolate or isolate. Also there was some dialogue which was occasionally amusing but I wouldn’t go as far as to call the film a comedy.

 The ending was the worst part because of how disappointing it was. The film builds up to something for nearly 2 full hours and then it’s over in just a matter of a few minutes with a very anticlimactic resolution. Also it didn’t generate much sympathy between the audience and any of the characters because they were all criminals with a few minor exceptions like victims and a child.

 The characters were all mostly quite interesting and several of them got a little background even though they could have been written off as henchmen or generic gangsters. There was also some representation for the Native American characters, although not a particularly favourable one, and even an lgbt+ couple which was a surprise in a film of this genre.

 The moral by the end gets rather vague since it has already condoned murder if the subject or organisation has killed someone’s son, but by the last scene our protagonist is going for a night time ride with someone who was ready to make his victim another young son rather than the actual perpetrators. The women in the film were almost entirely irrelevant, either being there just to add loss, demonstrate spite, or leave the patriarchy to recover or avenge something taken from them. Lastly, we don’t really know what happens to the child in the end but he presumably drove off into the snowy night to eventually freeze to death.

 3/10 -This one’s bad but it’s got some good in it, just there-

 -The premiere for the film was cancelled after Neeson made some controversial comments in an interview about the themes of revenge in the film; he stated that he once spent a week looking for a random black man to kill after a friend was raped by a black man.

-The film was shot in 2017 but wasn’t released until 2019 for unknown reasons.

-An informant makes a sexual joke of the main character, Nels Coxman’s, name. In the original Norwegian version that this film is a remake of the character is called Nils Dickman.

[rolandfontana]

Inside the Minds of Men Who Murder

Each mass killer is uniquely evil, but they have common goals and characteristics.

Some seek revenge. Some seek fame—or infamy, its modern synonym. Some are sadists, others simply sad.

There are psychopaths, like Eric Harris, the torchbearer of the two Columbine High School killers, whose enormous ego left no room in his psyche for empathy. Others are reacting to trauma—a fractured or abusive home life, conflict with peers, a failed romance, like the growing club of spree killers motivated by the condition that has become known, unfortunately, as “involuntary celibacy.”

Still others are delusional, including Seung Hui Cho, the 2007 Virginia Tech rampage killer, who imagined himself a buddy of Vladimir Putin, bragged about a supermodel Martian girlfriend, and grandly compared himself to Moses.

In researching my new book, Mass Killers: Inside the Minds of Men Who Murder, I spent months exploring the written and recorded leavings of this growing apocalyptic sect.

Three factors turn up frequently: mental illness, easy access to firearms (especially assault rifles), and missed signals by parents, law enforcers, school officials, or other authority figures. Many seek to blame others and exact revenge for a history of personal failure. Socially and emotionally isolated, they strike out after an event that they blow out of proportion—a breakup, for example.

Nearly all mass killers are male. In the U.S., about one in ten is female, and just one woman turns up on the list of the 27 deadliest shootings in U.S. history. Many of these men and boys exhibit what has become known as “toxic masculinity.”

Researchers Rachel Kalish and Michael Kimmel explained:

What transforms the aggrieved into mass murderers is also a sense of entitlement, a sense of using violence against others, making others hurt as you, yourself, might. Aggrieved entitlement inspires revenge against those who have wronged you; it is the compensation for humiliation…Aggrieved entitlement is a gendered emotion, a fusion of that humiliating loss of manhood and the moral obligation and entitlement to get it back. And its gender is masculine.

Anders Breivik. Photo by No Rules via Flickr

I looked at the writings of about 50 mass killers. Some are humble, some grandiose—from brief, introspective suicide notes to tome-like whines by sex-deprived men. A few left notes and journals that are poignant. Others are bloviated and narcissistic, like the ultimate selfie. They range in length from an eerie, five-word message left by a Michigan school bomber nearly a century ago—”Criminals are made, not born”—to the Mein Kampf-sized manifesto of Norwegian mass killer Anders Breivik, whose turgid dissertation goose-steps along for nearly a million words.

Many share what another academic researcher called “common psycholinguistic themes,” including a “pseudocommando mindset” and “heroic revenge fantasy.”

Very few high-casualty sprees are impulsive. Killers in this class do not “snap.” They plan their assaults for months or even years, drawing up detailed battle plans and accumulating expensive weaponry. For most, documentation of this process in journals or videos is an essential component; they are well aware that they are leaving evidence that will help the marquee lights of their crimes burn brighter and longer.

Some merely hint at violence, but many expressly threaten mass murder, sometimes spelling out where, when and how.

Stage Managers of Evil

A few young killers have used final notes to romantically stage-manage their own funerals. One example was Jaylen Fryberg, 15. Despairing over a broken romance, he killed four friends and himself in 2014 at his school near Seattle. Just before the shooting, he sent a text message to his parents directing them how to dress him in the casket (“brand new expensive-as-shit camo”) and what music to play (“poppin’ shit”).

Many mass killers treat their end-of-life messages as though they were dating profiles, including lists of favorite movies and music—even colors and snacks. Nothing about themselves seems too granular or extraneous to leave out.

At 3 in the morning on September 4, 2006, nine days before he shot 20 students at Dawson College in Montreal, Kimveer Gill posted this entry in his online journal:

 I ate some cheesey poofs. Ya know, those cheese stick things, like cheetos. Ahhhhhh, now you see.The power of the cheesy poof can not be denied.

A few days later, he had progressed from snack-happy to Mr. Pitiful. He wrote, “Fuck people. Fuck life. Fuck god.”

How much do we really learn while trying to peer into these dark souls?

As Columbine’s Harris noted, “Sometimes we will spend an entire lifetime trying to figure out someone, and even after that length of time we still can’t possibly know everything about that person. The same goes for ourselves.”

Yet essential contours come into relief that may help unravel the mysteries of what experts view as a mass shooting contagion in the U.S., Canada, Germany and, to a lesser degree, Scandinavia and other European precincts. (To be clear: Mass murders happen in other countries, but the U.S. is by far the worldwide leader.)

“The phenomenon is feeding on itself,” warns Peter Langman, a Pennsylvania psychologist who is the world’s premier archivist of deep research on school shootings, which he generously shares at SchoolShooters.info.

Manifestos of murder were rare until the 1999 Columbine killings near Denver. We now presume that mass killers will leave an explanation, and it becomes news when they don’t. Stephen Paddock, the suicidal Baby Boomer who killed a record 58 people attending a music festival in Las Vegas in 2017, was an outlier because he was determinedly mute about his motivations.

The vast trove of the Columbiners is easily accessed on the Internet, and several dozen derivative killers in the U.S. and abroad have culled and copied details pioneered by Harris and his beta partner, Dylan Klebold. They identify with Harris and seem to believe they are joining an eternal club of fist-bumping bros. (As Sandy Hook school killer Adam Lanza put it, “Everyone knows that mass murderers are the cool kids.”

Many declare themselves part of an imaginary revolution—a “war of vendetta,” the Virginia Tech shooter called it. The idea that these aggrieved males are world-changing revolutionaries might seem patently absurd, as it did to me when I began to study their macho rhetoric. But if the endgame of the revolution is repeated examples of mass murder, haven’t they succeeded in a sense?

“One way of understanding the concept of contagion is the possibility that the more the taboo against mass murder is broken, the easier it becomes for the next perpetrator,”

Langman, the school shooting expert, writes. “Each time that threshold is crossed may lower the threshold for people already on the path toward violence. Thus, the phenomenon may be feeding on itself, growing with each new incident.”

David J. Krajicek

The message is foreboding, unfortunately.

David J. Krajicek (@djkrajicek) is a contributing editor of The Crime Report. Since 1999, he has written The Justice Story for the Sunday New York Daily News, the longest-running true crime feature in American journalism. His work has also appeared in Alternet, The New York Times, Columbia and Boston magazines, Slate, The Village Voice, The Manchester (U.K.) Guardian and Mother Jones.

Inside the Minds of Men Who Murder syndicated from https://immigrationattorneyto.wordpress.com/