#.motifs [ a storm with a six letter name. ]
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monologue: i don't even like the taste [ p.01 ]
synopsis: local 22 year old lies about every aspect of his life to keep father from worrying
content warning: i'm gonna tag homophobia for the unwanted engagement to be safe, but i want to make it clear that cyrion accepts his son. i think there's a real imperative to have children in city elf culture stemming from trauma surrounding purges and a fear of extinction, so it's acceptable to take on lovers outside your marriage as long as you have kids with the spouse the matchmaker picks for you.
Sunday morning in the spring of 9:30. This summer, the Blight will come.
You lay in bed under a short grey quilt, your extremities stinging with the damp, bone-deep cold of a Denerim Drakonis. You cannot summon the willpower to crawl out from under it. You're staring at a poor rendition of a dog. Interesting thing about the bottom bunk; the knot beneath a tack on the left side has twenty-nine rings, not twenty-seven. Either the tree the bed frame was cut from has grown postmortem, or you weren't nearly as observant as you thought you were at sixteen.
Soris left a few weeks after you came home, claiming that there wasn’t enough space for three grown men and one Shianni here with a pointed statement about taking advantage of Cyrion’s kindness. This was months ago. He hasn’t forgiven you yet.
Your father, after ejecting your cousins from the house that first night to sit you down at the kitchen table and beg you, raggedly, to stop throwing yourself out with the bathwater, has been pretending that you never left and everything is normal. You expected this. He’s always been the fake it ‘til you make it sort, creating a life he prefers through patience and optimism.
And he’s afraid that if he brings up all the damage between you he’ll chase you off, and then he’ll never see you again.
Before she was sent away that first night, Shianni lobbed everything in arm’s reach in your general direction and called you names. She yelled at you a little more the next morning, and when she’d said what she needed to say, you talked about it. It’s alright between you now. You like getting to know the woman she’s grown into; she only lords your half-decade absence over your head when it’s really funny, which is more gracious than what fourteen-year-old Shianni would have done.
Soris has been cordial. He talks sparingly to you and whenever you inch the conversation away from practical matters his shoulders tense and his jaw works. He doesn’t want to hear your apologies and you don’t know any other way to fix things with words, so you’ve backed off - you’re hoping the world will present an opportunity to prove that you’re back for good, but maybe he doesn’t want that either. Maybe he just wants to be angry about it for a while.
Case in point, he refused the money Cyrion offered him for the deposit on a new flat (that he’s sharing with his friend Taeodore and Taeodore’s three brothers, which kind of negates his excuse for leaving) because it came from you.
You hadn’t ignored their presence entirely during your time with Slim; most of your cut made it back to Cyrion, replenishing the wealth your family had lost after the last purge. Dad’s been careful not to spend too much at once and draw unwanted attention, but they all look healthier than you can remember them being.
You really don’t see the point in refusing the money just because you’re physically present when you’d have to be an idiot to believe he wasn’t using it before, but it’s none of your business. You’ve stopped trying to push.
A shiver runs down your spine when your feet find the rugged floors - you can't feel much below your ankles, but sitting up means leaving behind what little body warmth was trapped beneath you. The chill seeps through the fleece lining of your undershirt. The household could technically afford more firewood and coal than what it's burning, but it's a faux pas to take more than a few bits' worth from Alarith's with the whole Alienage suffering the same weather, and purchasing it from the market district would invite unwanted questions.
Pulling the quilt around your shoulders like a shawl, you feel your way through the shelves, knocking a little wooden archer and a crumpled mailer copy of Threnodies onto the floor in your search for the tinderbox.
The candlelight exposes a claustrophobic room, off-white walls insulated with scrap rugs and unusable, moth-eaten blankets. It's tempting to dress in the dark so you don't have to look at the squalor.
As a kid, squatting in damp, abandoned buildings in those miserable weeks between leaving home and running into Slim, you convinced yourself that no matter how much time or distance existed between you and it, you'd never forget where you came from. Having returned, you realize you were full of shit about that, too; your sense for what's normal has changed drastically.
You didn't even need to leave the city. You just had to hole up with thieves for a few years to notice that your childhood home's a pretty dismal place from an outsider's perspective.
Funny. You remember it being warmer.
Considering everything that was working against your parents, you had it pretty good growing up. So you and your standards can tolerate this. It wouldn't kill you to be grateful, for once.
You pull on half the clothing you own and rub your hands together until your fingers return to the world of the living.
“M’rning,” you mumble as you duck under the partition.
It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since he woke you up, but Cyrion’s already savoring the dried blackberries he separates from his gruel and saves for last. Rubbing your face, your impulse is to ask him how many times he’s choked inhaling his food like that, but catch yourself before you act the ass.
You're just full of nasty thoughts, aren't you?
“Good morning, son,” he returns brightly as you settle at the table. “Nippy, isn’t it?”
He makes conversation as you pick at your own bowl of porridge, everything from inane, obvious comments about the weather to updates about local rumors and foreign news so recent that you wonder if he gets all his information through dreams. He’s stalling; once he’d caught wind that you pass off half eaten plates to the neighbors whenever he leaves before you finish, he started to hover around mealtimes.
It’s not just because your palette has grown accustomed to pilfered imports. Even when you were with the Friends of Red Jenny, always flush with silver and stealing half your meals despite that, you didn’t eat much. You’ve been prone to fits of nausea since early childhood, but you think that may have progressed to some unidentified illness between the ages of eighteen and nineteen that you can’t shake off.
If you were to tell him this, he’d just worry. Pointlessly. You’re already taking tonics and there’s not many other avenues of treatment to pursue, so if you’re sick, you’ll just have to be sick.
You hum and nod at the appropriate times, eating slowly while he pretends not to watch you. You ask him if the sage seeds have germinated yet. He's pleased that you remembered. You do this little song and dance every morning on the weekends. That’s when Shianni gets up too early to supply the conversation.
“Oh, I forgot to mention,” he starts, lightly.
There’s some interesting tension in his frame. He laces his fingers over the table and studies the wall behind you, smiling gently at nothing. His effort to be the most pleasant thing in the room is a tangible one.
“I discussed an arrangement with Lady Denril and we came to an agreement. You’re betrothed to a young craftswoman from Highever, now - very pretty. She’ll be coming to live with us in the summer.”
You blink, sedate, before returning your attention to your breakfast.
“Alright.” You hesitate before taking another bite, certain that this is the one that brings the nausea back around. “Does she read? I ought write to her.”
Your father’s joints crack when he pops a bouncy shrug, the pleasant smile freezing on his face.
A beat. The smile cracks, too.
[ He doesn’t know if Nesiara can read. You’ll end up writing that letter anyway, hoping someone in the Highever Alienage can read it to her if she can’t. You ask her if she’s alright with the move.
When she sends a letter back, it’s full of questions about Denerim and a densely written portrait of Highever. She’s curious but reluctant to talk about herself. She tells you she’s excited to live somewhere else, but the loving way she describes her alienage is what answers your question.
She tells you she likes your pretty handwriting.
You write back and forth to each other right up to the week of the wedding. Nesiara is blindingly intelligent. She has a bone dry sense of humor that sneaks into her writing and never fails to catch you off guard. By the time she arrives in Denerim, it hardly feels like a first meeting.
In one of your letters, you admit that you’ll never be able to love her the way you would love a man, but you promise to take care of her and be her friend. Her reply is warm and understanding, and she asks if you’d like to negotiate an open marriage, but you can tell she’s a little disappointed. You hope you aren’t ruining her life.
You’re...hesitantly optimistic.
Most people don’t have what your parents had. Plenty of elves have walked the path you’re set on - not the gallivanting with thieves part, but the part where you had the great love of your life in your youth and then settle for something reliable and platonic to see you through to the end. You’ll be alright.
All you really want is to stay with your father, with Soris and Shianni. ]
“WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU?!”
He erupts into motion, dragging a hand through his fine grey hair and pulling up strands from his braid as he paces the meager space available. His abandoned chair tilts dangerously on its back feet, unbalanced by the abrupt motion.
You sink low in your chair, eyes wide and ear splayed low. You can count on one hand the times your father has raised his voice at you. The temptation to leave the house has never been stronger.
You hold your breath until the chair settles on all fours.
“I’m sorry, I’m - I’m sorry,” he says, bringing his tone down to the soothing, modulated timbre you’re used to as he turns his back to the door to face you. You remain wary, unconvinced by his characteristic composure now that you’ve seen what it hides.
It hasn’t escaped you that he’s blocking the only exit. That’s never good.
“I know you’re grown. I know that time changes people, and that there’s time we haven’t shared, now. I knew that things would be different when you came home, and you don’t have to - you don’t have to explain why, or where you’ve been, if you don’t want to. I’m alright with that.”
Oh, this is happening now?
You’re really not prepared to have this conversation an hour before you’re scheduled to meet with Niobhan, but then, if it were left to you this conversation would happen . . . never.
You had thought Cyrion was of a similar bent, but it seems even his conflict-avoidant nature has a limit.
You wish you at least understood what that limit was, because you have no idea what you’ve said to prompt this reaction, and you’re not sure you can respond appropriately when you’re not on the same chapter, let alone the same page.
The dreaded conversation barrels on regardless.
“I just - I remember when you were nine -”
“Dad, please don’t.”
“It’s relevant! It was Midriel’s - or was it Aled’s? It was someone’s wedding, and we were standing by the tables sampling these.” He pauses, hands casting about like he can pull the correct adjective from the air. The memory of this dish is so rapturous that it eases the stress of the situation from his eyes for a count of five, so it has to be some kind of dessert. “Singular strawberry fritters, and you were fussing about how the ceremony dragged on. That’s the first time I told you that when you married, it would be in a trade with another city. You made this face at me.”
He furrows his brows and twists his mouth to one side in a mask of disapproval and doubt. You choke on gruel.
“Then you thanked me for my efforts, despite the fact that they weren’t necessary, because, for my information, you were going to court Arras. And when you were married, you were going to have a dun horse, and he was going to have a piebald horse, and you planned to ride them up and down the length of North Road every week, so I might as well leave the house to your cousins while I’m at it.”
You’re not sure what to say to that.
You’re not an overconfident guttersnipe anymore. You’re trying not to cause trouble for your father after a lifetime of doing nothing but. Arras died of consumption in 9:28.
None of those things would go over well with him, were you to bring them up.
“Yeah. That. Sounds like me.” You pinch your ear, fingers cold enough to quell a full body flush.
He exhales, muffled by the steeple of his hands over his mouth. “I just - yes, I want to see you married. I want grandchildren. I just always envisioned you being strongly opposed to it, and now that you’re not...”
Cyrion trails off. He’s normally so adept at articulating an argument that you end up more frustrated by your inability to refute what he says than the opinion you disagree with. You feel a stab of empathy for his muteness.
You think you understand what’s bothering him; this submissive, subdued version of his son is one he’s unfamiliar with, and it’s been troubling him for months. He thought an arranged marriage was a trespass so grievous that it would reach the person he thinks you are at your core, that you’d resist the way you always have - the lack of a reaction is terrifying to him. He’s wondering if that fiery boy is dead.
It dawns on you that he went to the trouble of oiling a matchmaker’s palms to get you a better bride than you’re worth for the express purpose of provoking you. It’s impressive, really. You have to respect the hustle.
Having eaten as much as you can tolerate, you push the bowl aside. “Hey. I’m doing this new thing called full disclosure? I’m alright, Dad. I’ll tell you when that changes.”
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Sky Full of Stars - Chapter Ten.
Huge thanks to the few of you still invested in this story. I'd love to hear from a few others who are reading it, too, if you'd be so kind as to leave a little comment?
Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine
Tag list - In the comments
Words - 4,430
Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Minors DNI!
“Baby love, you’re quiet,” he called, walking around from the lounge and into the kitchen after finishing his call, finding the space empty. “Jade?”
Silence. Had she gone for a bath, and he not noticed? Checking the bathroom, he found nothing but an empty room, the same with the bedroom and her mini studio. Going back into the kitchen again, he pulled his phone out, scrolling to hit her number. It was while the call was simply ringing out that he noticed a letter next to her untouched glass of wine, picking it up. As soon as he began to read, he cut the call, concentrating on the contents.
With every word he read, his heart sank with a led weight, his forehead creasing further. “Lady, you’ve gotta nerve.” he whispered into the nothingness of the kitchen, putting the letter down again and picking his phone up. Still no answer from Jade. Fuck.
He knew exactly what this would have done to her, bringing back an event he knew she hadn’t truly processed and moved on from, seeing the bomb that had been Polina suggesting even for a second that any of it had been her fault. Her son was a steroid junkie whose actions had finished his relationship; Jade could have been absent for more than she was, and his choices wouldn’t have been her fault. It made his anger prickle sharply to read even the mere inkling of anything to the contrary.
What was more, her words would only solidify the fact that Jade more than likely did blame herself for what had happened. If she didn’t, then it would be very untrue to form, but he couldn’t know for sure since she hadn’t ever really opened up to him about it beyond one brief conversation. All he did know was that emotionally, she was now likely climbing the walls, and out on the streets alone.
Picking up his keys, he left the apartment, wracking his brains as he strode down to the elevator, trying to remember her haunts. Conveniently, most were in SoHo, just a five-minute ride away from her building, Adrien hopping into a cab. He tried The Back Room first, then The Library, both missing the blonde his eyes tried to pick out among the patrons.
Lighting a cigarette outside of the second location, he stood and thought for a few moments, taking stock. He was a mixture of worried for her welfare, and slightly pissed off that she hadn’t gone straight to him about it. She always said how much she trusted and loved him, but these actions didn’t back that up.
It wasn’t about him, though.
Feeling his insides begin to coil further, he paced back and forth slowly, trying to remember other places where she might go, her little ports in a storm. Of course.
“Where we heading, my guy?” the cabbie he hailed asked as Adrien climbed in.
“Shark Bar, Nolita.”
“Can do, bud.”
It was colloquially named as such because of the shark motifs that hung upon the wall, the actual name of the establishment Spring Bar, a place he’d visited with her one afternoon shortly after Christmas. They’d sat at the bar sinking tequila shots before going back to hers and having horny, drunken sex for most of the evening, and at the bar was exactly where he found her upon entering, sliding onto the stool beside her.
It took her a moment to look up from her large glass of iced Jack Daniels and notice him there, sheepishness crossing her sad features as she cast her eyes downwards with a sigh. “Am I really that obvious?”
“Yep.” His tone was a little flat, Jade looking back up at him to see his brows knitting. “When you bolted, you went in the fucking wrong direction.” The bartender then arrived, placing a napkin down. “Stolichnaya, double. No ice.”
“Right away.”
He nodded in thanks, turning back to her. “I don’t need to ask you if you’re alright, because I know you’re not, and I won’t make this about me being pissed off that you ran away instead of coming to me. Saying that, though, we need to talk about this. You need to talk about it, the contents of the letter that fucking thoughtless woman felt compelled to send to you on her asshole son’s behalf.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Well, you kinda have to,” he spoke, taking the glass placed before him and sinking it in one, requesting a refill he immediately received, “because I’m done with watching it chip away at you, the way you stuff everything down and refuse to talk about it. And don’t you dare say it doesn’t, baby. You might be able to hide it from others without consequence, but you can’t with me.”
Her lip began to wobble, feeling discomfort slither against her insides, like an eel angrily thrashing within her belly. It should have been comforting, that the man next to her really, really saw her, but to Jade, it was scary as hell. “Not here.”
“Alright,” he spoke, tipping the contents of the glass down his throat before he stood. “Drink up.”
She did, sliding off the stool as he left a handful of bills atop the bar, grabbing her hand and squeezing it tightly, thumb rubbing a soft circle. It told her that yes, while he was pissed off with her, his love still shone through the brightest.
It didn’t stop her from being scared to death, though, her mind immediately sending support pillars to the emotional wall she’d built within, desperate for fortification. They arrived back twenty minutes later, Jade walking straight to the sideboard where she kept her liquor bottles, picking up the bourbon and a couple of glasses. “Do you want a drink?”
“Nope,” he spoke, flopping down on the couch. “I want you to sit here and fucking tell me everything you’re pushing down, because I know I’m not getting the full picture. I also want to know why you don’t deal with it, deny yourself the perfectly fucking human act of properly acknowledging whatever it is that’s bugging you.”
“I do deal with it, just differently,” she shrugged, sitting down next to him.
He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “No, you don’t. I know it, so does Jen, too. I don’t get it either, because short term annoyances, you speak your damned mind immediately! You deal with it right there and then, and I admire you so much for it because in that respect, you’re definitely more forthright than I am. When it hits you deeper, though, you run from it,” he explained, Jade feeling her heart beginning to pound.
“I don’t run, I -”
“Yes, you fucking do! Quit being in denial over it, Jade!” Immediately, he felt bad for yelling at her, seeing her eyes turning glassy. She had to hear it, though. He’d reached the end of his tether at watching her beginning to crumble from it. Her meltdown and fleeing her apartment that evening had been the final straw for him. “I don’t want to yell at you about this but fuck, baby. You can’t keep torturing yourself like this.” His eyes searched hers for some kind of answer, but she wasn’t forthcoming, gripping his hand as she rested her head down on her knees.
She had to tell him. Somebody other than her had to know what she held within, what she hadn’t spoken of to another soul, that nobody other than she and her ex knew. It was with bravery, but crippling fear that she took a deep breath and finally spoke it aloud.
“Three months before Ivan beat me, I found out I was pregnant. We wanted to wait before telling anyone just to be sure, so we did, but sadly I miscarried at six weeks. He blamed me and my busy work schedule, said it was my fault. I think that’s ultimately why I got a beatdown, because he couldn’t keep in how livid he was that our baby died before it was even a baby at all.”
A cold wave washed right through him, pulling his hands from hers, wrapping her in his arms instead. “Fuck,” he breathed, stroking her hair, strong hands gripping her tightly. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, baby love.” She rested her head back to her knees, sobbing quietly while reliving it all, feeling comforted by the warmth of his arms and the kisses he laid against the centre of her back.
“You cannot for one fucking second think that it was your fault, you can’t,” he spoke softly, making her sit up. “It wasn’t, and it didn’t warrant you being attacked by him. It wasn’t your fault, Jade.”
“But it was, though!” she cried, shaking her head. “Even if it wasn’t anything I did or didn’t do to lose our baby, I should have seen it coming. I should have gotten out of there quicker and then maybe I wouldn’t have ended up with pins holding my cheekbone together! I should have known he’d never forgive me for it! I should have seen it coming with Jen as well, instead of ignoring that she was spiralling because I couldn’t deal with it, and now, now I’m terrified I’m going to miss something coming with you that means ultimately, I’ll lose you.”
There it was, her emotional dam finally bursting, Adrien seeing what had been lurking within that she’d so desperately been trying to ignore. She blamed herself for things she truly didn’t have any control over, and then couldn’t deal with how that made her feel, attempting to do the impossible and thus finding absolutely no resolve over what was emotionally crippling to endure. It was hard because she made it hard, rather than facing it rationally.
“Honey, you’re not going to lose me because of something you didn’t see coming. If we have problems, at least from my perspective, I'll be straight up and tell you. I’m big on communication,” he began, Jade cutting in.
“But what if I mess it up somehow and that doesn’t happen, and...”
“Hey, come on. You’ve gotta calm down. The only way you’re gonna mess things up is if you keep on doing this, having meltdowns because you can’t deal with everything you avoid, and then it bubbles up and you don’t have a clue how to see your way through it. You have to trust me enough to be there for you, talk to me about things, not see it as weakness. Because I think you do, don’t you?”
She couldn’t meet his eyes, Adrien knowing he was finally breaking down a wall, gentling a little as he took her hand in his again. “What Ivan did to you was not your fault. Jen OD’ing was not your fault. Thinking you could even control that for a second won’t lead you to anything good, but talking about it until you feel better, even if it isn’t to me – although I’d prefer it if you did – will lead to you to good things.”
She winced a smile, shaking her head. “How the hell you want to be with an emotional headcase like me, wow. I don’t know. I’d get out now if I were you.”
“Nope, won’t be doing that,” he spoke, hand tightening on hers, “and you can fucking stop throwing bombs at me because you don’t know how to deal with something good happening to you. Because deep down, you don’t think it’s real unless it’s a mess.”
Another brick tumbled free from the wall.
“You’re right,” she finally acquiesced, “I do that. I see myself doing it, and I try to stop myself. I think I push the self-destruct button, to stop myself from becoming hurt. Can’t trust that you’re not going anywhere when all the signs point to the fact that you are. But my fucking brain won’t let me see that!”
Yet another brick fell.
He took a deep breath, moving to crouch before her, taking her other hand in a tight grasp, too. “Do you want to know how much I’m in this for the long haul? I’d marry you right here and now if I could. You’re it for me, Jade. You’re the one. You’re right, I’m not going anywhere.”
Her mouth dropped open, her eyes softening as they rounded. “You would?”
Resting his forehead to hers, he nodded. “In a fucking heartbeat. I’m not saying that putting a ring on your finger will fix all of your stuff. That won’t be easy, either. I need you to see, though, how much I truly am here for you and intend to be for the rest of my life, because I’ve fallen so deeply in love with you. That part, loving you forever, fucking easy as hell.”
With those words, granting him the kiss he sought, her wall finally came tumbling down.
“Thank you,” she breathed when they parted, stroking his face, “for being real with me. I think I’ve gotten away with a lot I probably shouldn’t have because people think I’m scary, so don’t challenge me. You’re the first person who ever has.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I still think you’re scary, too,” he joked, kissing her again, “but I love you enough to call you on your bullshit, because I want you not to be so stressed by it. You have two panic modes, Moo. Wound tighter than a watch spring and crying uncontrollably.”
“I know, but I’m not either of those right now,” she spoke, drying her eyes.
He leaned to catch a tear with his lips, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Maybe a little of the latter.”
“Yeah,” she chuckled, “but you just told me you wanted to marry me, and it wasn’t a proper proposal or anything, I know, but still.”
He lifted his chin a little, his smile crinkling his eyes. “Would you like it to be?” When he saw nothing but sheer delight reflecting back at him, he lowered down to one knee. “Jade Lucia Burton, you are the most incredible, beautiful, sweet natured, hilarious, amazing woman I’ve ever met. Will you do me the total honour of being my wife?”
How was this real? How had she managed to find this lovely, patient, kind, holy grail of a man, and have him love her so much that after just six months, he wanted her to be his wife? She didn’t know, but what she did know was there was only one answer to his question. “Yes, Adrien Nicholas Brody. Yes, I will marry you.” Pulling her close, they entwined happily, sharing kisses and whispers of love, the rest of the world falling away into insignificance.
“Secondary question; are you completely sure? Because I’m just a nerdy dude from Queens and you’re entirely too cool for me,” he spoke, prompting her giggles, Jade stroking his face.
“Erm, have you met the ridiculous calamity that’s me?” she cried, kissing him again. “I’m saying yes before you come to your senses!”
Their laughter grew, Adrien moving to sit back at her side. “Okay, third question. Will you marry me the day after tomorrow?”
Her eyes practically fell out of her head. “What?”
“I did just tell you I’d do it right now if we could, but you have to wait twenty-four hours after you apply for a marriage license. So, will you? Shall we do something crazy while we’re both still young enough to appreciate it?”
She could barely keep in her excited giggles. “And people call me mental!”
When they finally went to bed that morning, neither could really sleep, instead enjoying themselves with much less restful pleasures before arriving at the courthouse as soon as it opened in order to be issued with a marriage license. With that all-important piece of paper secured, everything seemed to move in a whirlwind.
They decided not to tell their loved ones until after, wanting it to be just for them, deciding they could do a blessing or similar with their family and friends there at a later date. Adrien had suits in abundance, travelling back up to his house upstate to fetch one the afternoon before, leaving Jade behind to search for something suitable to wear. She wasn’t very interested in a big, traditional dress, a very unfussy woman where her fashions were concerned.
After an unsuccessful shopping excursion, the dress she chose was actually something she’d never worn, finding it hanging at the back of her closet, still bagged and tagged. It was long, iron-grey silk designed by John Rocha, timeless and elegant.
“Well, isn’t she perfect?” she spoke fondly upon pulling the garment from its bag, seeing it had a few creases. It was nothing that a steamer and a little patience couldn’t fix. They’d managed to get in last minute at city hall the following morning, a cancellation meaning they would be married at nine twenty-five, both up and out of bed by just coming up to seven. He was ready way before her, waiting for her by the front door. When she walked out, looking so beautiful, he almost cried.
“Are you absolutely sure a total knockout like you wants to get hitched to me?” he spoke, nuzzling her nose with his, kissing her lips softly.
“Never been surer of anything in my life before.”
“Good,” he chirped, reaching into his pocket, “now you can have this.” Taking her left hand, he pushed onto it something Jade hadn’t even thought about, not even while they were shopping for wedding rings the day before, her mouth falling open. There upon her finger, he’d placed the most beautiful engagement ring she’d ever seen, a cushion cut diamond mounted on a platinum filigree band. It was a hundred percent to her taste, exactly what she would have picked herself, should he have asked her.
“When did you get this?” she cried, covering her mouth with her other hand, watching it sparkling upon her finger as she tried not to cry, save ruining the makeup she’d fussed over for an hour. “Baby, I love it so much. It’s perfect!”
“Yesterday, while you were across the other side of the jewellers looking at bracelets,” he smiled, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing her fingers. “Glad you like it.”
“I love it,” she confirmed again, leaning to kiss him. “Thank you.”
One cab ride later and they arrived just on time, checking in with the front desk, all ready to get hitched. Or so they thought.
“Will your witnesses be arriving shortly?” the lady asked them, both staring at one another with wide eyes. Shit.
“Um, oh blimey,” Jade grimaced, starting to fan herself with her hand. “I think that’s the one thing we forgot! Shit!”
“Well... I mean I could be one?” the woman suggested, turning her head back to the small admin area behind the desk. “Cece? You fancy coming to watch a couple of beautiful, famous people get married?”
The aforementioned Cece looked up from her computer, her mouth falling open. “Oh my Jesus, it’s you two!” Her surprise made them laugh, watching as she flew out from her chair. “I do, yes! Anything to help out!”
“That’s really kind of you both, thank you,” Adrien spoke, Cece looked very excited as she took them in, noticing something as she pointed at Jade.
“Hold up! You don’t have any flowers, hon. All bride’s need a bouquet. Wait, wait.” Moving across the space, she raided a vase containing a large bloom of gardenias and a lot of greenery, pulling everything out and giving them a shake to remove the excess water, a handful of tissues offered by Lauryn, the front desk lady. “Wait, wait, I have ribbon in my desk somewhere!”
After all drying and securing was done, they were ushered down to the courtroom, Jade feeling her insides fizz with excitement. It might not have been the wedding day she’d dreamed of, always saying she’d do something small and lowkey when she finally met the right man, but at least she had the latter of that perfect. Because he was.
Yes, most certainly, he is the man who will come into your life and never leave it.
Those words, spoken to her three years before by a psychic who she hadn’t put any faith in at all, they couldn’t be more accurate. After a mere ten minutes, exchanging rings and vows, they were pronounced husband and wife to the cheers and applause of Lauryn and Cece, their first kiss captured by the appointed photographer.
“Can you do something for me?” Adrien asked, holding her face in his hands.
“Anything.”
“Love me forever?”
She smiled, kissing the tip of his nose. “Always.”
Truly, she had never loved anybody more in that moment than she did her husband. They left Manhattan behind later that morning, Jade piling her bags into his car and heading up to Cleveland with him, ready to see the place she would now get to call home.
All along the journey, he kept looking to his side, beaming a smile as he laughed, taking one hand off the steering wheel and gripping her thigh. “I can’t believe it. You’re my fucking wife, Moo!”
“I really bloody am!” she replied, grinning widely. “It’ll be such a cool story to tell our grandkids one day, won’t it?”
“It will, yeah,” he confirmed. “So, how many kids do you want us to have?”
“As many as you want to give me, sexy mans. Ideally two, though. Depends how much it hurts.”
“Two sounds good.”
“But not just yet,” she was quick to follow with, “I’d like it to be just us for a few years first.”
“That makes a lot of sense, actually,” he agreed, “especially since our house is still half a damned construction site!” Their house. It made her heart flutter to hear him call it that.
He was nervous to let her see it, Stone Barn Castle still very much under construction. He’d shown her some pictures on his phone, though, of how the renovation was shaping up. “So how many rooms did you say were done, baby?”
“All the exterior is, every damned stone needed to be repointed, and the new roof is on as well,” he began. “The kitchen is done, the bathroom, our bedroom, and that’s about it. I’m sorry, I’m taking you up to your new home and it isn’t even finished!”
“Oi, stop with this,” she soothed, rubbing his arm affectionately. “I can cope! Mum and dad decided to renovate their brownstone about four months after we moved in, and it was bloody chaos for the remainder of that year. I’ll be fine, just as long as I have a place to cook and sleep. And other things that involve a bed.”
“You’ll love the bed,” he winked, his mouth upturning. “It’s fucking huge, I had it custom built, all black carved wood.”
“Are you a secret goth mans, Mr. B?” she asked in her cutely comic voice.
“Nope,” he laughed, “the bedroom is white with black wood furniture, dark floors. It needs some rugs, though.”
“I bet white sheepskin ones would look fucking cracking, innit?”
He shook his head, still laughing. “Oh, god. I married a cockney.” He waited for it; his wife not disappointing.
“I am not a fucking cockney, you cheeky wanker!” Her mild ire was delivered right on cue. “Cockneys are from east London. I’m north London massive, mate.”
“And so damned easy to get a rise out of,” he rumbled with laughter, Jade smacking his thigh. “Hey, easy on the violence, Mrs. B! I’m trying not to crash here!” He paused for a second, overtaking a slow-moving truck. “What are you going to go by now, by the way? You taking my surname, or sticking with your own?”
“I think professionally, I’ll hyphenate them, but privately just use Brody.”
He liked that, Adrien grasping her hand and bringing to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
They arrived after a long five hours on the road, Jade’s excitement peaking before she was even out of the car, looking all around. “Is all that land ours, too?” she cried, Adrien nodding as he pulled her bags from the back.
“It is.” Once again, he waited for it, the word he knew she’d speak. The expensive word.
“I’m so getting horses!”
Ahh, there it was. Jade had ridden since her early teens, her mother taking her for lessons at NYC Riding Academy once she and Steven had been able to afford such luxuries, her sister Rachel following her love of all things equestrian, too. She had a few of her own over at her house in England, and Rachel now owned her own stables in New Haven, looking after the horses belonging mostly to wealthy Connecticut housewives who wanted the status of horse ownership without any of the hard work.
“I’m sure we can plan out a small stable block for that,” he told her, kissing her cheek as she squeaked with excitement.
“And a chicken coop! I really want chickens!”
“Oh, god,” he groaned as she took her duffle from him and swung it over her shoulder. “You’re gonna turn this place back into a farm, aren’t you?”
“Yes!”
Well, if it made her happy.
The more immediate happiness was found at being shown around her new home, Adrien taking great pleasure in introducing her to his contractors as his wife, and then showing her upstairs where he took even greater pleasure in pulling her from her clothes, and doing exactly what was expected of newlyweds for most of the early afternoon. After acquainting her with the bed so thoroughly, they headed out again to go and buy food from the market in the village, the light beginning to fade just as they were returning.
They ate dinner out on the rear patio, Jade taking to the long grass with her wine glass in hand afterwards, looking up at the sky. In Manhattan, the many tall buildings and bright lights meant that a clear view of the night sky wasn’t always offered, the splendorous beauty of the countryside, surrounded only by forest changing that for her entirely.
Leaning back against his chest as she felt him behind her, she smiled contentedly as he kissed her cheek, pointing up to the blazing canopy above. “Sky full of stars.”
“I thought you might like that.” he murmured, kissing her again.
She loved it.
Finally, she was home.
#adrien brody fanfiction#adrien brody#adrien brody smut#adrien brody fanfic#adrien brody fic#adrien brody x ofc#sky full of stars#adrien and jade
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The Contendings of History and Seth
Seth as a serpent-slayer (MET)
It's safe to say that the myth of Osiris is one of the only non-Greek myths to enjoy a comparable degree of recognition in modern popculture. There are few direct adaptations, sure, but the core narrative is well known, and as a result works themed after ancient Egypt use Seth as a villain almost without fail if only the premise allows the use of fantastical elements.
However, in this article I will instead examine the other side of Seth, and especially his role as a protagonist of myths in his own right, including the historical circumstances of this development. While I mostly want to introduce you to a little known but fascinating world of heroic(?) portrayals of Seth, naturally I will also cover Seth's later loss of relevance and complete vilification to explain why it survived as the dominant tradition.
Early history of Seth
Seth protecting Ra from Apep (wikimedia commons)
From the dawn of recorded history Seth's status in Egyptian religion was ambivalent, and it continues to be a topic of heated debate among researchers what degree of popularity he enjoyed in particular very early on.
Some aspects of Seth character, like his evident interest in both men and women and whether it reflects broader Egyptian cultural norms (or if it’s merely yet another way in which Seth was an outsider among gods and men, as the author of the first monograph dealing with Seth proposed in the 1960s) are likewise a hotly debated topic.
Seth was associated with many animals, such as the hippopotamus and the crocodile, but his main symbol is the sha or “Seth animal” which is regarded as either a mystery or a fictional creation, and in Egyptian texts inhabits zones inhospitable to humans.
Seth was called “the god of confusion” by Herman Te Velde (the first writer to dedicate a monograph to him) and while this opinion has been since called into question, it is undeniable that it’s hard to form a coherent image of him.
In addition to various versions of the well known myth mentioned above there are other instances of combat between Seth and Horus (most likely initially a distinct myth combined with the narrative about Osiris’ death and resurrection at a later date) and of Seth as a menace to the established order. Some of the Pyramid Texts present even the human followers of Seth as enemies to be conquered (which is held by some researchers a mythical memory of strife between local kings before the unification of Egypt). .
However, there are also texts where Seth is a rightful member of the Ennead; where he and Horus act in harmony as protectors of the ruler; where he assists pharaohs in their resurrection in the afterlife; and even to Seth as one of the gods responsible for returning Osiris to life. A recurring motif in texts dealing with the afterlife in particular is a description of Seth offering a ladder to the dead who can reach some destination themselves. Mentuhotep II of the XI dynasty seemingly had Seth and Hathor depicted behind his throne in art; Hatshepsut described Seth positively as well.
Personal names invoking Seth are known, too; and as established by Willam Berg in his studies of a different ambivalent deity, “children are not called after spooks.”
Seth's ambiguous character made him ideal to represent The Other in Egyptian culture – the foreigners, especially these arriving from the Levant, their culture, and generally “un-Egyptian” traits. In that capacity, he functioned as an “ambassador” or “minister of foreign affairs,” to put it in modern terms. Or perhaps a foreigner in his own country, so to speak.
As a result, he came to be associated with a group of deities which, while part of the official pantheon, had their origin outside Egypt.
The Ramessides and foreign gods
Generally speaking, there were two primary sources for foreign deities incorporated into Egyptian religion: Levantine trade centers like Gebal (Byblos in Lebanon) or Ugarit (Ras Shamra in Syria); and Egypt's vassal/enemy/ally/very occasional ruler Nubia (roughly corresponding to present day Sudan).
Libyan influence was smaller, and to my knowledge there is no evidence of any major impact of Egypt's other trading partners (Punt, located near Horn of Africa, and Minoan Crete; the latter absorbed many Egyptian influences instead, though) or enemies (like the Hittites) on religion. The peculiar history of Seth is related to the the first of these areas.
Early researchers saw the “Syrian” deities as worshiped at best by slaves or mercenaries – they didn't fit neatly into the image of Egypt presented by some royal inscriptions: an unmovable, unchanging and homogeneous country, a vision as appealing to absolute rulers in the bronze age as it was to many 19th and 20th century researchers.
However, the truth was much more complex, and in fact some of the best preserved accounts of foreign cults in Egypt indicate that the process was in no small part related to the pharaohs themselves. For example Ramses II in particular was an enthusiast of Anat, as evidenced by statues he left behind:
Ramses II and Anat (wikimedia commons)
He also named his daughter Bint-Anat (“daughter of Anat”) and his favorite pets and possessions bore Anat-derived names too.
Not only only Ramses II himself, but the entire XIXth dynasty – the “Ramessides” (a term also applied to the XXth dynasty) - was particularly keen on these imported deities. Curiously, one of its founders was named Seti - “man of Seth,” and Seth was seemingly the tutelary deity of his family. The well known case of Ramses II's red hair might be connected to this – this uncommon trait was associated with Seth.
As a result of the Ramessides' rise to power Seth became one of the state gods in Egypt, alongside heavyweights like Amun, Ptah or Ra. However, it's also safe to say that he was popular in everyday cult among commoners, as evidenced by finds from camps for workers partaking in various construction projects.
Part of Egypt of the Ramessides at its maximal extent (in green; wikimedia commons)
During the discussed period, Egypt was as the peak of its power, both military and cultural; the “other” recognized Egypt's power. Weaker states in the proximity of Egypt paid tribute, while the more distant fellow “superpowers”of the era (the Hittites and the Mitanni, rivals of Egypt in Syria and the Levant, and the more distant Kassite Babylon) bargained with Egypt for dynastic marriages, luxury goods or craftsmen. While some foreign rulers didn't necessarily get that the pharaohs might not want to play by their rules and expressed frustration with that in their letters sometimes (see a particularly funny example below), overall the relations were positive, and resulted in a lot of interchange between cultures.
(source)
The incorporation of foreign deities into Egyptian pantheon was a phenomenon distinct both from the well known practice of interpretatio graeca and from the monumental Mesopotamian god lists, and foreign gods were adopted rather selectively. Some researchers propose that the incorporated deities were often chosen because their sphere of influence wasn't covered by any native god.
For example, Astarte (more accurately Ashtart or Athtart, considering the Ugaritic orthography; however the Greek spelling is used in literature to refer to the Egyptian version and I'll stick to that) was associated with horses and chariot warfare. As the animal wasn't known in Egypt in the formative period of the state, it wasn't among the symbols of any local deity; at the same time chariots were a prominent component of the Egyptian military at the height of its power, and as such required a deity to be put in charge of it.
Six deities of broadly “Syrian” origin are usually listed among Egyptian gods in modern scholarly literature: Anat, Astarte, Resheph, Houron, Baal (the Ugaritic weather controlling one) and Qadesh. Of these, four were pretty similar to their original versions. Qadesh is a complex case as it's uncertain if such a deity existed outside Egypt – it's possible she developed as a combination of a divine title (“the holy one”) and the general Egyptian perception of foreign religion. Some scholars in the past asserted she is simply Athirat/Asherah but this interpretation relied on the false premise of Athirat forming a trinity with Anat and Ashtart and the three of them being the only prominent goddesses in cities like Ugarit.
There are also curiosities like Chaitau, a god with Egyptian name (“he who appears burning”) but attested only in sources from Levantine cities (though ones written in hieroglyphics) and in magical formulas of similar origin.
Baal is the most puzzling case: simply put, it's clear Baal was introduced to Egypt. It's clear Baal was depicted in Egyptian art. It's even clear that Egyptians knew that Anat and Astarte were deities from Baal's circle back at home, and that Baal was tied to a narrative about combat with the sea. And yet, it's not easy to say where the Egyptian reception of Baal ends and where Seth starts. Baal's name was even written with the Seth animal symbol as determinative. When exactly did this identification first occur is unknown: while it would be sensible to assume the Hyksos, a Canaanite group which settled in Egypt and briefly ruled the Nile delta, are responsible, there is some evidence which might indicate this already happened before.
Baal and Seth
Baal was a natural match for Seth: Seth represented the foreigners, Baal was the most popular god of the foreign group most keen on settling in Egypt; Baal has a somewhat unruly character in myths; both rule over storms and have a pronounced warrior character. Additionally, both of them were depicted as enemies of monstrous serpents.
Baal was identified with Seth in Egypt, but in turn Seth became more Baal-like too. So-called “Stela of year 400” depicts an entity labeled as Seth more similar in appearance to Baal due to the human face and Levantine, rather than Egyptian, garb:
(source)
It is well known that the main myth of Baal, in Ugarit the first part of the “Baal cycle,”describes his combat with the sea, personified by the god Yam, seemingly described both as humanoid and serpentine. In Egypt, this narrative was associated with the composite Seth-Baal, and a fragmentary version is recorded in the so-called Astarte papyrus. Curiously, it was actually discovered long before the Baal cycle itself – however, it only became a subject of in depth studies in the wake of the discovery of Ugarit. There are also many similarities to the Hurrian myth “Song of the Sea,” known only from fragments, and to the Song of Hedammu from Hittite archives.
While in the Ugaritic version Baal fought the personified Sea against the wishes of the head god El, in the Egyptian version the confrontation happens because the Ennead fears Yam, who threatens to flood the earth and demands tribute, much like the Hurrian Sea.
Before Seth properly enters the scene, we learn about how Ptah and Renenutet, a harvest goddess, appeal to his associate Astarte (as already noted before viewed as Ptah's daughter in Egypt), hoping she'll act as a tribute bearer. Astarte is described as a fearsome warrior; however, she is not meant to fight Yam herself, but merely temporarily placate him. She seemingly strips down and brings offerings – this is, once again, closer to the Hurrian than Ugaritic version, where Shaushka, an “Ishtar type” goddess like Astarte, seduces the sea monster Hedammu in a similar way. It is not clear if Yam is interested, though - in fact he appears to question why Astarte isn’t dressed (possibly mocking what must’ve been a humiliating situation for a warrior deity, I’d assume).
Eventually, Seth arrives and presumably fights Yam, likely with Astarte's help - the rest of the papyrus is too poorly preserved to decipher, but as indicated by the foreign equivalents Seth and Astarte win. This is confirmed by the Hearst Medical Papyrus, imploring Seth to expel illness from the treated person just like he vanquished the personified Sea.
The Ugaritic version of the myth doesn’t include a tribute scene among surviving fragments, though it’s worth pointing out that the Ugaritic Ashtart/Astarte cheers on Baal during his battle against Yam and berates him for not acting quick enough, which is easy to interpret as hostility caused by a similar episode. Many researches assume that it existed among the lost fragments of the Baal Cycle tablets, though this is for now purely speculative.
A variant of the myth of Seth and Horus - The Contendings of Horus and Seth - presents a further curious case of Seth-Baal syncretism, this time incorporated into well established Egyptian myth rather than an imported foreign one.
Seth and Horus compete for the right to rule after Osiris' death. Ra thinks Seth is the better option to nominate as a successor because Seth killed Apophis on his behalf, but a few other of the elder gods disagree and try to delay the process by insisting to ask various deities to provide their expert opinions.
These generally favor Horus much to Ra's annoyance, but he can't go against them so he insults Horus (calling him "feeble and weak-limbed" and criticizing his hygiene) but doesn't stop his rise to power. The semi-humorous portrayal of Ra is rather unusual; in addition to showing annoyance with other gods, at one point he vanishes, and only agrees to return because Hathor lured him out.
It seems Horus' mother Isis insults Seth in response to Ra's comments. Seth, offended, refuses to partake in the divine assembly unless Isis leaves; Ra orders that and the gods gather again without her. However, Isis disguises herself and asks Seth who should inherit first, a child or a brother who can provide for himself (and is a foreigner), to which Seth replies that the former; this was a trick, obviously, and Isis holds it as proof that Seth forfeited his right to rule, which Ra accepts.
After multiple chaotic tribulations (including the [in]famous lettuce episode as well as Horus decapitating his mother because he decides she doesn't do enough) Horus is re-declared king but Ra, implored by Ptah (otherwise absent from the myth) gives Seth two wives (eg. Anat and Astarte; this solution was suggested already earlier by the gods providing the opinion; some authors question if they are meant to be Seth’s wives or merely allies, much like the relationship between Baal, Anat and Ashtart in Ugarit is considered debatable) and the storm clouds as his new domain. He is to strike fear into hearts of men, but will also get to be treated as if he were Ra's own son.
Considering the emphasis on storm and the mention of Anat and Astarte, it's pretty clear to me that Egyptians essentially invented their own Baal backstory meant to integrate the foreign tradition with their own by recasting Baal and Seth as the same entity. The text is however unusual because of its humorous tone – the gods insult each other, act ineptly and all around hardly provide an inspiring example. Perhaps the focus on Seth made this possible.
As a final note before I'll move on to times much less prosperous for Seth it's worth to mention that not only Baal but also other foreign gods were at times equated with Seth. The Libyan god Ash was conflated with him in the western oases, while treaties with the Hittites assign the name of Seth to various members of their pantheon, including the Baal-like Tarhunna (equivalent of Hurrian Teshub) but also the sun goddess of Arinna.
Demonization of Seth
While in the late bronze age Seth greatly benefited from his role as a god of foreigners, in later periods this has proven to be his undoing.
Egypt couldn't maintain its power forever, and eventually fell to the Assyrians, who showed little respect for local culture and looted Thebes. While the Assyrian domination was only temporary, it severely damaged the country, and a spiritual scapegoat was needed to reconcile the carnage with the idea that Egypt was a land chosen and protected by the gods.
The change seemingly occurred under the rule of Psamtik – in a new version of the myth of Seth and Horus, Seth not only lost decisively, but also was punished afterwards, and religious texts spoke of a “rebellion”of Seth. Seth was never associated with Ashur, the head god of the Assyrians, before, but in Egyptian imagination he was blamed for bringing the invaders under “his” command to ravage and subjugate the country. A mythical text has Isis implore Ra to punish Seth for robbing temples, much like the Assyrian armies did. Even later accounts tell various tales about Seth being punished, either gruesomely (a few texts recount massacred of towns belonging to Seth) or humorously (for example in one text Thoth makes him impotent with a spell) and exiled from among gods.
There's evidence that the worship of Seth, previously commonplace, came to be abhorred and depictions of Seth were destroyed or altered. A famous example is a Seth statue converted to look like Knhnum or Amun instead:
Seth no more (wikimedia commons)
A late relief from Edfu, from the Ptolemaic times, seems to indicate that even Seth's role as a guardian of the solar barge was lost: Seth, depicted as a hippopotamus, was defeated by Horus from the solar barge of Re. However, while Apep is usually depicted as huge and menacing, hippo Seth is tiny and pathetic.
Seth as a tiny hippo representing the forces of chaos (wikimedia commons)
Curiously, despite the official policies, which continued under Ptolemaic rule, it seems that until the 2nd century CE, Seth continued to be popular in the Dahkleh oasis, possibly even serving as the main deity there. Sadly due to lack of research I am unable to provide any more detailed information about that.
Closing remarks
Even further demonization of Seth is evident in the fact that the Greeks and Romans referred to Seth as Typhon, leaving no room for ambiguity of interpretation. As the Greek accounts of the late version of Seth were all that was known for centuries due to ability to read hieroglyphic writing vanishing with the advent of new religions, it remains dominant in media today.
Perhaps it would be beneficial to leave some room for the serpent-slaying hero Seth hanging out with foreign deities in modern works, though? Surely his peculiar outsider status is even more appealing to modern readers than it was to the public of the Ramesside period.
Bibliography
N. Ayali-Darshan, The Other Version of the Story of the Storm-god’s Combat with the Sea in the Light of Egyptian, Ugaritic, and Hurro-Hittite Texts
G. Beckman, Foreigners in the Ancient Near East
M. Dijkstra, Ishtar seduces the Sea-serpent. A New Join in the Epic of Hedammu (KUB 36, 56+95) and its meaning for the battle between Baal and Yam in Ugaritic Tradition
T. J. Lewis, ʿAthtartu’s Incantations and the Use of Divine Names as Weapons
D. Schorsch and M. T. Wypyski, Seth, "Figure of Mystery"
D. T. Sugimoto (ed.), Transformation of a Goddess. Ishtar – Astarte – Aphrodite - especially the chapters ‘Athtart in Late Bronze Age Syrian Texts by M. S. Smith and Astarte in New Kingdom Egypt: Reconsideration of Her Role and Function by K. Tazawa
H. Te Velde, Seth, God of Confusion: A Study of His Role in Egyptian Mythology and Religion
P. J. Turner, Seth - a misrepresented god in the Ancient Egyptian pantheon? (PhD thesis)
C. Zivie-Coche, Foreign Deities in Egypt
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📷
THE MARCOS-ERA RESISTANCE POEM THAT SMUGGLED A HIDDEN MESSAGE INTO STATE MEDIA
by MLC | Apr 20, 2020 | Martial Law Stories | 0 comments
Source: Esquiremag.phBy: Paolo Enrico MelendezThe story takes place during one of the most tumultuous periods in our national history—it is therefore a complex one, with a degree of subjectivity to its beginning and end. Today it is the stuff of literary lore—cunning trumps censure—and like many legendary accounts, it is polished now from all the reverent handling.One version of this story has us begin in 1973, a year after Proclamation 1081 was announced, placing the entire country under martial law, to the relief of citizens desperate for discipline. Crime was on the wane; peace was prime. Manila mornings were bright under Ferdinand Marcos’ Bagong Lipunan, the reverent, mannerly new order keeping at bay the country’s negative elements: hippies and pinkoes looking to make trouble, godless and lawless and just plain gross. At night, the city curled up under curfew with a justified willingness; if you were out late at night, after all, weren’t you up to no good?There was no opposition party to rock the boat, no independent judicial body to hamper the now free wheels of justice. Even the media muckrakers were in the sewers with the filth. Proper writers wrote for the government now, in proper consultancy positions, with the Army Office of Civil Relations making sure their work aligned with the Bagong Lipunan vision, from title to final full stop.Which was exactly how state-allied editors found the poem “Prometheus Unbound”. Written by one Ruben Cuevas and published by Focus Magazine, it was the myth of Prometheus picked up where Percy Bysshe Shelley left off. His avian tormentors about him, the titan finally escapes from the chains that bind him. Prometheus the populist, triumphant in the freedom previously denied him as the patron of craftsmen, the giver of fire to mortals.With a classic motif, a politically moderate subject, elaborate rhyming couplés, and iambs as martial as goose steps in the grandstand, “Prometheus Unbound” represented all that was estimable under Marcosian poetics, the literary equivalent of crew cut hair and home by 21:00.Sometime later, however, Focus staff were alerted to an alarming thing: “Prometheus Unbound” turned out to be an acrostic, in which the first letters of each line, when read downwards, spelled out a message different from that of the rest of the poem. The magazine’s editor-in-chief was summoned for a reprimand by the press secretary himself as some sources recall; the literary editor was promptly sacked. The identity of Ruben Cuevas was investigated. And men in uniform rushed from newsstand to newsstand, pulling any remaining copies of Focus, that Marcos-allied publication which now carried the opposition’s favorite slogan, chanted and printed alike at lighting rallies and on contraband manifestos, “Marcos Hitler Diktador Tuta”.📷The SwitchOur story’s other version has us begin on January, 1970. Students and activists in Manila and the country’s other urban areas were protesting a myriad of issues, from rights civil and human to women and worker. They decried the encroachment of the United States on the Philippines as a colonial influence, the continuing manipulation by a small oligarchy of the country’s political and economic affairs. Tensions rose, and in what is now known as the First Quarter Storm, clashes between protesters and the constabulary began in earnest.At the front lines was a journalist named Jose Maria Flores Lacaba, known simply as Pete. The eldest of six children, Lacaba is Cagayan de Oro-born and Pateros-raised. A fan of local radio, Tagalog komiks, and the weekly Balagtasan, Lacaba’s class consciousness was tempered at an early age as a disadvantaged scholar surrounded by the rich students of Ateneo de Manila—a school he was forced to drop out of when his finances finally gave. “I was just 19 when I started writing for the Free Press, handling culture and the arts,” he recounts to Esquire. It was the only job available to
someone without a college degree. The brutal dispersals he witnessed in the skirmishes of January 26 and 30 edged Lacaba ever closer to a critical stance against the regime and the system it perpetuated. A younger brother, Emmanuel, known to friends and family as Eman, would share with the elder Lacaba this political coming of age.“In 1971, I began to take an active role in union organizing. When we lost our union’s certification election, the whole Free Press staff resigned en masse.” Lacaba, along with Free Press veterans Nick Joaquin and Gregorio Brillantes, started a new magazine, the Asia Philippines Reader. “We did our best to be balanced, but becoming politicized was unavoidable, especially after the Plaza Miranda incident,” in which a Liberal Party campaign rally was bombed, killing nine and injuring 95 others.Shortly after martial law was declared, Lacaba heard from relatives that a military unit had been looking for him at their family home in Pateros, a lucky break brought about by outdated intelligence, for Lacaba had since moved to Quezon City. Knowing that he was now a hunted man, Lacaba joined the underground press.“Our publication was called Taliba ng Bayan,” he says. It began as a monthly, mimeographed publication before the staff eventually found a sympathetic printing press. As a wanted man, Lacaba’s movements were limited to the Taliba’s various underground houses—his younger colleagues, mostly members of the College Editors Guild of the Philippines, served as stringers. At length, one of these stringers told Lacaba that The Varsitarian, the student paper of the University of Santo Tomas, was interested in publishing his work, as long as it wasn’t too radical.“I thought about writing an acrostic, as I had written some of those before, for girls,” he laughs. “A lot of anti-government acrostics were being published at the time too, in Tagalog. So I decided to do the same.” Still on the move from one underground house to another, Lacaba composed “Prometheus Unbound”.Game With High StakesThe poem makes multiple references, primarily the plays of Greek tragedian Aeschylus and English Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. “I also wanted to refer to the famous painting by [Flemish artist] Peter Paul Rubens, hence my choice of pen name.” Cuevas, on the other hand, was Lacaba’s nod to the Philippine folk hero Bernardo Carpio, himself a titan, cursed by a shaman to be wedged under the mountains of Montalban, whose mere shrug of his mighty shoulders caused the earth to shake, and whose freedom will coincide with the liberation of the Filipino race.“Laro lang,” Lacaba says of the poem’s composition. “The first line is a pun on ‘Martial Law tonight’. And Mars isn’t even a Greek god,” he laughs.Lacaba understood the risks that came with publishing the poem, however. Martial Law, after all, was just a little over a year old, and fear hung heavy in the air like a firearm’s report in the small of dawn. When Lacaba sent the poem to The Varsitarian, he told the stringer to make the acrostic clear to the publication’s editors. “The editors backed out,” Lacaba says. “That’s when I thought to send it to Focus. If memory serves, they were the only government-sanctioned magazine publishing literary works at the time. At nakalusot naman.”“The first line is a pun on ‘Martial Law tonight’. And Mars isn’t even a Greek god,” Pete Lacaba laughs.📷At What Price, FreedomIn April of 1974, Lacaba was finally captured, and was held at Camp Crame where he was routinely tortured. When his childhood pulmonary tuberculosis recurred, he was confined under heavy guard. He joined many other writers imprisoned by the state in camps all over the country, political captives whose biggest crime was to assume the responsibility of check and balance in a subdued society, who had absolutely no recourse for release while the writ of habeas corpus was suspended. They included Bienvenido Lumbera, Jose Y. Dalisay Jr., Ricardo Lee, Lilia Quindoza, Ed Maranan, Luis Teodoro, and Ninotchka Rosca, among many others. The list is long— and shameful.That same
year, Pete was visited by his younger brother, Eman, by then a celebrated poet himself. “Hindi na ako makakadalaw,” Eman said to Pete, who understood at once that his younger brother was about to go underground as well.Lacaba was set free in 1976, after the intercession of Nick Joaquin, who had made the release a condition following his acceptance of the National Artist award. “As Nick told it, he approached [Juan Ponce] Enrile during the awards ceremony. While they were talking, Marcos overheard them, and assured them of my release. Sure enough, two days after, I was summoned by the head of the constabulary, Fidel Ramos,” Lacaba says. Lacaba was given a conditional release; he was required to report weekly to Camp Crame as proof that he was still above ground and in Manila. “And if I wanted to write, it had to be apolitical.”It was during the meeting with Ramos that Lacaba was asked if he was related to a certain Manuel Lacaba, who was currently missing in Davao. “I told Ramos that there are many Lacabas in Mindanao. Pero alam ko nang si Eman iyon.” Eman was later found with three others in a shallow grave, his dead body bound and bearing signs of both summary execution and post-mortem mistreatment. His face was so disfigured that his mother would not have recognized him if not for his unique cluster of moles. One of Pete’s first acts as a free man, therefore, was to wait for the corpse of his murdered brother.One of Pete’s first acts as a free man, therefore, was to wait for the corpse of his murdered brother.📷Fetters Over ServilityThere are a number of ways to end this story as well. One is to recount that Lacaba moved on to write one master-crafted movie after another, most sounding off on social injustice at varying volumes. His screenwriting credits include Jaguar, Boatman, and Sister Stella L. Lacaba has written other seminal poems, as well, such as the seriously droll “Ang Pagkain ng Paksiw na Ayungin,” which walks the reader through a serving of sour broth fish.Lacaba finally admitted to having written “Prometheus Unbound”, but well after Marcos was overthrown and Corazon Aquino took over. In that new, just, and free space, celebrated globally as the triumph of democratic will over ruthless suppression, Lacaba teamed with the formidable Lino Brocka to make Orapronobis. It is an emotional cauldron of a film, depicting a post-Marcos life in which change is slow to come for those on the fringes of Philippine society. Orapronobis was promptly censored. It was never commercially screened while Aquino was president. And Lacaba will never write another English poem.Another way to end this story is to note that “Prometheus Unbound” is one of the earliest, and in the context of legal media, among the most resounding, psychological defeats ever handed to Ferdinand Marcos and his regime under Martial Law. Ruben Cuevas/Pete Lacaba and “Prometheus Unbound” prove that the dictator is fallible, his goons myopic, their strength and balance wanting on the uneven ground upon which a propaganda war is always waged.“Prometheus Unbound” is a proud part of a century-old tradition of Philippine protest writing, which critics call the literature of circumvention. The practice goes back to the Propaganda Movement during the latter part of Spanish rule in the late 19th century, through the American Commonwealth era, and directly leads to the late Sixties and the early Seventies with the rise of activism, up to the present. It is a tradition of wit and irony, allusion and allegory, satire and spoof: the go-to weapons in the arsenal of the unarmed.“Prometheus Unbound” is one of the earliest, and in the context of legal media, among the most resounding, psychological defeats ever handed to Ferdinand Marcos and his regime under Martial Law.“Prometheus Unbound” joins Bonifacio’s “Pag-ibig sa Tinubuang Lupa” and Mabini’s “Perlas Kong Mahal,” Claro M. Recto’s scorching nationalist polemics. The poem is in great recent company, too, from Linda Ty Casper’s novel “Wings of Stone”, which recounts the events that follow Ninoy Aquino’s
Assassination; Jose Dalisay’s “Killing Time in a Warm Place”, a fictionalized account of activism during the Martial Law years; to F. Sionil Jose’s “Viajero”, an allegory of a society in crisis. Great company that forms one unbroken line, from Jess Santiago in 1970s, Bobby Balingit of The Wuds in 1990s, to the more recent firebrands of Einstein Chakras. The list is long, and, in the vibrant colloquial in which protest literature is spoken, agit.This article was originally published in the September 2015 issue of Esquire Philippines. Minor edits have been made by the Esquiremag.ph editors.
Donate To The Cause And Stop The Marcos’ Historical Revisionism/Negationism📷
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Moors Mutt - III
Night fled day and I read the sky. Spying an uncharacteristically vernal mustard sliver, I imagined the light dying in another world past the clouds, opposing ours directly.
The storm, furious mute, spoke through man's works. Droplets exploded musically; dull on timber, shrill on sheet, like crackling fire on thatch.
Foot travel was impossible, even treacherous. Lar wouldn't have it besides. 'I know someone.' he said 'Unpaid tab, lovely spacious wagon. Hold tight.'
Unpaid tab, yes. Lovely wagon, no. Against the rising slope, his contraption strained. Its light frame shed water at every judder. We veered, almost fatally, several times and white knuckled I would renew my faith, but the man knew his charge and kept us steady. Soon the ground levelled and in relative peace, at hardly a trembling crawl, I gelded the day's larger duties into manageable tasks. Ten had a ring, a certain motivating roundness. Ten tasks set to Heracles condemned to misery by jealous Hera. Ten commandments from on high.
After a short time working my mind lost its typical easy-focus. Each sentence I read twice, three times. At common words I stared with newfound curiousity. One letter alone roused me from drowsy rifling. Immediately noted as pertinent by its wax rosette, I saw it was a bill of sale for several oxgangs including Talbot Church to be sold to Lady Sizemore, with a transitory period of two hundred years in which no litigious action could be sought by either party to dispute ownership.
There was little ambiguity as to the tone the author Henry Wales, the estate's executor, attempted to convey. Beside the Lady's seal and sinister scrawl the lawyer, presuming wont to associate with the Sizemore name, printed the his agency's crest, ruby pomegranates perched on a plate with a lidded eye acentre like a grecian shield motif.
Harder to discern, in an unpracticed hand, was the seller's signature, a reluctant cluster of slanting characters which keenly reflected the scribe’s defiance and fury at his enforced shifting, rudely contrasting the infernal airy loops of Mr. Wales and his evil brood at the Wales, DeLien & Hensonbore.
Perhaps fearing her legacy unworthy of envy, Lady Sizemore extended the empire's borders at considerable expense. In the same batch of papers I found also two drawings, one a surveyors border outline, the other an older document bearing the Holy seal, a plan of the churchyard. On this older sheet I found also records of antiquities in the hinterland. Aside from the cairn her lands encompassed two dolmens, four standing stones, eight middens and one fulacht fiadh, thought to date 3000 years - the cartographer noted. Originally the cairn, which stood now like a greatshield at the shoulder of her manse, was situated outside the kirkyard, itself in the shadow of the chapel.
The newer sheet, written by Lady Sizemore’s resident conceptual botanist, revealed prescient plans for its transfer; the route was marked in ticks from Talbot Church to the old hill, past the sucking bog and high grasses, which stood strong and wilted not for man or wind and made going hard as over jagged stone.
I wondered how many men it takes to move a thing like that, eerily reflecting the thoughts of my ancient forebears in their creation of graven idols. I couldn't find anything else. Checked every drawer, leafed alphabetically, held the sheets to a candle carefully and waited for any hidden ink to react, but I found only my own gnawing curiosity.
I wondered why she closed the church. Why move the stone at all if she owned the lands. Surely it must be easier to enforce a harsh penalty for trespassing to deter ramblers over time than move a massive stone. Above all else I hoped to never climb that hill to the church.
The day otherwise passed quickly. I worked mostly absent of mind. Near freedom the final banality seemed yet more soul destroying, but fortunately it was easily done. I signed the final field with flourish.
On the doorstep gazing out at the torrid tempest, for a brief moment Cairn Cottage seemed inviting. I cast a final backward glance. Inside Acrisian frames, there lay yesteryear's gentry in oils, frozen in perpetual offence.
As discussed, Charon on his chucking carriage arrived to ferry me back to Sperrin. Outside Lar's, wet as it was possible to be, some queer curiosity took me and I paused on the threshold. Fingering the doorhandle, I brought my ear to the wood. Lar joked, joyous overmuch at his own humour. I turned the handle and let the door swing open. All attention on me, I let them drink in the sight of the soaked city rat. 'In you come.' A wave of relief swept Lar, which he wrestled into a piteous pout. Relief more that his finances were secure than any concern for my wellbeing.
Two drinks waited, patient as unconfessed sinners. When I peeled off the mac he smiled and I offered reluctant dues.
We feasted like sentenced men. For to uphold our strength we ate lashings of gravy thickened by meat juices, steaming Yorkshire puddings, slabs of succulent pork, bog mushy peas, and custard to follow.
We reclined afterwards. Fergus slipped the bolt unbidden when the small crowd shifted, loudly dragging his stool the short distance to our barside council. We traded nothings, batting pleasantries back and forth with all the vigour of two exhausted tennis players; he shamelessly imparting tall tales of field endeavors and cabbage patch dalliances; I feigning amusement, ascribing his stories more laughter than their content deserved, desperate to avoid frank discussion. I was eaten witless. My mind in grave custardy.
'Are we, like lantern thieves, away with the light?' Lar undid the top button of his trousers and swelled an inch before my eyes.
'We are.' I answered curtly.
'Handled a gun before?' Lar braced for a hasty response, which I gladly supplied.
'I have and don't intend to again. I'm not sure about guns.' Lar's brow furrowed. 'I believe with alternate ends, disagreements often arise.' I thought carefully and to his credit he waited patiently. 'How can I put this.. I don't want a fox hunt.'
'I never said it was.' Lar replied. 'If I might be bold, why hate the gun and not its wielder? Is a rifle always an instrument of terror no matter the context? On the shoulder of an adventurer piercing the interior, emboldened by its weight, is it the selfsame tool dispensing random death in the hands of a deranged?'
He continued on in a similar fashion for several minutes. After zoning out, I had to nod with extra vigor to his next points, just enough to convey attentiveness but not agreement.
Foam pooled at the corners of his mouth. 'It's a fool that lowers caution in victory! Wear these chains. Be it upon your head.'
I tried to interject, 'Lar, really that's a bit dram-'
He continued unabated, 'Should the beast prove strengthful and beguiling and somehow catch us unawares, it won't make a good look for that book of yours.'
Admiring of his passion, I had none to share. 'Any given situation is more likely to end in a leaden exchange with guns present, vise a vie, sans guns we are overall safer, despite feeling less protected individually.'
'Your charisma won't stop a beast. If in some desolate future you find yourself alone, bloodied and fatigued, you'll embrace your firearm like a lost lover and thank Mars for the gift of battle.' Empassioned, Lar slapped the bar.
'Point taken. I'll pack one. Don't intend on using it though. My only stipulation is that I choose my own gun.'
Pulling aside a rug Lar revealed a hatch, the entryway to his private cave of wonders. Fergus tossed the heavy door aside to reveal stone steps and a low unlit corridor. As he descended, candlelight revealed walls streaked and sticky with the dregs of drams spilled in violent melees.
He fetched the swaddled armoury and laid it for my reluctant perusal. I felt something like guilt looking at them. I couldn't pinpoint the feeling. Not a betrayal of principals; I am indignant, but I know my principals only matter until they don't fit my schedule. Nothing is too sacred to reconsider. Still, there was a lingering sense that I had wronged someone. My unease was perhaps the consequence of past lives lived without conscience. When I rode with Cortez and greedily discharged my sizzling firearm into the chest of a scout; when I stood a wart-faced archer at Agincourt and rained death across the mire, athwart a river of Francish blood.
I chose a revolver, feeling its relative snugness more graceful than the longnecked pistols and bayonetted-rifles otherwise offered. Six shots, lightweight, swift off the hip.
Once the guns were again squirrelled away, we untensed with a fifth drink, and a sixth shortly thereafter.
'Have you a route in mind?' Lar slurred at length, his jaw shifting from side to side like a cow's chewing the cud.
'You tell me. You're the gun weilding adventurer.' I teased.
'I have some notions. Let's have one more drink. Don't go to bed bitter.' He fingered a bottle and seductively circled the cork, but his indecision had angered me.
'Notions are actions without legs! As joint expeditionaries, in name rather than eventual royalty I add, I offer no pronouncement on the route. What am I paying you for? Hardly your winning anecdotes. We're following your route to success or failure.' I departed, lifting the flap for myself this time.
#horror#creative writing#wattpad#writing#amwriting#horror writers#folk horror#prose#characters#plot#mystery#dark fiction#hellhound#gothic horror#gothic#writeblr#my words#wip#feedback#writing goals#writing inspiration#dialogue#short story#shorts#paranormal#supernatural#folklore#myths and legends#irish writers
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