#WHAT DID IRISH ORPHEUS DO TO YOU ???
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maybe i'm just greek but it's so weird to me when people get so upset over the ACCENTS in shows being transferred from broadway to the west end or to australia changing like ???? literally who fucking cares it's the same music and the same words these are just people's accents people have different accents in real life outside of having to fake them for theatre sorry <3
#🧅#hadestown uk right now. SIX BWAY that was insane why were yall so pissed about that#like truly who cares idk maybe i just cant understand it but its just so stupid to me.#i cannot grasp why yall care so much it makes ZERO difference#and if the pronounciation of certain words in different accents changes the rhythm or the rhyme then they literally just keep it the way it#was theyre not stupid they adapt#WHAT DID IRISH ORPHEUS DO TO YOU ???#like. especially hadestown if youre so pressed about it im gonna come in and say that actually theyre all greek so they should sing in gree#accents. for accuracy. sorry !#''six has to be in british accents because its british history :((('' half of them were not even from england
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i got to see hadestown on the west end and all i have to say is AAAA. i liked the original broadway cast so much i didn't think anything else could compare to me, but omg they were all amazing and maybe it's a bias from seeing it live vs seeing broadway through recordings, but i actually enjoyed them so much more. i think what helped is i felt a lot more for donal's orpheus, whereas reeve's never managed to really put at my heartstrings.
okayokay what i have to list out loved (going to try and go through the show chronologically):
la barrie's hermes using no titles and they/them pronouns. the lyrics were changed to reflect this eg "excuse me, hermes" instead of "mister hermes" at the beginning of 'wait for me', and "feathers on their feet" instead of "feathers on his feet" in 'road to hell'.
the cast keeping their own accents. it's not often in uk theatre to hear british regional accents, even if the actor has or had that accent. so hearing a nothern accent from eurydice was aaaa. as a northerner it made me really happy. i'm not sure if that's grace's real accent or not but aa it just made .
donál keeping his irish accent too. and the chemistry between his orpheus and grace's eurydice was adorable.
hermes slowly kissing persephone hand during 'our lady of the underground'.
PERSEPHONE didn't think I could love anyone more than grey but omg. i've never loved "our lady of the underground" but I do now, the way gloria performed it and this one long belting note she did while bending over crazy far backwards aaa. and at one point while dancing she acted like she'd gone too hard and pulled her back and got stuck, but then very smoothly went into leaning down towards the audience and singing directly at people in the front rows.
wasn't 100% sold on hades at first since his voice isn't as deep as what I'm used too (used to listening to page as hades), but after "i conduct the electric city" and the lights went out and when they came back on there was a single silly spotlight on hades was stood leaning against the door checking his nails all sultry like. his acting was so different from what I'm used too, more energetic and more... playful? i'm not sure if that's the right word but i can't think of anything else. and less cold and stern than page but I ended up really enjoying him. i've got two very different versions of hades i love now.
new lyrics in epic three, "what has become of the heart of that man" has been replaced with new lyrics. i think "man with his arms outreached" has reverted back to pre-broadway "man with his hat in his hands" but i'll be honest me memory of what the new lyrics are is not great.
i cried when hades and persephone danced. both of them were crying. and when they finished dancing he sobbed and crumpled into her arms and she stroked his head and back and held him the whole time orpheus and eurydice sang "promises"
hades breaking it down during the dance, doing silly dance moves and making persphone laugh, and then she joins in and does his silly dance moves with him 10/10 people supporting their partners silly dance moves.
hades "i don't know" answer to if orpheus and eurydice can go... i'm used to patrick page's grave, defeated "i don't know" and here instead you could really see the inner conflict and he was holding hands with persephone and when he said it she angrily let go of his hand and he had his little "his kiss the riot" freak out.
orpheus and hades handshake during the wait for me reprise aaaa
#hadestown#hadestown london#hadestown west end#hadestown hades#hadestown persephone#hadestown orpheus#hadsetown eurydice#orpheus#euridyce#hades#persephone#hermes#hadestown hermes#mytext#mine#hadestown uk
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Weekend links
My posts
I chimed in on a very helpful post about polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), specifically on treatment side effects. Apparently our collected knowledge is more than most people are getting told by their own doctors.
A post about Neneh Cherry's "Move with Me" (with a sidebar about the '80s hit "Buffalo Stance"), a song I listen to when I feel scattered.
The part where I say "He's six" is the entire reason I wrote about Hozier’s "Eat Your Young." I still wasn’t sure I wanted to post it, and then I saw an article titled "Maui Needs Speculators" and I went, yeah, okay, here we go.
I need to write things that aren't posts about music but it's hot and I can't think. The only thing cold around here is in my nose and this is Unideal.
Reblogs of interest
I didn't reblog the Trump mugshot because I knew everyone would see it anyway, and honestly, I don't want his face on my blog anymore than it has to be, although his attempt at looking badass was hilarious.
("do u want to see the most anyone has ever considered fleein to russia")
I don't know what the fuck Tumblr thinks it's doing with icons but I wish it would fucking stop.
A NEW KILLERS SONG 2023 why have you been so good to me
There were several interesting posts about Gaeilge, indigenous languages in the US, and an Irish-Choctaw connection re: the new Hozier song "Butchered Tongue."
("Suffer my carefree bops, planet earth")
Marie Curie's name was actually Maria Skłodowska-Curie (Skwo-dov-ska) and her Polish identity was deeply important to her, which I did not know and am glad to learn
SILPHIUM IS NO LONGER EXTINCT
"Thoughts on one of the hardest things: banishing the imagined bad faith reader from your writing process"
"1k words without inspiration: i will do it. i will take the ring to mordor"
POV: It is 1992 and you are Selina Kyle, which I probably shouldn't have left in the tags
Video
I had a number of fun reblogs under #animal sounds this week
We invented a new game called “protect the asset”
Dances to pull out at parties
The sacred texts
This Gru meme about Orpheus and Eurydice
Personal tag of the week
Let's go with #color, where I tag anything, artwork or not, that catches my eye
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You saw Hadestown!!!
Alright well, for my last week in London, I saw Hadestown on the west end. I went in pretty much completely blind, I only knew Wait For Me and the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. My biggest takeaways:
1. I saw Dónal Finn as Orpheus, and OHHHH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. I don't know what it was, but charming Irish boy Orpheus just hit. The songs sounded better, the lines sounded better, he just made everything better.
2. The entire cast was fantastic as well. All of them were so in it that I was completely immersed. Orpheus and Eurydice were believably obsessed with each other (@ofthegreekgods said her Orpheus was clearly 💅✨️ but this was not the case for me)
3. On the subject of Hunger Games AUs, I was immediately looking at it through that lens. Let me just say. It was spot on. The whole bringing back spring thing?? UGHHH.
4. The moment that broke me and is still haunting me today is when he turns around, and all the lights come on, and he just says "it's you" and she says "it's me 🥲" as she sinks into the stage and he CRUMBLES TO THE FLOOR???? again. Oh my god.
Overall, excellent show. Would definitely see it again, but I fear I was spoiled by charming Irish boy Orpheus. No one will ever do it like he did.
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❄️☔
Milesker galderengatik <33333 I'm putting them under a cut because the first one is very long lol
❄️ Share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing.
(From the Machineries of Empire AU that I was working on a while back; I'm still not entirely set on how I want to do it and how much of the character and tone of each series I want to preserve, but I do quite like this section—the fic itself is based on the part of The Surgeon's Mate where Stephen is going to set out alone to convince his godfather not to work with the French at Grisholm, and I've made up a fake space version of Orpheus and Eurydice which is the story behind the opera and drama discussed here. The rest of the fic is not as good though, I still need to do a lot of editing 😅)
Stephen smiled slightly, meeting his eyes properly for the first time all morning, as they began the gavotte. Jack smiled back, feeling the mist in his eyes clear. He played the first theme, then passed it off to the cello, and they danced around each other, notes intertwining into a warm embrace. Stephen closed his eyes, that crooked smile across his face, and Jack felt the weight lift. He closed his eyes as well, let himself be lost in the music, and for the first time that morning, he felt himself again.
They played the gavotte to the close, and Jack sighed deeply. Stephen's eyes were still closed, and he was still smiling. For a moment they were silent, together, just the two of them, before Stephen lay his bow across the strings again and in a whispered pianissimo began to play the overture of the opera which he'd been humming earlier. It was even more eerily beautiful now, as it gradually crescendoed into being on the warm, low sound of the cello. The whisper grew into a full-throated aria, double-stops providing the harmonies and coloring the notes into unexpected majors and minors. For several minutes Stephen was caught up in the ecstasy of the music, and Jack was just as transfixed. Then the climax burst in and faded away into a million tiny pieces, like a firecracker on a remembrance, and the spell was broken. Stephen sat back, the smile faded, and the coldness returned to his eyes once more.
"Which I've brought your clean uniform, sir," Killick said, poking his head in the room.
"Oh, very good—you can leave it on the table."
He set down his violin and felt his hands shaking again; undid the buttons on the uniform and took it off; put on the new one and managed to button it up. Stephen came over and let down his hair, then began to plait it with his deft, clinical hands. Jack leaned back, tried not to feel overcome with the emotion.
"You know how the story ends, then, if you watched the drama," Stephen said after a moment, and his voice had an odd quality to it.
"Oh, I never watched the drama. Just heard about it, is all."
"Ah." Stephen said, and was silent again.
"How did it end, then? They must have made it in the end—no one would have liked it much, otherwise."
"Mmm," Stephen said, and finished the long braid, then clubbed it. "Perhaps in the drama it did."
☔ Is there a fic concept you have that you'd like to just explain and share because you're not sure you'll ever write it? If so, what is it?
I started a fic that was about Stephen and words and languages and belonging (and titled it De tant romandre fora el món which is a banger title, I'm so sad to be giving that up), but I really, really would need to do a lot more research and also I'd want to speak fluent Irish if I wrote it lol, so I think I'm leaving it for now. I did have about 25 pages of the Atles Lingüístic del Domini Català open at all times while writing it which was very fun, and I'd maybe consider going back to it in perhaps a different way; the central thesis was that although Stephen melds like a chameleon into the languages around him, he never truly feels at home with them, but I'm not entirely sure I agree with it now so perhaps I'd go about it in a different way. I was also going to explore his relationship with his godfather and where exactly his godfather and Stephen himself fit into the politics of the time (mostly inspired by reading Borja de Riquer's Història. Política, societat i cultura dels Països Catalans), and that I think could still be fun, but I'd want to do a more thorough read-through of the books to make sure that I'm not missing any details and that I get the relationship right.
#i have no idea if any of this will make sense if you haven't read the books#(or if you have read them for that matter)#i need to reemerge from my aubreyad rabbithole a bit i guess#thank you for enabling me though <33333#i'm also about to finish the bend it like beckham fic but i need to edit it and didn't like any of the parts by themselves#perce rambles#The Creative Endeavor and other aubreyad nonsense#scribblings & such
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Cork in Verse | Ana Spehar interviews Theo Dorgan
Cork in Verse is a series of interviews by Ana Spehar with Cork Poets. This week Ana interviews Theo Dorgan.
Born in Cork, Theo Dorgan is a poet, and also a novelist, prose writer, translator, librettist, editor and documentary screenwriter. His most recent publications are Orpheus (Dedalus Press, 2018), Bailéid Giofógacha (translation into Irish of Lorca’s Romancero Gitano, Coiscéim 2019), and THE ABDUCTION, his translation from the French of Syrian poet Maram al-Masri’s Le Rapt, Southword editions, 2020). He is a member of Aosdána.
When did you start writing poetry?
The first poem I was given came to me on a winter’s night when I was, what, 19 or so? I’d arranged to meet a young woman at a céilí in Muiríoch,and on the long night walk there from Baile an Fheirtéaraigh I found myself writing her a poem. I’d had it in mind always that I would spend my life as a writer but had assumed it would be prose. That first visitation changed everything.
Could you tell us more about your creative process? How often do you write?
I try to write when the poem strikes. I believe, I know from a lifetime’s experience, that it’s truer to say that we don’t write the poem, the poem writes us. Of course, when that first flash has been captured, to the extent that it has been, there then comes the long working to secure it on the page. That’s where the craft comes in, the famous 10,000 hours.
I might go months without writing anything at all, and then there might come a rush, or just a stray poem. There’s no accounting for this, it can’t be pre-ordained. I am occasionally commissioned to write something, but if I accept, I always make it clear that I will withdraw from the commission unless a poem strikes. Too, I won’t accept a commission unless I have some sense that it chimes with something that’s been hovering somewhere in the back of my mind. That’s no guarantee, of course, that the preoccupation will crystallise in a poem, but it has happened.
Who is your favourite author/authors?
Impossible to answer, there are so many writers and poets with whom I have an ongoing affinity. That said, I come back time and again to Robert Graves, and to Cavafy, Gary Snyder, Heaney, Boland and — always new to me — Paula Meehan.
What are you reading at the moment?
Robert Kanigel’s Hearing Homer’s Song, his life of the scholar Milman Parry who revolutionised Homer studies, and Martin Gayford’s new book about David Hockney, Spring Cannot Be Cancelled. Of course, at the same time, day in and day out, I am dipping into all kinds of books constantly, revisiting old friends, chasing references or stray correspondences.
What advice would you give to someone just starting their creative journey in writing?
Read, read and read. It’s an inherited craft, you have to immerse yourself in the tradition. Search out writers with whom you feel an affinity and ask yourself why that is. Search out writers who repel you and ask yourself why they have that effect on you. Learn to be friends with and nurture your own sensibility but give it a hard time. When you come across a poem that moves you, that lights you up inside, stand back and ask yourself, how does she do that? A poem, or story, or novel or play will find you if it’s for you — you need to be prepared in the craft if you’re to get it down. On the other side of the business, never refuse anything that suggests itself to you, write it down; it will work out or it won’t, but never attempt to short-circuit the process. Stay out of your own road, and treat all advice, including this advice, with good-humoured scepticism. Be on good terms with your waste basket, real or virtual, but before you bin a poem, check that there isn’t a line or two that can be salvaged — that might be the living line from which something entirely unexpected may announce itself.
The Angel of History
by Theo Dorgan
In the Parliament house on Kildare Street the lamps were burning.
It was a winter night, the usual slant rain falling.
I had paused to light up a cigarette, to watch the lone Guard
stamp her feet, blow uselessly into her cupped, gloved hands.
In the colonnade of the National Library a man was standing,
a man neither old nor young, his head bare, half turned towards
the lights in the Parliament house, the high blank windows.
I saw him reach inside his long loose coat, take out a notebook.
I crossed the road, gathering my own long coat around me,
stood in behind him, looked over his shoulder. He paid no heed.
One after another I saw him strike them out from a long list of names:
Senators, Deputies, Ministers . One after another the names
dissolved on the page, a scant dozen remaining. I watched him
ink in a question mark after each of these, neat and precise.
He put the book away, sliding it down carefully into a deep pocket;
he turned and looked at me, nothing like pity in those hollow eyes.
He sighed, then squared his shoulders, lifted his face to the rain
and was gone. Gone as if he had never been. But I saw him,
I know who he was, I witnessed that cold, exact cancellation;
walked on, walked home, thoughtful, afraid for my country.
A Nocturne For Blackpool
by Theo Dorgan
Dolphins are coursing in the blue air outside the window
and the sparking stars are oxygen, bubbling to the moon.
At the end of a terrace, unicorns scuff asphalt,
one with her neck stretched on the cool roof of a car.
A key rasps in the latch, milk bottles click on a sill,
a truck heading for Mallow roars, changing gear on a hill.
The electric hum of the brewery whines, then drops in pitch –
ground bass for the nocturne of Blackpool.
The ghost of Inspector Swanzy creeps down Hardwick Street,
MacCurtain turns down the counterpane of a bed he’ll never sleep in,
unquiet murmurs scold from the blue-slate rooftops
the Death-Squad no-one had thought to guard against.
The young sunburned hurlers flex in their beds, dreaming of glory,
great deeds on the playing fields, half-days from school,
while their slightly older sisters dream of men and pain,
an equation to be puzzled out again and again.
Walloo Dullea, homeward bound on the Commons Road, belts out airs from Trovatore,
the recipe as before, nobody stirs from sleep
and ‘Puzzle the Judge’, contented, pokes at ashes –
“There’s many a lawyer here today could learn from this man”.
North Chapel, The Assumption, Farranferris and Blackpool,
the mass of the church in stone rears like rock from the sea
but the interlaced lanes flick with submarine life
older than priests can, or want to, understand.
This woman believed Jack Lynch stood next to God, who broke the
Republic.
This man beyond, his face turned to the wall, stares at his friend
whose face will not cease from burning in the icy sea – torpedoed off
Murmansk from a tanker. He shot him, now nightly he watches him sink.
(Cont. with stanza break)
Here is a woman the wrong side of forty, sightless in her kitchen
as she struggles to make sense of the redundancy notice,
of her boorish son, just home, four years on the dole, foul-mouthed,
of her husband, who has aged ten years in as many days.
The bells of Shandon jolt like electricity through lovers
in a cold-water flat beneath the attic of a house in Hatton’s Alley,
the ghost of Frank O’Connor smiles on Fever Hospital Steps
as Mon boys go by, arguing about first pints of stout and Che Guevara.
The unicorns of legend are the donkeys of childhood, nobody
knows that better than we know it ourselves, but we know also that
dolphins are coursing through the blue air outside our windows
and the sparking stars are oxygen, bubbling to the moon.
We are who we are and what we do. We study indifference in a hard
school
and in a hard time, but we keep the skill to make legend of the ordinary.
We keep an eye on the slow clock of history in Blackpool –
Jesus himself, as they say around here, was born in a stable.
for Mick Hannigan
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SOLAS & ORPHEUS I: YOUR NAME IS LIKE A MELODY. (THE POWER OF EPITHETS, TITLES, & NAMES.)
EPITHETS & TITLES:
VGS: Where do you see a character like Solas ending up?
Patrick Weekes: [Sighs] Musical theatre.
The above exchange is from an interview with Video Game Sophistry, where Patrick Weekes goes into detail about the creation of Solas and how we ended up with the character and romance we got. Although said in jest, I do believe Weekes honestly recognised that Solas is a character who could easily be adapted to the medium of the stage musical, due to how musicality is baked into the foundations of his story and the world of Dragon Age. In fact, Weekes compares the fantasy and romance of Solavellan to The Phantom of the Opera earlier in the interview, and anyone familiar with Phantom can see the parallels, as Solas and his arc share many tropes and archetypes in common, not just with the Phantom, but with other male characters in musicals. If I told you I was going to see a show about a Morally Conflicted Soldier, a Trickster in Disguise, a Rebel Leader, a Decadent Noble, a Mythic Legend, or a Monster Boyfriend, I’m sure several examples would jump to mind.
Solas is all of these. Layer upon layer, stitched together, and then taken apart, whenever he needs to be whatever he needs to be. And he is also, if we are borrowing the epithets from Hadestown, The King and The Poor Boy Working on a Song.
It has to be noted that Hadestown’s use of epithets is itself a nod to ancient oral poetry, particularly in the vein of Homer. In Homeric convention, important characters, settings, and objects weren’t described by adjectives, but with epithets that would change based on context. (e.g. Much-enduring Odysseus, who is another paradoxical Trickster figure in ancient myth.) The use of epithets is a signifier of the origins of Homer’s works, serving as a mnemonic device and a way to fit the scenes of the stories to dactylic hexameter, as they were first oral poems that were composed and sung in front of audiences before they were written down. However, because of our modern understanding of the English language and what the word epithet connotes to us, what Anaïs Mitchell has done by using this device in Hadestown, is turn it into something that’s closer to the definition and function of a title rather than an adjective. Hades is always “The King.” Orpheus is always “The Poor Boy Working on a Song,” or “The Poor Boy With a Gift to Give.”
Solas bears his names in a similar fashion. When introduced to us as merely Solas, he is the “Humble Apostate” (or “Unwashed Apostate Hobo,” if you have Vivienne and Dorian in your party), or the “Fade Expert”; he is nicknamed “Chuckles” by Varric and “Fade Walker” by Iron Bull. Descriptors that comment on his lowly, outsider status, beaten and betrayed in this strange new world, that endear us to him. When he again dons the badge of Fen’Harel/Dread Wolf, he is “He Who Hunts Alone,” “Lord of Tricksters,” “The Great Wolf,” “Roamer of the Beyond,” and “Bringer of Nightmares.” Bynames that, of course, evoke those given to deities in ancient cultures (e.g. Hades is also known as Plouton in Greek myth, “The Rich One.”), that make him out to be fearsome, malevolent, and unknowable beyond the legends.
When I separate Solas into these two personas and archetypes, of Solas and Fen’Harel, The King and The Poor Boy, I don’t want us to make the mistake of thinking he is someone who bifurcates himself so completely that one part of him is unrecognisable from the other. His is not a situation of one identity hiding another or two identities battling to control the fore. He is Solas and he is Fen’Harel; the way Lavellan is “The Dalish Elf” and “The Herald of Andraste.” He is simply someone who has some impressive compartmentalisation skills (displayed in a conversation he has with Sera on the tactics of the Red Jenny group), and who has a thorough experience of a line he says to Cole:
“We all have a face we want to show, and a face we do not.”
NAMES:
Perhaps the best way to convey Solas’ complexities coming together to form the whole of him, is by examining the construction of his name. How cyclical it is, beginning and ending with the letter S, as effortlessly smooth and slippery as he. The L in the middle like a delineation, a fork in the road of choices before him. O and A on either end like they’re mirrors or masks. How it’s composed of five letters, the way iambic pentameter is composed of five syllables that you must stress and unstress—like the two syllables in his name itself. And depending on which syllable you stress in your pronunciation, your voice will either rise and fall or fall and rise when you say it.
I may be giving Gaider and Weekes too much credit here, but Solas’ name is quite literally perfect for him. Change any single one of these components or his characteristics, and you will no longer have Solas but someone else in his stead.
There are layered meanings to the sound of his name, too. Solas is a homophone for Solace and Soulless in the English language. The former recalls all the times he might’ve provided solace to his friends or lover, or received it from them; and the latter recalls how he does seemingly soulless things to achieve his goals, or becomes someone who is soulless altogether if you don’t reach out to him with kindness. Angela D. Mitchell explores this wonderfully on her blog Dumped, Drunk and Dalish, along with homonyms in other languages. Among them are:
Latin: Solus
Meanings: Solitary, alone, sole, only, uninhabited.
Irish: Solas
Meanings: Light, Bright, Clear; Brightness; illumination; lucid, intelligible; light-giving, lamp flame; enlightenment, insight; revelation, disclosure; the light of existence; vision. Also: self-interest; limelight.
Old Irish: Solus
Meaning: Light.
Scottish Gaelic (derived from the old Irish "Solus" or "light"): Solas
Meaning: Light.
Old French: Solaz, Sollas, Soulas
Meanings: Joy, pleasure, enjoyment.
She also explores the Latin root of ‘Sol’:
Lone, alone, solitary, lonely, desolate, dismal, gloomy
The sun (also can refer to the Sun in a personified sense)
A source of comfort, calmness, soothing
"To be accustomed" (as found in such words as: insolent, obsolescent, sullen)
These are all such apt descriptors for various facets of his personality and story, it shows the amount of thought and care given to him in the writing process. And of course, there are the Elven meanings: ‘Pride’ or ‘to stand tall.’
Because of the level of thought involved, I wondered how far back Gaider chose his name and decided it would mean ‘Pride’ in Elven, and how that might’ve informed Weekes’ writing of his character. @maythedreadwolftakeyou, @felassan and @lesbianarcana (my heroes!) helped me out and did some top-notch digging.
The first instance we have of the word Solas was found in a codex acquired from Dragon Age II’s Black Emporium, which was released on March 8, 2011. After that, it appears with its Elven meaning and on a map in World of Thedas Volume 1, released on April 30, 2013.
Since we have an enormous amount of foreshadowing for him by way of Shartan in Dragon Age: Origins and Merrill in Dragon Age II, I think it’s safe to say the first concepts of what Solas would mean and who the character who would wear the name would become began as far back as DAO. (Note: I believe Gaider or another Bioware dev confirmed this on social media, but I couldn’t find the post anywhere. If it crops up and you see it, please let me know. I’ll amend the post and credit you.)
In any case, the power of names is yet another running theme that links the storytelling of the ancients, Hadestown, and DA:I. Orpheus pays attention to the composition of Eurydice’s name, and remarks on how it’s “like a melody,” and his arrival in Hadestown reminds her of it when she’s been stripped of it and has forgotten who she used to be. Solas tells Abelas he hopes that he finds a new name after he leaves the guard of the Vir Abelasan, because it means Sorrow. The Qunari in Tevinter Night’s Genitivi Dies in the End have a special interest in finding out what they believe to be Solas’ “true name,” so they can then “track [him] back through the best and worst of [himself]”; “find flaws”; “exploit weaknesses”; “know what [he] failed to be.”
To be named is to be given an identity, personality, and, in most cases, personhood. To be named yourself and to be able to name others is power. Whether that comes as the name you’re privately called, your title, or your epithet.
#da meta#dai meta#solas meta#dragon age meta#mine.#text post.#of a god & man: solas & hadestown meta series.#dragon age.#solas.#hadestown.#this was A Lot to write#spoilers for tevinter nights!!
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get to know me tag
I was tagged by @ammocharis! thank you! :)
answer questions / tag blogs, u know the drill :)
nickname: Jade
gender: [dial-up internet noise] but she/her pronouns are fine
height: p much everyone I meet (online OR in person) assumes I am taller than I actually am, which is intentional.
time(zone): its mountain time baby
song stuck in my head: the Orpheus & Eurydice song from the Hades soundtrack because my friend sent me a post about Orpheus
last movie: Wolfwalkers!!!!!! It was so beautiful and charming. I recommend every movie Cartoon Saloon puts out this one included!
last show: some netflix competition show about glassblowing, as background noise while working. I’ve watched a lot of that sort of thing lately because I’ve been too busy to really devote my attention to anything :(
when did you create this blog: hm, I don’t actually know how to look that up. Sometime in 2016 after I’d been obsessed with DA:I for a while and decided it was enough content to merit its own sideblog off my main account. I would guess maybe March?
what do I post: most of my Bioware reblogs go over here now, both Dragon Age and Mass Effect :) plus my original fanric, fanart, and bioware-themed crafting! Also some general writing advice/memes/etc since this is the account I interact with more fanwriters through. My non-fandom art, writing, and crafts go onto my main blog, @songofsaraneth!
last thing googled: “kinds of fruit spiky” becuase I was trying to remember the name of a new weird fruit I have eaten. My 2021 resolution is a continuation of my 2020 resolution, which is to eat more strange fruits! As in if I go to the grocery store, and there is a fruit for sale I have never tried before or not eaten in a long time, I buy one and sample it :) The fruit in question for this googling btw was “rambutan”! It was good, pretty sweet and sort of like a juicy gummy in texture.
do I get asks: every now and then I get a fit of inspiration and reblog a bunch of prompt lists in a row, and then when people actually send them and I look in my inbox, I go “Hmmmm” and vanish for a week becuase writing is hard. so sorry if you have ever sent me a prompt, i promise you i made a word document with the prompt copied and pasted into it before i got moody and went out for a hike instead. No one wants to know what the inside of my WIP folder looks like...
why I chose my url: I was just desperately searching for any DA/Solas related url that wasn’t already claimed, at the height of the DAI fandom heyday. I’m sure many are free now.
following: 503... and so many dead
followers: 648 it looks like
average hours of sleep: depends on how early I have to be awake the following day. If I have no obligations I’ll sleep for ~7 hours or so. But if I do then usually less since I’m fairly nocturnal and it’s really hard for me to fall asleep. I’d guess 5-7 on average, but sometimes with bad nights of only 3-4.
instruments: I spent the last several years learning Taiko Drumming from an amazing group of older women in the town I lived in. I was heartbroken to move and no longer be able to drum last summer. I could still practice on my own just with the motions/no drum, but losing the group energy element of it really makes me too sad to do so. I also grew up playing classical flute from grade school through the start of college, and once in college transitioned a bit to tin whistle instead. I’ve collected a variety of flutes/whistles/piccolos over the years in different styles but am not good about playing them on my own.
dream job: literal dragon, but i’d settle for mermaid astronaut
dream trip: I’ve been recently obsessed with Greenland. Also, anywhere tropical.
last book I read: I’m currently almost done with of A Conspiracy of Kings by Megan Whalen Turner
favorite food: cheese... like a really nice charcuterie board with a nice variety of cheeses + cured meats + jams + fruit + crackers. though Charis’ answer for this was homemade pizza and oh boy am I craving that now
nationality: All 4 of my grandparents were 1st generation americans! So I’m a mix of Lithuanian, Irish, Italian, and the other 1/4 is a German/Belgian/European mystery
favorite song: gosh so many. I’ve recently been in a country/country-gothic/folk/folk-rock mood because of a D&D game I’m a part of, so here’s a link to the playlist for my character that fits that vibe
top three fictional universes: hmmm i’m going to go with besides the obvious DA/ME universes (which I love to play in even if i wouldn’t want to live in them)... so I’ll pick Middle Earth, Star Trek, and Animorphs :)
i will tag: @nug-juggler @raposabranca @thebookworm0001 @m-m-m-myysurana ohhhhhh thats all my brain will give me off the top of my head right now but everyone feel free to play along & tag me :)
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up on the board
when orpheus needs a taste-tester for a new round of customized cocktails, eurydice is more than happy to help.
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saturday afternoons were for the two of them. eurydice didn’t work on weekends, and the dust bowl was only open in the evenings, so the afternoons were spent catching up on one another’s lives. most days, you could find eurydice and orpheus sitting in the empty bar, orpheus writing music, eurydice writing papers. you could find them on the rooftop, laying out in the sun together.
but for an hour before opening, you could find orpheus behind the bar, and eurydice in her spot, as she watched her bartender rewrite the chalkboard.
“who’s idea was it to do customised drinks every week?” eurydice asked, leaning her elbows on the bar. she was watching orpheus flip through the little notebook he kept in his apron, finding another recipe he had written down over the past week.
“my mom used to do it,” orpheus said with a little smile on his face as he found the page he was looking for. “everyone used to say that she was a really good bartender. people would tell her what mood they were in. what kind of thing they needed. and she would make a drink for them.” eurydice smiled at orpheus as she watched him remember his mom.
“when did she stop bartending?”
orpheus chuckled softly, reaching for an lemon to slice. “she never really stopped. when she started working for the school district, she didn’t have regular hours, but we were here almost every night. she’d get behind the bar whenever she could.”
“and now you’re carrying the torch?” she asked, spotting the framed photo of calliope, hermes, and a baby orpheus sat amongst the liquor bottles.
“something like that,” orpheus said, distraction in his voice as he pulled a shot, before dropping it into a low baller glass. she watched as he measured out ingredients, looking through the containers of bitters, garnishes, and specialty liquors that hermes seemed to collect.
“try this one,” he said, sliding a drink in front of her a few minutes later. she smiled at him and took a sip, tilting her head to the side as she tasted it.
orpheus loved spending this time with her. quiet time where they could just enjoy each other’s company. eurydice had a good taste for cocktails, and orpheus liked making things that made her smile, so their weekly menu creating session always had him smiling.
“it’s good,” she said. “strong. try orange instead of lemon.” his eyes lit up at her words and he quickly went into the back to grab an orange, slicing it up and remaking the drink. when he passed it to eurydice, he waited as she sipped. when she smiled, a sure sign of his accomplishment, he smiled back at her, a big toothy grin.
“this is going on the board,” she said, grabbing the chalk from the little bowl. “got a name for it?” orpheus thought for a moment, before snapping and pointing at the board.
“free as a honeybee.”
“up on the board!”
and so on they went, orpheus pulling together different flavour combinations as they went. some were hits, some misses. she added the winners onto the board, as well as a fan favourite -- the one he and hermes had made for persephone years ago made with bourbon, pomegranate liquor, and angostura bitters. he called it ‘our lady of the upside-down’.
but no matter what he was making, eurydice loved watching him measure out drinks, messing around with different ingredients. she was caught up watching him when he slid a drink in front of her.
“what about this one. lemon juice, elderflower gin, rosemary, and soda.” she took a sip, and made a face.
“nuh-uh. too much lemon.”
“would grapefruit be better?” eurydice grinned.
“worth a try?” he got back to work.
when he slid her the drink again, and he got that smile of approval, he stood up a little straighter. “ooh. it’s perfect.”
orpheus smiled and cleared that drink away, as she wrote the ingredients on the board. “call that one the scarborough fair,” orpheus said, looking for a different kind of glass.
“the what?” orpheus’ head poked up from below the bar.
“you don’t know that song?” eurydice shook her head, and orpheus took the opportunity to lean in towards her.
“love imposes impossible tasks, parsley sage, rosemary and thyme,” he sang to her, reaching across the bar to brush her hair behind her ear. she leaned in until their noses were brushing. “though not more than any heart asks, and i must know she’s a true love of mine.” eurydice rolled her eyes lovingly at his singing, before closing the small gap between them, pressing their lips together. he sighed into her kiss, and smiled against her lips. she reached up to cup his cheek, relaxing into his embrace.
when he pulled back, he smiled at her. “you taste like scarborough fair.” a blush rose on her cheeks as she thought about orpheus’ lips on hers yet again. so long without this boy, and now she could barely go minutes without his kisses.
“back to work, poet,” she said, writing the drink’s name on the board. “you got one more to do.”
“i’m… stuck,” he murmured, his back to eurydice as he scanned the shelf behind him. he could hear her shifting and only a moment later, he felt her arms around his neck, a feat only possible were she sitting on the bar again.
“hermes is going to kill you if he finds out you’re on the bar again,” he chuckled as she pressed a kiss to his shoulder.
“i won’t tell if you won’t, “ she whispered, looking at the shelves of bottles as well.
“your secret’s safe with me, ‘rydice.” he could feel her smile before pressing a kiss to his neck. “now help me out — i’ve got no more ideas.”
eurydice thought for a moment, hooking her chin over his shoulder. it was quiet in the dust bowl, just their breathing and the sound of cars passing by outside audible.
“what would your mom do?” she could feel orpheus take in a breath, and she hoped to the gods that she didn’t strike a nerve. but then she could tell, without even looking at him, that he was smiling.
“she’d ask her customers,” orpheus said quietly, shifting out of eurydice’s grasp to turn to face her. she sat up straight, her arms wrapping around his neck, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, while his hands found their spot on her waist.
“tell me,” he started. “what are you in the mood for? what do you need right now?”
eurydice thought for a moment, looking up. “besides you?” she asked, making him blush slightly. she leaned in a little bit, closing the gap between them. “something strong. something… warming. but not hot. something that reminds you of coming home after a long day, or waking up next to someone you love. something that tastes the way a good kiss feels.”
eurydice thought she was going to get a kiss, but orpheus suddenly perked up and let her go, running into the back room to grab something out of the fridge. eurydice just laughed. her poet, so focused on the task at hand.
she kept her spot on top of the bar, but leaned back on her hands, watching him make his concoction. she watched him bite his lip as he considered portions, and then watched as he smiled and handed her a glass with dark, swirling liquid. without asking for the ingredients, she took a sip. as soon as the drink touched her tongue, she knew this was it. spicy and familiar, but also bitter and smooth at the same time. just what she needed.
“it’s perfect.”
“cold brew, cinnamon vodka, and irish whiskey. your favourites.” she smiled at him, shaking her head.
“what are you gonna call it?”
“come home with me.” he smiled at his own joke, a play on what he first asked eurydice, and she just rolled her eyes, putting the drink down. she reached for him and he came back into her grasp, his hands squeezing her waist.
“what are you? some kind of poet?” she whispered pulling him in for a kiss.
saturdays were for cocktail taste tests. saturdays were for lazy kisses in the bar. but saturdays were for them, for taking the day at their own pace, finding joy and freedom in the time they got to spend together.
they wouldn’t give up their saturdays for anything.
#them!#orphydice#orpheus#eurydice#Dust Bowl#dust bowl fic#hadestown fanfic#hadestown au#dust bowl au
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Hi !! In your post about "Mad Sweeney through the ages" you noted in the tags that you restrained yourself from going into tangents... I'm super interested about what you mentionned though ! Would you mind wiritng a little bit on the relationship between the Tuatha de and the fairies and the dead ?? Sorry, i'm very curious and I love history and mythology a lot !! (Also sorry for any mistakes, I'm not a native speaker !!) Thank you ! :)
Hello! Sorry it took me all day to answer this; it’s just that, well… this got a bit long, even though I tried to be brief. XD
Basically, what I was referring to is the same thing Sweeney talks about in the show: the way his identity has changed SIGNIFICANTLY over the centuries because the stories about him have mutated over time. People gradually conflated stories about certain types of beings (such as the Tuatha De Danann) with stories about other types of beings (such as fairies), or allowed elements of certain stories to influence others, and as a result, the very essence of what Sweeney IS evolved along with the folklore.
The cool thing, though — and I guess this is really the crux of what I was getting at in my tags — is that Sweeney’s particular evolutionary path isn’t a concept that’s unique to American Gods. I mean, to SOME extent, it’s AG’s invention; after all, the traditional figure of Mad Sweeney as portrayed in the Buile Suibhne is not a leprechaun or Lugh. He’s cursed, but he’s still just a mortal dude. But I think AG’s decision to MAKE him into those other things makes perfect sense in light of the fact that in certain areas that historically retained a strong Celtic influence (including much of the British Isles as well as Brittany), there really are a lot of intriguing similarities, overlaps, and parallels between the way folklore portrays fairies and the way it portrays the spirits of dead mortals. In Irish mythology specifically, the Tuatha De Danann get wrapped up in the relationship as well. These similarities have inspired a theory that elements of Celtic folklore about fairies might have evolved out of ancient superstitions about the dead and the places the dead were believed to inhabit. Which isn’t to say that it’s a direct evolution, nor that these three types of being are all exactly the same thing — simply that they seem to be related and to have influenced one another over time.
Unnecessarily detailed discussion under the cut, along with more of my thoughts on why I think this whole concept works out really well with regard to Mad Sweeney and lends a lot of weight to his backstory’s arc.
The People of the Mounds
One of the most familiar narratives in a classic fairy story is the human traveler who accidentally wanders into the fairy realm. It’s a story with innumerable variations. Perhaps the traveler simply follows the wrong path, or perhaps they enter a doorway in the side of a hill — either way, they end up in Faerie. It is a liminal space inhabited by beings that, because they are immortal or non-mortal, are not DEAD, exactly, but aren’t quite ALIVE, either, not in the way that mortal human beings are alive. And in many stories, it is also inhabited by dead humans. There are many versions of this story in which the traveler in Faerie is shocked to encounter a neighbor or loved one whom they know for a fact died years ago — like, actually physically DIED. And yet here their spirit is, trapped in this other world! The realm of Faerie is thus a place of great wonder, yes, but also great peril. It’s a place into which a person’s soul might be tragically stolen, though also a place from which they can sometimes be rescued. One such tale of rescue is the medieval poem Sir Orfeo, which is straight-up a Breton/English reimagining of Orpheus and Eurydice — except it’s set in Faerie instead of in the realm of the dead.
In short, Celtic stories often handle fairies and Faerie in a way that strongly evokes death, the realm of the dead, and the spirits of the dead. But for me, perhaps the most interesting aspect goes back to what I mentioned about WHERE these stories often take place. Where do the aos si dwell? Underground, of course — specifically, in hollow hills. It’s right there in the name: “aos si” means “people of the mounds.” Hence the stories in which a traveler enters Faerie through a door in the side of a hill. Coincidentally, where do the Tuatha de Danann dwell? Also underground — not originally, but they were driven underground by the Milesians, who took the above-ground world as their half of the earth in their truce.
But what kind of hill would be hollow? What kind of hill might have a doorway set into the side…?
Well… A hill like Newgrange, perhaps. Or like other hills within the Bru na Boinne complex. Or a hill like Bryn Celli Ddu in Wales, or Maes Howe in Orkney, or the Mound of the Hostages at Tara, or any number of other ancient barrows/tumuli: burial mounds built in prehistoric times as tombs for the human dead. Because the answer to “What other kind of creature dwells underground?” is, of course, dead people, at least in cultures which have tended to bury them.
Thus, the familiar trope of entering Faerie through a door in a hill very much evokes the idea of entering a tomb. This concept is reinforced by the fact that some specific fairy legends are anchored to specific tumuli. Newgrange is said to be the home of the Dagda and other Tuatha De; Cnoc Maedha is home to the fairy king Finvarra. Glastonbury Tor is associated with Gwyn ap Nudd of the Tylwyth Teg, ruler of the underworld of Annwn. Willy Howe is proposed to be the location of a specific version of one of those tales about a traveler wandering into a hill.
Not every fairy legend is associated with a specific hill, not every tumulus is associated with a fairy legend, and not every hill associated with a fairy legend has been confirmed to actually be a tomb. It’s more of a general association based on the tumulus shape. Also, some of these associations seem to have originated much later than others; they might be fairly recent inventions rather than old, traditional myths. But that’s kind of the point in AG, isn’t it: traditions evolve. Over time, they gather new associations and take on new meaning as the stories change. Did the idea that the aos si live in hollow hills evolve directly out of a superstition that specific hills — specific burial mounds — were home to the spirits of the dead? Perhaps! Perhaps not! Perhaps it’s more a case of stories mutually influencing each other, or maybe it’s convergent evolution, or maybe it’s sheer coincidence. But I think that the amount of similarity and overlap in these legends is enough to suggest roots in a common tradition, or at least to suggest that beliefs about these three categories of being have, over time, become intimately associated with each other.
Suibhne, the Dead King?
Which FINALLY brings us back to Sweeney.
I think the idea that the aos si evolved out of the Tuatha De Danann is pretty well known; I don’t think it’s entirely clear-cut from a historical standpoint, but it’s a theory I see mentioned quite often, and I feel like it intuitively makes sense. A transition from one supernatural, subterranean creature to another feels natural; it’s easy to grasp how those legends could be related. So it’s no surprise that American Gods would have a character who starts out as one of them and evolves into the other, especially since it’s been theorized that the concept of leprechauns in general might have evolved specifically out of Lugh. (The names share a possible etymology, and the characters share an association with luck.)
But the primary inspiration for Mad Sweeney — Suibhne, son of Colman Cuar, of the Buile Suibhne — feels, at first, like more of an outlier. Sure, Suibhne was under a curse, but he wasn’t, like, any type of supernatural creature… He was just a mortal human. The whole legend at least purports to be based on a real-life historical man. How does a mortal human get turned into a god or a fairy? How does that stage of Sweeney’s evolution fit in with leprechauns and Lugh?
To me, the key lies in the Annals of Tigernach. As I mentioned in my Mad Sweeney Through the Ages post, these annals record that Suibhne didn’t FLEE from the battle of Magh Rath… he DIED in it. And I don’t know whether AG is doing this on purpose, but in my opinion, this death really fits with the way AG has chosen to tell Suibhne’s story? In the Buile Suibhne, Suibhne flees the battlefield simply because the frenzy and St. Ronan’s curse overwhelm him. The idea that he fled because he foresaw his own death is AG’s own particular twist on the legend. AG’s Sweeney is a character who is haunted, throughout the different versions of himself, by near-deaths and foreseen-deaths and deaths that may or may not have actually happened. By choosing to reference the fact that Sweeney should have died at Magh Rath — possibly even did die at Magh Rath, heck, he supposedly died that night with the seer, too! — American Gods makes the critical decision to recast Suibhne mac Colmain as not merely the story of a king, but of a dead king.
And if you view the Buile Suibhne as the story of someone whose life, historically, ended at Magh Rath, but who through the power of mythology has been given an existence beyond Magh Rath, it becomes a story of undeath: of a mortal who becomes trapped in a strange, supernatural form of existence that is not exactly death but not really life as he knew it, either — sort of like a spirit trapped in Faerie. For me, AG’s decision to connect Suibhne’s legend with leprechauns and Lugh makes the most sense when I view Suibhne as a figure who kind of escaped death, but also kind of didn’t escape death, and always has this specter of death hanging over him for the rest of his cursed “life” after Magh Rath. If Suibhne is, essentially, a spirit persisting in a type of pseudo-life beyond death, then I can contextualize his role in Sweeney’s evolution within this whole theory of how the dead, the fae, and the Tuatha De Danann are intimately entwined.
Conclusion???
…WOW, this got long! Thanks for listening to me ramble. I hope it was interesting to you and that I’ve explained myself in a way that makes sense.
Obviously, I don’t know whether Gaiman / the showrunners of American Gods had any of these same concepts in mind when they were creating the book or the show. And I want to reiterate that the proposed relationship between these types of folklore is more of a theory than a concrete historical fact. It’s a theory that I find very compelling and very inspiring, but it’s difficult to really prove that traditional beliefs evolved in this way. Also, much of the actual scholarship I’ve found on this subject is older than I’d like, and I’m not sure whether different interpretations have since gained more traction in the field. Still, the work of Katharine Mary Briggs is a good place to start if you’re interested in reading more on this subject, especially her article “The Fairies and the Realms of the Dead.”
Regardless of whether it’s provable, though, I think it’s a theory that works beautifully with what we see in “Treasure of the Sun” and that fits really well with the mechanics of American Gods. And when it comes to AG, it doesn’t really matter, anyway, whether the dead and the fae and the gods were originally related or not — all that matters is that we humans believe that they are.
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The deal with faerie courts
For @song-of-orpheus~
Aright, so dividing fae into “courts” is really a cultural thing.
The fae-like creatures of many cultures have no categories at all beyond the different species of creature. Dutch/Germanic and Scandinavian stories don’t as far as I know. There are “dark elves” (Dökkálfar) and “light elves” (Ljósálfar) in Norse mythology, but they are very different from fae.
Most modern ideas about fae, however, are based on root Celtic mythology (which was spread across Scotland, Ireland, Wales and the western part of England) and the Seelie and Unseelie Court are a distinction specifically made in Scottish folklore.
As it is used now they are the “seelie” happy fae and the “unseelie” unhappy fae, or “blessed” and “un-blessed”. So there is one “Seelie Court” to which the fae belong that are usually benevolent, and one “Unseelie Court” for the fae that are usually malevolent. Sometimes individual fae are described as either seelie or unseelie as well.
In actual fairy tales and folkloric legends, however, the courts are rarely addressed as such.
When Irish stories speak of a “court” they usually mean a small court, the seat of which is in a single fairy hill, ruled by a king, queen, lord or lady of the fae. And in Scottish stories it happens more often than not that all the fae are addressed with “the Seelie Court”.
This makes much more sense, really, when it comes to fae. As almost all old stories show, fae are unpredictable. They might harm you or help you and the best you can do is try to not offend them. You also don’t want to call them by their name, because that might summon them. So what do you call them? In England, the “Fair Folk”. In Wales, the “Tylwyth Teg” (the Fair Family). In Ireland, the “Daoine Maithe” (the Good People). And in Scotland, “the Seelie Court”, the blessed court, that surely would do this humble human no harm.
The introduction of two separate courts, might have been introduced by (19th century) folklorists and scholars more than it showed up in oral tradition. Especially when trying to make a coherent whole of very diverse stories the Evil/Good dichotomy is easily made, particularly when Christian lore became more dominant. Even more perhaps because the Queen of the Faeries features a lot in old stories, but then you also have powerful male figures like the Green Man showing up. These different pieces of folklore never quite fit together, so I guess courts were a good way to explain it away. And if you want to give the fae more human politics (like Shakespeare did with Titania and Oberon), courts are the way to go.
Where the practice of calling the Unseelie Court “the Winter Court” and the Seelie Court “the Summer Court” came from, I really cannot find. This divisions might have started as a folkloric idea of nature spirits keeping the seasons in tune (I’ve seen Spring and Autumn courts mentioned too), but I’ve honestly only seen these in more modern creations, not in folklore.
So basically, as far as I can tell, calling an individual fae seelie or unseelie would probably be more in line with folklore than attributing them to a specific court. But we’re all suckers for some light versus dark imagery and the idea of faerie courts is just too pretty to let go~
#fae#unseelie#seelie#seelie court#unseelie court#faerie#scottish folklore#laura babbles#there you go arden I hope this was interesting to you ^^#anyone that has more/better info on this than me: feel free to add#I've read a lot but I don't study this stuff and I'm not from the UK so this is all second hand info
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My Top 10 Books of All Time, and Why You Need to Read Them
In my first article for Her Culture, I thought it would be fitting to write about books that have changed my life and shaped my world views in one way or another. My mom was a journalism major, so I guess I could say I got my love of reading from her. She used to read to me every night as a kid and imparted the importance of good literature to me. As a sociology major currently, these were very formative books in my adolescence that not only challenged certain misconceptions about the world, but allowed me to think in a more macroscopic way by reading different perspectives and experiences as well. I put my favorite quote from each book, if it had one, underneath each title—hopefully those will be enough to give you the general gist of each book. These aren’t listed in any particular order, but they are all relatively equally important to me, and it was incredibly hard to narrow it down (stay tuned for honorable mentions at the end):
The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
When I think of this book, I have so many fond and nostalgic memories of adolescence. Even though it was not too long ago, I think this book was really my turning point to begin truly questioning the social facts that govern our society. Although the novel is relatively short, the story holds a much-needed allegory for some of the major plights of Western society: elitism, greed, class, consumerism, etc. I would call this book a buffet of sorts; I say this to mean you can take a plethora of different meanings from Fitzgerald’s relatively straightforward tale. Moreover, I recently learned that Fitzgerald was an Irish immigrant, so the concept of Gatsby’s relentless pursuit to be from East Egg is similar to his own trials and tribulations of fitting into American society—and invariably, not being able to in the end. I really love the imagery and the language in this book as well; essentially, Fitzgerald paints an exquisite portrait of the problem of the consumerist God we worship in America. My favorite imagery in the book is probably the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckelburg; that’s one of my favorite images ever in literature, actually.
Mrs. Dalloway – Virginia Woolf
“Fear no more the heat of the sun”
This book reminds me of the conversations I’d have with my best friend in high school every day after AP Literature. We’d get coffee and drive around and talk about the various existential topics the book discusses. The book takes place over the course of 24 hours, it essentially covers a middle-aged woman’s retrospective meditation of her life and past decisions as she prepares to throw a party. Although it seems like a simple plot, it delves into ideas about purpose, free will, and even the profound effect strangers can have on your life. I loved the interpolation of other people’s narratives into the story as well; it made the story richer than just Mrs. Dalloway’s narration. Furthermore, I like the stream of consciousness style that you don’t see in many critically acclaimed works, but it makes it feel all the more intimate. Not only do you feel for Mrs. Dalloway, Septimus, and others, but the power of this style of writing makes it seem like you are in that character’s predicament. It reminds me not only of the fragility of life itself, but of the gravity of what you would consider menial everyday interactions can have—the butterfly effect.
Song of Solomon – Toni Morrison
“If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it.”
My mother is specifically to thank for reading this book. She suggested it to me the summer before senior year, and since summer had always been my prime reading time in high school, I read it. Toni Morrison is one of the best writers of the century, without a doubt, and this book is all the proof you need to believe this claim. She created an intricate masterpiece, intertwining various double-entendres—especially with the names of characters, time periods, storylines, and more. Her language is vivid, and every word is meaningful; she has no fillers. Every aspect of the story adds to the jigsaw puzzle that is solved at the end of the book. I’d hate to give any of the plot away, but one of the characters is named Guitar because he’s instrumental to the development of the protagonist, but that’s just one example of her mastery. It explores race, ancestry, colorism, and the power of self as well. This is one of my top favorites of all time, and if I were to order them, this one would without a doubt be close to the top.
Flowers for Algernon – Daniel Keys
“I don’t know what’s worse: to not know what you are and be happy, or to become what you’ve always wanted to be, and feel alone.”
When I first read this book, I was relatively young, but it still had a profound impact. I think it challenged me to think about the power of sentience and that it’s one of the many things we take for granted. It reminds me a bit of some themes in Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men (an honorable mention), but in my opinion, it’s less cliché in a way. Although it’s technically supposed to be a young adult novel, I would say it has a lot of adult themes, so it was a good stepping stone into adult tragedy. Charly’s connection to Algernon is one of the most poignant relationships in literature, and I do feel like this book gets overlooked frequently when we discuss the greats. On another note, it also caused me to evaluate the power of interactions and relationships with others, as humans are innately relational; this book does a fantastic job of capturing that aspect of life.
Jazzy Miz Mozetta – Brenda C. Roberts
“Okay, young cats, let the beat hit your feet.”
This is the only children’s book in my top 10, but for a good reason. This is another book my mother introduced, but way earlier than the others she suggested, as she would read it to me at night. She’d read it probably 3-5 times a week because this was one of my favorite ones. When I see this book, I have so many fond memories of my mother tucking me in with my matching pajamas and warm milk at night. To this day, I appreciate this book as one of the most incredible children’s books of all time. Roberts’ incredible vision of music, color, and sound made me proud to be black at such a young age, in a world that doesn’t want you to feel comfortable in your own skin. Moreover, you don’t see many children’s books with black protagonists, and this was such a fantastic representation. Especially because I also love music, she did such a good job of creating that through the illustrations. It emphasizes community, music, and living life to the fullest.
Tuck Everlasting – Natalie Babbitt
“Don't be afraid of death; be afraid of an unlived life. You don't have to live forever, you just have to live.”
Tuck Everlasting was one of the first books that really caused me to examine mortality in a secular sense. I went to church school once a week as a kid, and that was the only space where we discussed life and death in that way, so this was an important introduction to the concept of death altogether, in a sense. We’ve all heard about the fountain of youth at one point or another in our lives, and this novel explores that idea essentially. I also really like the tension between immortality and a normal life, somewhat reminiscent of the Greek myth of Eurydice when Orpheus goes back to the Underworld to retrieve her. This is another book connected to my mother actually, who read it at the same time as me so I would have someone to discuss my reading with and bounce off my ideas. I think this is part of the reason this book resonated so deeply with me; I had an adult to converse complex topics of mortality with.
The Virgin Suicides
“It didn't matter in the end how old they had been, or that they were girls, but only that we had loved them, and that they hadn't heard us calling, still do not hear us, up here in the tree house, with our thinning hair and soft bellies, calling them out of those rooms where they went to be alone for all time, alone in suicide, which is deeper than death, and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together.”
The above quote is relatively long compared to the rest, but it’s one of my favorite passages in literature. I love the effervescent, ethereal nature of this book. I almost feel nostalgic reading it, although I didn’t grow up in the 70s, but there’s somewhat of a vintage quality to it. These aspects are kind of similar to Lois Lowry’s book A Summer to Die. If you can get past the gruesome, macabre aspect of the actual storyline—young girls committing suicide—you can bask in Eugenides’ masterpiece. His syntax is honestly unmatched, as well as his symbolism. In my opinion, this is a much better version of the popular young adult novel 13 Reasons Why, as it goes into detail about what led to the suicides and you get a look inside the minds of the girls, but from an outsider perspective (as young boys are the narrators of the novel, along with an occasional third person narrator). As a male, Eugenides encapsulates not only youth but the experience of adolescence as a girl as well. The writing is just beautiful, and that’s all I can say about it. The interesting part is that although I guess this would be categorized as a tragedy and certainly has a melancholy tinge to it, you don’t finish the book feeling sad necessarily. I was unsettled, but I still wouldn’t consider it a tragedy per se. Eugenides’ genre-defying classic is one that needs to be acknowledged as the phenomenal work that it is. To this day, I don’t know if I’ve read a book like this one, in the best way possible.
Slaughterhouse-Five – Kurt Vonnegut
“Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.”
The way this book was introduced to me was as a book “about World War II and aliens,” and that is basically the most accurate summary I’ve ever read. It’s hard to say exactly what the premise of this book is because it really is about a wide array of topics, but it’s all connected, and it makes sense when you read it. It had a huge impact on me because I’ve never read a book as non-traditional as this one. I appreciate Vonnegut because he doesn’t subscribe to anyone’s rules—another genre-bender, one could say. It would be diminishing to this work to say that it’s about existentialism, but it is in a sense. The Tralfamadorians (the aliens in the novel), teach Billy how to look at his life macroscopically, and also about the deceptive nature of time. In Vonnegut’s words, “so it goes.”
Tess of the d’Urbervilles – Thomas Hardy
“Beauty lay not in the thing, but in what the thing symbolized.”
I can’t lie, I wasn’t the biggest fan of this book when I started it because I wasn’t sure where it was going. It has a Pride and Prejudice nature to it at the beginning before you delve into the plot that makes it seem sort of outdated, and although it is a timepiece technically, the actual message of the novel is timeless. There’s a lot more than meets the surface in this novel, and the imagery is also incredible. Hardy’s message is essentially about “crass casualty and dicing time” which is basically the notion that random things happen to us at random times and there’s nothing we can do about it. This also counters the notion of free will which is an interesting stance especially for the time this book was written. In fact, when this book was first published it was banned because of the depiction of rape and of secularism as well. At the time it was written (The Scarlet Letter era), the woman was the party at fault if she was raped, so it was met with generally negative feedback at first. Once I finished the book, I was a huge fan just because Hardy went against all norms to write such a tale. I specifically like the idea that Tess essentially saves herself in every scenario in the novel; Hardy knew even in 1891 that she didn’t need a man to save her.
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao – Junot Díaz
“Each morning, before Jackie started her studies, she wrote on a clean piece of paper: Tarde venientibus ossa. To the latecomers are left the bones.”
This book needs to be regarded as one of the best ones of our generation, as well as Junot Díaz as an author. Not only is this book timely, but it is also timeless. I really liked the integration of the actual history of the Dominican Republic into the novel, and also the acknowledgment of the intersection of race, language, history, and culture as the book is written in Spanglish. We don’t read many books in school or any books that garner any major media attention about Afro-Latino comic book nerds and their histories, so it’s important for a number of reasons. Díaz takes us on a long, vibrant journey through many genres, full of culture, and unrefined.
These are my top 10 books, at least as of right now, as the more books I read, the more the list changes. However, many of these will always remain at the top as classics to me. These are all must-reads not just because of how significant they were to me, but because of their respective contributions to literature. Outside of the fact that a few of them aren’t even categorizable into a genre, these books were truly eye-opening and formative for me. If you like to conceptualize the world and read about various topics from free will to mortality, I would highly consider reading at least a few of these, if not all.
Separately, I would like to think of this list as an ode to my childhood, and even more to my mother. She gave me this passion and this insatiable love of literature, so I truly thank her for taking the time to read to me, with me, and even for her suggestions. I can’t thank her enough.
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Congratulations, STASS! You’ve been accepted for the role of OBERON. Admin Rosey: G o d. God help me this application has taken my breath away and left my very bones bare. Oberon has always been a favorite of mine, quite different from a lot of other biographies I have written. His very force is nature, unbridled and uninhibited. Stass, with this application you have captured all of that and more. You have given us everything we could have ever asked for and then some. With Oberon you played our heartstrings, plucked away at them and made us fall in love with him in a very real way. His voice makes us catch our breath, his mannerisms has us trembling out of equal parts fear and respect. We cannot wait to have Oberon ruling his dark underground in Verona! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.
WELCOME TO THE MOB.
Out of Character
Alias | Stass.
Age | 21.
Preferred Pronouns | She/her.
Activity Level | 7/10. I’m currently on summer holidays, so I’m free most days and evenings. I’m starting university again in October, so will probably only be able to come on in the evenings or early mornings, but my weekends are usually completely free as I’m generally quite good at managing my time and workload.
Timezone | GMT.
Current/Past RP Accounts | x (Orpheus), x (Sirius Black in a Marauders RP), x (a criminal mastermind in the RP Thick as Thieves), x (James Bond in an MI6 RP). There are others, but these are the important ones.
In Character
Character | O B E R O N .
O R P H E U S . Some struggle to believe that this is truly the name he was born with, assume that he must have changed it from something altogether more pedestrian as soon as he was old enough, think that it’s all part of some great act. Although the last of those assumptions is patently, clearly, undeniably true, the first two are not. When Orpheus Ahulani was born his parents looked into their eldest son’s forest-coloured eyes and knew what image they wanted the heir to their kingdom to be moulded into. He will be the Pied Piper, they agreed, the siren call that will lead the errant souls of Verona towards oblivion, the boatman who will entice them down to the gates of Hell and ferry them across the Styx towards their certain doom. Most children would crumble under the weight of such expectation, fold like a tower of cards and retreat into the recesses where the shadows of their invented legacy could not touch them, but Orpheus was not most children, and so where he might have been expected to capitulate, he flourished. He was performing confidence tricks before he could walk, drawing in oblivious passers-by with his winning smile and the glimmer of mystery in his eyes and stripping them of anything they had that he could take. His parents, his grandparents, they all claimed that the criminal path was one they had taken to stay afloat in the mire and the chaos of petty civilian life, that it was necessary to maintain the lifestyle they had become accustomed to, but to Orpheus crime quickly became less about obligation and more about pure enjoyment, about the thrill of enticing people to their certain doom. He had not adopted the darkness, like his forefathers; no, he was born in it, shaped by it, and the Black Prince came to wear that darkness like a mantle. He was not blessed with fortunes and titles and palaces like the rulers of the Capulet and Montague clans, but he had the same power they did, the same ability, the same influence, and when he ascended to the throne that he was born to sit on, aided by Cosimo, his dark star expanded a thousandfold. He had been powerful before, but now when Orpheus reaches out a hand, the shadow it casts darkens Verona’s every street, and when he opens his mouth to utter even a mere syllable, the whole of the city’s underbelly flock to his side, answering their master’s call. Just as the Orpheus of myth was able to charm even the rocks and the trees with the sweet melodies of his lyre, so the Orpheus of Verona is able to make the city dance to his tune if he so desires. There is not a soul he cannot touch, no fool he cannot deceive, and when he calls, fear not, for they will come. They will all come.
A H U L A N I . They were islanders once upon a time, his relatives, before his grandparents picked up their empire of swindling and trickery and brought it eastwards. The sun-kissed paradise they left in their wake was too serene for them, the spray of the sea and the caresses of the wind against the beachside palms were just too celestial to be sullied by crime, no matter how gracefully it was committed. They came to Italy seeking a refuge that was altogether more low, already dirtied by the indelible stain of wrongdoing, where the criminal life they sought to lead would blend into a colourful tapestry that had already been woven. It was there, on the dusty streets of Verona, that his father met his mother and her family of misfits, and as the two lineages merged a new dynasty commenced in the Underworld. Orpheus has lost most of his physical connection to his Hawaiian roots, has only seen the white-gold sands of Honolulu in photographs and paintings, but nonetheless there is a part of him that will always be tethered to the sun, the salt spray and the wind, and the sea that rolls in his veins gives him that easy, breezy confidence, a lightness of being and of touch that seems almost deceptively out of place for a man of such formidable stature. He has all the charm of someone who has been blessed by the island life from the moment he was born, the kind of easy smile that seems to have sprung from people’s fantasies of what it means to be Hawaiian. Little do they know, of course, those fools who look upon him and are entranced, that behind the sunny brilliance lurks a filth that runs bone-deep, a black scourge that could not be erased by even the brightest star. This grime comes from the Irish in him, the visceral, corporeal criminality his mother’s heritage brought to the Ahulani crime clan, the part of him that isn’t afraid to spill blood and break bone, that revels in crunches and grunts and cries of pain. Joseph Ahulani and Katherine O’Leary were formidable criminals on their own terms, but when they came together their vastly differing styles of con created the perfect mixture in Orpheus, merged to forge the master ruler of Verona’s seedy underbelly. Verona’s instigator is as alluring as they come when he needs to be, flashing pearly white teeth and twinkling eyes, using his Hawaiian radiance to promise the world. But beneath the dazzle and the beauty lies something altogether darker, more nefarious, befitting of the dark corners and muddy ditches in which he chooses to perform some of his darkest acts.
What drew you to this character? | Where can I start with this? I missed Orpheus so much, too much. I love playing characters with a dark side, and the idea of someone who was not only aware of the blackness of his heart, but who revelled in it with so much glee, was captivating and immensely intriguing. Rarely, if never, have I seen a character as multi-faceted, as darkly multi-faceted, as Orpheus. I love that his soul shines with gloom, like that colour scientists discovered that was ‘blacker than black’, a sponge to soak up all light that glances off it. I love the fire in him, the fire around him, that it spurts from his fingertips and his heels and flares up in his eyes when he laughs, when he lies and when he roars. I love how you’ve made Orpheus so completely, almost painfully self-aware, so completely in touch with the filth that coats Verona’s streets that he not only plunges his hands into it, but dives in and bathes in the muck. I like that he has a clear sense not of right and wrong, but justice and injustice, and that his governing maxim is very much ‘an eye for an eye’, that he’s fearless and heartless but somehow has become a beacon to the downtrodden and the low, and that he has built an empire of sorts without the inherited wealth and the pomp and circumstance of Verona’s two warring families. Essentially, I’m utterly, hopelessly in love with this minstrel of destruction, and I’d like to congratulate you once again on dreaming up this instigator. It sounds overblown, I know, but I really do love him with all my heart and soul.
What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |
YOU CAN BE THE KING; The Capulets and Montagues might rule the streets and seek to fill them with the blood of their enemies, but Orpheus knows that the real power lies not in how many guns you have or how many bullets you spend, but how many bodies you have on your side, how many empty vessels you can whip up and fill with the pulsing beat of your agenda. His kingdom was handed to him by Cosimo on a silver tray, and, just like Hades took to his Underworld with perfect ease, Orpheus has found that he’s exactly where he belongs. I’d like to explore how Orpheus rules his kingdom, how he goes about raising his own empire with the backing of the Capulets. He’s always turned his nose up at an excess of money, but I’d like to see how he uses the protection and financial backing Cosimo threw his way, how he sets about positioning his dominion in the wake of the coming war, how he protects what is his from the long arm of Verona’s moneyed classes, and how he uses Measure by Measure to spread little rumours of evil here and there, how he uses his fighting pit to breed fear and respect in equal measure. He is on the Capulet side for now, because that is the side that currently brings him the most opportunity, but everything could change at the drop of a hat, should the tide of war swing a different way…
BUT WATCH THE QUEEN CONQUER; I want to explore Orpheus’ relationship with Theodora, to develop the toxic, intoxicating back-and-forth between them. They were never exclusive, neither of them belonged to the other, because they’re not bound by such earthly pettiness, and so Orpheus has, over the time they’ve been together, roamed as freely as he pleases, bedding anyone that took his fancy, as though it was his mission to cover the whole of the gender spectrum with his conquests. Orpheus knows that Theodora is sometimes jealous of his wandering eyes and hands and limbs, that they resent him bitterly, that they would gladly douse him in gasoline and strike a match, and I’d love to explore how he plays on this side of them, how he tries to goad them into lashing out, how they both stick knives in each other’s backs and then help each other bandage the wounds, knowing that no matter how much they hurt one another there will always be something cosmic and irrevocable that binds them together.
LET ME WHISPER IN YOUR EAR; His relationship to Halcyon. I want to see how Orpheus walks the tightrope between informant and deceiver, how he manages to sustain the balance between feeding her the information the Capulets need, enough to keep the war interesting, and obscuring those facts which should never come to light. I believe that Orpheus wants a war, has wanted one for some time, because there is nothing that burns as fiercely within him as his hatred for the wealthy, and although he would actively intercede in the battle against them, obliterating them like he did that family of idiots who dared to rob him of his loved ones, the opportunity to see the elite tear themselves apart is just too good to be missed. I think he will take to his role as informant eagerly, recognising the opportunity it brings to light the touch-paper and give the conflict the spark he feels it needs, although I imagine that if Halcyon tries to exercise control too fiercely Orpheus won’t hesitate to remind her just which side of the war he’s currently pretending to be on, and the damage he can cause if he chose to switch his allegiances.
THE PIED PIPER; Although he never intended it to be this way, Orpheus has inadvertently found himself wearing the cap of Robin Hood, scourge of the elite and folk hero of the poor. He’s not a kind soul, by any means, but over the years he has found himself becoming strangely proud of this unofficial title, even though he’d never admit this to anyone, even on pain of death. Something changed in him after seeing his brother struck down so carelessly by those who had more money than sense, and Orpheus decided after he’d wrought his terrible revenge that the best way of conquering the upper class was raising the lower classes to fantastic heights, to elevate them in any way he could, so that they could topple the wealthy of Verona from above and from below, rising from the underworld like magma and raining down like hellfire from their plane of moral superiority. Building on this, I’d like to develop how Orpheus relates to and interacts with those members of the Capulet mob who are not from the same privileged background as its leader, and although he’d never do this overtly I envision him attempting to convert some of them to his side of the ‘cause’, enticing them with the odd throwaway comment or lingering glance, reminding them where they came from and where they could go once freed from the yoke imposed on them by Cosimo’s money.
WATCH YOUR BACKS; Superficially, he’s a soldier, and his role within the hierarchy of the Capulet family is supposed to consist of him following orders blindly, obediently, to put his life on the line for the family he’s supposedly loyal to. But Orpheus has never been one for following orders, no; this Piper dances only to his own tune. He was already a king when Cosimo gilded his throne and gave him official protection, and I’d like to explore how these two sides war within him - the thrill of rule mixed with the expected subjugation and loyalty. I can’t imagine Orpheus actively following a single order, save for when Halcyon requests information from him, and would like to see what happens when he confronts and is confronted with the well-oiled, powerful machine of the Capulet army, such a dramatic contrast to the wildness and the chaos that Orpheus so proudly rules over. The Capulets may once have been friends to the working class, but they have become blinded by wealth and greed, and I want to develop how Orpheus interacts with the elite that he so hates, and how he attempts to undermine them from within.
Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Am I allowed to say undecided? Is that terrible? Part of me wants to say absolutely not, because I think there would be something beautiful in watching Orpheus rise from beneath the ground, clawing his way out of the dirt with his army trailing behind him like the hordes of the undead, to watch him turn around and not just bite the hand that feeds, but tear off the whole arm and throw it to the wolves for them to feast on. I’m a sucker for the traitor/saboteur plot, and I think watching Cosimo be destroyed by a monster of his own making would be entertaining as hell. But then again, even titans can fall, so maybe, if the circumstances were right (or wrong, as the case may be), Orpheus might not survive this war. I’m leaning towards no, at the moment, but my opinion may change depending on how things play out…
In Depth
In-Character Interview:
What is your favourite place in Verona?
He took a deep drag from the cigar pressed between his lips (stolen, of course, Orpheus Ahulani would never do something as ordinary as spend his own money on luxuries), enjoying the way the glowing end of the Cuban briefly illuminated his eyes in the half-light. Ash sprinkled onto the sticky surface of the table, clinging to the rings and mottled stains left by the drinks of countless previous patrons, and he allowed his hand to drop to the wooden tabletop, tracing idle patterns in the grime with practised fingers. Orpheus may have started rubbing shoulders with the elite, but this was his natural habitat, and like a king sat amongst his subjects he filled the space to the brim, so that the essence of the underworld’s prince seemed to seep out of every flat surface, to lurk in every dark corner. He leaned forward, removing the cigar from between full lips to blow a perfect ring of smoke, trapping his interlocutor completely in that tractor beam of a gaze, predator hypnotising prey.
Had the question been a test? He didn’t know, but as with almost every conversation he ever had, he would turn the answer into one, would make sure to pitch his words just right. His song would hit all the optimum notes, and the imbecile who thought that they could divine the inner workings of his mind would suddenly find themselves dancing to Orpheus’ tune and not their own, would see themselves laid bare in a matter of minutes. No matter whom he spoke to, he was both snake-charmer and snake, dictating everything he touched with a few choice tunes from his pipe, but ready to turn around and unleash the venom in his fangs if it was necessary, to wreak a long, slow and painful death on anyone who came too close. It would have been easy to miss Orpheus’ half-smile in the muted light of the underground bar, to lose the serpentine grin amidst the bustle and the murmur of customers on their way to being blind drunk well before midday. “My favourite place in Verona?” And there it was again, that smile, imbued with all the opulence of a thousand precious stones, so entrancing that no one ever saw the sting in the scorpion’s tail, the blood that lurked behind such charming eyes. “So many to choose from…”
A contemplative puff of smokey air, then, as his features shifted into a thoughtful expression, as though truly exerting himself to come up with an answer. “The library, for instance, or perhaps the charming florist’s by the corner of the Castelvecchio.” A pause, a knowing half-smirk. “But if you’re forcing me to choose…” Again, that tone, that fine line between jest and threat, deliberately pitched to make it clear that no one was forcing him to do a damn thing, that this question was being answered solely and completely because he had decided to deign it with a response. “It would have to be my dear Measure by Measure.”
Even at the mere mention of his precious establishment, of the den of violence and broken bones he treasured so dearly, his whole complexion changed, set ablaze by a fire stoked at the thought of the endless litany of brawls that he had presided over in his own personal hell-pit. “If you don’t know it, save whatever dignity you have left and don’t ask. Not all those who live… above ground can stomach knowing what goes on in the darkest corners of their precious Verona.”
What does your typical day look like?
“Why do you want to know?” An eyebrow was raised at the inquiry, and the expression that twisted his features was half something that looked like surprise (although anyone who knew Orpheus even in passing knew that surprise wasn’t an emotion he would ever deem worthy of feeling), half lazy amusement, a mirth to match the haziness of Verona’s late summer afternoons: sticky-hot like whisky, the kind of burn that felt pleasant on your skin and tongue. “Are you trying to keep tabs on me?” The amusement was still there, unfurling across his broad features like a ship’s sails in the wind, but there was a darker emotion behind it that was plain for all to see, an implicit threat that would not go unnoticed. Do not play with fire, it said, do not come too close, or I will burn you. Orpheus was a private person, his life was very much his own, and although he knew that many of the people he was supposed to be working for salivated at the opportunity of finding out exactly how he operated, he’d become adept at keeping his cards very close to his chest. It was the kind of threat that didn’t need articulating, one that seemed so out of place amidst the charm and the mysterious geniality that seemed to roll off him in waves that you could almost miss it if you blinked at the wrong time; an ember still glowing red in a mountain of black coal that had long since cooled.
Orpheus kept this tempestuousness, this fiery quality, firmly under wraps for the most part, because he knew the value of preserving a poker face, of biding his time and letting the sleeping giant lie, of waiting for the right moment to unleash the fires of chaos that he’d been slowly stoking since he was old enough to realise that life wasn’t fair. But there was a time and a place for anger, and this was not it, so he let his mask slide just far enough to reveal a glimpse of the danger that lay within, a reminder not to overstep the boundaries he had so clearly set, before returning to his customary insouciance.
“My typical day is just the same as any law abiding citizen of Verona.” (How enjoyable such blatant lying was, especially when he knew that he could get away with it every time.) “I eat, I drink, I make merry, I go about my business just like any regular guy.”
(Hah. As if Orpheus could be or had ever been regular.)
What has been your biggest mistake thus far?
Momentarily, his hand stilled where it had been tracing patterns in the sticky sheen that coated the table, that curious mixture of alcohol, sweat and ash so often found in seedy bars, and his eyebrows pulled together in something resembling a frown. To anyone who didn’t know him, truly know him (to most everyone, then, since Orpheus Ahulani had made it his life’s mission to make himself an enigma to everyone but himself), it looked like an expression of derision, as though the great shadow-king was baffled by the mere notion of having ever made a mistake, as though the idea of him being fallible, somehow, was beyond human conception. But appearances are so often deceiving, to even the sharpest of minds.
Your biggest mistake.
(November 29th, 2003. A fight in a quiet piazza. The murder of a brother, and the other brother’s failure to react in time.)
It haunted him still, that day, when he let it. In the dark, still, stifling night air that blew over the city in the summertime, left alone with only memories for company, Orpheus would let the strongbox he’d pushed into the furthest corners of his mind unlock itself and spew out its poisonous secrets, would let himself be overwhelmed, for the briefest of instances, by the memory of his failure, of his complacency, and of the loss that had followed. It was a fitting punishment, he supposed, for all the wrong and the harm that he had done, and would yet do. Even the devil was punished for the kingdom he earned, had to sacrifice his angel’s wings for the fiery reward that awaited him beneath the earth. It had been his one great weakness, and he had been punished for it. He opened the armour-plates that encased his heart like a vice just wide enough to allow one soul to slip through, and it was through that crack that fate plunged its dagger, through that crack that fate reached in and dragged the love he had for his brother, still warm and beating, out through his chest, only to throw it in his face and laugh, mocking him for ever having thought that the only person Orpheus Ahulani had ever loved could have walked through the hellfire that surrounded him unscathed.
But no matter. The past was done. Gone. Erased.
(Fool me once…)
“My biggest mistake was letting you sit at this table.“
What has been the most difficult task asked of you?
“Honestly?”
Of course not; it wasn’t possible, wasn’t even fathomable. Truth and honest words were few and far between in a city so steeped in backstabbing and deceit, a city whose heart thrummed so resoundingly with lies and secrets and cruel words whispered from behind gilded lips, and the tide of truth reached its lowest ebb in this corner of Verona, in the heart and eyes of its very own prince of shadows. And it was part of the act, of course, carefully considered - he lied so wantonly and with such joy that if he were ever to tell the truth it would be disbelieved in an instant, cast aside to the realm of uncertainty and doubt. It was a game he enjoyed playing, when the mood struck him, dropping little pearls of veracity into his web of lies, waiting to see if any unsuspecting prey would pull on the thread he’d proffered. But they never did, of course, his mask was far too firmly attached to his face to ever let anything real slip, and so instead he let the word hang in the air, heavy and thick with the connotation of so many truths that went untold, of so many truths that were lost in the miasma that was Verona beneath the sheen of falsehoods that painted the city silver in the moonlight.
Honestly.
As if.
“All these questions of yours are proving to be quite the task. Why don’t you move along before I get bored?“ A beat, a silence that echoes with the cymbal crash of thunder.
“You don’t want me to get bored.“
What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?
“War?” Orpheus shook his head and laughed, the sound not sweet and sugary but dark and brittle, crackling in the still air like the snap of burnt caramel, any mirth undercut by an aftertaste of bitterness. “This isn’t a war yet, just a playground fight between two spoiled brats.”
The remark sounded facile, just another one of his many quips, a tongue-twisting barb designed to vex and shock and entangle, but there was truth to it, as far as he saw. Orpheus had spent the past few months watching, listening, waiting, sizing up the magnitude of the problem as the Capulets and the Montagues gestured and postured at one another, like angry teenagers who shake their fists at each other across the classroom, too afraid of teacher for physical confrontation.
Things had been tepid, so far, at least in Orpheus’ estimation of what a feud should look like (and he knew, of course, knew better than most what vindictiveness and vengeance tasted like). He had watched tensions bubble and brew and never quite spill over, as both patriarchs observed the situation and hand and decided that all-out battle wasn’t worth the loss of life it would inevitably carry with it.
(Cowards, they were, too afraid of their own shadows to relish in the chaos they could create, too timid and precious to realise that ‘there will be blood’ was not just a pretty phrase but a motto every man, woman and child should follow.)
For the most part, both sides had favoured inaction, whispered words in darkened alleyways, secret meetings and hushed threats. Until very recently, Orpheus had feared that this ‘war’ that everyone kept crowing about would turn out to be woefully boring, that the mutually assured destruction he yearned for from the wealthy elite would never come to pass. But slowly, things were changing. Changing for the better.
“But then someone went and killed poor Alvise Vernon.” A shrug, and he leaned back in a chair that was too small for his frame, but somehow, perversely, seemed made for him. “Now the Montagues are out for blood, and they won’t stop until they find the evil individual who put their dear departed underboss in the ground.” It was funny, almost, how incensed the privileged got when the mire of the real world threatened to stain their ivory towers, when they were all so eager to turn a blind eye when someone actually deserving of their pity was felled, when someone from the lower classes was mercilessly hacked down. How easy they found it not to care when the victim was not one of them and theirs. But such things were not worth wasting angry thoughts on. They would all know pain, soon enough. “Now, who knows what’ll happen?” Orpheus smiled, then, flashing all his teeth, the expression utterly devoid of warmth. It was a crocodile’s grin, one that said there will be blood, and I’ll be there to watch it spill.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m excited.”
In-Character Para Sample:
. PARA SAMPLE ONE .
[[TW: BLOOD, MURDER, VIOLENCE, FIRE]]
[one] - O R I G I N ;;
He wailed when he came into the world.
Howled and howled until his lungs should have given out, until his throat should have been scraped raw and hoarse from the effort of so much crying. He drowned out the other infants in the ward, filled the ears of all the parents and nurses with the ringing sound of a baby’s squeals. He cried until it drove the paediatrician a little insane, until the man snapped and ordered the dark-haired terror moved away from the other children and into his mother’s room, and then, suddenly, there was silence. Suddenly, the babe that had spent the past two nights caterwauling so loudly that it almost cracked the hospital windows lay serene, peaceful, content. Suddenly, the nurses, stepping closer in perplexed relief, realised just how angelic this little cherub was, how beautiful his forest-coloured eyes were. Suddenly, Katherine’s hospital bed was constantly surrounded by a teeming crowd of well-wishers, passers-by with wide eyes and enraptured faces who cooed at the little boy clutched in her arms, who complimented her and her husband on having made something so perfect. They were not intelligent enough to understand him, these fools entranced by pretty eyes and an oddly magnetic aura, but as they looked into that tiny face, his parents comprehended the truth of their son’s existence, knew exactly what to name him to best capture this infallible gift that the gods had blessed him with. He would captivate the world over, they knew, could lead all the citizens of Earth to a watery grave if he only asked them nicely, and so they gave him a name befitting of such power, named him after the greatest, most captivating soul the mythological world had ever produced. Katherine and Joseph knew precisely who their son was, and what he could one day grow to become.
He wailed when he came into the world, but it was not wailing borne out of hunger, or fear, or absence, like most infant crying is. When he was born, Orpheus Ahulani cried because even then he knew that he didn’t want to be surrounded by other children, that the place he would receive the most adoration was in the arms of his dear parents. Even then, he knew precisely what he wanted.
This is the story of how a monster is born.
(Or rather, how a monster birthed itself.)
[two] - F O R T I F I C A T I O N ;;
He wasn’t given anything as a child.
It wasn’t for lack of love, because his parents reminded him constantly that they were impressed with the man he was becoming, and even if this wasn’t always made explicit Orpheus learned early on how to read the signs. No, he wasn’t given anything because such an upbringing formed an essential part of his tuition, because his parents wanted to form him into their master thief, their ideal conman, as early as they could, because they believed firmly in legacy and knew that their first son would be the one who carried that torch forward.
As soon as Orpheus was old enough to comprehend what stealing was, his father sat him down in a sunlit room and told him that this was his life, now, that he had to learn that if he wanted something, he had only to reach out and take it, and that the only thing to remember in this new life he was entering was don’t get caught. If he wanted a toy, his father pointed him in the direction of a rich little boy or girl who wouldn’t miss it. If he fancied a new item of clothing, his mother ushered him into a clothes shop without any money or a credit card on hand and made it clear that they wouldn’t leave until he’d lifted exactly what it was he desired. It was in no way a conventional childhood, but it was the perfect one for the kind of little boy Orpheus was, and the kind of man he hoped to be, because ever since he was young enough to really think for himself Orpheus knew that this was the life he wanted, knew that even if his ancestors had not been thieves he would have sought out a life of illicit activity for himself.
Orpheus was five years old and already he didn’t believe in excess, believed in taking exactly what you wanted so that you had enough to get by, that surrounding yourself with trinkets and empty vanities would not make you feel as alive as the rush of taking something that should never have been yours. He stole the toys or books he wanted, and when he was finished with them they were gifted to those he saw as being in need, those who made his otherwise static heart throb with a beat of compassion, and once the charitable deed was done that compassion evaporated, replaced with a burning desire to seek out the rush of theft again. His parents, his grandparents, stole and conned for that rush alone, but as he grew Orpheus felt a new sensation coursing through his blood when he stole, a sense of indomitable power, of control. He learned that he could dictate the emotions of others by doing something as simple as slipping his little hands into their bags or pockets, could make even the most arrogant man crumple and weep for what he had lost. Orpheus was six years old when he realised that, whilst his relatives saw themselves as something akin to demons when they stole, that some distant part of them regretted that they had not been granted the wherewithal to be more honest, when he stole he felt like GOD. He was only a little boy, and already he saw himself as a divinity, possessed that unique, self-affirming grace that obliged people to love him so much and blinded them to the truth of the power in his heart.
He was nine years old when his brother was brought home to him, when his parents pulled open the door to his room and presented the bundle of limbs and baby hair to him with beatific smiles and luminous eyes, and Orpheus breathed a sigh of relief because Joseph and Katherine finally had the child they needed to fill the hole that had been present in their hearts. He looked at his infant brother and knew that they would both be perfect sons, in their own way. Hermes was the son to love and be loved by, who would fill their home with laughter and warmth and shower their parents with gratitude and appreciation for their efforts in building a family. Orpheus had never been that son to them, it was made clear from the moment of his birth that he was not the child who would inspire happiness, no. Orpheus was the son to be proud of, the son who would pick up the Ahulani mantle and fortify the legacy his parents endeavoured to build, and such a momentous destiny could not be hindered by something as banal as love. Katherine and Joseph looked at the two boys sat by each other one day and knew in their hearts that Hermes was the son who would inspire love, but Orpheus, Orpheus was the son who would move MOUNTAINS.
This cavernous expanse of difference between the two brothers was made abundantly clear at every turn. “What do you want for your birthday, my boy?” Katherine asked her sons in July and November.
“To go to the zoo!” a three year old Hermes giggled, stretching out chubby little arms towards his mother’s neck, knowing that even though he was too old for her to carry him around in her arms she’d lift him into the air anyway, laughing in the way that only a child of the sunlight can as he pressed his face into her auburn curls.
“A better mark,” mused a twelve year old Orpheus, gaze sharp as a laser and expression almost defiant, focussed, seeking bigger and better challenges wherever he could get them. His last task had been to rob some elderly lady; hardly a challenge. He was twelve and fired up and knew exactly what he should be doing with his life. His mother looked distant but proud and he was rewarded suitably for his enterprise, and when he walked away from the jewellery store on his birthday, pockets full and alarm blazing uselessly behind him, Orpheus knew that he had finally been gifted the freedom to go about his business unhindered, that the time had finally come for the phoenix to rise from ash and cover the world in fire.
He tried his best to teach his brother the life of a con artist, to instil in Hermes the same fervour that hurtled through his veins at the speed of a freight train, but knew from the very beginning of his tutelage that his little brother was ruled more by his heart than by his head, that he was too passionate, too flighty, to ever truly excel. He did his best to celebrate the difference between them, to look at his brother as the light that was lacking in his life, the lone rays of sunshine that he would allow to glance across his face. For the most part, he did, but a callous part of Orpheus looked at his brother and saw only a problem, a weak point, the tremor that could cause the entire house of cards to come tumbling down. He looked, and he listened, and he evaluated, and like any good problem solver he came to an uncompromising solution.
He was sixteen now, freshly tattooed and even more independent than he had once been (if such a thing were possible), and knew that his family could all let him down, with their emotions and their happiness and the familial bliss they seemed content to wallow in. There was potential to build a kingdom from their enterprise, to raise up palaces of iron and stone out of the dirt and to make themselves indomitable, but the Ahulanis had grown stagnant and lazy. For them, the things they had stolen until now had been enough, but Orpheus was never one to settle for sufficiency. He recognised that his family were resources, that if put to good use they could help him in his quest for immortality, and so like any chess grand master confronted with a board of uncooperative pieces Orpheus set about manoeuvring his nearest and dearest into position. He became prince and general to them all at once, an emperor to lead his troops into battle, to make ten men and women feel like ten thousand. If his relatives were shocked they did not know how to express it, and instead merely allowed this boy-king to manipulate them, knowing in their heart of hearts that he had already surpassed them both physically (he towered over everyone he met, and the breadth of his shoulders inspired both awe and apprehension) and metaphorically, intangibly, that his ambition and his drive were unparalleled and would likely never be seen again in any of their lifetimes.
”Why do you steal things?” Hermes asked him one day, nine years old and completely devoted to his older brother, ready to obey his every command without fail, overexcitable and unflinchingly loyal, firmly convinced that Orpheus was the most magnificent person in the entire universe.
Orpheus was eighteen now, officially a man (although he hadn’t been a boy for some time now) and didn’t care much about his younger brother’s devotion, saw it only as a useful weapon to be wielded, the perfect way of exercising control.
“Because it’s what I was born to do.”
[three] - P E R D I T I O N ;;
He should have known that it couldn’t last, that no kingdom could be erected from nothingness without a few complications, without the inevitable pitfalls and setbacks, but Orpheus saw his success and revelled in it, and in his revelry he allowed his eyes to fall blind to the dangers that lurked at the fringes of his accomplishments. But all fortresses have their weak spots, and weak spots are only discovered through the most bitter of tragedies, so that the castle can be redesigned, made ten times stronger.
He was out drinking when it happened, celebrating the latest in a long line of successful cons (everyone had told him that the Mary Jane couldn’t be pulled off by only one person, but as ever he’d proved his detractors bitterly wrong, and the look on that pompous dickhead’s face as he’d realised that he’d frittered away his ill-gotten life savings had been priceless), was enjoying his customary mix of expensive whisky and cheap cigarettes when his world shifted slightly on its axis, when its orbit fell out of sync for the briefest of moments.
His brother was seventeen and stupid like Orpheus had never been, and the latest in a long line of petty fights he’d gotten himself into (over a girl, no less) had taken a darker turn than usual. No one bothered to call the paramedics (rich people were too paralysed by centuries of inherited inaction, and too closely bound by a desire to protect their own), but even if they had there was nothing that anyone could have done.
Hermes Ahulani died ignominiously in the middle of one of Verona’s piazzas, hands, face and neck cut to pieces by shards of glass from the bottle he’d been attacked with, choking slowly, grotesquely to death in a pool of his own blood while his family looked on in horror, eviscerated by the sensation of their own utter helplessness.It had all happened in a matter of mere seconds, too fast for anyone to process it, too fast for Orpheus, normally so perceptive, so quick to react, to leap out of his seat and intervene as he had done countless times before. They had all ignored the conflict brewing between the two youths, had passed it off as nothing more than adolescent males trying to burn off some excess testosterone. None of them had anticipated the rich brat’s cowardice, had foreseen him using that damned bottle of wine too expensive for its own good to cut Hermes down. One moment he was standing tall, buoyed up by surging adrenaline and the cockiness of teenage boys, and the next he was on the ground, crushed underfoot like the flower he had been, so much vitality spent in no more than five minutes. Orpheus had tried to stop the bleeding, had fallen to his knees on the cobblestones and clasped his hands around his brother’s throat, a futile effort to plug the seemingly endless leaks, and watched in what he dimly recognised as horror as his brother’s life-force leaked out between his fingers, staining his hands and the pavement below a tragic crimson.
As they watched the rich boy run away, face contorted into an expression of disgustingly entitled horror, no doubt seeking the protection of his parents and their wealth, Orpheus felt the walls of his heart close up completely, so that no feeling could ever again be let through. He shouldn’t have cried, for rulers never wept at the demise of their subjects, merely strode out amongst the common people and found new followers to take the place of the fallen, but the eldest and now only Ahulani brother allowed himself to shed a single tear that day. He hadn’t loved his brother in the conventional way, in the way that families are supposed to adore one another, but he had felt something akin to his own brand of love.
Hermes had never been much of a thief, had always been impulsive, loud-mouthed, capricious, all qualities that Orpheus manifestly disliked and had eradicated from his own personality. He laughed too much and stopped far too little, never waited to check what was around the corner, told his deepest secrets to just about any stranger with a kind enough face, and couldn’t hold his drink. They were polar opposites, these brothers, and Orpheus should have disdained his younger brother utterly, should have shown him nothing but contempt - after all, that was how he treated others whom he deemed unworthy. But the bonds of family are a strange thing, and whilst Orpheus cared little for his parents and grandparents, seeing them only as tools to help him build the world he craved, Hermes had always represented the people for whom he was trying to build this better world. Orpheus had never exhibited much kindness or goodness but he recognised its abundance in his younger brother, and despite himself he felt the need to see that goodness preserved, felt an obligation to create a realm in which his brother could lead the life that he deserved. Of all the people that he knew, and of all the people he would ever meet, Hermes was the only one Orpheus Ahulani had loved, and he didn’t deserve to have met his end before he’d even become a man, at the hands of a coward who had nothing to show for his life but money.
Before that fateful fay he’d been happy to let the elite lead their own gilded lives, as long as they didn’t get in his way, but as he watched his brother die Orpheus realised that the wealthy didn’t deserve to be ignored. They deserved to be BURNED, and he’d be damned if he didn’t see it happen.
But the path to vengeance is never smooth, and for the first (and only) time in his life Orpheus was careless enough to let his rage cloud his better judgement.
It played out like a scene from an Oscar-winning film about the callousness of the wealthy, and the Ahulanis were all too crippled by their mourning to look up and see it coming. First the coroner ruled young Hermes’ death as accidental, having the gall to call the brat’s selfish action self-defence. Then witnesses began to fall curiously silent, saying that they hadn’t seen a thing, that all they had seen was the young poor boy picking a needless fight, that perhaps he deserved what he got, each of them singing to the rich family’s tune. The police were similarly uncooperative, muttering about the prevalence of crime in poorer neighbourhoods, the victim’s prior pattern of behaviour, the fact that he was known for being violent. One by one, each piece of the puzzle slid into place, until Hermes’ case was encircled by an impenetrable wall of bodies itching to exonerate Raffaello Brazzi at the behest of his parents. Outrage spread through the Ahulani ranks like wildfire, fuelled by a desire to see their son’s memory preserved, and when an emissary from Giuseppe Brazzi came knocking, offering the family their weight in gold if they were willing to chalk their son’s death up to a tragic accident, if they would just let bygones be bygones, Joseph Ahulani told the man exactly where he could shove his bribe. Orpheus had wanted to raze the Brazzi family to the ground from the beginning, to make sure that none of them ever drew breath again, but his mother, still on a perverse quest to reform her once criminal life, begged him to let them do things the right way, to try and build a legal case, and against his better judgement Orpheus ceded to her demands.
They must have banked on them all being home that day, must not have foreseen the possibility of Orpheus going out every day to search for new evidence. The fire was already out of control by the time he returned home, and he watched amber flames as tall as trees surge through the old building, a deathly cavalry tearing everything to pieces, a ravenous monster leaving no life in its wake. Had Hermes still been alive, had his brother been in the burning structure, Orpheus might have thrown caution to the wind and run inside to save him, but now he stood rooted to his spot, watching mutely as firefighters attempted to combat the unconquerable blaze, watching and watching and feeling nothing in his heart but anger.
Orpheus Ahulani was twenty-six years old and in the space of three weeks had lost all the family he’d ever known, and knew as he watched his childhood home, his ancestry, go up in flames, that he had been right all along, that his mother’s utopian desire for justice was untenable in a world such as this one, where the wealthy elite did nothing but take, smashing up people and things in their way without a second thought.
He wasn’t a religious man but in that moment he thanked whatever deity it was that had kept him alive, that had given him this purpose, and knew that no matter how far they ran or how well they tried to hide, the Brazzi family had signed away their lives the minute his brother had drawn his final breath. The wealthy were not afraid of anything except damaging their reputations, but Orpheus knew that his destiny was to make them experience real fear.
Orpheus was twenty-six years old, and he was coming for them.
[four] - R E T R I B U T I O N ;;
They didn’t run. It wasn’t a surprise, in the end, given that they thought their secret had been burnt to a crisp with the Ahulani home. A more patient man would have plotted his line of attack, would have ensured that there was no way for them to harm him, but Orpheus knew that he was indomitable, that the fact that he was the last Ahulani left alive made him untouchable by human hands. Ever one for boldness and grand gestures, he strode through the front doors of the Brazzi mansion with a machine gun slung over his shoulder and seated himself at the head of their dining table, and let the members of the family he hated most in the world crawl to his side, quivering like frightened sewer rats. He made no verbal or physical threats, didn’t utter a single word, in fact, merely sat there with his assault rifle lying on the table for all to see and cleaned his nails with a pocket knife.
The implication was clear.
Giuseppe Brazzi hid behind his wife’s skirts and shook with fear, and after what felt like a century of petrified silence his voice, cracked and weedy, echoed across the empty room.
“We’ll give you money,” he stammered, “more money that you could ever dream of.”
(He was wrong, because Orpheus had never been a dreamer but he could dream up quite a lot.)
“How much do you want?”
The silence as they awaited his reply was deafening, the response even more so.
“All of it.”
“All of it? You must be joking. Who the fuck do you think I am?”
Orpheus didn’t even deign to look at the old man, merely laid his knife on the table. His terms were simple.
“You took everything from me, I shouldn’t have to remind you of that.” Expression as blank and unfeeling as slate, he picked up the gun, caressing the trigger with a macabre kind of reverence. “All I have to do is squeeze.” Finally, he made eye contact with the Brazzi patriarch, and the fire burning in his green eyes made the man visibly wilt. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”
They should never have underestimated him. He was Orpheus, the last Ahulani, he walked in shadow and in flame, the prince who would one day rule the criminal underworld which had shaped him. He was the Devil’s advocate, his messenger, his brother, the same blood pulsed in his veins as had once flowed through the body of the first fallen angel. Marianna Brazzi hurled a litany of curses at him as he stripped her husband of his entire fortune, damned him a thousand times to the fiery pits of hell, and as Orpheus walked away from that house with all the money in the world he smiled Satan’s smile because he knew that her words had no power over him, that if there was damnation to come he would welcome it with open arms and an open heart. The Brazzis hoped fervently that it would be enough, that their riches would be enough to pacify the beast, to fill the void and guarantee his distance from them (his silence had been guaranteed long ago, the minute they chose to set his family ablaze). They should never have underestimated him.
It was not enough, Orpheus knew that from the moment they offered him the money. It would never be enough. He was not the kind man that so many of Verona’s poor made him out to be, he was not their saviour, their symbol, their martyr. The only pyre he would ever throw himself on was his own, and only when he was ready to leave the world that he had barely had the chance to make his mark on yet. It would never be enough. There was only one punishment that befit this crime, only one way to repay the bastards that had taken everything from him. He was good at stripping people of everything they held dear, of everything they loved, and this would be his magnum opus, his greatest theft. The Brazzi family had played with fire, and it was FIRE that would let them know the magnitude of their mistake.
Orpheus wouldn’t just fiddle whilst Rome burnt. He would conduct a whole fucking orchestra.
He came with darkness as his cloak, ensuring that the whole family was in one place before he acted, making sure that he didn’t make the same mistake they had. Once again, he strode in through the front door, but this time he had no gun on him, only a box of matches and a knife and the Devil’s hellfire in his heart. There were nine of them in the house - parents and seven children, and they all paid the price, because the question of their innocence had been rendered utterly void when they did everything they could to sweep his brother’s life under the carpet.
He made them bleed that night, stained the walls and the floors and the priceless antiques with vermillion and crimson and every other shade of red imaginable. He was an artist, like Jackson Pollock splashing the surface of the world, with the Brazzi home as his canvas and their blood as his paint. He took his sweet time with each family member, carving his rage and his revenge into their bodies, making sure that they were all awake to see the look in his eyes as he killed them, so that his face was the last thing they saw on this earth. Almost poetic, in a way; the most lyrical Orpheus had ever been in his life.
Raffaello was the last to die, a fate he had sealed for himself the minute he chose to raise his hand and end Hermes’ life. Orpheus let him crawl from his bedroom into the corridor, watched him leave a trail of blood behind him as he tried to drag his body away, and felt nothing more for the teenager than he would feel for a slug that had crawled into his path. The last thing Raffaello ever saw was the slow approach of Orpheus’ black boots and the twisted expression of cruelty on his blood-flecked face. Lying there, surrounded by his own blood and the blood of his relatives, Raffaello Brazzi, murderer and coward, started to cry, and amidst his sobs he looked up at Orpheus and begged.
“Please, please, please, God, have mercy!”
“Mercy?” All Orpheus could do was laugh, the sound bitter and piercing in the mansion’s cavernous halls, lips contorting into an expression of pure disgust. “My brother might have shown you mercy. No, the only thing I can give you, the only thing you deserve, is my name. I am ORPHEUS AHULANI,” he proclaimed, raising the knife one last time. “Never forget it.”
[five] - E N D U R A N C E ;;
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, one fire for another. Orpheus torched their mansion to the ground, obliterating their family from the face of the Earth and making sure that no one by the name of Brazzi would ever darken the streets of his city again. He walked away from the burning wreckage with his head held high, proud frame silhouetted against a background of embers and flame, knowing that he would never face judgement for the crime he had committed (although he didn’t see it as such - to him, his actions were entirely justified, completely necessary, for there had been filth in his life and it had been successfully purged). Anyone who knew anything about Hermes Ahulani’s murder and the subsequent cover-up believed that he was dead, thought his whole family had been erased in order to let a killer go free simply because of his wealth. Orpheus knew that he was untouchable, and that finally the stage had been cleared for his life’s greatest work to begin.
He began slowly but confidently, disseminating news of his survival throughout the streets on which he had grown up. The paupers of Verona had been mourning their fallen prince, had feared the demise of their Robin Hood at the hands of the wealthy he stole from, and they were overjoyed to hear that their hero had been preserved, claimed that it was his virtue that had rescued him from the deadly inferno that had stolen his beloved family from them. Orpheus could have laughed at the irony of being presumed to be virtuous, but he let the rumour spread, let the streets ripple with rejoicing and relief, knowing that this jubilation would raise up a horde of soldiers for him. He whispered in all the right ears, smiled at all the right people, and used the outrage that had spread through the community upon the death of his family to galvanise the loyalty of every woman, man and child he laid his eyes on. The fortune he’d acquired wasn’t spent on himself, instead he began to dip into the pot of the vast wealth he’d suddenly accumulated to further magnify the people’s adoration, making sure that his charity was never too overt, that nothing more was ever said about his power than the odd whispered phrase. Even the fight club he established went unnoticed by all but the most hardened of Verona’s citizens, its most masochistic residents, coasting through the city’s underworld under the unassuming name of Measure by Measure, but to those who moved in the right circles the violence Orpheus’ snake-pit harboured was legendary. It was better this way, to be king from the shadows. It made him stronger.
He was only twenty-six and already more powerful than most men could become in five lifetimes, let alone one, and the whispers about him grew louder and louder, sparks that eventually ignited a forest fire of speculation, of mystery. Fires demand to be seen, to be heard, and one by one the influential figures in Verona began to take notice. Many approached him with offers of treaties and alliances, hoping that by taming Hades they could make his Underworld dance to their tune, but Orpheus knew the value of the kingdom he was poised to rule and the music that he wanted it to play, and so he turned each of them away, these men and women who claimed to be powerful, seeing through their charades of lies and always wanting something more.
It was a rainy day in October when Cosimo Capulet requested a meeting, and as he strode into the Cathedral, hair damp from the deluge outside, Orpheus knew that the right offer had finally come knocking on his door.
It was the first time he’d been into church to do anything other than steal, although equally illicit deeds were about to be performed under the Lord’s watchful gaze, bargains between the dark and the even darker, a treaty between two black kings who had each removed the white knights who threatened to stand in their way. Cosimo was shorter than Orpheus had expected, and with something of a wry smile he imagined that his brother would have informed the Capulet boss of that fact before he’d even sat down.
“Mister Ahulani, good of you to come.”
Orpheus acknowledged the pleasantry with a brief cant of the head, but didn’t bother to respond.
“Let’s make one thing very clear: if you’re here to offer me some hollow alliance, a way to take what I’ve built and sweep me to one side as soon as you get the chance, I’m walking out of here. The streets are no place for a man from your background, and you will never be able to control them like I can, no matter how much money or how many guns you have. We both know that you need me a lot more than I need you, Mr. Capulet, so go ahead, make your offer. I know you’re a smart man.”
Cosimo had to smile at that, knowing that his instinct about this young man had been correct. “My offer is simple, Orpheus, if I may call you that…” he trailed off, then, pausing to savour his triumph. “A good name you’ve got there. I like it.” Suddenly, he remembered himself, still smiling. “Yes, my offer is very simple: I want to give you the keys to a kingdom. Your kingdom. You can rule the underworld of Verona,” he intoned, sounding every inch the emperor he was, “you can rule it — with my hand to guide you.”
Outside, he could see the city lights sparkling through the stained glass. The rain had all but stopped, and Orpheus felt like he was flying.
“So what do you say?”
They’d both known the answer to the question the minute they’d laid eyes on one another, but Orpheus felt triumphant enough to say it anyway.
“Yes.”
[six] - C O M P L E T I O N ;;
And so Cosimo Capulet opened the gates that Orpheus had been longing to see open for as long as he could remember. With the might of the Capulet name behind him, he acceded to the throne that he was always born to sit on, knowing that Cosimo was intelligent enough to keep his distance, that he would never interfere. But even the king of kings could not know the extent of the ambition that lurked in Orpheus’ heart, a volcano of energy and zeal that was lying safely dormant, waiting for the perfect opportunity to erupt. For all the bullets in the world, he had weapons that were just as powerful - passion, emotion, the kind of burning fanaticism that only those who have nothing can muster. He accepted backing from the Capulets, played their game when they wanted him to, all the while conducting his own ruthless chess match in the shadows their eyes could not reach.
One day, he knew, he would build up the force to throw off the shackles of Verona’s elite, and so he bided his time, content to play the long game until such a time as it felt right to act.
But can a king ever really rule without someone by his side, without an ally of sorts, another half? Orpheus had had many lovers and companions throughout the course of his life, but none had captured his fancy for more than a fleeting instant, none of them could ever be considered worthy, and then he met Theodora Moreau in a hotel bar one night and the final piece of the puzzle seemed to have fallen into place.
It was not love that drew them together across a crowded room - love was for children, and idiots - but necessity, a flame that danced and sparked and seemed to hypnotise them both. He had heard them spoken of throughout the underworld and indeed above ground, had been privy to many whispers of the street kid who had risen beyond the stars, and the rumours had piqued his interest. He was in a corner booth at the bar in the Hotel Emelia, enjoying the low lighting and the whispered secrets that floated over to his ears from neighbouring tables, when he felt eyes on him and saw that they was standing directly in front of him. “You want to have sex with me,” they informed him curtly, lips pursed and head tilted contemplatively to one side, and Orpheus had to allow himself a laugh at their brashness. They were even more perceptive than he’d imagined. He had been watching them for most of the evening, out of the corner of his eye, allowing his gaze to drift with pleasure over their perfect form and that face, those eyes that were far more intelligent than he suspected many gave them credit for, finding himself drawn like moth to flame.
“Yes,” he answered, responding to openness with openness, quite enjoying this game to which they both seemed to know all the rules, “but a name would be nice, first. We are civilised people, after all.”
They looked him up and down with a hint of disdain (and damn, he was sold already), clearly thinking ‘well I, at least, am civilised, whether you are or not remains to be seen’, but seemed to deem him worthy of more than just an anonymous fuck in the hotel bathroom and sat down at his table instead. “Theodora Moreau.” They didn’t offer him their hand but he took it anyway, enjoying the way they shivered slightly as he brushed a kiss against their knuckles.
“Orpheus Ahulani.”
“It’s a pleasure,” they responded, withdrawing their hand back to their side, and for the life of him Orpheus couldn’t figure out why they were doing him the courtesy of such trivial pleasantries, but was mightily, mightily glad that they were.
“No,” he responded, taking a sip of his red wine and grinning, cat-like, in the half-light. “The pleasure is all mine.”
. PARA SAMPLE TWO .
[[TW: VIOLENCE, BLOOD, MINOR GORE]]
He doesn’t fight often.
It’s not for lack of wanting (oh, how the desire sings in his blood, how his veins thrum with it, that urge that pulses just beneath the surface of his skin, always threatening to tip, tip, tip over into actual violence, a beast that waits impatiently within its cage and scratches at the bars to find release), but rather simple practicality – in any conflict to be settled upon the edge of a fist, he will walk away the victor every time, he knows, and Orpheus enjoys the thrill of winning but there’s a limit to how many predictable victories he can stomach before they come to bore him.
So for the most part he keeps his fists down, lets his stature and the glint of savagery in his eyes halt even the most foolhardy of opponents in their tracks.He doesn’t fight often, but when he does, there’s something almost Biblical about it, something perversely, crudely elegant.
This is no different.
Measure by Measure isn’t the usual place he chooses to hold his court, but there’s a certain urgent matter that demands to be dealt with by means other than simple, verbal intimidation, and the dramatist in Orpheus can’t think of a more fitting place.
There’s a fool stood snivelling before him, with bloodshot eyes fixed firmly on the ground, and Orpheus looks up at him from the armchair he’s sat in with just the faintest hint of cruel amusement. A spy, from a neighbouring city, sent to size up Orpheus’ kingdom and see if there’s room for a hostile takeover, no doubt sent to see if, in his association with Cosimo Capulet, the King beneath Verona’s streets has grown at all soft.
He hasn’t.
(His doubters will come to rue the day they ever had such thoughts.)
“You made a mistake, coming here,” Orpheus says, and although his voice isn’t raised it somehow booms in the small space between them. “You might just live to regret it.”
Once the warning has hung in the air for long enough he stands from his throne, rolls his shoulders and smiles almost cordially, then curls his hand into a fist and lets it fly at the man’s face. Predictably, his opponent crumples to the ground from the sheer force of the blow, and Orpheus chuckles darkly at the sight.
“Is that it?” he queries, looking at the other man down his nose, amusement lacing every syllable of the challenge. “I thought they made you tougher in Padua.”
They’re exactly the right words to say, he knows, because the man scrambles instantly to his feet, jaw set and shoulders squared, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles begin to widen, and Orpheus can feel the familiar sense of ecstasy begin to pool at the tips of his fingers as he takes in the full sight of the opponent opposite him, sees the other man’s wounded pride and blind fury fuel him, and lets it fill him to the brim with purpose.
This man is big (six foot two, perhaps more), but as always Orpheus is bigger, broader, and when the first fist comes swinging his way he takes half a step back and catches the hand in his own broad palm, trapping it in a cage of fingers, and panic flares up in the other man’s eyes because he knows, because he can sense full well what punishment is coming his way. There’s a wild, wicked grin that slashes across Orpheus’ face, carving up his visage into fragments of splintered cruelty, and with a frenzied look in his eyes he begins to apply pressure slowly, squeezing, squeezing until he hears the click-pop-crunch of bones shattering into a myriad of tiny shards, until he feels the hand trapped in his own disintegrate beneath his iron grip, and the howls of pain that accompany the vicelike movement of his hand sound like a victory fanfare.
His eyes are set ablaze in gleeful satisfaction, burning with all the intensity of a forest fire, and Orpheus releases the mewling man’s hand with a hum of joy, reaching out instead to grab him by the collar of his shirt. “You asked for this,” is the reminder that drops from his lips before he whips his head back and brings it crashing forward, and the fleshy crunching sound he hears is indication enough that he’s hit his mark. The blow leaves him feeling dazed as well, but somehow that only makes the experience more pleasurable, and as he leans back to admire the damage done Orpheus feels a familiar euphoria coursing through his veins. One hand drops to his side, then, a feigned show of reprieve, and he waits until a hint of relief begins to cloud the other man’s gaze before snapping his fist up again, ensuring that it connects squarely with the centre of his victim’s face.
After the third, fourth, fifth punch he stops counting, and it’s only when the blood begins to trickle in scarlet rivulets down the back of his hand that the king decides he’s had his fill, only then that he deigns to release his prisoner and sends him dropping to the ground below as though he were nothing more than feather-light.
(The only sound still audible in the gloom of the basement is the muted rise and fall of the Devil’s breathing.)
There’s something beautiful about this, he thinks, looking down at his handiwork from above, something picturesque about the mottled flecks of blood, the blue-black bruises that trace the outline of fractured bones and crumpled cartilage, and as he kneels down in the dust beside his victim Orpheus thinks he understands how the Old Masters felt when they stood back and knew that they’d produced a masterpiece.
“Tell your friends what happened here today,” he intones, lips forming around the words in a way that’s almost tender, as though he were addressing a protege or an accomplice rather than the broken bag of bones that lies spreadeagled before him, and lifts up a hand to pat the man ever so gently on a cheekbone he knows is shattered. “Tell them that the underworld of Verona is not for sale, tell them from me that next time any of you come back here,” his voice is low, now, hissing, eyes so dark they’re almost obsidian, “I will end you. All of you. You think the Capulets, the Montagues, they’re the ones to be afraid of in this city?” A laugh, then, that rasps like a knife being unsheathed, “Tell your pathetic little friends they’re WRONG.”
. PARA SAMPLE THREE .
[[TW: VIOLENCE, MENTIONS OF DEATH, BLOOD]]
– THE PAST IS A FOREIGN COUNTRY; THEY DO THINGS DIFFERENTLY THERE
One day there will be an argument in a quiet town square.
There will be two men present, two brothers. They will be completely different. They will be the best of friends.
One of them will be involved in the argument. The other will drink beer nearby, not watching because he will think that it is safe. He will have made the same assumption before, and on most days he will have been right. This time, he will be wrong. This will cost him dearly.
One of them will fall to the ground, and the well of red in his throat will gurgle every time he takes a breath. The other will be on his knees beside him, palms wrapped around the deluge. His hands are big, but they will seem too small.
Eventually, the well will dry.
The other one, the one who is not drained of crimson, the one who is a great thief with a cold heart and a fondness for shadow, will go into chrysalis, will burn. Out of his husk will rise a beast with a gaping maw and claws that will always slice at the jugular. Out of the flame will walk a demon whose greatest talent is tearing out hearts and stamping on them till they burst. As he rises to his feet in the piazza, reborn, he will smear his bloodied hands across his face and know what it means to taste failure.He will not taste it again.
But this is not that story, not yet. This is the story of everything that comes before, and some things that come after.
* * *
Two little boys play on a dirty street. The big one leads, the little one follows. Everything the first does is mirrored in perfect miniature. This is idolatry at is most pure.
“Can there be a good guy, this time?” The little voice tinkles like a jingle bell. “There are never any good guys.”
In the distance, thunder rumbles. The bigger voice has dropped already to the crash of cymbals. Green eyes are kinder now than when strangers see them. Fat drops of rain begin to fall. A big hand cups a small wet cheek. Two sets of feet are bare, beginning to turn sticky grey with dust.
“You can be the good guy, if you like.” Somewhere, a lightning flash. It seems to cast the world in black and white. “But you won’t win.”
* * *
A child is left alone with a baby. He is trusted to keep watch.In the next room, the bed creaks, and his mother mumbles his father’s name. Other children might be confused by the strange sounds, but he has heard them enough times to understand. That is what adults do when they are happy. Or angry, or sad, or lonely.
(Sometimes, he will learn later, when they feel nothing at all.)
He looks at the bundle of blankets next to him. The Thing in there is pink and wrinkled and its little mouth is curled into a perfect circle. The boy is happy, because he knows that this perfection will keep his parents satisfied, will give them the loving son that he never wanted to be.
“What is this?” he asks when they bring the infant in to show him, dark eyebrows pulled down into a knot. He knows the answer, he is a clever boy, but some part of him still does not quite understand.
“His name is Hermes,” his mother gushes, eyes awash with a hollow innocence. “Your little brother.”
The boy blinks. His mouth charts the line of the horizon. “And what is he for?”
When the creaking gets too loud he stands up to close the door, and rolls his eyes because he is always the one who has to close it. He stands over the little bundle, holds his pointer finger out.
Five little fingers, fat and pink like worms, reach out and trap it in a rosy vice. Suddenly, the boy feels something warm spread inside him, to the left of his body where he knows his heart is. Suddenly, he understands.
He will keep the baby safe. And in return, the baby will make his heart warm. No one else has managed to do that yet.
It seems a fair exchange, and the boy is satisfied. He does not move his finger until he has counted to ten thousand. Even then it does not seem like long enough.
He does not tell anyone about this silent bargain, and when they come to take the baby to his nursery the boy glares at them until they back away. His parents do not understand why, but they let him move the cradle into his own bedroom. Their son is nine years old but there is not much they can do to resist. His will is iron, a hardness openly defiant of the fact he has not yet lost all his milk teeth. The boy does not explain himself.
His parents are not important enough to know such things.
* * *
Mother and Father are fighting again. Throats hoarse from screaming, curses no longer muffled for the sake of the children. Hot, angry tears stain cold, angry faces.
“Why are they arguing?” the younger one asks, eyes big like saucers, round with not understanding.
The older one watches, stony-faced. In the doorway of the kitchen, lit only from above, he is carved from granite.“Because love is not real.”
* * *
The little boy runs everywhere after his brother, wings on his sandals. He does not stop even when he falls and skins his knee. He does cry, little face overcast and squeezed with pain, but he gets up and keeps running. It is a resilience that his protector has taught him.
“‘Feus, ‘Feus.” He could talk a stranger’s ear off, but the three syllables of his brother’s name are still out of his reach. “Wait for me.”
But he does not wait. Today, he is impatient.
“I thought you were big enough to keep up.”
Behind him, a sob. He stops. The pastries they have stolen warm his hands through the paper bag. They do not go hungry, though. They steal because they can.
(He will give half of them to the beggar-man with the black cat who sits in the market, and the money they did not spend will be dropped into the hands of the blind woman who is bad at telling fortunes. Charity is not something he enjoys, but neither is suffering. And loyalty comes cheaply in places of such poverty.)
He sighs. In the cafe, a waitress spills a jug of milk.“You promised to tell me. What was it like?”
Someone tries to clean up the spill. The wind steals away their napkins, carries them into the street. Two pigeons are disturbed, and they stop fighting to take wing, leaving messy, torn out feathers in a little pile.
He sighs again. He had sex for the first time yesterday.
His brother still plays with toy soldiers. He is too young to know what desire feels like. ‘Feus chooses the words he knows his brother wants to hear.
“I was good at it.”
* * *
The baby goes everywhere with a sentinel, an escort with dark, wild hair and gritted teeth. Wherever the infant squalls, watchful green eyes are not far away. The infant’s parents love their new arrival because he is innocent, and they cherish him. But his true guardian knows already that their dotage is not good enough. Already, he has drawn up battle plans.
Already, he is marshalling his family around him, pronouncing orders to make sure that he gets what he wants and that they are useful, always.
They listen, because he has the look of unfettered temptation about him, because when those eyes are turned on to their brightest they cannot say no. He is not much more than a decade old, but already he could entice them all to their doom. He knows this.
To mark the passing of ten years, his eyes acquire a fire. It is not the flaming matchstick-end there was before, but rather a pair of coals set into a cunning face. A face that already looks a little wicked in the right lighting. The first time he gives a command and it is obeyed, a boy-king is born.
Soon he is not a boy at all.
* * *
(Compare two things; one fruit left out in the sun to rot, and another wrapped lovingly in cellophane, hidden in the fridge to save its ripeness. Which one is good, which one bad? Who is at fault? Do you know the answer?)
The boys are older now. One of them plays in dirty streets, still. The other watches, pockets heavy with other people’s possessions. He wears the title of man, now. (He has worn it for much longer than he should.) He should be disappointed.
Today was the first time he felt someone’s bones break beneath his fists. He can still remember the sight, the sound, clear like the reflection on the surface of a pond. He wants to describe it all to the boy playing football in the dust, because he knows that he will be proud no matter what.
He pulls the cuff of his sleeve down to hide the blood on his wrist.
The younger one sees his brother. Happiness paints his face golden. “Join me?” he asks.
The football rolls towards him slowly. Green eyes are cold when they examine it. He wants to stab it with the knife at his back.
(Compare those two things. The distinction seems simple. But the thing that no one ever tells you is that the rotten fruit rolled away from the plastic wrapping of its own volition. Do you know the answer now?
Yes. The answer is clearer than before. Now you know the bad created itself.
Does that scare you?)
He kicks it back instead.He should be disappointed, but somehow all he feels is the warmth of that gold face.
This is the only soul to whom he will never be cruel.
* * *
The gravestone is too small.It needs to be, so that no one will know the magnitude of his outrage. He needs to seem indomitable.
With steady hands, he reaches into his chest and tears out his own heart. It is small and black and shrivelled and is not beating and the earth is cool under his fingers as he lays it beside the casket.
The gravestone is small, and that is right. Now no-one knows that one-and-a-half hearts have made this their final resting place.
He wishes the gravestone could be bigger. His grief, impossibly large for a moment, has dulled to a quiet pinprick at the back of his skull. He has suppressed it well, but it is a wound that he will carry always.
Only one other person will ever know this.
The rest of his family are buried somewhere else. He does not stop to remember where. He remembers the priest crying when he told him that he did not care.
* * *
One night he drinks too much. The air around him dissolves into mirage, and he is greeted by the sight of a familiar face, older than when he last saw it.
“You’re here,” he says, tongue thick and heavy with not just alcohol.
There is a small smile on the other’s face. A sad smile.
“I’m dead, brother. Can’t you see?”
“Oh.” He tastes ash in his mouth, all of a sudden, the ash of a burned-down house, and when he looks at his hands through quaking lashes there is blood on them again.
Can’t you see?
Next time he drinks too much he kills three people, and it doesn’t matter if they deserved it or not because at least now the blood on his hands does not belong to a ghost.
* * *
Two little boys play on a dirty street. They could not be more opposite, and yet they are the best of friends.
The curtain rises on their little game. As always, they are head and heart. One thinks and the other feels. It is a simple division of resources. Both are content.
They do not play cops and robbers, or cowboys and indians. The older one has a mind like a puzzle box, it will not allow for anything less than intricacy.
“Today you will be emperor of Rome. I will be your advisor, and I will teach you how to sack Carthage.”
“Why don’t you want to be the emperor? You are bigger than me.”
The younger one is fair, always. It is a consequence of the light that bleeds from his heart. Because of this light, he can never understand what the older one schemes about at night-time. The older one is glad of this. He remembers the fat, pink fingers and round little circle mouth and knows that this innocence must never be allowed to fade.
Because an emperor has no real power, is what he wants to say. Because influence is spread by acquiring loyalty, not by tyranny. An advisor with his ear open to secrets can rule the kingdom much better than a despot could ever hope to.
“Because you hold a sword better than me.”
The younger one smiles. It swallows his whole face. He has three big gaps where teeth should be.
The curtain falls.
Extras:
FACTFILE: [TW: VIOLENCE, SCARS, ALCOHOL, SMOKING]
sexuality: pansexual. Romance has always been easy for him, for even if it weren’t for his impressive muscle mass and the sculpted shape of his face, he has enough charm to seduce even the most stoical of people. Women, men, and everything in between, flock to him in their droves, all eager to experience for themselves exactly what Verona’s Underworld king tastes like. Orpheus is gleeful in the way that he receives his lovers, welcoming each and every one with the cunning smile of a predator and the promise of sin written plainly in his eyes and across his mouth. He’s never disrespectful, although it might be expected from someone whose liaisons never last longer than a few days, instead always attentive, obliging, but always firmly in control, always in possession of all his faculties, and there’s something so entrancing about the way in which he goes about his romantic life that leaves all of his conquests unable to hate him even when they part ways, for it is clear to them from the start that this is a man whom they will never be able to tie down, that he belongs to no one but himself, and that any entanglement they have with him is fleeting at best. The rules of the game are always laid bare for all to read, and even though most people should run for the hills when faced with the proposition Orpheus puts to them, for some inexplicable, paradoxical reason it only makes the objects of his… interest want him all the more. The closest anyone’s ever come to tying him down is Theodora, of course, and even they cannot keep hold of him for longer than a few successive days, for each time the wind changes he is gone, blown away by the breeze like dust in a storm. He doesn’t love Theodora, and knows that they don’t love him back, and anyone who looks at the two of them closely would be forgiven for mistaking their relation for hatred, or at least contempt, but it’s as close as Orpheus could ever come to what the world might see as a traditional romance. He doesn’t love them but he needs them to breathe, needs them to keep his world spinning on its usual axis, and when people point out to him that that looks a lot like love, he shakes his head and rolls his eyes and says no it isn’t, that’s life, that’s something as fundamental as existence.
date of birth: 19 November 1977, zodiac Scorpio.
place of birth:Verona, Italy.
nationality: Italian.
ethnicity: Half Native Hawaiian, half a mixture of German, Irish and Native American.
parents: Joseph Ahulani, father [deceased]; Katherine Ahulani (nee O’Leary), mother [deceased].
siblings: Hermes Ahulani, brother [deceased].
languages: English, Italian, some French and Spanish.
height: 6′ 5″.
weight: 230 lbs.
hair colour: Dark brown/black.
eye colour: Green.
distinguishing features: The first thing you notice is his stature, all 6′5″ of him. This is a hulk of a man, more mountain than actual person, with broad shoulders and big arms and enough pectoral muscle for two men. You’d be forgiven for assuming that he was not of this earth, sculpted from some alien material and sent to Earth to show humanity just what it’s missing, and for the half-step back you take when you’re confronted with him, the air of apprehension that suddenly overtakes event he bravest and most foolhardy of souls. This is not a man to anger, not a man to insult. Then, once you’ve taken that step back, once your eyes are able to fully comprehend the titan before you, then the beauty of his features becomes apparent, the chiselled definition of his facial bones and the smooth, flowing lines of the rest of his body, so that he seems almost carved from marble, a Classical sculpture of Heracles, perhaps, or Ares, god of war, a model of virility and masculine strength. But he is not all brawn and brute force, and in fact there’s something oddly graceful about the way he moves, a grace that should not be possible for a man his size, a fluidity that speaks to years learning how to part people from their life’s possessions, years spent running and dancing through the streets of the only home he’s ever known, the only home he’ll ever need. Then there’s the hair, of course, the lion’s mane, black and brown, untameable, wavy locks stretching this way and that, somehow both impossibly tangled and immaculately sleek at the same time. This is a natural disaster of a man, some might say, hurricane and earthquake all wrapped up in one, with a frenzied wildness in his khaki eyes that cannot be contained by conventional human boundaries, and the kind of look on his face that lets you know that if he chose to conquer the world singlehandedly, he’d damn well do it, and there would be perilously few who could stand in his way.
distinguishing modifications: It’s hard not to notice the tattoo when you first meet him, the thick, curling bracelet that snakes across his left forearm, a looping cuff of tribal patterns that entwine with each other, a maze of thick, black lines seemingly without a start of end point, a labyrinth of ink. When asked about it, about what it all means, Orpheus simply shrugs and turns his head away, unwilling to give up the secrets of his body to just anyone, knowing that his taciturn silence likely adds to the enigmatic, inscrutable persona he’s managed to cultivate for himself, the kind of reputation that means people will think twice about underestimating him, that will leave them always yearning for an explanation that they will never quite receive. The answer, the meaning, lies far in his past, beyond Italy’s dusty, chalky shores, in that gold-tinged time of his ancestors’ pasts when the world was still full of bright horizons, when they were bathed in love and light and sand, in that wholesome idyll the Ahulani line inhabited in a land far away from this one. The designs are tribal, Hawaiian, his father’s favourite pattern, steeped in tradition and legend. The twisting lines were Joseph’s only connection to the island he and his parents left behind, and, ever one to be intrigued by beautiful things (and seeking in his heart to see that beauty either raised to the heavens or crushed under the heel of his boot), Orpheus found himself captivated by the looping tendrils his father would sometimes draw, as though conjuring smoke out of thin air, the image staying in his mind long after the paper had been crumpled and set ablaze, Joseph’s attempt to purge the yearning he felt for his homeland. “Remember your heritage,” Orpheus’ father used to whisper to him sometimes, when the light of day had faded and the hallucinatory effect of moonlight afforded the man the opportunity to be sentimental, “remember your past.” Orpheus had never been one for sentiment, even as a boy, and would turn his head away from Joseph and his dreaming, but there was something elemental about the images his father conjured up that pressed on his imagination. As soon as he was old enough for his first ink (fourteen isn’t the usual age for a tattoo, but Orpheus wanted one and wasn’t in the habit of not getting what he wanted), the design he was to get seemed plainly obvious to him, a pointed and knowing departure from the skulls and guns that his peers spoke of in hushed and excited tones, eager to prove their virility by displaying an overt connection to violence. But Orpheus was not an insecure man, and so he avoided the trappings of boyhood machismo, instead emphatically selecting something traditional, rooted in the earth and the sun and the sky, something to ground him but also to raise him beyond the grind of everyday life and everyday people, no matter how much of a symbol he was to them. He looks at the markings not as a symbol of longing, of homesickness for a home he has never known, but instead a reminder of the reason that he’s here, of the reason his father’s family left the shores of Hawaii behind and took their illicit trade to Europe, the task that sits upon his shoulders as reigning king to expand the empire his grandparents and parents began to carve out of the stone of Verona’s houses and streets. It’s an embodiment of the fact that he is striving for something, that there is a goal in sight, that once the filth that encrusts the top of the society he lives in is washed away those relegated to the bottom of the pyramid will be able to rise up, that he is a conqueror in his own right, and that no matter how much the rich and powerful might wish it, he cannot be stopped.
birthmarks: His skin, sun-browned and far smoother than you’d expect from someone who had spent his life on the streets, is almost unblemished, a rich, even shade somewhere between golden and olive, evidence of years spent out in the open in Mediterranean climes. He has one birthmark, on the back of his left knee, a small, oval blotch two shades darker than the skin surrounding it. It’s unremarkable to look at, and unnoticeable unless you’re really looking, but it’s one of the few discolourations on the canvas of Orpheus’ skin.
scars: His frame is marked by scars, as you might expect, because he’s not invincible and he’s damn well not a saint, and he would never hesitate before throwing himself headfirst into the path of an oncoming fight if it could serve his own cause. But even with this in mind, his skin is relatively free of visible, arresting marks, as though in this sphere of his life too the Fates have smiled upon him, and absolved his flesh of all but a few scars. Most of the wounds he’s sustained over the course of his life have healed, most of the injuries that have befallen him have proved not to be serious, or at least, not as serious as the damage he has done to whoever dared to harm him in the first place. The few notable exceptions to this generally scar-free existence are all markings that he’s as proud of as he is his tattoo, for these are the stitches that make up the canvas of Orpheus Ahulani, brushstrokes that contribute to the formidable masterpiece he has become. There’s the long, jagged line that runs across his ribcage, about halfway down his left side, a remnant of a brawl he once got himself into in a small alleyway behind a bar, emboldened by alcohol and nicotine fumes and angry that the world didn’t seem to fall into line with his grand plan for future. He took a knife to the ribs that day but dealt out more than his fair share of punches, and it was only after he’d been pulled off his rival, knife still hanging from the hole it had made in his side, that Orpheus had realised that he was wounded. His opponent, who was older and should have known better than to antagonise an unruly eighteen year-old, was left with a smashed kneecap and two broken arms, and Orpheus got away lightly, stitched up by his mother in a matter of hours and reprimanded only for the fact that he’d failed to take the man’s wallet off him. It’s the only time, other than when he avenged his family, that Orpheus has ever truly exercised the violence that he’s obviously capable of, and he wears the scar like a badge, knowing that, should anyone choose to cross him, they’ll rue the day the thought ever crossed their minds. Most of his other scars were obtained through thieving and conning: scraped knuckles grazed on a wall whilst running away from a mark, small knife cuts to his forearms from people who try to fight back when he takes their possessions from them (if they ever notice, that is, and the percentage of people who do is so infinitesimal that Orpheus isn’t in the least concerned when it does happen), a few burns obtained through his unquenchable desire to play with fire, and a long scar that cuts through his eyebrow, obtained from cut glass, but whether the mark was made by an angry mark or a furious lover, he can’t quite recall. Perhaps Theodora left it there. It seems like the kind of thing they’re capable of doing when they’re angry with him (which is most of the time).
myers-briggs: ESFP.
moral alignment: Chaotic Evil.
temperament: Choleric.
deadly sin: Wrath.
heavenly virtue: Diligence.
habits: Smoking and drinking have become habits to him, at this point, drinking an integral part of his daily life since he was old enough to understand what alcohol was and the effects it could have, and smoking a childhood vice that never quite seems to leave him, even though he has the willpower to give up quite easily if he so desired. He’s often clouded by smoke, shrouded in mystery both physically and metaphorically, and usually can be seen with a hand-rolled cigarette tucked behind his ear or into the breast pocket of a shirt, always there in case his fingers feel the itch. When he can get his hands on them (never legally), he’s also partial to cigars, fat, Cuban ones that he can wedge between his teeth and puff on when the five year-old in him rears his head and he wants to remind everyone around him of exactly who he is, that he’s a big man with big power, and that they’d all best revere him, for not to do so would be a grave sin.
phobias: Nothing scares him, not really. He’s seen too much, been through too much, to ever afford himself the luxury of fear, and in any case fear was stamped out of him as a young boy by his mother’s family, uncompromising folks who believed that terror made you weak and would eventually leave you dead. There’s nothing left for him to fear, anyway - his family have already been taken from him, and being as untethered as he is makes him untouchable, means that he can sit atop his throne and lock the castle gates, knowing that no one will ever breach them, that nothing is capable of scaring him: not death, not life, not the prospect of failure, because in his mind every situation he could ever find himself in is simply waiting to be turned into a success, into an opportunity.
AESTHETIC: upturned cups of wine; bare feet on cobblestones; eating fruit so that the juice runs down your chin; melting ice; wild flowers; the smell of burnt sugar and soil; the seductive quality of a whisper; singing hymns under your breath whilst you blaspheme; little braids tucked away inside your hair; unbuttoned shirts and bare chests; sweat-slicked skin; running down alleyways; the slow burn of whisky; dark corners; the smell of woodsmoke and leather; raised voices; rumpled sheets; broken glass; hair pulled back into a ponytail; no crying; spearmint chewing gum; worn, heavy boots; classic rock; lying eyes and lying smiles; charcoal and broken pencil leads; flick-knives; cigarette ash; beef steaks; cracking joints and clenched fists; screaming into the wind until your lungs are hoarse; sarcastic quips and raised eyebrows; bloody knuckles and split lips; sunlight and moonlight; cigar smoke; orchestral music; throwing open double doors; molten gold; secrets in the dark.
HEADCANONS:
1) Although he never seems to put much effort into his appearance, giving off the impression of being one of those people who just wake up beautiful and put together, in a perfectly disheveled kind of way, the aesthetic of careless casualness Orpheus exudes was in fact carefully thought through at one point or other in his life. Even as a much younger man that he now is, Orpheus knew exactly what kind of image he wanted to project to the outside world, how he wanted people to see him, knew the precise pitch at which the gasps he elicited from passers-by should ring in his ears. He most often wears white, black, or grey, and never, ever wears bright colours. The only injections of shades that aren’t monochrome into his wardrobe are dark, rich, sensuous colours like burgundy, deep emerald and copper, hues that blend easily into the darkness that he enjoys to cloak himself in. He knows precisely what looks good in him, wears his clothes as part of his armour, uses them to reinforce his status as king. He’s a fan of some more daring things, too; pinstripes and suspenders and hats that should look ridiculous on him but somehow fit seamlessly into the picture, suit trousers with combat boots, scarves and waistcoats and always, always odd socks. He owns some leather items, a rare luxury he afforded himself and paid for out of his own pocket, but generally his rule is never to spend more than thirty euros on a piece of clothing, and, if there’s something expensive that his heart truly desires, to steal it from an unsuspecting rich brat who can afford to have his pockets lightened. He may be broadly self-serving and callous, but Orpheus believes that it’d be wrong of him to adopt the mantle of king of the paupers and then to swan around in finery more befitting of an actual ruler than a prince of thieves, and so he tries to keep his possessions fairly modest, although this isn’t an active effort or something he’d admit out loud. One thing he is partial too is jewellery, and more often than not his fingers are stacked with rings of various shapes, sizes and materials, trinkets pulled from the fingers of the victims of his cons, his neck similarly draped with countless necklaces, his wrists bound with golden chains and leather ropes alike.
2) He stole a book, once. He was four years old, young enough to know that thieving and conning was to be his life’s work, but not quite old enough to figure out what it was that he wanted to steal, what was worth picking pockets and running scams for, and what was best left alone. He was four years old and he saw the businessman’s briefcase, and the opportunity was too exciting for the young boy to ignore. How disappointed he was, at first, to open the leather satchel and find little more than papers and documents, nothing more than a business proposal. But then something else slid out of the bag, a small, unassuming rectangle of paper, worn at the corners and scratched across the spine. Lord of the Flies, the cover read, and despite himself Orpheus opened it to have a look. He read, and read, and was surprised to find that he liked it. He dumped the briefcase in a nearby alley and made his way home, reading all the while, and when his family asked him where he had found the dog-eared volume Orpheus simply shrugged and told them he’d found it on the street. This event didn’t start an obsession, far from it, for he was too occupied by the desire for self-advancement and self-preservation throbbing in his head to ever devote himself completely to something as time-consuming as reading, but nonetheless it unlocked in Orpheus a desire to discover more. If he ever came across a book whilst working his favourite back streets, he would take it, provided that it was a classic and that it looked interesting (anything he stole that didn’t grip his fancy was donated to the local orphanage), and slowly but surely he built up a small library for himself, stashing books anywhere he could, and although now he’s all but forgotten the practice, if his eyes ever land on a volume that he feels his makeshift library is lacking, he’ll often go out of his way to pick it up. He likes to lift the odd book from the library, too, always replacing what he takes with trash literature, usually pulp, often pornographic, and makes sure he’s around when either the librarian or some unsuspecting budding reader comes across his substitution. His favourite novel? Why, Crime and Punishment, of course, if only because the title is so apt, and he finds it amusing to be seen reading it out in the open, especially when there is law enforcement present to witness it.
3) Orpheus can play the guitar, and isn’t half-bad at carrying a tune. As with most of the skills he’s picked up in his life, this happened entirely by accident (although to look at him you’d believe that it was all carefully engineered, like Orpheus has meant for his life to turn out exactly as it has). He stole a guitar, because his father told him it was expensive, and that it would be good practise to steal something so large, but once he had the instrument in his hands there didn’t seem to be much that it was useful for, unless he wanted to club someone on the head with it (a tempting solution to the problem). For a few weeks it sat in his corner of the room he and his brother shared, until finally Orpheus decided there was nothing left to do but try and play it, since the fence his father had contacted hadn’t come through for them and wouldn’t sell it. So he found a homeless man living in the corner of the piazza in front of the Cathedral, looked him squarely in the eye and said teach me to play, and that was that. He doesn’t play often - he isn’t a minstrel, or some sort of cheap travelling entertainer - but nonetheless it’s a skill that he keeps in his back pocket in case he should ever need it, and he enjoys the fact that he can make music as well as listen to it. Nowadays, he’ll most often play when he’s drunk, stretched out across whatever chair he’s using as his makeshift throne on that particular day, tucked away in the corner of his favourite bar, when daylight has faded and everyone’s just about tired enough not to care.
4) He has riches in his possession beyond anyone’s wildest imaginings, but he isn’t rich, and never has been. Plenty of the things he’s stolen are expensive, invaluable, priceless even, and he’s fenced or ransomed so many of them that he has a considerable amount of material wealth, most of it cash bills stuffed into vases and hollowed-out books (there’s something oddly cinematic about hiding wads of money that Orpheus enjoys), but he doesn’t ever spend enough of it for anyone who doesn’t know him to cotton onto the fact of exactly how much money he has. Despite the prolific criminality that runs in his bloodline, Orpheus is of humble stock, and to suddenly turn around after years spent living more or less on a level with Verona’s paupers and start spending the money he’s amassed frivolously, carelessly, emulating those rich families whom he hates so much, would feel deeply wrong to him. He doesn’t have much of a moral code, and what little morality he did have was utterly shot to pieces on the night his brother died, but this is a conviction that he holds and tries to adhere firmly to. He also likes to hand money out, to anyone who may need it, although these acts of charity are driven as much by the compassion he has for the poor and downtrodden (about the only people he’s capable of experiencing any sympathy for) as by his desire to keep them on his side, to sweeten the bonds between him and his disciples so that when the time comes, they will be amenable to the plans he has in store for them all, will be utterly servile, willing to fall on their swords for him a thousand times over. They’re not bribes, as such, more friendly reminders of exactly what he can do for his people, that he could be spending his ill-gotten gains on cars and expensive watches but instead chooses to safeguard his domain against the threat of Capulet or Montague influence.
5) Sometimes, in the darkened confines of the night, when he’s decided to go without a lover and sleep alone, when the only sounds he can hear are the slow rise and fall of his own breath and the distant wailing of owls, Orpheus allows himself to contemplate the facts of his existence, and his lineage. He is the final one of his kind, the last Ahulani, the last one to ever carry that fiery mixture of genes that was forged when his mother and his father came together forty years ago. It shouldn’t bother him, in fact being the last of his dynasty should help him feel even grander, increase the sense of momentous expectation and duty that he imposes upon his own shoulders, but for some reason, in these dark, quiet places, when the only thing keeping him company is the steady pulse of thoughts in his own head, it does. That’s part of the reason why he strives so hard to make the kingdom gifted to him something worthy of remembering, why he’s willing to fight tooth and nail to make his legacy a reality, to ensure that his name is inscribed in the stars as well as on stone monuments, that the four syllables of his surname are not lost to the wind and rain like so many other lineages. It’s partly why he wishes his brother was still alive - he doesn’t allow himself to miss Hermes, because to allow such emotion to intrude into the otherwise impermeable facade of his consciousness would only slow him down, and that is unacceptable - because of his value in furthering their bloodline. Hermes was exactly the kind of person Orpheus is not: warm, kind, unashamedly gleeful, and full of love, the kind of man who drew women to him not because of his beauty but because of his heart, who inspired deep romantic love in the few girlfriends he did have. Had he lived, he would have no doubt produced an impossibly, almost disgustingly large brood of children, who would have carried the Ahulani name and their fearlessness forward, would have made a new line of thieves. Orpheus knows that he can never be the person his brother could have been, and he isn’t suddenly about to start seeking ways to have a child of his own simply because of something as everyday as loss, but one of his few regrets about the loss of his family is that he will take their name to his grave with him.
EXTRA WRITING: I wrote a poem about Orpheus, once, because I’m a loser and he’s my tiny evil son:
– THE SEVEN AGES OF ORPHEUS AHULANI; told through bloodshed and darkness and a little too much pain.
i. there’s blood on your hands, infant.
it’s your mother’s blood,
her life and the life she gave to you.
she brought you into this world, tried
to bring you out of darkness and into light…
except it didn’t really work,
did it?
because the light hardly affected you,
little child, with your whirlpool eyes and that soul that was already
far too dark.
she could never have imagined, your mother,
that her lamb’s blood
would have raised a
wolf.
ii. there’s blood on your hands, boy.
it’s your own blood,
from where you’ve fallen and scraped your knee.
get up,
your father tells you, and his voice isn’t kind or gentle but you understand,
know that big boys don’t cry.
you’re only seven but you know already.
you stopped crying a while ago.
iii. there’s blood on your hands, young man.
it’s your brother’s blood,
you watch it pour between your fingers
like river water stained an awful crimson,
and amidst the rage that burns hot and white you can taste
retribution
on your tongue.
(it tastes bitter-sweet, like you’d imagined,
honey and vinegar.)
it’s a waste, this, a life thrown away, because he was a happy boy.
you don’t believe in happiness, not for a long time,
but he did,
and that’s important,
somehow.
maybe you didn’t love him properly,
not like the story-books say you should,
but you’ll avenge him.
iv. there’s blood on your hands, phoenix.
it’s a stranger’s blood,
blood you’ve spilt,
blood that runs down, down,
down your arms and hands
down past your feet
down onto the too-expensive carpet you’re treading scarlet footprints into.
you said you would avenge him, them, all of them,
and here you are, and it isn’t really clear in the half-light which is sharper:
your knife or the grin on your face.
they thought fire would kill you.
they were wrong,
and when you rose from the flames you had been made anew.
fire becomes you, now, it’s a weapon, not an enemy,
and burning a mansion to the ground becomes so simple,
the easiest thing in the world.
you should feel some guilt, by rights, but your heart isn’t like other hearts,
it’s cold and cruel and
all things burn, in the end,
so why waste a moment’s thought on
the things you’ve razed to the ground.
all things burn, in the end.
(except you, perhaps;
you have become the thing that burns others.)
v. there’s blood on your hands, king.
it’s your own blood again,
but you haven’t fallen over this time.
this time you’re fighting,
and there’s a battered form in the dust in front of you,
and you’ve proven a point to anyone who doubted you.
so what if they got a lucky hit, scratched your face with the shards of a bottle?
the blood you’re wiping away from your forehead is like
armour, chainmail.
your followers have always respected you,
but now they’re afraid of you,
too.
you look at the cut over your eye in the mirror afterwards,
and there’s blood
on your lips when you smile.
did that powerful man know what he was getting himself into,
when he signed a pact with the devil’s right hand?
no-
not right hand-
the devil himself.
(it’s a nickname others have given you when they whisper
about you in the dark
and it seems fitting.)
perhaps not, you think.
king cap looked to buy a fighting dog,
paid for a hellhound.
vi. there’s blood on your hands, lover.
it’s their blood,
this time,
the blood of someone who, despite your marble-steel exterior,
means a lot to you.
you’re bandaging their wounds
- they don’t need you to -
because, despite yourself,
you have to make sure that they’re
safe.
you have to have them near you, always,
you may go your separate ways often enough but there will always be
a red thread
tying your fingers together.
(a passing traveller told you that myth, once.
you don’t believe in fate but it seemed apt,
somehow.)
you find yourself looking for their face in crowded rooms,
waiting,
for the moment that they’ll sidle up to you and you’ll hear their voice,
whispering in your ear,
the slow lapping
of waves on the sea shore.
it’s not love, not at all,
(that would be childish)
but something altogether more prosaic.
need, perhaps.
vii. there will be blood on your hands, old man.
it will be the world’s blood,
when you’ve pulled its innards out
and scraped all you can get from deep within,
when you hold its bloodied heart
beating in your hands.
your parents taught you ambition
but they never could have imagined the fire of hunger they lit in your soul.
the best is not enough.
you want it all,
want the world, your world,
to cower at your feet,
want all those who wrote you off as nothing more than vermin
to know that
they were right.
you are vermin, and you wear the slur with pride.
more fool them, you’ll think, when the carcass of the world lies bloody at your feet.
they forgot that vermin have the power to destroy.
MOODBOARDS:
1, 2, 3 & 4.
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Cake By The Ocean: One
The employees of the law offices of Corningstone & Wallace are given two weeks paid vacation every year. The magic of last year’s trip had erased the memory of any other vacation from Georgina Ferguson’s mind. Roaming Aruban beaches with pineapples full of rum and making out with a cute Irish boy had ignited a spark that she had never felt before. From that moment on, she was a changed woman. She could parallel park on the busy street where her favorite ice cream shop was located. She was eating more leafy green vegetables. She could bake a Dutch apple pie from scratch. She even bought a new bike for the beach. However, the biggest change to Georgina’s life was the fact that she was head over heels in love with Niall Horan.
The love she received was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Growing up, she had read plenty of stories where men showcased their love. Paris’ love caused a war. Orpheus’ took him to hell and back. Alcyone’s went to his head. Zeus’ created a trail of broken hearts.
But this wasn’t a mythological tale, this was real life. Niall’s love was different. His love was real. It was warm and kind and invigorating. His love made her believe in the future for the first time. His love made her realize she wasn’t broken. She was able to love. His love was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
But as of lately, that love had been neglected. He had been busy touring the globe. She had been busy saving the firm. Their phone calls were short. Their text messages were even shorter. She had been counting down the hours until she got to see him again.
Lucky for her, the countdown had made it’s way down to seven. In seven whole hours, she’d get to see the smiling face of her loving boyfriend. In seven whole hours, she’d get to hear his laugh and watch him reconnect with the rest of their friends. In seven whole hours, she’d have to pretend the boy she was in love with was just a boy that she could tolerate. In seven hours, she’d get to see him but only as a friend.
Why was that?
No one knew they were together. They had successfully kept it a secret for the past seven months. The only way they were able to last so long was the fact that he was gone for most of it. The two week trip to Greece they were about to embark on was going to put their relationship to the test. It would prove whether or not they were made to last. Having to share a house with eight of their closest friends while being in a secret relationship was going to be the ultimate test.
Their relationship status had caused plenty of arguments in the past couple weeks. From the moment he left for tour, they had gone back and forth. She didn’t want to tell anyone because she was worried she wasn’t ready to be someone’s girlfriend. Yes, they were official but Niall was the only one who knew. She was safe in this bubble, where outside eyes couldn’t harm her. What if their friends found out and things fizzled out? She’d never forgive herself. It took a few months of being on her own for her to realize that she was being ridiculous. She loved Niall and he loved her. Nothing was going to happen to them – no matter who found out. Just as fate would have it, the moment she switched teams, Niall switched too. He didn’t want anyone to know. He never told her why but he was adamant about keeping what they had a secret. He said she wouldn’t understand and that they needed to talk in person.
In seven hours, she was going to have that talk.
In the meantime, Georgina Ferguson sat on a sidewalk in the middle of a neighborhood in Mykonos while Jenna rambled on about the date she went on the night before with Stephen. She hadn’t been paying attention though. Her eyes were glued to her phone. It had been blowing up with reassuring texts from Niall since she got off the plane. Preflight jitters had gotten the best of her when she dropped Scout off at Keith’s cousin’s place so he had taken it upon himself to calm her down. For the most part, it had worked.
Another thing that helped cure her nerves was the blonde haired woman sitting beside her. Brittany knew something was bothering her but didn’t press the issue. Instead, she made sure that every preflight ritual was completed and that Georgina was given the seat by the window. She got them to the house in one piece. She put Georgina in charge of keeping an eye on the boys. They were picking up the keys to the house, the car Keith had rented, and something for the group to eat.
Brittany nudged Georgina’s leg, “Dave text back yet?”
“Should be here in fifteen minutes.” Georgina looked up. “Keith’s driving.”
“So it’ll be more like a half hour.” Jenna said making the others laugh.
Mags stretched out, leaning against her luggage. “Might as well work on our tans, ladies.”
“I hope this house is nice.” Jenna said rolling up the sleeves of her shirt.
“Neighborhood looks nice enough.” Brittany said looking around. “I think Keith did alright.”
“When are Ash and Marco getting in?” Mags asked looking up towards the sky.
“In a forty-five minutes, I think.” Georgina said.
“D’ya think they’ll actually want to spend time with us this trip?” Brittany asked.
“I’m surprised they were even invited.” Jenna said. “We never see them anymore.”
“I think the boys just wanted to be nice.” Mags shrugged.
“They’ll probably go out with us once and then stay in to shag for the rest of the trip.” Georgina said.
“You know what? That doesn’t sound half bad Ferguson. Maybe Jamie and I will do it.” Mags smirked glancing over at the blonde.
“Just keep him quiet.” Georgina fired back.
“It’s not him we have to worry about.” Jenna sniggered.
“So Jenna tell the girls how you gave Steve a blowie before he left yesterday.” Mags shot back.
“What the fuck!” Georgina squealed wide-eyed.
“Jenna! Skimping out on the details, are we?” Brittany teased.
“You bitch.” Jenna mumbled glaring at the older woman beside her.
“I’m not the one who had a stranger’s penis in my mouth less than twenty-four hours ago!” Mags said throwing her hands up dramatically.
“Margaret Fairchild! I swear to fucking God.” Jenna whined. “Stop picking on me.”
“Jens, I didn’t think you liked doing oral?” Georgina smirked. “Makes ya feel like a slag.”
“She was all about it last night.” Mags mumbled making Brittany laugh.
“Pick on Fergie instead!” Jenna said crossing her arms over her chest.
“Her time will come, my friend. Don’t worry.” Mags smiled.
“Looking forward to it, Margaret.” Georgina replied before focusing back on her phone.
“Can you check the group message to see when Ni’s getting in?” Brittany asked.
“Yeah,” Georgina said pretending to scan her inbox. She already had it memorized. “Uh says six.”
“Just in time for dinner.” Mags nodded. “Are we gonna go out tonight?”
“I’m up for it.” Jenna said.
“Want another stranger’s penis in your mouth?” Brittany joked making Mags snort.
Jenna’s entire body flushed red. “You three are such bitches.”
“You love us.” Mags said blowing her a kiss.
“So JenJen, you must be really feeling Steve then. You only do that when you are serious about someone.” Georgina said trying to salvage the conversation.
“Yeah well I was just uh reciprocating the love so to speak.” Jenna blushed.
“Oh yeah? Was he good at that?” Brittany asked.
“Better than the last one.” Jenna said.
“You lot have always been too hard on the Lizard King.” Georgina said making Brittany giggle. “At least he tried. That’s worth something.”
“Oh my god, Fergie!” Jenna squealed. “You didn’t experience it so you don’t know how fucking weird it was. No woman should ever go through that.”
“Marcus was always terrible at it so I wouldn’t know anything different.” Fergie shrugged.
“Dave’s decent. We save that stuff for special occasions though.” Brittany sighed.
“Doesn’t get a blowjob every day like our boy Chief Keef?” Jenna said dryly. “You know, I think Keith’s penis is the one penis I would never want in me mouth ever.”
The other three woman nodded in agreement.
“It’s got to be big, yeah? Or he’s got to be ace in the sack or something because the birds he pulls are way out of his league.” Georgina said putting her phone away.
“Let’s be real, I think the fact he resembles Ni helps him most days.” Jenna said.
“And there is no way he gets one every single day unless he is suckin’ himself off.” Mags said making the other girls cackle loudly.
“Every day is too much. David gets one on his birthday and our anniversary.” Brittany said. “That’s it.”
“And whenever Chelsea wins.” Georgina added.
“Jamie is the same. Birthday, Christmas, and our anniversary.” Mags explained.
“And whenever Chelsea beats Arsenal.” Georgina added.
“How do you know this?” Jenna asked confused.
“The fellas think I’m one of them.” Georgina shrugged. “They are a lot more open with each other than I thought they would be.”
“Do they talk about everything?” Mags asked sliding her sunnies down the bridge of her nose.
“Not when I’m around.” Georgina shook her head. “Your fiIthy little secrets are safe Margaret.”
“Good.” Mags winked before putting her glasses back into place.
“Ferg, we need to find you a Greek boy toy for the next two weeks.” Jenna said smugly. “Someone to have fun with.”
“Ehh, I’ll pass. Brought me vibrator. I’m set.” Georgina replied emotionless.
“Do you know what’s sad? I can never climax with one of those. I’ve got to sit through sex with James when I need to get off.” Mags admitted. “It’s dreadful sometimes — no offense to him.”
“This one’s the exact opposite.” Brittany said nodding towards her best friend.
“What!” Jenna and Mags said in unison.
Heat rushed to Georgina’s cheeks. “Never had one.”
“Marcus never—“ Mags trailed off.
“Always faked it.” Georgina sighed. “He really was a piece of shit at everything.”
“But you are twenty seven…” Jenna said wide-eyed. “A man’s never made you orgasm, really?”
Georgina shook her head trying not to act bothered by it. She knew it was a lie. Niall had proven that plenty of times before he left for tour.
“Georgina, that’s unacceptable.” Mags shook her head disappointed. “This has to change.”
“New goal of the trip: find someone to take Fergie to O-Town.” Jenna chimed in.
“Jens! I know the perfect person.” Mags smirked.
Jenna’s face lit up reading the older woman’s mind. “Oh I think I know who it is.”
“If Niall Horan’s name comes out of either of your mouths, I will suffocate you both in your sleep tonight.” Georgina glared playfully.
“Whoa! Cool the jets Fergie Ferg.” Jenna laughed.
“Babes, all we need to do is get a little bit of sangria into you and some whiskey into him, lock you in a room, and not let you out until you climax at least twice.” Mags said enthusiastically. “I’m sure Ni would be more than happy to help.”
“I reckon it wouldn’t take him long.” Jenna added. “I mean he’d be so into it he wouldn’t stop until you were able to finish more than once.”
“Exactly. Kid’s a perfectionist.” Mags nodded.
”Never quits. Be like a marathon shag session. You’d be taken care of, love.” Jenna chirped as Brittany linked her fingers with her best friend.
“You two are the worst.” Georgina blushed.
Brittany squeezed Fergie’s hand trying to show solidarity. Georgina appreciated the gesture.
“If you would have just made out with him in Vegas like we wanted, we would have moved on from this,” Mags said examining her nail beds.
“No you wouldn’t.” Georgina laughed loudly.
“Okay so maybe you’re right.” The older woman giggled. “I just can’t help it. You two would be perfect together.”
“Oh stop. We wouldn’t work out. We are both too stubborn and workaholics. And besides he doesn’t even like me like that.” Georgina blushed trying to find a way out of this conversation.
“That’s not what our group chat says.” Jenna replied smugly.
“Kid’s basically in love with ya, Ferg.” Mags smiled.
“He’d be a fool not to be.” Brittany said as she sat up. She focused on a car heading in their direction, “Looks like the boys are here.”
The group of women stood up and started putting their things together. As Keith pulled into the driveway, Georgina looked at her phone.
Only six hours and twenty-five minutes to go.
Six hours and twenty-five minutes.
She couldn’t wait.
The house Keith had picked was actually decent. It looked like it should be in a Bond film. The rooms were massive, the appliances were new, and a salt water pool took up most of the backyard. The best part was the view from the backyard. A group of bougainvillea trees framed the fence , which showcased a perfect view of the Mediterranean Sea. It was the prettiest sight she had seen since they landed.
Georgina’s room was on the first floor of the multi-tiered house. Niall’s room was a few doors down. Much like in Aruba, all the single members of the group were placed in one section of the house while the couples stayed in another. As unfair as it was, this time it worked in Georgina’s advantage. It would make her life a lot easier knowing that her best friend wouldn’t be snooping around.
As she unpacked her bag, she started to think of a way for her and Niall to spend time together. She knew it would either have to be after everyone went to sleep or before everyone woke up. There were two beds in each room so if they were careful a sleepover could take place. A nervous energy filled the pit of her stomach just thinking about it. She didn’t know if they could do this. She didn’t want to keep it a secret anymore.
Just when she was about to send a series of panicked texts in her boyfriend’s direction, a female with an American accent called out her name. Confused, the young Brit turned towards the door. Standing in the doorway in a low cut form-fitting sundress was a woman she had never seen before. Her hair was dark, her breasts were fake, and a different kind of smile was plastered across her face. She couldn’t quite tell what it meant but Georgina knew she didn’t trust it.
“Are you Fergie?” The woman said stepping inside the room.
“Ye-yeah.” Georgina stammered.
“Oh good! I’m Mar — short for Marlene. Keith said we were sharing a room.” The American giggled as she headed for the other bed in the room.
“What?” Georgina asked confused by her comment about Keith.
“Yeah, Keith said I was going to share a room with a girl named Fergie.” Mar explained sitting down on the bed. “Fergie. What’s that short for?”
Georgina tried to put the pieces together but she couldn’t. She didn’t know if it was nerves or lack of sleep but she didn’t get what was going on.
She closed her eyes. “Okay, wait so Keith said what now? What’s happening?”
The American laughed. “Oh my god! British people are so cute. I’m Mar short for Marlene. Ash and I work together. Keith invited me here.”
“He said the blonde named Jenna won’t share a room but the blonde named Fergie will.” Mar explained. “You’re the one who works a lot right? You probably just missed the message he sent.”
Georgina couldn’t believe what had come out of Mar’s mouth. Keith knew he would have had to get approval from the entire group before inviting a complete stranger. He knew that. Mags and Britt created that rule ages ago. Everyone was overprotective of Niall and wanted him to have the chance at a normal life — especially on vacation. The fact that he had done it anyways blew Georgina’s mind.
“So you work with Ashlee and Keith invited you. Got it.” Georgina faked a smile.
“He said everyone was excited for me to join.” Mar said—the smile from earlier appeared. “Uh so Fergs, when’s the blonde one showing up?”
“Who?” Georgina asked confused. The group was made up of a handful of blondes. She could have been referring to anybody.
“Oh yeah, I guess he’s not blonde anymore. He was the last time we were together.” Mar said correcting herself.
Georgina’s face fell. That smile. That’s what it meant. This girl wasn’t here to be another one of Keith’s conquests; she was here to be one of Niall’s. The thought of this girl flying across the world to try to hook up with her best friend because he was famous made her blood boil.
“So is he still single?” Mar asked, a hopeful tone to her voice.
“Um Ash can fill you in.” Georgina said before heading for the door. “I need to go take care of something.”
With that, the blonde haired woman was gone. Her fingers were flying across the screen of her phone as she sent a message to Ni trying to explain what was happening but the rage building inside her was making her thoughts incoherent.
She knew this trip was going to be frustrating for her but she didn’t expect it to start this early. She made her way through the house looking for one specific man. She found him drinking a beer in the kitchen with David and Jamie.
“Oi! Miller!” Georgina called out from across the room.
“Hey Ferg.” Keith said raising his bottle towards her.
The other two men studied her face as she drew near. It was obvious that she was less than pleased. Jamie took a step away from Keith knowing something was about to go down.
“Mate.” Dave sighed. “What’d you do now?”
“Honestly don’t know.” Keith mumbled. “But I reckon I’m about to find out.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Georgina said once she made it over to the group of men.
“Um, Keith Miller?” He replied somewhat unsure of his answer.
“First of all, you can’t just invite people without asking the entire group if it’s okay.” She said crossing her arms over her chest. “And second, you can’t just give people’s rooms away. That’s bull shit.”
“Georgie, what’s going on?” Dave asked.
“Keith is more concerned with getting his dick wet than he is about anyone else this trip.” Georgina grumbled.
“Babes, it’s not like that.” Keith said moving towards her. “I promise.”
“Don’t.” She replied causing him to move back to his spot.
“Ferg, I promise that’s not what is going on.” Keith said trying to convincing.
“That’s not what fake tits over there is saying.” Georgina glared. “Apparently everyone is excited for her to be here and I must I missed the messages where she got invited because I work too much. Sound familiar?”
“Who ya talking about Ferg?” Dave asked placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Me, probably.” Mar’s American accent called out from behind them.
Their attention was now focused on the black haired woman standing near the doorway.
“Who the fuck is that?” Jamie whispered to Georgina.
“Mar. Short for Marlene. Works with Ash and was invited by this prick.” Georgina rattled off. “Oh I almost forgot, she’s apparently my roommate for the duration of this trip.”
“Mate.” Jamie sighed shaking his head at Keith.
“Honestly thought it would be a good idea.” Keith said sheepishly. “I should have planned this better.”
“I’m not sharing a room with her.” Georgina said defiantly.
“Okay well we’ll figure something out.” Dave said rubbing her back. “Don’t worry G.”
“There aren’t any rooms left.” Jamie said. “Are there?”
“I can take this one’s room and he can sleep on the couch.” Georgina nodded at Keith.
“But what if I pull? I need a room. Can’t shag someone on a couch.” Keith said — a hint of desperation in his voice.
“I mean Mar’s got an extra bed for ya in her room. You want to shag her there?” Georgina said dryly.
“Funny.” Keith said with a fake laugh.
“Honestly, that’s what should happen.” Jamie said. “Either she stays with Keith or the couch.”
“She can’t have the couch.” Dave said quietly.
Georgina shot the boy a funny look. She had her reasons for not wanting this stranger to sleep on the couch but she didn’t know why David would.
He cleared his throat, “Keith fucked up. He should be the one to suffer.”
Georgina agreed with Dave’s statement but sensed he was hiding something.
“She knows Ash. She could stay with her.” Georgina suggested.
“Ash and Marco are staying together. I’d prefer to stay away from that.” Mar stated.
Georgina rolled her eyes making Jamie laugh.
“Is she paying for a room?” Dave asked nodding to Mar.
“Well — you see…” Keith started to say.
“You were doing so well, brother.” Jamie said patting Keith on the back. “But you fucked up major with this one.”
“So you are telling me you invited this woman without proper approval, decided sticking her in with me was the best option when she didn’t want to sleep with you, and you aren’t making her pay for any of it?” Georgina asked with an incredulous look on her face. “How fucking magical is that fanny of hers?”
Jamie and Dave tried their best to keep a straight face but the pure disgust in Georgina’s voice sent them into a fit of laughter.
“You’re a legend.” Dave said squeezing her shoulder.
“Thanks.” She smiled before focusing her attention back to Keith. “How are we going to fix this mess?”
“I don’t know. Jenna won’t share. I’m not interested in sharing. So either someone sleeps on the couch or you share.” Keith said trying to think of another way he could make up for his mistake.
“Ferg can stay with Niall. He’s got two beds in his room and I’m sure he won’t mind.” Dave suggested.
Georgina’s skin grew warm. Her eyes focused on Dave’s face but he wouldn’t look at her. She knew exactly what he was trying to do but didn’t know why.
“She’d strangle him in his sleep.” Keith laughed.
“Not true, they’ve been playing nice lately.” Dave said sticking up for his best friends.
“And honestly, if we want to keep the peace those two are our ticket.” Jamie said thinking about it logically.
“I don’t want to share with Ni.” Georgina sighed. “If I’m paying for my room, I shouldn’t have to share. He shouldn’t either.”
“If it’s an option, I’ll share with Niall.” Mar chirped happily.
Georgina felt a wave of anger wash over her. This was not happening. The woman who flew all the way across the ocean to sleep with her boyfriend did not just suggest sharing the same room with him. She needed to keep her cool but didn’t know how. Dave’s grip on her shoulder grew a little tighter. As much as she wanted to keep her eyes focused on the floor, she couldn’t.
When she looked up at Dave, he gave her a sympathetic look. He didn’t know they were together but he had a feeling they were something. His girlfriend may have told him not to meddle but he couldn’t help it. He’d damned if a random woman was going to come in and steal Georgina Ferguson’s thunder. He knew she needed this – now more than ever.
Dave pulled his eyes off of Georgina and placed them on the stranger across the room, “Yeah that’s not happening.”
“It’s either Ferg or no one, sorry.” Jamie said feigning sympathy.
“I think the group should decide if it’s okay for them to share.” Keith said softly. “Right?”
Georgina rolled her eyes. “So me sharing a room with Ni deserves a meeting but you inviting a stranger doesn’t. Sounds real fair.”
“Fergs, I—“ Keith started to say but the frustrated young woman cut him off.
“If I wanted to deal with dumb shit, I would have stayed home. This is why you’re never in charge of things, Keith.” Georgina grumbled before pulling away from Dave and leaving the kitchen.
She repacked her bags and placed them in the hallway before making her way outside. Jenna and the girls were sitting around a table looking out into the horizon. A quiet conversation about a trip to a winery was being held as Georgina plopped down in the empty seat beside Brittany.
“For fucks sake Georgina, we’ve only been here five minutes. Cheer up.” Mags teased noticing the young woman’s sour mood.
“I’m going back home.” Georgina replied annoyed.
“Hey, I was only joking.” Mags said realizing something serious was going on.
“What’s wrong?” Brittany asked.
“Don’t have a room.” Georgina mumbled as she noticed Mar heading their way.
“Yes you do. We made sure there was enough.” Jenna said confused. “I watched Keith book it.”
“Didn’t take into account that Keith’s a fucking idiot that does whatever the hell he wants.” Georgina mumbled.
“Okay Ferg, I know you like being mysterious and all but like what the hell are you on about?” Jenna asked worried by her friends mood.
“Ferg!” Mar called out for sliding into the last empty seat around the table.
“Who’s that?” Jenna whispered to Mags.
“Where’s Ash?” Georgina asked quietly.
“On the phone with her brother.” Mar said. “I hope you don’t mind me hanging around.”
Georgina didn’t get a chance to respond. A devilish smirk formed on the American woman’s face before two simple sentences escaped her lips.
“You know I totally don’t get why you don’t want to share a room with Niall. I mean, yeah, he might snore a bit too much when he’s drunk but you know that’s just Niall.” Mar stated.
Jenna looked over to Mags and Brittany trying to see if they were just as confused as she was. The woman didn’t look familiar but she acted like she was.
“How long have you girls known him?” Mar asked leaning back in her chair.
“Hi, um who are you again?” Jenna asked looking the woman up and down.
“Oi Mel! Err I mean Mar.” Dave called out walking towards the group of women with glasses of wine in his hands. “Ash is lookin for ya. Something about needing help with an outfit or something.”
“Probably a bikini question.” Mar smiled before getting up. “I’ll have to catch up with you girls later.”
“Great.” Georgina replied dryly as she watched the American walk away.
When Dave reached the table, Jenna eagerly grabbed a glass and took a long sip.
“Okay, what the fuck was that about?” Mags asked turning her attention towards Georgina.
“David, just bring us the bottle.” Brittany said taking one of the glasses from him. “We are going to need it.”
“Okay babe.” Dave said before heading back inside.
“She fucked Niall.” Georgina said slowly putting the pieces together. “Or at least that’s what she wants us to think. I don’t know.”
“That makes sense. I mean, how else would she know he snores when he’s drunk?” Brittany said.
“Yeah I guess that’s true.” Jenna asked.
“He’s grown up in the spotlight so I’m sure a lot of people feel like they know him.” Mags pointed out. “He was plastered on every form of media since he was sixteen. It’s hard to miss him.”
Georgina shook her head, “She seemed like she wanted it known that she knows him on a more personal level.”
“How personal can it really be? I’ve never seen her before and we’ve been friends with him for years.” Jenna said.
“So, who is she then?” Brittany asked.
“She works with Ash. Keith invited her thinking she’d be down to be his little vacation fling.” Georgina explained. “But he didn’t take into account that Ni was going to be here and she knows him somehow.”
“Why would Keith invite someone without checking with the group first?” Mags asked.
“Because he wanted to get laid.” Georgina sighed.
“Is she the reason you don’t have a room?” Brittany asked sounding annoyed.
“He thought I’d be fine with sharing with her.” Georgina said taking a hold of the glass Dave had set down. “Didn’t ask if it was okay. Just did it.”
“That’s bullshit.” Mags said before taking drink of her wineglass. “Absolute bullshit.”
“I know.” Georgina sighed before taking a drink.
“We’ll get it sorted.” Britt smiled weakly. “Don’t worry G.”
“But first, let’s see who this girl is.” Jenna said pulling out her phone.
The next few hours were spent scouring the internet for anything they could find on the dark-haired stranger. Georgina Ferguson was nearly 100% certain that at one point in time Mar slept with Niall. The others weren’t too sure. They had been around Niall long enough to know that his fame attracted the wrong type of women. Those type of women would do anything for their fifteen minutes of fame. Mar seemed the type.
Brittany wanted it to be a lie for her best friend’s benefit. She knew Georgina had some sort of feelings for the man she once hated. She was hoping that this trip to Greece would help push her realize that being with Niall was the right direction – much like their time in Aruba had started to do. She didn’t like the idea of some random woman coming in and trying to ruin that. She knew she needed to find a way to keep Mar away from Niall for Georgina’s sake.
Brittany just didn’t know how she was going to accomplish that.
When asked if he was sad tour was coming to an end, Niall Horan would nod and formulate the perfect soundbite about wanting to continue touring for the rest of the year to give all of his fans a chance to see him perform. His dedication would be commended and another person would sing their praise about what a great artist he was.
But deep down, he knew he was lying.
He wanted to go home. He wanted to cuddle on the couch with his dog. He wanted to go to the pub with his mates and act like an idiot. Most of all, he wanted to be with his girlfriend.
The past three weeks had been the toughest three weeks he’d experienced in his solo career. The shows weren’t grueling. The interviews weren’t demanding. He just missed Georgina that much. The moment they shared in London during the holidays hung heavy on his heart. She was in love with him. She was in love with a whiskey drinking foul mouthed workaholic who spent more time on the road than in his actual house and he couldn’t believe it. She was in love with someone who couldn’t give her a proper relationship. He could count on one hand the amount of times they saw each other while he was away. She deserved so much better.
If anyone close to him asked if he was ready for tour to end, he’d say yes. He was ready to sleep in until noon and golf whenever he pleased. He was ready to not have something scheduled every second of his day. He was ready to relax. In fact, he had been counting down the hours until that flight to Greece.
When he woke up that morning, he had received a series of texts from Georgina. She was nervous. She was nervous about leaving Scout, getting on the plane, and that they wouldn’t be able to keep their relationship a secret once they were with their friends.
He had to admit he was nervous too. He was nervous about seeing her again. He was nervous that things wouldn’t be the same. He was nervous that his time apart caused their spark to fizzle out. He was nervous for the trip because it was their first trip as a couple and he didn’t know what to expect. He knew that he was being ridiculous. He knew the moment saw her face all his worries would go away. He knew he just needed to get on that flight. At the end of it, s bottle of beer and a kiss from a pretty girl had his name written all over it.
It was half past seven when Niall landed in Mykonos. His connecting flight had been delayed. Niall attempted to call Georgina when he found out the news but when he reached for his phone it was dead. He knew she’d be annoyed with him but once he told her that he had drained the battery watching all the videos of her and Scout he had saved on his phone, he figured he’d be met with heart eyes instead of one’s filled with anger.
By the time he got to the house, his nerves had completely disappeared. He was ready to relax for the next two weeks with some of closest friends. When he walked inside, he was met by the smell of David’s infamous fajitas and an old Bruce Springsteen track. He dropped his luggage by the door and headed for the kitchen.
“Nialler!” Jamie cheered from the stove top as he noticed the Irishman from across the room. He was making a pot of Spanish rice.
“Aren’t makin’ that too spicy, are ya Jim Jam?” Niall asked walking over to give his friend a hug.
“Fuck your reflux.” Jamie rolled his eyes dramatically. Niall laughed as his friend continued to speak, “Fergs already made ya some bland boring ass rice.”
Niall didn’t get a chance to respond. A damp kitchen towel whipped across the back of his neck. The Irishman turned around cautiously. Standing with a beer in hand was his best friend. Niall’s smile grew in size as the tall Brit pulled him into a hug. Dave handed over a drink before leaning against the fridge.
“Thanks for checking in you twat.” Dave said dryly.
“Me phone died.” Niall said pulling his keys out to open his beer.
David leaned in close, “There’s trouble in the Hen House.”
Niall’s brow furrowed, “What happened?”
Before Dave got the chance to explain, someone interrupted. A hand patted Dave’s stomach as they tried to get into the fridge but he couldn’t move. The kitchen was too small.
“Davey, get me a beer please.” Georgina said softly.
The sound of her voice sent shock waves through his body. Niall couldn’t believe it. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. He didn’t think it was possible but the smile on his face grew even bigger. He turned around to find irritation chiseled into the features of his girlfriend.
“Hey Ferg!” Niall said sweetly.
Georgina faked a smile as she grabbed the bottle of beer from Dave’s hand. She took a quick swig before looking between the boys.
“Did Davey tell you that Keith brought ya a toy to play with?” Georgina asked with a hint of disgust in her voice.
Niall looked up at David completely confused. When he turned to ask Georgina what she meant, she wasn’t there. She was making her way for the backyard. Without a second thought, he chased after her.
Georgina stopped a few feet from the door and waited for him.
“Babe, what’s going on?” He asked keeping his voice low.
She sighed, “Well—“
An ear-piercing shriek sounded from across the yard catching the couple’s attention. Ashlee was sitting on a pool lounger with another woman. Her face looked familiar. He had seen her around but he couldn’t quite place it.
“Oh my god, Ni!” The woman squealed, popping up from her spot. “You’re finally here.”
Their eyes locked. He knew exactly who she was. Marlene. Niall’s body stiffened as she made her way around the pool towards him.
“Fuck.” He sighed. He placed his hands on his hips and turned towards Georgina.
The young blonde just shook her head. Her face had said everything. She was upset.
“Ferg.” He whispered.
“I’m gonna go get ready for dinner.” Georgina mumbled. She watched Mar grow near. She nodded over to the dark haired woman. “Have fun with that.”
“Babe.” Niall said reaching out to keep his girlfriend from leaving but she had already slipped past him.
“Niall!” Mar said with an irreplaceable grin. “How have you been?”
“Hey Mar.” He replied with a clenched jaw.
Mar rubbed up against before forcing him into her embrace. “It’s been ages. Congrats on the solo stuff.”
“Thanks.” Niall laughed nervously as he patted her on the back.
Mar’s arms lingered on his body as he tried to pull away. Her touch was aggressive and deliberate. He didn’t like it. Once he was released from her grip, Niall stepped away putting some space in between them. She ruffled her hair before adjusting her dress.
“When Keith first asked me to come, I was a bit hesitant.” Mar said looking up at him. Her index finger poked his stomach playfully. “But then I found you’d be here and I just had to come.”
“Oh yeah?” Niall said pressing his beer bottle to his lips. “How do you know Keith?”
“Same way I know you.” She winked.
A shiver ran down his spine. The thought of him sleeping with the same woman as Keith made him cringe. He took long sip of his drink trying to find a way out of his conversation.
“I didn’t know that you knew Ashlee and Marco too.” She said ruffling her hair once more. “They don’t mention you that much.”
“We’ve been friends for a few years now.” Niall said with a polite smile.
“Ash and I work together. That’s how I met Keith.” Mar explained. “But enough about me, let’s talk about you. How are Harry and the boys? Still keep in touch with them?”
Niall nodded, “They are all doing good. Just uh enjoying life and being solo. Nothing really new.”
“Good, good.” Mar said. “Hey quick question, is that uh Fergie girl a bit you know — not all there?”
Niall looked surprised. “What? Why?”
“Well Keith said she and I were sharing a room and I had to like explain it to her a couple times.” Mar laughed. “And she hasn’t talked much since she’s been here.”
Niall just nodded. Georgina’s mood was slowly starting to make sense. He didn’t quite understand what Mar’s comment meant but he knew David would. He needed to find him.
“She’s probably just still in work mode.” Niall replied before clearing his throat. “Mar, it’s been great seeing you but I promised Dave I’d help him season his meat. I’ll see you later.”
“Oh okay.” Mar smiled. “I’ll see you in there then.”
When Niall stepped back inside, he headed straight for the kitchen. He needed answers. The man he came to see was standing in front of the stove with a towel draped across his shoulder. He was tending to a large pan that was filled with sizzling peppers and onions.
Niall leaned against the counter. He finished off his beer in two long gulps. He set the bottle on the counter before crossing his arms over his chest.
“Am I living in a fucking alternate universe, Watson?” Niall asked.
“Tried to warn ya, Sherlock.” Dave laughed.
“Fuck, dude.” Niall sighed.
“I know.” Dave said glancing at him. “It sucks but it’s gonna be okay.”
“Fergie’s pissed.” Niall said running a hand through his hair.
“They all are.” Dave said stirring the vegetables in his pan. “But it’s not at you, it’s more at Keith and Mar.”
“No. Fergie’s mad at me. I saw it on her face.” Niall sighed.
“Well, can you see why she’d be a bit upset?” Dave asked focusing on his food. “I mean Mar’s been running her mouth about ya since she got here.”
Niall’s eye shut tight as a sigh escaped from deep within. He pinched the bridge of his nose, “Really?”
“Something along the lines of braggin’ about sleepin’ with ya.” Dave replied.
“Shit.” Niall groaned.
“It’s going to be okay. I was around during the Marcus days. I know how to fix it.” Dave said calmly. “When she found out the rumors were true, she had a complete meltdown. Tried to change everything about herself to compete with the other women.”
“Is that why she’s in this mood? Because she thinks she has to compete with Mar.” Niall said lowly.
“Don’t know mate but what I do know is that you just need to remind her that you are interested in her and only her.” Dave said.
“You think so?” Niall asked.
Dave nodded, “Women need reassurance sometimes.”
“Okay.” Niall mumbled dryly. “Should be easy enough except for the fact she won’t talk to me.”
“That won’t last long.” Dave laughed as he turned off the burner. “Hand me that dish.”
Niall handed him an empty bowl, “Why’s that?”
“You two are sharing a room.” Dave smirked as he drained the contents of the pan into the bowl.
“What!” The Irishman said in disbelief.
“You’re welcome.” Dave winked as he started to cut up the meat he had grilled.
“How’d that work out?” Niall asked.
“Keith gave her room away so I figured if anyone is gonna share it should be the two of you.” Dave shrugged.
Niall just nodded. He figured that Keith’s decision played a tiny part in Georgina’s mood. Sharing a room was sure to remedy that real quick. He started to think of a way to fix things.
“Look Ni, I don’t know what’s going on between ya but you both are actually happy and I’m happy to see it.” Dave said with a genuine smile. “If you ever need me to sub in and help out, I’m game.”
“I appreciate it brother.” Niall smiled as he patted David on the back.
“Now since you were late, you have dish duty when we are finished.” Dave said as Niall opened the fridge.
“That’s just fine with me.” He said grabbing two bottles of beer.
Dinner came and went. The entire meal was spent planning out the next day’s activities. After much debate, they decided on sightseeing. An old church was brought up as well as a few sites that held ancient ruins. Niall didn’t care what they did. He was too busy trying to think of a way to get his girlfriend to talk to him. He cracked a few jokes, addressed her directly, and even took to staring at her for five minutes straight but she never gave in. Georgina Ferguson was one stubborn woman. He knew he was in for a hell of a night.
After they ate, Niall washed the dishes while the rest of the group retreated to different parts of the house. A few people headed out to the pool. A couple others popped in a film. A certain woman headed straight to bed. Once the dishes were dried, he knew exactly where he needed to be.
When he got to their room, it was quiet. He closed the door behind him mentally rehearsing the apology he had planned. But once he saw her, his mind went blank. He found her in the bathroom drying her hair. He leaned against the door frame waiting for her to finish.
He had missed this. He had missed watching her get ready for work in the morning. He missed making dinner for her when she got home. He missed lounging on the couch as they caught up on the tv shows she liked to watch.
He missed just being with her.
The dryer turned off snapping him out of his dream. A faint smile formed on Niall’s face as he watched her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes looked sad.
“What’s wrong?” He asked gently.
Georgina spun around quickly. Her eyes grew colder as a frown formed across her lips. “You fucked her.”
Niall sighed. “Babe—“
She pressed her index finger into his chest. “You fucked her. All the others kept saying she was lying and that it wasn’t true but I could tell. I could tell because she had that little twinkle in her eye.”
“Baby.” He said stepping towards her.
“And Brittany has told me about all the other women you’ve been with and they all look like her and none of them look like me.” She rambled nervously. “Is that what you like? Is that what turns you on? Because if so, I don’t know why we are still together.”
Niall reached out and cupped her face with his hands. “Georgina, breathe.”
She attempted to continue her anxious ramble but he stopped her. His thumb stroked her cheek as he looked deep into her eyes.
“I love you. I want to be with you. I don’t want or need anybody else.” He said calmly. “I want you.”
“But she—“ Georgina mumbled.
“Fuck what she said.” Niall said annoyed. “I slept with her one time when I was drunk and I’ve regretted it to this day.”
“Harry’s friend invited us to this party in Malibu. I didn’t want to go so I invited Davey to come along and we got absolutely obliterated.” He explained. “I woke up the next morning in some random girl’s bed. I felt horrible for it. I’m not that person.”
Georgina placed her hands on her hips. “Okay.”
Niall removed his hands and placed them on top of hers. “Don’t sound too convinced there Ferguson.”
“She just made it seem like you had some raunchy sexual relationship.” Georgina explained.
“That’s just how she is.” Niall sighed. “I asked her how she knew Keith and you know what she said?”
She shook her head.
“She said verbatim,” he said before putting on an American accent, “Same way I know you.”
Georgina cringed. “Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.”
He rubbed her hips with his thumbs. “Exactly.”
“I don’t want to picture them having sex.” She said closing her eyes making him laugh.
“See, Baby? That’s just her. She is all about shock value.” He smiled. “You— you have nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah I do.” She said quietly.
“What do you have to worry about Georgina?” He asked pulling her towards him.
She opened her eyes as tears began to form. “I can’t hold your hand in public. I can’t sit on your lap when I’m tired or too drunk. I can’t tell my best friends that I’m having the best sex I’ve ever had in me entire life and that I’ve actually had an orgasm.”
“Best sex you ever had?” He asked surprised.
The blonde haired woman nodded with a shy smile.
Niall looked impressed with himself. “I’ll take that.”
“Here she is running around telling everyone how she’s slept with the Niall Horan and I’ve just got to sit tight and bare it.” She said. “It’s just too much.”
“Baby, I promise we will tell them soon.” Niall said softly. “I just need more time.”
“But for what though?” She asked — sounding hurt. “How much more time do you need?”
“It’s just—“ He said before letting out a frustrated groan. “If we tell one person then eventually the entire world will find out and I’m not ready for that. We’re not ready for that. Everything will change.”
“Our friends wouldn’t do that to us.” Georgina said.
“Most of them wouldn’t.” Niall corrected.
“Fucking Keith.” She rolled her eyes.
“I just — I know what will happen if the public finds out. I’ve seen Tommo go through it. I’ve seen Liam go through it.” He said softly. He rested his forehead against hers, “I just need to protect you. For a little bit longer.”
“Fine.” She sighed dramatically.
“You’re a pain in the ass.” He mumbled playfully.
“Says the man who let his phone die when he’s traveling to another country.” She mumbled back.
“I’m sorry!” He said lifting his head back. “It was a good reason for it to die.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Georgina asked with a bit of sass.
“I was too busy watching videos of me girls because I’ve missed them too fucking much.” He said in a matter of fact tone.
Her skin grew warm as a smile formed. “You missed me?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” He sighed.
“I know.” She said draping her arms over his shoulders.
“How do you know?” He asked confused.
“Gerry texted me.” She explained. “He originally asked me if I could send Scoutie girl to you because he knew you were sad. But I told him I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to send pets through the post.”
Niall laughed. “He’s such an idiot.”
“Wait, it gets better. Then he asked if I’d send ya a pic of my tits because he knew that would cheer you up.” She smirked. “Pretty sure he just wanted to see my tits.”
“That’s our Gerry.” Niall shook his head. “I should’ve known better than to give him your number. He said he had a legal question.”
“He just cares about ya.” Georgina smiled. “Gotta look out for the boss man.”
Niall tried to fight the blush from forming but he couldn’t. It was refreshing to know how many people genuinely cared about his well being. After nearly a decade of chaos, he was finally in a good place. A good portion of that was due to the woman standing in front of him.
“I love you.” She whispered making his heart skip a beat. “A lot. And I’m sorry for being mean.”
“It’s understandable. I mean when I saw Marcus, I didn’t handle it too well.” He said.
“I was two seconds away from going McGregor on her.” Georgina admitted.
Niall laughed, “Why’s that?”
Georgina looked annoyed, “She kept going on about how ‘Slow Hands’ is about her!”
This made the young man laugh even harder. “No way in hell it’s about her. It’s about you.”
“How is it about me? We never–” She said not understanding what he meant.
“Do you know how many times I’ve pictured that scenario? Then last year when you made the joke I laughed it off but I can’t lie deep down I wished it would have happened.” He admitted.
“Well it almost did.” She blushed remembering that night in Aruba.
Niall pressed his hips against hers. He brought his hands up to face once more.
“I’m gonna kiss you now, okay? It’s been the only thing I’ve wanted to do since I got off the plane.” He whispered.
Without another word, the couple’s lips connected and every ounce of anxiety left the room. They were finally back together and it felt so good.
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Books I Read in 2017
Alphabetical list here, reviews under the cut in chronological order:
Almond, David: A Song for Ella Gray
Bardugo, Leigh: The Grisha Trilogy, Six of Crows, Crooked Kingdom
Cline, Ernest: Ready Player One
Cloonan, Becky, Brendan Fletcher, and Karl Kerschl: Gotham Academy Vol. 1-2
Cluess, Jessica: A Shadow Bright and Burning
Coulthurt, Audrey: Of Fire and Stars
del Duca, Leila and Kit Seaton: Afar
Dragoon, Leigh and Jessie Sheron: Ever After High: Class of Classics
Flores, Chynna Clugston, et al.: Lumberjanes/Gotham Academy
Gaiman, Neil: American Gods
Gaiman, Neil and Chris Riddell: The Sleeper and the Spindle
George, Madeleine: The Difference Between You and Me
Gilmour, H.B. and Randi Reisfeld: T*Witches #1-10
Hale, Shannon: Princess Academy: The Forgotten Sisters, The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl: Squirrel Meets World
Hicks, Faith Erin: The Nameless City, The Stone Heart
Jensen, Michael and David Powers King: Woven
LaCour, Nina: We Are Okay
Larson, Hope: Chiggers, Mercury
Lubar, David: Sophomores and Other Oxymorons
Riordan, Rick: The Trials of Apollo #1-2, Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard #2-3
Shea, Lisa: Ever After High: Once Upon a Twist: Cerise and the Beast
Stewart, Cameron, Brendan Fletcher, and Babs Tarr: Batgirl Vol. 1
Stoker, Bram: Dracula
Sugiura, Misa: It’s Not Like It’s a Secret
Turtschaninoff, Maria: Maresi
Weir, Andy: The Martian
West, Hannah: Kingdom of Ash and Briars
I also listened to a lot of audiobooks as I was working this year, but since I have terrible audio comprehension, I stuck to books I’ve already read and know I like:
From Tamora Pierce, Alanna: The First Adventure and the Trickster series, read by Trini Alvarado. The Protector of the Small series, read by Bernadette Dunne. The Immortals Quartet, Sandry’s Book, and The Will of the Empress, Full Cast Audio narrated by Tamora Pierce. All of them were good, but I especially loved hearing the Trickster series and all of the Full Cast books. I absolutely recommend them. Immortals was my favorite.
From Eoin Colfer, the Artemis Fowl series, read by Nathaniel Parker. I liked it a lot. It’s nice being able to hear the accents and remember that Artemis is actually Irish.
T*Witches #1-10, by H.B. Gilmour and Randi Reisfeld. Twin witches who were separated at birth meet at age fourteen and must learn magic to protect themselves from their evil uncle. This is a series from my childhood that still holds up in a cheesy nostalgic way. I always found the attempt at teen slang baffling, but at its core the story is still about family and girls supporting each other and trying to do the right thing. Excellent and complicated relationships between both biological and adopted families, excellent and complicated supporting characters.
Dracula, by Bram Stoker. An ancient vampire brings death and evil to England while a group of mostly-bumbling protagonists try to stop him. It’s hard to read a book like this without being influenced by the cultural interpretation, but one thing that really threw me off is the importance of characters that seem to get really downplayed in adaptations. I wouldn’t say I enjoyed the book, but I did enjoy how ridiculous parts of it was.
The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl: Squirrel Meets World, by Shannon Hale and Dean Hale. A fourteen-year-old girl tries to make new friends while keeping her squirrel tail and superpowers a secret. I love Shannon Hale’s children’s books. Squirrel Girl had the charm of her Ever After High work, surprisingly without being as over-the-top. Doreen isn’t the type of protagonist I tend to relate to and I always get a little weirded out with anthropomorphized animals, but the book was fun and funny with distinct voices and an appropriate amount of camp. Also, footnotes.
The Difference Between You and Me, by Madeleine George. The closeted popular girl and school outcast are on opposite sides of school politics, which causes problems in their secret relationship. I feel like there are tons of fanfictions like this, so I was glad when this book didn’t run into the overused tropes. Unfortunately, it didn’t really have much in the way of conflict at all, which was surprising when it seemed like every single character’s opinions were meant to be deliberately polarizing. I thought that situations and characters were set up really well, but none of it really came together in a satisfying way.
Chiggers, by Hope Larson. Graphic novel. A girl navigates summer camp drama and befriends the girl no one else likes. I’ve heard a lot of good things about Hope Larson, but I couldn’t like this book even though I was trying to. It felt like nothing was happening for most of the story, and I’m not sure what was accomplished in telling it. The elements of magical realism were interesting, but it wasn’t enough to carry the story, and neither was the mundane drama. There wasn’t enough time to invest in the characters.
Mercury, by Hope Larson. Graphic novel. A girl’s experience with a mysterious gold prospector affects the life of her modern-day descendant. The story was thought-provoking, even if it took me a while to get into it, and the magical realism was well-integrated. I don’t love Larson’s cartooning style, but I thought it was much more readable than Chiggers without sacrificing its uniqueness.
The Nameless City, by Faith Erin Hicks. Graphic novel. A boy befriends a native girl in the city his people conquered. Hicks’ visual storytelling skills are excellent, and I love how her characters and expression can be both subtle and cartoony. The story was thoughtful and deals with political realities in a way that doesn’t demonize or alienate anyone. Jordie Bellaire’s color palettes are beautiful.
Unfortunately, the sequel The Stone Heart doesn’t quite live up to the first book. The art is still excellent, but the pacing and plot seemed less well-planned, especially since the story now seems to be heading in a more predictable direction. There’s a third book forthcoming, so maybe that opinion will change.
Batgirl Vol. 1: Batgirl of Burnside, by Cameron Stewart, Brendan Fletcher, and Babs Tarr. Trade paperback. A college student tries to reinvent her vigilante identity while dealing with being the personal target of a mysterious villain. This was definitely not a bad book, but it also didn’t feel like a Barbara Gordon book. If you’re writing for characters with decades of history, that legacy deserves to be respected, and I’m not sure Stewart and Fletcher accomplished that in the writing. Separate from preconceptions, the plot was solidly set up with good dialogue and distinct characterization, although I thought Barbara’s arc had a weak resolution. Tarr’s art is great, though, and I can definitely see why this series is so popular.
Gotham Academy Vol. 1-2, by Becky Cloonan, Brendan Fletcher, and Karl Kerschl. Trade paperbacks. A girl investigates a haunting at her school, which is connected to a mysterious summer experience she can’t remember. Kerschl’s character acting is excellent, and the relationship between the protagonist Olive and her ex-boyfriend’s sister Maps is immediately compelling. The cast is well-rounded and interesting, and I enjoyed reading a comic set in a superhero world without being a superhero book. Plot elements are set up from the first issue, and the story is a lot of fun overall.
A Song for Ella Grey, by David Almond. A modern version of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth is told from the perspective of Eurydice’s best friend. Almond is an excellent writer, but I felt like this was a story that didn’t need to be retold, especially with his addition of a tragic unrequited queer romance. The protagonist doesn’t have any agency within the storyline so it felt like a series of events happening in sequence rather than a narrative. I did think the formatting shift at the turning point was interesting, but the myth dragged unnecessarily in order to fill the length of the novel.
The Trials of Apollo #1: The Hidden Oracle, by Rick Riordan. The Greek god Apollo is sent to earth as a teenager as punishment for his arrogance and is bound to the service of a young girl. It’s hard to enter into the Trials of Apollo series without prior knowledge of Percy Jackson and the Olympians or Heroes of Olympus, and even as a fan of the other books in the universe, I had a hard time engaging with Apollo as a protagonist. The narration fit the character well, though, and Riordan deals with serious subjects without resolving anything prematurely. I liked that each chapter was introduced with a haiku rather than a title.
The second book in the series, The Dark Prophecy, is similar in tone to the first. I would say the biggest change is the addition of Leo and Calypso from the prequel series to finish off the classic trio of heroes. That dynamic was interesting, and I also really enjoyed the appearance of my favorite Percy Jackson character.
We Are Okay, by Nina LaCour. A girl deals with grief over her grandfather’s death and reconnects with her best friend during winter break of her first year of college. It was a slow start and I had some trouble keeping up with shifts in the narration, but I ended up liking this book a lot. The writing is atmospheric and captures the protagonist’s thoughts well. The setup for the mystery is subtle and doesn’t take focus from the characters.
American Gods, by Neil Gaiman. After three years in jail and his wife’s death, a man takes a job that involves him in a war between old and new gods. I really like Gaiman’s writing, and Shadow is a protagonist that is engaging despite his relative passiveness. Even so, I wouldn’t say this was a book I actually enjoyed all that much, and plot twists were well-developed to the point that they weren’t particularly surprising or satisfying. I’ve seen a lot of stories modernize gods, so Gaiman’s treatment didn’t seem as unique as I’d been led to believe. That being said, maybe I would have enjoyed this more if I’d read it earlier.
Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard: The Hammer of Thor, by Rick Riordan. A teenager resurrected as a Viking warrior goes on a quest to retrieve Thor’s hammer. This series in particular seems to depend on pop culture references, so while I liked the writing, I wonder if it will stay as relevant as Riordan’s other books. I did really enjoy the cast and the expansion of their backstories, and this book sets up what seems to be more of a crossover with the Percy Jackson series.
Book three, The Ship of the Dead, was also really fun. The closing of The Hammer of Thor was a little misleading in that the crossover elements were limited to the beginning and end of the story as usual, but by this time the characters are more than capable of standing on their own. It seems like this book is the last of the series, and it managed to close out the plot pretty well.
Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom, by Leigh Bardugo. Six teenagers are hired to break a political prisoner out of a foreign country. Not only is this an excellent heist story with a really detailed plot, but each of the characters are fully developed and they all have their own arcs throughout the books. Bardugo’s cast is inclusive and intersectional without feeling like she’s checking off a list and the writing is witty with clear voices. Both the characters and plot drive the story. I can’t say enough good things about this duology.
The Grisha Trilogy, by Leigh Bardugo. A teenage soldier discovers an elemental power and becomes part of a plan to overthrow a corrupt monarchy. This trilogy takes place before Bardugo’s Six of Crows books, but it was disappointing in comparison. I really disliked the protagonist, and there was a lot of focus on a frustrating romance, to the point that it overshadows the interesting worldbuilding. The plot dragged in places, despite being too thin to fill three books. Even so, there are a few really great supporting characters that almost made it worth it.
Sophomores and Other Oxymorons, by David Lubar. After a successful freshman year, a teenager’s overconfidence causes problems at his high school. This is the belated sequel to Sleeping Freshman Never Lie, which is one of my favorite books. Sophomores seems more self-referential and has a subplot that doesn’t seem to fit the tone as well, but for the most part it had the same witty charm that I loved about the first book. Of course, the best part of the series is still Lee, the female lead.
Maresi, by Maria Turtschaninoff. An abbey novice discovers her calling when a new girl with a troubled past arrives. This book was originally published in Finnish, I believe, but I think it must have lost something in the translation. The narration is distant, and even though parts of the world are described, it was hard to picture any of the setting. Overall it didn’t really hold my interest.
Kingdom of Ash and Briars, by Hannah West. After gaining magic powers and immortality, a girl becomes responsible for ensuring peace throughout three kingdoms. I really didn’t like this book. It treats the female characters poorly, especially the antagonist, and although the plot is ostensibly about duty, it’s heavy-handed, relies too much on tropes, and is really obviously motivated by romance. A lot of this can be overlooked if it’s ironic or just done well, but it never came together and ended up being very frustrating.
Of Fire and Stars, by Audrey Coulthurst. As she enters an arranged marriage, a princess has to hide her magic and her attraction to the prince’s sister. Even though the two protagonists are supposed to have equal weight, I ended up almost actively disliking one of them. The plot isn’t terribly engaging, but because I couldn’t get behind one of the characters, the romance couldn’t carry the novel for me. It wasn’t bad, but I wish it was better.
Princess Academy: The Forgotten Sisters, by Shannon Hale. A commoner-turned-princess takes an unattractive job to teach court manners to three royal sisters. This book is the third in Hale’s Princess Academy series and it is just as excellent as the first two. The plot is set up well across multiple books, and Miri is an excellent and flawed protagonist who is capable without overshadowing the other characters. The romantic plots don’t feel forced and the narration accomplishes a lot of interesting worldbuilding. Another book with girls supporting one another despite not necessarily understanding each other.
The Martian, by Andy Weir. An astronaut is stranded on Mars after an early mission evacuation and must survive until he can be rescued. I was skeptical about the premise, but everything is well thought out and clearly explained, without sacrificing either reader engagement or scientific accuracy. The protagonist has a great voice, but as soon as the perspective shifts away from his first-person mission logs, it’s easy to tell that Weir isn’t a very experienced writer, since the other characters and third-person narration are not nearly as well-defined. Overall, though, it was still a good book.
Ready Player One, by Ernest Cline. A high-schooler who is desperate to escape a dystopian future dedicates his life to solving a virtual reality puzzle and becoming the heir to a video game empire. There were two things that I really disliked about this book, the first being the protagonist, who seemed like a terrible person for most of the book. The second is that, despite being ostensibly a celebration of pop culture (and especially 80s pop culture), the overall viewpoint seemed really rigid and judgemental. The writing was fine, and there were some really interesting puzzles, but in the end I felt like it was male nerd entitlement in novel form.
Ever After High: Once Upon a Twist: Cerise and the Beast, by Lisa Shea. The daughter of Red Riding Hood and the son of King Charming are forced into the roles of Beauty and the Beast in order to escape their midterm exam. Cerise and Dexter seem like an odd pair, which sometimes works in the Ever After High universe, but didn’t really here. Part of this I think is because this book is written for an even younger audience than the original so the characters lost a lot of their nuance. The only part of the story that surprised me was almost immediately negated by a soap opera-worthy plot device to prevent the status quo from changing.
Afar, by Leila del Duca and Kit Seaton. Graphic novel. A girl tries to fix problems caused by her newfound ability to project herself into different worlds, while keeping her younger brother out of trouble. There is a lot of visual worldbuilding here, which I thought was very well done. Plot wise, it felt like the protagonist’s arc was maybe just the first act of a much longer book, but the characters were solid all around.
Lumberjanes/Gotham Academy, by Chynna Clugston Flores, Rosemary Velero-O’Connell, Kelly Matthews, and Nichole Matthews. Graphic novel. The ensemble casts of Lumberjanes and Gotham Academy work together to free their teachers from a girl’s attempt to relive a disastrous birthday. I think this book is set up more for fans of both series, and since I’ve only read a little of Lumberjanes, I felt like I was playing catch-up for some parts. I did really like the parts that showcased the Gotham Academy characters, though. I felt like the art was missing the lushness and texture of what I remember of the regular series, which was disappointing.
Ever After High: The Class of Classics, by Leigh Dragoon and Jessi Sheron. Graphic novel. The children of popular fairy tales learn more about their parents by using magic to relive parts of their high school experience. This book was very disappointing compared to other parts of the franchise. The art is minimal and flat compared to the webseries, and all but one of the anthology-esque stories felt like retreading old ground. I also really disliked the narrative hoops the audience was expected to jump through just to keep anything significant from changing.
It’s Not Like It’s a Secret, by Misa Sugiura. After moving from Wisconsin to California, a Japanese-American girl struggles to build a life she is happy with while keeping secrets that could ruin her family. This book was a bit surreal to read because specific parts of it were identical to my high school experience, while other parts were completely foreign. Still, the writing is solid and thought-provoking, and I liked that there is no easy answer to the protagonist’s problems.
A Shadow Bright and Burning, by Jessica Cluess. A newly-discovered sorceress takes on the role of a prophecized savior in a fight against enormous apocalyptic monsters. I found it a little difficult to get into the characters, especially since there is only one girl in a large group of boys and the gender difference is a large part of their interactions. I disliked the romantic subplots, which seemed to take over the narrative, even though the worldbuilding and political aspects of the plot were really interesting.
The Sleeper and the Spindle, by Neil Gaiman and Chris Riddell. A queen postpones her wedding to deal with the sleeping curse that threatens to spread from the kingdom next door. The story begins as a mix of archetypes from Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, but Gaiman’s atmospheric writing elevate it even before the surprising finale. Riddell’s illustrations and other visual choices for the physical book are beautiful and tell the story meaningfully. Highly recommended.
Woven, by Michael Jensen and David Powers King. After his murder, an aspiring knight goes on a quest with a spoiled princess to stop the universe from unraveling. This book had an interesting premise, but its execution filled me with rage. Although it pretends to have dual protagonists, the princess is treated horribly by the narration without any kind of self-awareness. She is given a thin veneer of fighting ability but no agency in the story and is constantly being rescued without payoff. The writing and pacing also seemed flat. Overall extremely frustrating, especially because of the hints of interest.
#literature#book review#tamora pierce#immortals quartet#artemis fowl#grisha trilogy#six of crows#gotham academy#ever after high#percy jackson#magnus chase#twitches#dracula#neil gaiman#the sleeper and the spindle
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A Shining (Somewhat Shorter) Season at MC
By Dateline Staff on June 30, 2020 in Society, Arts & Culture
The Mondavi Center for the Performing Arts has announced its 2020-21 season: a truncated version scheduled to begin in January when management hopes the center can reopen.
The new presenting program, despite being only about 70 percent of a normal season, looks to be another great one. Highlights include:
Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, presenting two performances of Ailey’s landmark work Revelations.
Orpheus Chamber Ensemble with Branford Marsalis.
SFJAZZ Collective, playing Joni Mitchell songs
Celebrate Beethoven, in the 250th anniversary year of the composer's birth, features the pianist Christopher Taylor, performing all nine of Beethoven’s symphonies in four concerts; and Heartbeat Opera, performing Beethoven’s Fidelio in a modern-day adaptation.
Spiritrials, a performance piece by UC Davis alumnus Dahlak Brathwaite.
Ira Glass and Rob Reiner in the Speakers Series.
Staff, faculty and staff have a head start this week on purchasing new subscriptions, before they go on sale to the general public next week. Staff and faculty save 25 percent on all presenting program subscriptions and 10 percent on all individual event purchases. Students get half off all single ticket prices.
See At a Glance below for information on purchasing and renewing subscriptions.
The 2019-20 season came to an early close in March, due to the pandemic. For the new season, the Mondavi Center took a schedule that had been three years in the making and spent three months rearranging it.
“While we won’t gather in the Mondavi Center until next January, our new season is extremely rich,” Don Roth, the executive director, wrote in the season brochure’s introduction. “We’ll come together to celebrate great classical composers like Beethoven and Mozart, alongside heroes of our own time like Joni Mitchell. Artist friends like the Alvin Ailey dance company and the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra will once again be in the house. And we will introduce you to newcomers like the exciting singer Nella, who won last year’s Latin Grammy for best new artist.”
Criminal justice focus
Two shows in the new season deal with the criminal justice system, and both earn Roth’s nod as Director’s Choices:
Spiritrials — Addiction, religion and the law intersect in a court-ordered drug rehabilitation program, in this one-man show written, scored and performed by Brathwaite, offering what his website describes as “a timely exploration of the American criminal justice system.” The multidimensional play blurs the line between hip-hop and dramatic performance as Brathwaite “weaves through the autobiographical and the fictional, music and monologue, to examine his place in what appears to be a cultural rite of passage as a young Black male.” He graduated from UC Davis with a Bachelor of Arts degree in 2008, as an English major with a minor in dramatic art.
Heartbeat Opera’s Fidelio — Founded in 2014, this New York City-based company is breaking down traditional barriers to reimagine opera for artists and audiences of the 21st century. In this adaptation of the Beethoven work, a Black activist is wrongfully incarcerated, and his wife, Leah, in disguise, infiltrates the system to free him, according to the company’s website. But when injustice reigns, one woman’s grit may not be enough to save her love. The opera has a live cast of five singers and seven musicians, plus a prerecorded virtual chorus comprising more than 100 inmates in six U.S. prison choirs and more than 70 volunteers who sing with the inmates. Learn more about the virtual chorus.
Spiritrials and Fidelio are add-on events (to be added to series subscriptions) or can be built into choose-your-own, or CYO, subscriptions.
Other series highlights
Orchestra — Moscow State Symphony Orchestra, performing works by Prokoflev, Greig and Tchaikovsky.
Concert — Beatrice Rana, piano, performing works by Scriabin, Ravel and Chopin.
Studio Jazz — Connie Han Trio, and Sammy Miller and the Congregation.
With a Twist — The Queen’s Cartoonists (“virtuosic musicianship, multi-instrumental mayhem and comedy”) and the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain.
Dance — Red Sky Performance (Trace) and Delfos Danza Contemporanea (Cuando los Disfraces se Cuelgan).
American Heritage — Arlo Guthrie, songwriter, singer, storyteller.
World Stage — Ballet Folklórico de México de Amalia Hernández and Las Cafeteras.
Speakers — Ellen Forney, author of the 2020-21 Campus Community Book Project (Marbles: Mania, Depression, Michelangelo and Me).
Alexander String Quartet — Three performance dates (two concerts, same program, matinee and evening each day), all Mozart.
More add-on/CYO choices
Visions — Fry Street Quartet: Rising Tide, “an evocative performance that combines music, information and imagery, merging the intellectual with the visceral to take audiences from understanding to action.” Presented in collaboration with the UC Davis SHAPE course Envisioning Climate Futures. SHAPE stands for Science, Humanities and Arts: Process and Engagement.
Curtis on Tour — This year’s tour features Schubert’s masterful quintets for two violins, viola and two cellos.
VST Cabaret — Meow Meow (“careening from French chanson to Radiohead, with brilliant dashes of Brecht and Weill in between, she’s a remarkable singer and physical comedian who hypnotizes, inspires and terrorizes her audiences with ease”).
Family — Sonia de los Santos and The Okee Dokee brothers (Somos Amigos: Songs on Common Ground).
Holidays — The Irish quintet Goitse (go-wit-cha) performs Feb. 26, well within the St. Patrick’s Day celebration range.
Safety first
Rob Tocalino, marketing director for the Mondavi Center, said: “We will take extreme caution in reopening, with the audience's health our top priority. We are actively developing plans for how the hall would and could be used; we're consulting with campus and our industry colleagues on best practices.”
And, if the public health situation does not allow a return to the hall in January, “then we'll do what we did at the end of this season, namely roll out cancellations and issue refunds or credits,” he said.
AT A GLANCE
WHAT: 2020-21 season at the Mondavi Center for the Performing Arts. The season brochure is online.
WHEN: The season as announced starts in January, but some unique events are in the works for fall, to tide people over until January.
SUBSCRIPTION RENEWALS: Maintain seating priority by renewing by July 13.
NEW SUBSCRIPTIONS: Staff, faculty and students have a head start, from now until 1 p.m. Monday (July 6), when members of the general public can start purchasing new subscriptions.
The ticket office is operating remotely. You can reach the staff by email, or you can call:
Online support 10 a.m.-6 p.m. Monday-Friday — 530-746-8094
General information 1-5 p.m. Monday-Friday — 530-285-0992
Frequently asked questions about the 2020-21 season.
Follow Dateline UC Davis on Twitter.
#Mondavi Center for the Performing Arts#Fidelio#Heartbeat Opera#Marcus Scott#MarcusScott#WriteMarcus#Write Marcus#Beethoven#Black Lives Matter
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