#being stepping stones before the main character inevitably ends up with the white main love interest
Note
For DADW, #24 or #39 for the dialogue prompt list for Kanders?
Ok you correctly hit my Specific Angst Buttons so thank you for that, anon, this prompt was basically irresistible
(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)
@dadrunkwriting
Pairing: Anders/Karl Thekla
Characters: Anders, Karl Thekla
Tags: pre-canon, the Circle is a nightmare, reference to ongoing abuse, frank discussion of sexual abuse, coercive power dynamics, basically templars bad
Rating: Mature
“We need to talk about what happened last night.” Karl is trying, hard, to keep his voice level. He’s not really sure he’s succeeding. In the dark, Anders’ eyes are bright and gold as a cat’s, blinking at him from the shadows of the bookshelf. This particular section of the library has been their preferred meeting point for the past month - a place where the shelves are built in such a way as to create a nook - with only one opening through which they might be seen. Slices of moonlight skate through the narrow, high openings above the bricked up windows, barely breathing light across the dusty wood and old books. The shivering blanket of magic that permeates the Circle prickles over their skin like electricity.
Anders huffs, and puffs a strand of hair out of his face as he does so. His skin is white as bone in the dark. All of them are paler than they should be, but where Karl’s skin has faded to a lighter brown, Anders is almost ghostly. Karl misses the freckles that used to skate up his arms and across his cheeks, when they were still allowed to go outside. He can barely see them now, and certainly not in the dark.
“What’s there to talk about? I fixed it, didn’t I?” Anders’ voice is deliberately irreverent, in a way Karl has long since learned means that he has no intention of being anything other than stubbornly defensive.
The sound of metal footsteps on stone echoes through the library as Rufus takes his patrol. Both of them tense, careful to maintain a distance between them even as they wait for the echoing scrape of steel on stone to fade away.
Karl looks at Anders, preparing to argue with him, when a movement catches his eye. He doesn’t think when he lifts a hand to Anders’ warm cheek, testing his hypothesis. “You’re trembling.” Karl says the words as softly as he can, and Anders’ jaw tightens as he pulls away from him.
“It’s cold. Look, are we doing this or what? I’ve got a Creation exam in the morning and you know Wynne’ll bite my head off if I fail it again.”
Karl doesn’t mention the fact that the library is the same dull, tepid temperature at which the entirety of the Circle is always kept - enchanted into a lukewarm stasis. He also doesn’t point out that Anders’ body, pressed so close to his, is as warm as it ever is: all but blazing heat and signalling to any mage with an ounce of sense what his natural school was, despite his remarkable aptitude for spirit healing.
Instead, Karl steps back when Anders steps forward, back bumping into the bookshelf as he does so. Very gently, Karl catches Anders’ hands. “Anders, I’m not...I don’t want to use you.”
In the grey shadows of the library, Karl barely sees the way Anders’ eyes tighten, even as he jerks his hands back and tucks his hair behind his ear with a quick, impatient movement. “Why not? Everyone else does.”
Karl recoils, trying to ignore the sudden ache of hurt that cuts open in his chest at that. He takes a moment to breathe, and taste the musty smell of old paper and the closer salt and sweat and seemingly perpetual elfroot taste of Anders. When he speaks, he does so calmly. “I told you before. I don’t want to be like them.”
Anders falters, then, and moves forward, lifting one long hand to Karl’s cheek. His eyes are serious when he meets his gaze. “You’re not.”
The sound of a door breaking open in a crash of wood and metal makes both of them jump, stiffening as it’s followed by a bellowing roar that starts human and ends...less so. Both Anders and Karl flinch at the weird, inverted tug on the Fade of templar magic, and the ringing crash of metal. For what feels like forever, Karl stands with Anders’ hand on his cheek and wonders which of the enchanters the templars are killing this week. He wonders if it’s Uldred.
Finally, the noise stops. From outside the library, Karl can feel the prickling, weak pull on the Fade of frightened apprentices, tugging like the claws of kittens caught in loose fabric. Slowly, systematically, both he and Anders relax.
Karl speaks first. “Maybe...tonight isn’t -”
“No!” Anders speaks too quickly, and his voice echoes. For a moment both of them stand still, waiting for the sound to fade, and then waiting longer, to see if anyone had heard it. At the absence of the sound of metal on stone, Anders lowers his hand to clutch at the fabric of Karl’s sleeve. He lowers his eyes, too, staring down at their feet instead of meeting Karl’s gaze. “Please. I need...”
Anders stops and swallows. Karl moves closer to him, resting one hand on his shoulder. “What do you need?”
Anders shakes his head and closes the distance between them, bending to press his head against Karl’s chest. Carefully, Karl holds him, conscious as he always is of how easily his own farmer’s arms dwarf Anders’ body. They’d both been raised in the countryside, but where Anders had shot up like a beansprout and more than once suffered restricted meals, Karl had been the apparent image of good behaviour, and had broadened as he’d grown. When Anders speaks, his voice is muffled against Karl’s chest. “It feels different with you. Better. Good. I just...I want to feel good.”
Karl’s arms tighten around Anders’ back, and he forces himself to ask the question he’s been avoiding. “Did they -?”
Anders doesn’t let him finish, pulling back and shaking his head with a soft whisper of fabric. “They didn’t hurt me.” He smiles, and it’s bright and bitter in the dark. “I’m the tower whore, remember? I’ll fuck anyone.” The smile falls, and he looks away. “Even templars.” As quickly as the melancholy had descended, it’s gone,and Anders shrugs again, grinning. “The main thing is that we’ve still got those explosives.” His smile grows crooked. “Though the less you know about that, the better.”
Karl resists the urge to chastise him. It’s nights like these when he finds himself counting down the days until Anders’ next escape, and the brief blessed relief he could enjoy on the days he went uncaptured - imagining him outside of these walls, in the sunshine, away from the templars and their grasping hands.
“So! Shall we get on with it?” Karl knows Anders well enough, by now, to hear the tremor in his voice. But even as he speaks he moves forward, and his hand falls between Karl’s legs, warm and deft as he ever is. Karl’s stomach flips, and he carefully catches Anders wrist, pushing him back and away. He tries not to panic at the sudden hurt in his eyes.
“I have a better idea.”
*
“This is stupid.” Anders says, but doesn’t move from where he’s sat curled against Karl’s chest, breathing gently, tucked beneath an old rough canvas cloth, usually used for the store rooms tucked behind the library bookshelves.
Karl hums, and runs his hand in slow, soothing circles over Anders’ back. Anders shifts, and looks up at him, and his hair tickles the base of Karl’s throat.
“I don’t get you, Thekla.”
Karl grins a little at him, raising an eyebrow. “No?”
Anders turns a little more, tucking himself against Karl’s legs, folded awkwardly into his body on the stone floor. “No. You want to fuck me, right?”
Karl hesitates, and tries to ignore the way Anders’ eyes are burning into him, as if at any moment he’ll see what’s been puzzling him and finally tire of him, as Karl cannot help but fear he inevitably will. Carefully, he replies, “Sometimes.”
Anders frowns, and impatiently pushes his hair back behind his ear. It needs a cut, but he insists on wearing it long. Karl is glad of it, despite the impracticality. Anders has very lovely hair. “But you l-,” Anders catches himself, “you like me, don’t you?”
Karl sits up a little, trying to get a better look at Anders’ expression. “Of course.”
“So, why are we...cuddling on the floor instead of fucking like nugs the way the Maker intended?” Anders’ words come out in a rush, and Karl thinks he’d almost find them funny if the memory of how easily Anders had offered himself to the new recruits who’d caught them messing with force magic was not so fresh in his mind. If the memory of how easily the recruits had agreed, and let Karl go, wasn’t fresher. Instead, bile kicks into the back of his throat, and he carefully disentangles himself from Anders, putting some distance between them and trying to ignore the sudden chill.
“Anders.”
“Karl.” Anders repeats, mocking, before he can continue. Karl feels a giddy, stupid rush of relief at that. An Anders who could tease him was not an Anders who trembled when he heard the templars coming.
With an effort, Karl gathers his thoughts. “I do care about you. You’re,” Karl stops, and feels for a moment the deep and burning hatred that sits somewhere in his chest at how thoroughly the Circle has stolen even this from him as his tongue stumbles over the words, “You’re...very special to me.” I love you. You’re the love of my life. I would die for you and kill for you and instead I cannot even say I love you.
Karl’s fingers curl into a loose fist, and Anders sits forward, absently reaching out and taking his hand. Karl lets him, and feels himself begin to relax as Anders plays with his fingers, waiting for him to continue. After a moment, Karl does, staring at the rectangle of moonlight stamped by the distant window onto the stone between them like a bar of silver.
“But that’s not dependent on sex. If we never had sex again, I wouldn’t...care for you any less. It’s not, necessary to me and honestly the idea that this is something you -” Karl stops, again, and wishes vehemently for even an ounce of Anders’ laughing eloquence as he tries to lift his leaden tongue. “I don’t want to use you. I don’t want you to feel...obligated to me, or like you owe me some kind of service. You don’t owe me your body, Anders. You don’t owe anyone that. “
Anders has stopped playing with his hand, and is staring down at their fingers with a fixed, still, glassy-eyed expression that Karl cannot read. He feels a sense of urgency building in him as he finishes, turning his hand to squeeze Anders’ tightly. “Lying with you is a gift and a privilege if and when you choose to share it, and you can always, always rescind that invitation. I don’t...it’s not appealing to me to do this unless you want it too. Not because you think I want it.”
Karl stops, and pushes a hand up through his hair, trying to ignore the burning in his cheeks and up the back of his neck as he finishes, a little awkwardly. “I only want this if you want me too.”
For a long, terrible moment Anders is quiet. When he speaks, his voice is rough and low. “I don’t know what I want.” He blinks, and his eyes glitter like gold in deep water in the shadows. “They...tell me - my body - I’m.” Anders stops, then, and clenches his teeth, pursing his lips and taking a quick, deep breath through his nose. His hand tightens around Karl’s, squeezing so hard it’s almost painful. Karl doesn’t pull away. “But it doesn’t feel good.”
Karl tries very hard to control the sudden thrum of his magic, stretching out across the air of the library like a hand on the skin of a drum. Anders tilts his head at him, feeling the familiar pull on the Fade, and Karl shakes his head, forcing himself to let the feeling go. Then he sits forward, and takes Anders’ other hand.
“That’s ok. We’ve not got much, but we do at least have time.” He tilts his head, and smiles, and Anders snorts. Karl thinks, for one childish, wistful moment, that he wouldn’t mind living a life without the sun if it meant he got to grow old with him.
“So...” Anders voice is low, but it still feels dangerously loud in the quiet. “Now what?”
Karl shrugs, and it pulls at their joined hands. “How did you feel about cuddling?”
Anders is quiet for a moment, his thumb running over the back of Karl’s hand. “It...I liked it, I think. They don’t normally -” He stops himself. “I’m not used to it.”
Karl tries, again, to push away his anger, and leans backward - not so much pulling Anders as inviting him to move if he wants to. After a moment, Anders comes, shy as a beaten cat. Karl tries not to think too much about the accuracy of the image.
Slowly, carefully, they lie down on the stone floor, and Karl pulls the canvas back up over their bodies. They’ll have to move, soon. They certainly can���t be discovered here by morning.
But, gingerly, Anders rests his head on Karl’s arm and presses his hand against his chest, over his heart. Slowly, his breathing evens, and the space between them grows warm with their shared breath. Karl watches as Anders hesitantly shuts his eyes and presses closer, fingers curling in the fabric of his robe, like a child. Karl supposes Wynne would say that they were, with him at eighteen summers and Anders at sixteen. They hadn’t even been Harrowed yet.
But that’s a nightmare for another day.
For now, Karl curls his other arm around Anders’ body and holds him close, and runs his hand gently through his hair.
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Not my idea but someone said imagine if flowers are linked to souls and the love between them. They would become more colourful when their love goes stronger and weaken when they have a fight. And they become gray not cause their love is gone but cause the other died. I mean.. this is painful but think how many times we saw flowers in malec scenes and their wedding! You can write about it if want, I would be grateful.
A Life Better in Color(Read on AO3)(Warning, Main Character Death)
Magnus knows what he feels for the Shadowhunter. It’s new, still fresh and uncertain, but it’s there. He grows much less uncertain when Alec lends his strength to him to heal Lucian. The trust that action takes on both of their parts, the bond it creates in that moment… Magnus isn’t surprised to see the vase of pink roses on the table grow a little brighter when Alec helps him up, and brighter still when Alec stays behind to help clean and share a drink. It’s small, barely a flicker, but it’s there.
It’s a start.
—
It’s difficult for Magnus to get a read on Alexander (it isn’t as if the Institute is ripe with floral arrangements, they don’t quite fit the all-black, I-could-kill-you-in-my-sleep aesthetic) so Magnus starts slipping him flowers. Just one here and there, pressed into the autopsy report he hands to Alec in the training room or conjured up while Alec isn’t looking to slip into his quiver when they discuss ‘payment’ for his services during Lydia’s trial. When Magnus returns, inevitably called back for either official business or to bail Clarissa and the others out of whatever new trouble they find themselves in, he keeps his eyes peeled for them. When Alec knows to expect him Magnus sees them on the corner of a desk, or resting by a rack of weapons. One day Magnus gets a single small flower - a forget-me-not, likely picked from outside in haste out of convenience and not for any deeper meaning - pressed into his palm as he passes Alec in the hallway. Magnus checks it daily to make sure what he suspects Alec feels hasn’t grown any less (and secretly hoping it’s grown more). The steady sky blue is a comfort that this isn’t entirely unrequited despite outward appearances. Magnus knows it’s the most he’s going to get from the man who refuses to openly speak on anything he feels, and he decides that it’s enough to keep hope alive for both of them.
For now.
—
Alec arranges for the flowers at his wedding to Lydia to be white. It’s the safest bet - nothing to fade during his inevitable internal struggle throughout the ceremony. They color Lydia’s bouquet red artificially before she goes out - they both know that while they respect and consider the other a friend, there’s no true love there. This way there’s nothing to betray to the crowd watching that the smiles on their faces are anything other than genuine.
Everything’s going according to plan until Magnus shows up.
Alec isn’t sure what he’s going to do until Lydia says she understands.
He tries not to notice the way the flowers behind her fade ever-so-slightly to a creamier off-white as he turns away from Lydia to face Magnus, but he can’t tear his eyes away from a small pot of white flowers by the door. They’re the only ones he personally helped with arranging when they arrived and he was keeping busy to distract himself - and as his lips meet Magnus’ the flowers shift from white to a brilliant shade of red that just so happens to match the highlights in Magnus’ hair.
For the first time all day Alec smiles a genuine smile.
—
Magnus can handle Camille, but that isn’t the problem here. The problem is that he isn’t sure if Alexander can handle Camille and all of the devious tricks and manipulation she’s perfected over the centuries. He gets a clear read on Alec’s annoyance as the Shadowhunter ignores the Camille-initiated kiss he walks in on and goes to find Clary. For a few seconds Magnus thinks that maybe it’ll be a non-issue until he remembers the flower Alec gave him on the table where he sat it down.
It’s muted, no longer a vibrant red.
Magnus excuses himself and catches up to Alec, who immediately insists he doesn’t care about whatever he saw back there. Magnus simply holds out the flower to him in silent question. The conversation that follows isn’t easy, but it’s necessary. Magnus knows the life he lives, and the years that come with it, isn’t easy. Part of him expects Alec to walk away and never look back but instead Magnus watches him relax at Magnus’ reassurances. By the end of their conversation the flower, while not as bright as it started out, is a little brighter than before.
And so are the gleams in both of their eyes as they share a quick kiss before going to find Clary.
—
The longer Jace is gone the worse Alec spirals. It isn’t a fight so much as the simple fact that all of Alec’s love, all of his attention and thoughts and emotions, are entirely fixated on his missing parabatai. The colors drain around them and Magnus does his best not to take it personally. He cares about Alec, and Alec did break off his wedding to take a chance on him, but this is still new for both of them. He can’t imagine their budding romance would overpower the tumultuous fear Alec holds within him for the man who shares a part of his soul… but it still hurts to see a visual reminder of it at every turn.
It certainly doesn’t help the blow of Alec’s harsh words when Magnus is unable to track Jace’s location. It wasn’t a fight before, but it becomes one now.
When Alec comes to apologize he sets a small bundle of flowers on the table by the door. They’re a soft lilac in color, weak from the tension between them, the strain that Alec created by taking his frustrations out on Magnus. Alec isn’t sure Magnus will accept his apology… he isn’t sure he deserves to be forgiven. But he is, with the promise that he won’t push Magnus away again, and when Magnus walks Alec to the door a while later the flowers he finds there are a vibrant royal purple.
—
The thing that Magnus realizes over the following months with Alexander isn’t that his flowers fade the most while they’re in a fight or apart for long periods of time; it’s that they lose their color fastest when Alec is stuck inside his own head, convinced he doesn’t deserve the love he feels, and especially not the love he receives in return.
It’s those days that the bouquet on Magnus’ coffee table, the one that Alec continually refreshes with flowers he picks up at a market stand that’s along the way from the Institute to the Loft, always looks too soft and delicate, the colors practically nonexistent. When he wakes up to see them that way he reaches out to Alexander immediately. Sometimes it works, but more often it doesn’t.
Learning to give Alec space is one of the more difficult things Magnus has done in recent years, but he works on it. Unfortunately, Magnus gets plenty of opportunities to practice.
—
Alec, in all his life, has never seen colors as vibrant as the flowers around him after their first time. It isn’t simply the trust between them over the act of taking that next physical step, of letting his guard down enough to give himself over to someone else completely, but rather everything that happens around that moment which solidifies and strengthens the bond they share. It’s knowing Magnus feels just as vulnerable as he does and that the trust goes both ways. It’s seeing Magnus’ cat eyes and only becoming more infatuated, not scared away. It’s soft talks under golden sheets about fears and life and weaknesses.
And Magnus, though the realization startles him straight down to his core, finds himself surrounded by the most dynamic colors in centuries, something he truly didn’t anticipate. Even with Etta there was always something small lingering in the back of their minds, something holding them back, something dulling Magnus’ world just a little. But not here, not now. He wonders if perhaps he’s grown too invested too quickly in Alexander Gideon Lightwood. Not that it matters, because he knows he’s too far gone to do anything about it now.
It’s all they can do to embrace life in their kaleidoscope of growing love for as long as they can, because nothing perfect lasts forever.
—
After Valentine’s attack the emotions of the Shadowhunters and Downworlders present are so strong that the flowers around the church can’t help but be affected. The sorrow there is so strong after so many lives are lost in the blink of an eye that the flowers around them have almost all gone grey in silent memoriam, matching the stone walls that surround them.
The longer Alec searches, the longer he can’t find any sign of Magnus, the more terrified he becomes that those flowers mourn for his lover as well.
When they finally reunite, with the fear that consumed their entire beings slowly replaced with the comfort of ‘I love you’s, a single flower on the path beside them comes back to life.
—
It takes a while for the colors to return to their life after Magnus gets his body back from Valentine. Magnus doesn’t blame Alec for what happend, not fully, but Alec can’t stop blaming himself and Magnus can’t help the instinct to flinch away from the hands so quick to bring him harm in that cell, from the authority so willing to authorize the use of an Agony rune on the body he was trapped in.
But more than that, it’s the memories the Agony rune made Magnus relive, the ones he can’t shake which play out over and over again every time he closes his eyes. His mother taking her own life, his stepfather suffering at Magnus’ hands.
Both Magnus and Alexander each blame themselves, Magnus for allowing himself to be compromised and Alec for not believing Magnus sooner, and neither can fully love the other until they come to terms with this newfound hesitation between them.
They never speak about it out loud but they throw away every flower in the house. It’s a dark enough time without the reminders.
—
It’s a strange feeling for Magnus to carry so much weight over the blackening petals of a rose from someone other than Alexander, but the longer he gives himself to debate over what to do about the Seelie Queen’s offer the more certain he becomes that he’s only stalling - he already knows what answer he has to give.
He checks the rose frequently, wishing for more time, for the chance to find some way out of this that doesn’t involve choosing sides. But in the end he can’t be blamed for his decision- after all, it’s Alec’s deceit, Alec’s lack of transparency and broken trust which ultimately forces his hand. They’re leaders; they have to do what’s best for their people, and this is simply the way it has to be.
…maybe they could believe that if the last flowers they gave to one another before walking away were faded and wilted. They are at the start: the stems weaken and bend over with the weight of the blooms whose colors dull to soft pastels. It might be enough to accept that this is it, except when Max needs help Magnus is there in the blink of an eye. Neither one of them can help the hope that rekindles and when they look again later the stems stand a little straighter, the colors a little brighter.
It’s their first reassurance that there’s no actual love lost between them despite the situation driving them apart, and if there is it’s not a complete abandonment. There’s still something there. There’s still something to save. It’s the only thought that keeps Alec going despite Magnus’ insistence that he can’t be with Alec and be there for his people as well. It’s the only thing keeping Magnus going the longer he forces himself to stay away and the more clinical his interactions with Alec grow when they do cross paths.
Magnus knows his all-or-nothing reaction of siding with the Seelie Queen is dramatic, and Alec knows that keeping the information about the soul sword from the Downworlders was wrong, but it’s too late to fix either decision now.
Every time Magnus stands behind the Seelie Queen, emotionless, he comes back to an empty apartment that’s a little more dull than the last time he left it. When he greets Alec with ‘What do you want, Shadowhunter?’ before nearly slamming the door in his face Magnus can almost feel the life draining from the flowers on the table behind him.
He’s losing Alexander and he knows it. After all, one can only hold on to hope for so long before they have to face the reality being presented to them, and Magnus is presenting a harsh one to the man he still loves.
It isn’t until the threat to their world is gone that they realize the victory, however impressive, means nothing without having the other to share it with.
The flowers Alec helps him pick out on their long walk home after an alleyway reconciliation are the most colorful Magnus has seen in days.
—
The immortality discussions between them are a trying time. Alec stays at the Institute to avoid a conversation he doesn’t know how to have. Magnus is too busy with clients to make social engagements with Alec and his family. They both know what’s going on but neither one of them knows how to fix it, not with words and not with actions, so they choose avoidance. Alec can feel his own insecurities draining the life from the flowers at his desk, just as they’re draining the life from the relationship he doesn’t know how to save.
It isn’t until Jace’s life is on the line that they both admit they said things they regret. It should be enough, but it isn’t. Their relationship remains strained, a mixture of personal doubts and shaken beliefs over the idea that love may truly overcome everything else. After all, Clary’s love for Jace isn’t enough to save him any longer. Alec and Isabelle’s love for Jace isn’t enough for them to do what needs to be done in the depths of Jace’s mind. Worst of all, Alec’s love for Magnus isn’t enough to keep him from going to Edom to strike a deal with his father; in fact, it’s the very thing that sends him there.
Faded flowers are all that greets Alec once the flames die out. Magnus is gone, and Alec is left to walk back out into the empty apartment and plan out his own worst-case scenario.
—
It’s the strangest phenomena when Magnus loses his magic. For the days of back-and-forth - of Magnus having no magic, and then Lorenzo’s borrowed magic, and then no magic again - it seems as if the flowers that surround them are as torn as the two men living such drastically shifting lives. From the Loft to the Institute, it’s the same: the flowers are all split very particularly down the middle. One half is bright, thriving, as if desperate to make up for the other sides which fade more and more even on the days when things seem okay, a clear sign that the appearances being put forward aren’t the whole truth.
Their love for one another is strong, and there’s no doubting it even on the darkest days. But there’s a disconnect. Though Alec suspects something’s not right even as Magnus smiles and uses the magic his body rejects, and Alec’s only proof are the flowers throughout Magnus’ firm denials anything is amiss. Alec knows that something is wrong, but he doesn’t know that Magnus can only allow himself to embrace their love when he feels he’s deserving of it, only when he feels like himself. How can Alec know when Magnus covers it up so well with eyeliner smeared on like war paint and yellow magic that isn’t quite right as a shield against the emptiness he feels right down to his soul.
And so the flowers split in equal halves, faded and bright, the lie and the truth, the dangerous line being walked by both of them between what’s real and what’s for show.
They wonder how long they can hold together as two extremes desperately clinging together as one before they split down the middle, too.
—
There are no flowers in Maryse’s bookshop to give Magnus any indication that Alexander doesn’t mean every single word that leaves his lips that night. Magnus knows they’re true, he’s felt it in him ever since the moment Lorenzo took his magic back - he’s broken, useless, more of a burden than anyone would wish to keep around. Alec’s words confirm the suspicion Magnus had all along: that he would’ve been better of dying with the false magic at this fingertips than living an empty life without it.
He has no home to return to, no way of knowing that every word Alec spoke was a lie to drive him away. Instead he wanders, lost and alone until a familiar pair of cat-eyes find him in the streets, while Alec returns back to the Institute and a balcony full of lifeless, drained roses where the red ones once stood.
—
Alec doesn’t know if it’s going to work but he forces Magnus to wait before going to Edom just one extra minute. He returns with the closest flower he could find: a red tulip. He doesn’t know how the rules apply across realms but he can only hope that the colors hold true no matter what the distance. He needs Magnus to know that he’s not alone there, that Alec’s love for him won’t fade over time, or distance, or anything else that may come between them.
When Alec manages to find a way to rescue Magnus, arriving in Edom with the same yellow magic at his fingertips that nearly killed Magnus not too long ago, Magnus tells Alec that he never doubted him, not for a second.
Very out of place in a realm of dirt and heat and ichor, a single red tulip sits on the seat of a throne, more vibrant than the day it arrived.
—
The day of the wedding the flowers around them are nearly blinding in their intensity. Knowing this would be the effect they intentionally chose ones which started on the dull side, but even so the way the flowers emboldened themselves as first Alexander, and then Magnus, walked down the aisle draws the eyes of everyone around them. If there’s any doubt that the love these two feel for one another grows stronger by the second that doubt is replaced by a brilliant assortment of colors growing brighter, bolder, with every second that passes during the ceremony.
—
They always knew there would come a day when the flowers on the table would turn gray. Neither of them liked to think about it but such is life, and the mortality of man is undeniable, so they do their best to come to terms with it and live with the looming inevitability. They, like most everyone around them, anticipate the day when Alec would end up very unwillingly leaving Magnus behind on this earth.
No one anticipated that it would be the other way around.
Alec is just coming home from a rather uneventful day full of meetings and playing nice to pass some amendments that are going to make a huge difference in the way implementing Downworld Cabinets across every country with an Institute will go over. It’s a big win for them, one he can’t wait to share with Magnus. Except Magnus isn’t home when Alec gets there, despite the fact that his last client meeting that day should’ve ended hours ago.
That’s when Alec sees the note on the table. ‘A friend in Marrakech needs help, last-minute emergency no time to explain. I’ll be late, call you later. Love you’. Alec puts the note down and resigns himself to heating up leftovers instead of going out for a celebratory dinner. He’s in the kitchen no more than 10 minutes but when he comes back out the flowers on the table are fading. It happens so fast Alec barely processes it before his hands fall to his side and the plate spills to the floor, forgotten. It’s over almost as soon as it began: all six of the roses are gray.
Alec looks around the room, desperate for any sign that this doesn’t mean what he knows it means, but the marigolds on the balcony (Magnus swore they were low maintenance enough even Alec couldn’t manage to kill them), the purple peonies they picked on their walk yesterday because it matched the highlights in his husband’s hair (Magnus had taken one and tucked it behind Alec’s ear before placing a kiss on his temple beside the fragrant bloom)… every single flower in their home has gone gray.
Alec takes a rose from the table and walks to the sofa where he sits down and stares at it, unblinking. He doesn’t cry, the shock is too fresh and the disbelief still lingering - this is how Jace and Isabelle find him an hour later after a number of failed attempts to reach him. They take one look at the flower he holds and know that he knows… and yet not having to break the worst of the news doesn’t make it any easier for them to tell him about the ambush Magnus managed to save several warlock children from, but not himself. It was quick, they promise Alec - Magnus didn’t suffer.
The knowledge doesn’t help ease Alec’s own suffering, however.
The longer Alec goes without crying the more concerned his family grows for him, and yet he doesn’t allow a single tear to fall until after they left (not for good, just to grab some things before returning to spend the night, refusing to leave him alone). He gets the worst of it out before they return but he can’t shut it off any longer: now that he acknowledges it, it’s like opening a floodgate of emotions.
Alec is furious at Magnus for putting himself in danger, he’s proud of the selfless legacy his husband leaves behind, he’s filled with frustration and sorrow and love, and yet the flowers around him don’t brighten or pale to reflect anything he feels towards the man he’ll never get to say a proper goodbye to - they remain a final, resolute gray, because no amount of love or anger can change things now, or ever again.
The need to stay busy is overwhelming but Alec is forced to take a personal leave, so he organizes the funeral instead. It isn’t in Alicante, though it could be - that was the sort of difference Magnus made in this world, the kind that would allow a Downworlder to be High Warlock of Alicante, the kind that would allow his funeral on Shadowhunter grounds if they so choose.
Alec knows, and Catarina agrees, that it isn’t what Magnus would’ve wanted.
When all is said and done, Magnus is buried next to Ragnor, along with his box of mementos which Alec adds the omamori to before closing once and for all.
Alec doesn’t allow any flowers at the ceremony except the single grey rose he leaves behind.
#magnus bane#alec lightwood#malec#shadowhunters#mcd#major character death#i mean the prompt kind of implies but just in case#I'm sorry this took me forever and a half anon but I hope you're still around to see this! and that you like it!#elle writes a few deadbeat lines#anon glamour activated#ask rune#long post
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Some thoughts on Ted Chiang’s Exhalation (2019) - Part I
Ted Chiang is such an interesting writer to me. His stories have such a neutral, impersonal tone — “thinky” scifi, theoretical what-if experiments far from our own space and time — and yet they wrestle with such “base” human questions at their core. I was surprised at how emotional I felt after reading some of them — not during the reading but days afterwards, when I’d watch a kid play in the park and think about the main character in “The Lifecycle of Software Objects”, who’d tried very hard to give her digital-child-pet a life in a society that didn’t consider it worthy of one. There’s something about his stories that have an impact on you a long time later, like a stone dropped too clean to make an initial splash, but whose ripples keep echoing in you for a long time after.
Some of these questions are very familiar, if you’ve read his previous collections, most famously Stories of Your Life and Others: how much free will do we really have; how do we go on in a world without it; how the instruments we use (language and writing, as much as any other tech) changes the way we think, feel, and relate to each other; the purpose of science and the purpose of stories, and the lines where they cross, the spaces where they meet. Is it the actual, physical, objective-laws world that shapes who we are, or the stories we tell ourselves about it? What is an individual — a single, measly person, whose only contribution might be to write a good account of the advent of a piece of tech, not even the inventor but a bystander — to the clockwork machinery of the universe? Why are we, in the cosmic scheme of things?
Maybe it’s all the Black-Mirror/Hunger-Games type stuff that’s been so en vogue in the last decade (not to mention a certain orange-y harbinger of the apocalypse sitting in the White House, and the impending existential dread of climate change), but I found this to be a very “hopeful” collection. Optimistic may be too strong a word for it, but it grapples with these dystopian concepts and comes out the other side with the sense that just as the world grows and changes, we will find a way to grow and change, and whether time turns all our great pyramids and gods to dust we are still a species worth saving. The time machines, robots, parallel universes, and knowledge that we have no destiny except the final entropy of all living things will challenge who we are, but not the missive to be kind to one another. Even if our fate is already set, we can still choose what kind of person we will be when we meet it.
In that way, perhaps the way the narrators, men and women and nameless alike, are so detached and analytical in the way they observe the world reflects not a limitation of Chiang’s character range, but a purposeful choice by the author. They’re scientists, struggling with a crisis of faith: whether they’ve made the correct diagnosis, drawn the correct conclusion, stuck to the right course, let go at the right time. Watches, who’ve met their watchmaker. Yet what makes this collection particularly beautiful — particularly scifi — to me is how these mechanical people become not gods in the future, but simply more human.
Some thoughts on the individual stories under the cut, warning for spoilers. I’m splitting this into two parts because I'm a rambler, so this one is the first half, going up to The Lifecyle of Software Objects:
The Merchant and the Alchemist’s Gate
“Nothing erases the past. There is repentance, there is atonement, and there is forgiveness. That is all, but that is enough.”
I think it’s so fitting that a short-story collection about the meaning of stories opens with a scifi retelling of Scheherazade’s One Thousand and One Nights, the most famous short-story collection of all. It’s not just the ancient Middle East setting that’s familiar, but the structure: like those fables, this is a nested story-within-a-story, a series of morality tales told to a narrator who has his own secret not yet revealed to the audience. The scifi piece here is the time-machine gate, which, like Arrival, raises questions about the nature of time and free will — what if the future were an unchangeable scroll, the script set in ink before your birth? What does coming to know that future do to the knower?
Some, naturally, use it to enrich themselves, the classic time-travel trope of traveling to the past to give yourself the stock picks (note: buy Apple). Another underestimates the trickery of fate, while the wife uses it to rescue her future husband. But what’s interesting here is that in all these cases, no one actually changes the future; nor did they actually change the past, because the past *must* have happened for the future to happen. The characters merely make the future that was going to happen happen, much as Arrival’s Louise felt obligated “to act precisely as she knew would.”
It’s a theme that Chiang is clearly very interested in, with his most famous demonstration in Stories of Your Life / Arrival. If we already know the future, and we can’t change it no matter what we do, that implies that we don’t have free will. The narrator’s attempt then, to change his future by changing his past must fail: a harsh word spoken and a wife lost can’t be taken back, unless it was meant to be.
But the fact that the narrator tried, I think, and went to great lengths trying, is the human element of this fantasy story. That his first instinct was to try to save his wife says something about him; the fact that it was all futile in the end doesn’t negate the meaning of his attempt. I keep remembering this Vonnegut quote about Lot’s wife, who was warned not to look back at the burning city, and yet couldn’t help doing so as she fled: “but she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human.” The merchant didn’t do the wise thing, but he did the human thing — isn’t that the part that hurts?
The one issue I had with this story is that I’m always completely frustrated by time-travel-paradox stories — it doesn’t make sense to me that a universe wouldn’t branch off, so to speak, the moment you step back in time, so I don’t understand *why* both our past and future can’t be changed. I had the same issue with Arrival, where I couldn’t explain to myself why Louise HAD to walk the future she saw. (It doesn’t help that I’ve been watching a lot of Future Man, which has a lot of fun jumping around and sticking its fingers up the timey-wimey stuff.) But I also believe that the technical puzzle really isn’t the point of this story — accepting the premise that the past and future are unchangeable even if we can see them, the idea is that we still have to live them anyways, and it’s through those experiences that we change, grow, become different people. If the merchant hadn’t tried to rescue his wife, would he have found his atonement at the end? Or are there things we have to do anyways, even if we already know the answer?
Exhalation
“But in truth the source of life is a difference in air pressure, the flow of air from spaces where it is thick to those where it is thin.”
A slim little story, with a steampunk texture and some lovely little flourishes of prose in between extremely in-depth explanations of what I can only describe as “mechanical stuff” (you can see the technical writer in Chiang here — he really likes describing machinery). But the thing I really like about his work is that even as he’s a geek fascinated by the technology itself, he’s even more interested in its impact on the people and societies that find themselves confronting it. “How the world works” affects how people think about themselves, and that philosophical bent gives his stories more depth than “wouldn’t it be cool if…” thought experiments to me.
On the one level, “air” here could be a direct substitution for “energy”, where the second law of thermodynamics states that the entropy of an isolated system can only go up, never down. Every breath we take adds another little bit of disorder into the universe. That makes sense: none of us are renewable machines, all our civilizations have finite lifespans, and the way we’re treating the planet doesn’t exactly bode well for at least extending what time we have. Hell, we’re literally screwing our own oxygen, and unlike the narrator’s species we don’t need the laws of physics to do it for us.
What I thought was particularly interesting, though, was reading this on a more metaphorical level. I’m stretching it here, but it’s the idea that people don’t really live on the materia itself, but on the immaterial ebbs and flows between them; that it’s the passing of thoughts, energy, love, emotion between us that keeps us alive. When that exchange dies — whether because we all became the same, or because we’ve lost interest in seeking that exchange — so too do we as a species.
Is it language that keeps us alive, or having another person hear it? Is it the having of food, or having someone with whom to share it?
What’s Expected of Us
“My message to you is this: Pretend that you have free will.”
Oh ho — I had a thought after reading this that the order of the stories in this collection is really deliberate, because this book is in tension to itself. That is, one story will set out one hypothesis/POV, and then the next will straight-up rebut it, a kind of self-conflict that reminds me both of the history of science and the way I think most conflicts occur in real life: not as wrong vs right, but as different POVs that can all be true at once without being the whole of the answer, if there is one at all.
The previous story ends with a spirited declaration that “the buildings we have erected, the art and music and verse we have composed, the very lives we’ve led: none of them could have been predicted, because none of them was inevitable.” This one states exactly the opposite: everything HAS been predicted and you have no choice at all. And unlike the first story, which had the same deterministic view, the conclusion here is not to accept fate but to fight it. (Not that you can choose whether to fight it or not - it’s all been predetermined!)
First of all, this is based on a real, ongoing debate. I was really interested in neuroscience (and in particular, its impact on ethics and law) back in college and it reminded me instantly of those experiments showing that our subconscious brain makes a decision before we become conscious of making it (see Neuroscience of free will), and I’m sure experiments like Libet’s were the inspiration behind the Predictor device here.
The fact that no one’s reacted the same way people do here is probably because we have such a strong perception of our own free will that it just seems too obviously ludicrous, and the experiments so far are nowhere near as iron-tight and replicable as the Predictor. Even so, though, think about all those factors you didn’t have control over that have such an impact on where you are today: where you were born (living at the poverty level in the U.S. still puts you at the top 14% worldwide!), your parents, your genetic temperament, much of your health and innate interests and talents. There’s a lot of that vaunted genetics-plus-environment explanation for behavior that is out of our hands, and what’s left over is all the most interesting — and hardest to define — stuff.
I’m not saying that Chiang is making a social critique here, but I think that’s what this whole collection is grappling with: “the stuff that’s left over.” Keep in mind the narrator’s two assertions at the end that will pop over and over again: the idea that civilization depends on “self-deception” — or what others might call “stories” — and that “some of you will succumb and some of you won’t, and my sending this warning won’t alter those proportions”. Because in the last story, following the narrator’s command to believe in the lie is exactly what alters them.
The Lifecycle of Software Objects
Confession: I’m rarely blown away by Chiang’s prose. It does the job but it doesn’t get me swooning over a sentence or a particularly striking piece of imagery. Reading TLoSO, the piece of fiction I kept thinking of was Philip K Dick’s Do Android Dream of Electric Sheep, a novella whose wordcraft I also thought was workmanly — and yet, I fucking love that book, and this was my favorite story in Exhalation.
I can’t fully articulate why, but it’s the one that’s stuck with me the longest, even as I think The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling is more original and Anxiety is the Dizziness of Freedom is more satisfying. It’s one of the most “conventional” stories here, along with Anxiety (perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s these two that are being adapted for Hollywood) — actual characters, with actual story arcs, and things happening and people making difficult choices. It has a cinematic vision and a fully-realized world that spans decades in the lives of those characters. It even has bad guys, and an interesting conceit: what if we had these digital pets called “digients” that could learn how to talk, and play, and maybe even learn up to the level of a adolescent while looking like these adorable baby animals that you’ll never have to feed, clean, or scoop poop after? You can just “suspend” them when you’re tired of playing with them; they’re cuter than robots, less pressure than children, and less work than pets!
The length and conventionality of the narrative structure makes it easier to relate to, I think, but it’s not why I love it and keep juxtaposing it by the Philip K Dick book. Like Androids, at the heart of it I think this is a story about empathy. It’s a story about the inherent terror, sorrow, and joy of parenting, of being in charge of another life with no guardrails or handbook on how to do it. It’s about being an adult, with jobs, responsibilities, and obligations to others in constant competition with values inside yourself, and never knowing if you got that balance right.
It’s about being a parent in a society where you’re in constant negotiation with it about the value of that life: where the only worth your child has is how much money they can make someone, how intelligent they are (and therefore how much money they can make someone), how much utility they have as an academic exercise or as a sex partner. No matter how much you love your kid, the only thing the world cares about is whether they have some “use”, and this story is all about that feeling: the heartache of justifying an existence you don’t feel should need justifying. Because whether the digients are actually robots, children, pets, or replicants — that’s probably never going to be proven, in the same way we’ll never know if Deckard really is a replicant, but that’s not really what matters here. What matters is whether you choose to believe these digital-pet-things deserve to be treated like they have value, the kind of value that makes torturing them evil, discarding them cruel, and keeping promises to them matter.
Ana and Derek choose to believe. They’re one of the very few who do, and they raise their digients as children, teaching them how to read, finding them play partners, taking joy in their successes, wrestling with how to discipline their mischief. When disaster strikes — Blue Gamma goes bankrupt, Data Earth becomes obsolete, making obsolete their first-gen digients with it — they shield them from the “finances”, much as many parents do. Then they throw themselves into the only mission that matters anymore: finding a way to give them some semblance of a good life.
Hope after hope turns them down, until at last, there’s only a startup called Binary Desire, who proposes to make the digients sex bots, in the most reasonable language: they won’t be sex slaves, this is a voluntary modification to their circuits plus careful training that will make them genuinely fall in love with their chosen partner. A kind of directed puberty, if you will — after all, none of us asked for our hormones and crushes, right? How is this different from being born with the oxytocin to connect to our family, or Blue Gamma’s initial breeding of the digients to be cute and cuddly? How is it different from being born with a certain set of genes that might predispose us to like certain people — isn’t that even the whole concept of “soul mates” in the first place, an innate connection?
But there’s something so particularly awful about Binary Desire’s proposal, as nicely as they couch it as completely consensual. First of all, as Ana and Derek argue, the digients are still child-like (though this is partly because of Derek’s and especially Ana’s own protectiveness). But even if they had the consciousness and experience of full adults, it’d still feel wrong to me, and I think it’s because of this: forcing a being to remake themselves just for our own convenience feels instinctively wrong. Binary Desire’s customers could find real, living, actually-consensual partners — but they don’t want to, they’d rather pay for a bot hardwired to fall in love with them, and delude themselves that this is “ultimate sexual fulfillment” for both parties.
That’s what feels so wrong about the way the digients are treated in the society of TLoSO in general: it’s not that people are actively torturing the bots a la the Kubrick/Spielberg movie A.I., it’s just that they’re always doing whatever is most convenient for themselves. There’s no friction, no “cost” — and therefore, no weight to any of their relationships either. It’s not that they’re selfish people, any more than us fast-swiping Tinder and all those other dating apps whose entire goal was to remove friction from “the dating market” — the point is that technology has made these options available that were never there before.
What if you could push a button and make your child perfect? What if you could pay a few bucks and make someone love you forever? Binary Sense even tries to get around that by demanding the relationship be built up over months rather than a cheap-and-quick hormonal hit because people want “real” relationships not slaves — but that friction is still artificial, just like how Ana tells Derek at the beginning that it’s weirder to pretend the digients are real animals. Getting things easy, getting things without having to pay any emotional price or sacrificing anything of yourself — that cheapens you.
I think that’s the answer to Binary Desire’s question that tortures Ana: “why can nonsexual relationships with them [like yours and Derek’s] be healthy, while sexual ones can’t?” It’s not really about nonsexual vs sexual — it’s about investing in a relationship honestly, vs trying to take shortcuts. Binary Desire’s emotional training program to get the digient to fall in love is still a shortcut, just a different kind of shortcut. People are always looking for certainty, the certainty that they’ve made the right choice — certain profit, certain success, certain returns for their investment. But relationships aren’t about certainty; at every moment, you might be fucking this all up forever, but it’s that discomfort that you makes you human. It’s about knowing that you might have nothing left to show at the end of years of effort and being willing to make that effort anyway.
The people in Ana and Dereks’ society suck because they’re unwilling to take the risk that might they invest everything, and still be left with nothing. They would never give their whole heart to something, whether that thing was a person or a bot. They want the kind of relationship that you can suspend, rewind, erase, start over if you don’t like it anymore. And that’s no relationship at all.
That’s why Ana and Derek are the heroes here, or at least, as much “hero” as you can be in a Ted Chiang piece — because they do pay a price for their love for Jax and Marco and Polo. They don’t take the easy way out of suspending them even as it costs them relationships, jobs, their statuses in society. At the end, Derek even sacrifices the one thing he discovered he wanted throughout the years— his chance with Ana — to make what he hopes is the right choice for Marco. They’re not the same kind of parents at all — Ana is more protective, Derek more willing to push them, to let them struggle out of the idea that’s needed for growth — but the crucial thing is both put that duty above themselves, the moment they became “parents”: the duty to try to give them a good life.
On the one hand, you can say it’s a sickness, valuing robots that might never gain more intellectual capacity than a 10-year-old over other human beings; on the other you can say they have this kind of fundamental integrity, this will to treat them right. Because Ana promised Jax she wouldn’t suspend him, she won’t. Because Derek can sacrifice neither Marco nor Ana, he lets Marco make his own choice, and lets Ana blame him. Maybe those are all terrible choices, maybe it’s not what you’d think of as a happy life, but — being able to have empathy with something outside yourself, even if it’s a thing not a person, being the kind of person who stands by their promises and doesn’t squirrel out of the hard decisions — isn’t that the kind of life you can live with? And isn’t that all we can ask for in the end?
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Second half coming up!
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just finished the first chapter of a quick little fic i’m writing (based on a couple of characters from the d&d homebrew campaign i’m putting together). figured i’d drop it here on the offchance that anyone would like to read it. more below the cut.
~1~
“It has come time to serve your family once more.”
Mother’s words still tugged at the corners of my subconscious as I hitched my horse by the Market District gates. With an exhausted sigh, I pulled my plain black cloak closer to my shoulders and made my way from the stables up the darkened flagstone streets. Even for near-midnight on a Sunday, the typically busy center of Starfeld commerce seemed strangely deserted. As nice as it was to be able to make my way up the main path without having to weave through a sea of people, I couldn’t stomach another moment of quiet. At this point I was desperate for anything to distract myself from the thoughts racing through my head.
Just a few feet ahead, a weather worn wooden sign marked my destination; The Crossroads Inn. My home away from home.
A tall, iron-framed wooden door stood before me, flanked by two thick stone columns. I could already hear the soft, lilting tune of a lyre coming from within as I approached, accompanied by clinking dinnerware and muffled voices. Sounds like I had dropped by in the middle of one of Hilda’s weekly performances.
As I stepped inside, the strong scent of heady wine and cooked meats filled my nose. The flames in the gilded lanterns lining the crimson-painted walls were low, bathing the few patrons seated underneath them in a subdued orange glow. The diminutive halfling form of the lyre-wielding bard, Hilda, stood front-and-center of the room, swaying languidly with the tempo of the music that flowed from her fingers. A large stained glass window set into the middle of the ceiling reflected shimmering, multi colored light in an intricate geometric pattern on the floor with the full moon just visible beyond its surface.
I made my way straight to the counter off to the right, which was being tended by a familiar Dragonborn man by the name of Alzax. His scaly brow raised as I approached and sat down on a stool. I could tell I was about to receive an enthusiastic welcome, as I normally did, so I raised a hand to him and smiled. Understanding my intentions, he nodded and grabbed a glass from under the counter. While I normally enjoyed his exuberance, I just wasn’t in the mood for it tonight.
“Evening, Zax.” I said as he began pouring a drink. At this point, I didn’t even have to tell him what I wanted.
“Ezra! I wasn’t expecting you here tonight. How’ve you been?” He placed the white wine in front of me and leaned on his elbows as he responded. I pulled a few gold pieces out of my coin purse and laid them down for him.
“Oh, just splendid,” I replied, almost musing to myself. “This past week has been an absolute shitshow.”
Realization dawned on the red-tinged lizardfolk’s face, and he nodded. “I just heard the news today. You’re gonna end up with some Laurelian princess, right?”
“Regrettably, yes.”
“Ah,” Alzax reached across the counter and gave me a hearty pat on the shoulder as I took a long sip of my drink. “Hang in there, big guy. Arranged marriages never last anyway. And besides, I hear Laurelians are big party people. At least there’s a chance she won’t be boring.”
It took an incredible amount of willpower to keep myself focused on the conversation, as the prospect of my future (or lack, thereof) being the topic is nothing short of exhausting. My so-called “Princely Duties” were precisely what I was trying to distract myself from in the first place.
I sighed and held my head up with the heel of my palm, my other hand focused on halfheartedly swirling the glass of pale alcohol in front of me. “As much as I enjoy the notion of living out the rest of my years in eternal party mode, I think I would prefer to do something that actually matters. I couldn’t care less about some King I’ve only ever met twice at political gatherings.”
“Such is the nature of ruling a nation, my friend. If you inherit the throne, dealing with people you don’t give a rat’s ass about is going to be part of the everyday minutiae.”
“I’d rather give that responsibility to my sister. She seems more patient than I am with these things.”
At that moment, Hilda’s final song finally tapered to an end, eliciting a wave of applause from the modest number of patrons across the room. She bowed, left her tip jar and lyre on the table beside her, and sidled up to the counter, taking purchase on a stool at the other end. Alzax regarded me briefly, then moved to attend to her.
With this newfound solitude, I turned to survey the people behind me, searching for any other familiar faces. They were all strangers this time around, but a group stationed in the corner briefly caught my eye-- there were six of them sitting around two tables they had pushed together, carrying on a lively conversation, each with large steins in their hands. As my gaze passed over them, I couldn’t help but notice one of them staring at me.
I was met with ocean-blue eyes. The emerald-skinned man making careful eye contact with me had his studded leather boots propped up on the table, his feet crossed at the ankles. Covering his shoulders was a Sea Captain’s coat, open at the chest--inky black with silver and red trim. He appeared to be Triton, which was a rare sight in Fallreven, much less so far inland. His watchful eyes made me the slightest bit unnerved, but at this point in my life I was used to people gawking. I almost had to double-take when I saw a faint, wry smirk play across his lips. Shaking it off, I turned around and went back to emptily watching my drink swirl in its glass.
About an hour passed without major incident. I was beginning to feel restless, and the alcohol sitting in my stomach didn’t help. I bid Alzax farewell and exited the inn, not sure where I was headed next. As long as it wasn’t home.
Once back out on the city streets, I walked to the nearest fenced-in platform overlooking the Twine District below and leaned on it, trying to gather my thoughts.
I knew this arrangement would happen eventually, but now its inevitability hung over my head like a dark stormcloud. I couldn’t stand the thought of having to pretend to be in love with a perfect stranger, just so we received outside help for the war with Zhilthorn. I didn’t even want to broach the subject of having kids.
But, Laurelia has what we need to turn the tides. As much as the thought irks me, I would do almost anything to put an end to this ridiculous fighting.
A few minutes passed as I stared blankly at the sprawling residential district below, the cool Autumn breeze ruffling my hair and playing at the edges of my cloak. I couldn’t help but wonder what life as a working-class commoner was like--what it would be like to wake up each morning and not have three handmaidens fussing over me, dressing me up like a doll. Perhaps a simpler life would be more fulfilling.
I was about to make my way back to my horse when a shout from a few feet away dragged me from my quiet contemplation.
“Oi! If you were trying to be sneaky, you’re not doing a very good job of it!”
I whipped around to face the source of the voice, then was immediately tackled and pinned down by a brawny, shadowed form--almost taller than myself. As I fell to the ground with it, the sound of quick, distant footsteps pounding across the flagstone towards us met my ears. I hardly had time to recover from the initial shock before the glint of a dagger poised above my throat demanded my immediate attention.
“Fuck!” I cursed as I attempted to free my pinned arms and wriggle out from under the masked man’s crushing weight. The knife came down and I threw my head to the side to dodge it, the sharp steel making hard contact with the stone beside me. Not enjoying being pinned against the cold, hard ground, I reared back and slammed my horns into the assailant’s forehead, eliciting an agonized yell. While he was still recovering from the headbutt, I leveraged my weight against his and threw him off, finally scrambling to my feet.
Before my hand could touch the hilt of the sword sheathed at my side, a lithe figure sped up behind the attacker and pierced a rapier through the back of his throat. The would-be assassin’s hands weakly reached up to the hole in his neck as blood began to trickle down, a wretched gurgle bubbling from his mouth. The blade was pulled from his skin and wiped off with a handkerchief as the man eventually quieted and slumped to the ground, a pool of blood gathering by his head.
I let out the breath I’d been holding in through the entire scuffle, and finally got a good look at my savior--it was the Triton man I had seen at the inn just a few moments ago.
“Shit...What a terrible assassin.” I breathed, mostly to myself. After affixing the thin blade back to a belt under his coat, the Triton let out a soft chuckle.
“I’m sure you had it all handled, I was just feeling generous.” He spoke with a pleasant Northern lilt. If honey was a sound, it would be his voice.
He then reached out and brushed some of the dirt off of my cloak with the same smirk he had given me the first time I saw him. “No way he could’ve taken out a battle-hardened Prince such as yourself, hm?” Before I could open my mouth to respond, he winked at me. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
Something about his face made it difficult to focus and find the right words. I instead found myself blushing under his gaze. “Th...Thanks.” was all I managed to get out. Clearly amused by my floundering, he clicked his tongue as he looked down to the corpse at our feet. “The guards’ll take care of him, right?” he quipped, an ironically light tone to his voice.
“I should hope so.” I replied as I knelt down by the body and peeled his cape away from his chest. My suspicions were confirmed when I spotted a scroll poking out from a pocket on his hip--an illustration of a boar’s head in profile, surrounded by a wreath of thorny vines marked the heading of the parchment. The crest of one of Zhilthorn’s wealthiest families. The letter contained information for a hit and bounty on my head. Not surprising, but not really enjoyable to read with my own eyes, regardless. I sighed and pocketed the note. “I always knew the Vargharods hated me.” I muttered to myself as I straightened back up to my full height. The still unnamed man watched with a curious glint in his eye. Before he could ask any questions, I stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder.
“I know we were both just in there, but I believe I owe you a drink…Uh,” I trailed off, just then realizing I didn’t know what to call him.
“Arin. And don’t worry about that, friend. We--or you in particular, should probably stay sober if there could be another hitman on the loose.” he said. My hand dropped back to my side and I nodded, the shock finally wearing off, then the reality of the situation starting to set in.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“If you’re so insistent on repaying me, you could give me a ride up to the palace.” Arin continued. I looked at him for a brief moment, bewildered by his request.
Seeing this, he pulled a folded note from his own pocket. It bore my family’s seal and the Queen’s own handwriting. “Your ma wanted to see me.” he explained, flashing the note at me.
I suppose I did remember Mother mentioning that she planned on receiving a guest sometime this week. I just nodded and started back on the road toward the Northern Gate. “This way, then.” He followed behind me without a word.
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The 7th Prince (V)
Author: kpopfanfictrash
Pairing: You / GOT7
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,806
Summary: A land under a curse. Seven mysterious princes. A decision that will make or break the Kingdom. (idea from this post here, by @cyjsgirl)
At least you have tonight to look forward to. Bambam’s parties are, if nothing else, entertaining. They offer a chance for you to escape. Something you greatly desire. You grin, remembering Jinyoung’s rather correct assessment of character.
Y/N, the escapist.
For tonight – definitely.
It’s cold. Much colder than the midnight market and as a result, you’re shivering five seconds after you leave the coach. You frown into the wind, clutching Yugyeom’s arm tighter. “I regret everything,” you mutter, ducking your head against the gale.
Yugyeom grins, pulling you closer. “What specifically?”
“Wearing this dress.”
At this, your brother’s expression sours. “I can’t say I’m a fan,” he grumbles. “Although likely every male in attendance will be.”
You’re wearing a deep emerald, almost black dress. Threads of silver weave to create the illusion of leaves in the moonlight. Your hair is loose, brushed out in waves around your shoulders with a deep, plunging neckline which already has your brother worried. The sleeves of your dress are long but the neckline is so dramatic that altogether, it creates a rather revealing appearance.
Yugyeom looks on disapprovingly. “I know you’re a grown woman and can dress however you want, but -”
“Yes, I am a grown woman,” you interrupt.
Yugyeom laughs, nodding in defeat. “Okay, fine. I’ll shut up.”
The walkway to Quinque’s palace is made entirely of glass, clear and beautiful beneath your feet. Exposed to the brutal elements though, so you’re shivering by the time you arrive at the doorway. You hop from foot to foot to keep yourself warm, Yugyeom laughing at your antics the entire time.
Before you can knock twice, Bambam throws open his door. “Welcome!”
The Prince of Quinque is dressed entirely in purple and silver tonight. Even his hair is dyed an ashy grey which makes his gaze seem darker, smokier somehow. Bambam steps aside and grins. “Everyone is down the main hall. Feel free to explore, but don’t get lost.”
“Does your mother know this is happening?” Yugyeom asks, shrugging off his jacket.
Bambam waves a hand. “That’s neither here nor there.”
“So, no,” you say, stepping between them.
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
You laugh at this, peering down the hall. “I wish you the best of luck on keeping this a secret, Bambam. It sounds as though half the Kingdom is already here.”
“Oh no,” Bambam wrinkles his forehead. “This party is much more exclusive than that.” Offering the two of you a low bow, he quickly shoos you away. “Enjoy!”
You and your brother leave as the knocker sounds. Things in the hallway are relatively quiet, although in the distance you can hear the sounds of the party getting started. Muted music and laughter echoing from around the bend. Bambam’s parties are notorious for being fun, enigmatic and full of risk. Bambam lives for this kind of thing, for creating enjoyment in others.
Tonight is no exception. When Yugyeom pushes open those doors, you find yourself wide-eyed with wonder. The palace is half-lit by crystals which hang loosely from the ceiling. Fountains pouring mid-way down the walls and everything else in black, purple or bright silver. It creates an aura similar to the night sky – albeit a more eclectic, wilder one than the one outside.
It’s as though the night were scraped inside out. Pulled through a loophole and emerged twisted. Twisted, but beautiful. As you descend the patterned staircase, you see other partygoers start to mingle. Talking and laughing, drinking from their silver goblets as they begin to dance.
“You okay without me?” Yugyeom whispers once you reach the bottom.
You nod, shooing him forward. “Go on, have fun.” The girl your brother is staring at you recognize as the same he’s had a crush on for forever. You don’t want to deny Yugyeom time with her.
Quietly stepping aside, you slip from view. Fading to the outskirts of the room, which you honestly prefer. Away from the hustle and bustle Bambam and Yugyeom inevitably bring. You end up at the drinks table, lifting a goblet from one end to sniff its contents. It smells like wine, so you take a sip. Then another, as you recognize the taste.
“Princess?”
The voice makes you start, almost dropping your drink when you whirl around. Im Jaebum smiles back at you, amused by your reaction.
Hastily, you drop into a curtsey. “Prince Im.”
When you rise, you’re surprised he’s laughing. “There’s no need to call me that. Jaebum is fine.”
“Alright. Jaebum.”
The corner of Jaebum’s mouth lifts in an almost-smile. “So,” he says, scanning the room. “You come here often?”
There’s no judgment in his question, just curiosity. As Jaebum stares, you notice how uncomfortable he looks. It’s as though he doesn’t know how to stand casually. Or where to put his hands. You get the feeling that Im Jaebum doesn’t come to many gathering like this.
“Sometimes,” you smile, switching your drink to the other hand. “But you don’t, do you?”
Jaebum looks back, startled. “What gave you that impression?”
“Your hand is on your sword,” you inform him. “Typically the worst threat at one of Bambam’s parties is if he decides to serenade the audience in song or not.”
Jaebum laughs, said hand falling from his hilt. “That does sound dangerous. I’m afraid I’m used to a different sort of evil.”
Though his words are light, their implication makes you sad. Jaebum has had it even worse than you have, you realize. You’re expected to marry and become Queen. Jaebum gave up any choice or childhood he had long before you. He gave up that fun, excitement, hopes and dream to be the warrior he is now. A man who has known little levity over the course of his young lifetime.
The thought spurs you to grab his hand. Jaebum looks surprised at your motion, fingers intertwining with his. “Come on,” you say. “I have something to show you.”
As you move past the crowd of people, you grab a second goblet. Press it quickly into his hand. “Take that.”
He allows it to happen, letting himself be pulled along. Jaebum’s smile flashes white as you slip in and out of darkness. The noise of the party fades behind you, reduced to mere pinpricks by distance. When you find the door you were looking for, you push it open to reveal a thin, stone staircase. At the top is a terrace – small, nothing like your one in Senary. It’s the most beautiful view in the Kingdom, though. At least, to you it is.
Quinque, along with Senary are the two westernmost city-states. When you gaze east, you see the entire Kingdom before you. Spread out in sprawling hills and architecture, rambling down until it finds the sea. The lights farthest are Duo, lapping along the shores of the ocean. Duo is a land of ambassadors, a land of travelers and merchants. Also the land of Wang Jia Er.
You turn back, focusing on the Prince beside you. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Jaebum is looking at you. “Yes. It is.”
Taking a sip of wine, you blush as you look at the land. “I used to come here when I was younger,” you confess. Spreading a hand over the stone wall of Quinque. “When Yugyeom visited Bambam, I’d come out here. Sit on this terrace and stare at the sea. It seemed so small from this distance.”
“Small but wild.” A smile plays on Jaebum’s lips. “Like many things.”
You nod. The moment is still, except for the distant flap of wings.
Suddenly, you turn to face him. “Jaebum.”
His eyebrows rise. “Yes?”
“You seem like an honest man.” You stop, unsure how to continue. He does seem honest - which is why you enjoy speaking with him. You’ve enjoyed everything about your time with Im Jaebum, actually. “What do you think I should do?” you ask, voice tentative.
Jaebum seems startled by the question. “What?”
“What should I do?” you ask, voice dropping. “What I mean is, should I marry you, Im Jaebum?”
Wide, dark eyes stare back at you until slowly, the Prince of Unum shakes his head.
“No?” Your pulse drops, the world around you fading. “No.”
You knew this could happen. Knew that it would happen, logically. If you asked, you knew you’d find out that this game is nothing more than that - a game. This man, this moonlight, this glasses of wine. All just atmosphere. Flighty, flimsy, but nothing substantial. No one who truly, actually wants to marry you. All these men want is a heir for the throne. A Princess for their Kingdom. The fact that you’re you is of little consequence.
Fear clenches your chest, weakening your knees. You hate this feeling. Hate feeling like you’re a burden and so you turn away, struggling to hold in the tears already pricking at your eyelids.
There’s a sudden hand upon your arm.
“It’s not you,” Jaebum says, turning you towards him. His eyes are wide and you realize this is the most emotion he’s shown all night. “Gods,” he groans, lowering his head. “I am so, so sorry.”
His hand reaches to wipe away your tear but you push his hand away. “I’d prefer if you didn’t touch me right now, Prince Im.”
Jaebum drops his hand. His expression is bleak and it’s this, more than anything that makes you pause. His voice was distraught, and so you find yourself taking a step closer. “It’s not me?” you ask.
Jaebum shakes his head. “No. It’s not. It’s me, me and my stupid self.”
You tilt your head, studying him. “How so?”
Jaebum’s slowly exhales. “I’m in love with someone else.”
That wasn’t… what you expected.
You blink, reconciling this new piece of information. “You’re in love with someone else.”
Jaebum nods. “But I can’t marry her,” he adds. Soft, so that you barely hear.
“Why not?” The stone is still cool, rough beneath your palm. And then you realize. “Ah,” you say, some of your anger dissipating. “She’s not royal.”
The Prince nods. “She’s the daughter of my former tutor. We had lessons together, until my feelings were so obvious that my tutor informed my father. We were separated then – I was then sent to the front and she was sent away.”
His story surprises you. “I haven’t heard this,” you admit. Out of all the tales about Im Jaebum, none of them included a girl.
“Yes, well.” Jaebum smiles, the motion quick and fleeting. “It isn’t something my father likes to publicize.”
Your gaze moves away from him, lost in thought. Across the fields there are tiny, sleeping towns. Sloping hillsides and far-off castles. It all looks so normal but nothing in this Kingdom is as it should be. Jaebum should be able to marry whomever he loves. Jinyoung shouldn’t have to consider marrying you at all. Your brother shouldn’t be forced into being King. You should be allowed to rule alone.
None of it makes sense and thinking this, your gaze slides to Jaebum. “Despite my initial reaction,” you say. “I’m not mad at you.”
Jaebum looks as though he’s trying not to laugh. “You’re not?”
“No.” Exhaling, you turn to face him fully. “How can I be? We’ve only met twice. That’s hardly enough time to fall in love with someone.”
Jaebum shrugs. “Some people have fallen in less.”
“I haven’t,” you say, ignoring his words. “I’ve never been in love.”
“Then you’re one of the lucky ones, I’d say.” Jaebum’s smile is rather sad.
A feeling you return. “Sometimes,” you nod, looking away. “I feel that way too.”
The two of you stand that way for a while, just enjoying each other’s company. Just existing, without having to worry about the rest of things. Without having to charm, flirt, think about representing your country. It’s nice just to be… you. For once.
“I’m glad I told you” Jaebum’s says, his voice cutting in the night. “It was killing to keep that inside. To act as though I was free, as though I was whole. I just – if you had ended up choosing me, you would have been with half a person. Half of me already is elsewhere.”
“That’s a lovely thought,” you sigh, staring dreamily across the landscape. “To belong partly elsewhere.”
“’Nice’ isn’t the right word I’d use,” Jaebum laughs. “Painful is more accurate.”
“Love is pain,” you quote and though Jaebum laughs, he trails into thoughtful silence.
“I know it’s a cliché,” he says, gaze flickering to yours. “But how could it not be painful to give a part of yourself? Look,” He gestures with his glass. “Even this war once was out of love.”
You’ve heard that rumor. That the reason Septum was cursed in the first place was because their King loved the witch. “Is it true?” you ask, breathless. “Did the witch really love him?”
“Maybe.” Jaebum shrugs, taking another sip. “I like to think so. Somehow it makes my own sacrifice easier. To give up my love, my life to rectify the love of another. That seems a fitting legacy.”
Silence falls, this one heavy and quiet.
At last you sigh. “Are you asking me not to choose you, Im Jaebum?”
Jaebum stills, you see him from the corner of your eye. “Not necessarily.”
You face him now. Dropping your arms, along with all attempt at pretense. “What are you saying, then?”
“I’m saying I want to be honest with you,” Jaebum confesses. “I’m saying that I love someone else and don’t think I could ever love you back.” Jaebum says all this in a rush, all in an exhale. “If, after all that, you still want my hand… I would be more than happy to ally our Kingdoms.”
“If, after all that…” you repeat. It’s a lot to think about.
Jaebum sets his glass down. “I know I can’t marry the one I love,” he says. You look over and meet his gaze, wind whipping dark tendrils of hair across his visage. “If you know that you can’t love the other princes though, I would be happy to accept your hand. I can’t say I don’t find you intriguing, Y/N.” Jaebum laughs, the noise of it disappearing into the night.
You smile back at him. “I’ll keep that in mind.” As you take another sip of wine, you look at your hands. “So. Tell me about this girl.”
You stay out there for a while, until you actually start to shiver and Jaebum forces you back inside. He drapes his cloak over your shoulders and ushers you forward. “It’s all hopeless, anyways,” he says, grinning as the two of you enter the hall. “Youngjae is going to be the one to sweep you off your feet. Mark my words.”
The two of you are like that – laughing, talking – when you spot him. From the corner of your eye, you see a hooded figure duck out of sight. The tail end of a cloak whipping around the corner. Your heart races as, for a moment, you wonder.
Turning to Jaebum, you quietly slip his cloak from your shoulders. “Thank you,” you say, handing it back. “It was very much appreciated.”
Jaebum takes the fabric from your hands. “I’m glad we talked,” he nods.
“I enjoyed our conversation, too.” You mean it. If Jaebum can’t be your husband, at least you can look forward to having him as a friend. “May there be many more to come.”
Bowing, Jaebum smiles when he leaves.
You stand there for a moment longer, hardly daring to think about what you do next. Which is turn around. Slip through the shadows until you arrive at that one corner of the wall. The corner you saw a shadow disappear from sight. The one which you disappear around as well, moving down the dimly lit hall that makes you squint. Inching one step forward at a time to peer into the gloom.
“Mark?” you whisper. “Mark?”
No one answers and you take another step.
Of course no one answers. Mark isn’t here. That mysterious man has, unfortunately haunted your thoughts ever since the midnight market. He would never be here though, never attend Bambam’s party. Mark isn’t noble, nor is he upper class. You would have recognized him if he were. You would have known, if he – a hand slips around your mouth.
The hand stifles your scream, pulling you back until your shoulders hit someone’s chest.
“I thought my name was Robin Hood?” Mark whispers in your ear.
And then he’s letting you go, spinning you around while he laughs handily. Collapsing slightly against the wall to keep himself upright. Mark is again, dressed entirely in black. From his tunic, his gloves, even his cloak is midnight.
You frown, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “That wasn’t funny,” you snap.
Mark’s laughter echoes in the hall, loud enough that you grow worried about someone hearing and grab his hand, ducking the two of you into the closest enclave.
Mark seems surprised by this. He keeps looking at your hand, wrapped in his with a slightly shocked expression. In this enclave, only his face is visible. The candlelight makes his features flicker, more shadow than substance.
“Why are we here?” Mark whispers, voice exaggerated.
“Because,” you say, glancing over one shoulder. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“Ah.” Mark grins. “Strangers, still? After I saved your life,” he frowns, shaking his head. “Chilling, the ease with which you dismiss me.”
You narrow your eyes, dropping his hand. “I already said thanks, you prick. Multiple times.”
“You thanked me once,” Mark points out. “But I understand that you’re using hyperbole for comedic effect.”
You cuff him sharply on the elbow.
“Hey!” Mark exclaims, surprised.
“Is for horses,” you grin.
“God.” Mark rolls his eyes. “With witticism like that, who needs court jesters?”
You forgot how attractive he is. Even now, glaring and half-hidden from sight, your pulse races. You push away this thought, remembering who you are and why you’re here.
“What are you doing?” you ask, squinting up at him. “You don’t seem like the type to hang around these kinds of parties. Also - forgive me if this is rude - but you have the look like a spy and I have to question that.”
“A spy?” Mark’s lips quirk into a smile. “Pray tell, what does a spy look like Princess?”
“You know,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “All black and no smile. What’s up with that?”
“Black is slimming.”
You snort, crossing your arms. “You just don’t seem the type to go to one of Bambam’s parties.”
“And you do?” Mark counters, before he frowns. “Bambam? You mean the Prince of Quinque?”
“Yes.” Your eyebrows draw together. “Everyone calls him Bambam. Where are you even from?”
For the first time, Mark looks uncomfortable. “Around,” he says vaguely, looking past.
“What does that mean?” His expression is so evasive that your own eyes widen. “Are you even from Morsus? Or,” you gasp as the thought occurs to you. “From across the sea?”
Maybe Mark is from one of those countries you’ve yet to visit. Those strange, distant lands - it would explain the odd choice in clothing. It would also explain why you’ve never seen him before. Why he doesn’t really know Morsian customs – or rather why he knows them, but doesn’t know how to use them. You remember his formal, royal greeting in the city and smile.
Mark’s gaze slides back to yours. “Yes,” he answers, more definitively this time. “I didn’t want to say, since I didn’t know how you felt about those nations.”
“Really?” Your eyes widen. “I find them fascinating. Tell me more,” you insist, pulling on his sleeve. “Tell me where you come from. What’s the name? What’s it like? Is it true there’s no magic there? No curses, no wars? Is it true that the people are all wealthy and brilliant and happy?”
Mark’s face falters, just a little as he laughs. “That’s a lot of questions.” He surveys you. “I don’t want to tell you its name. And it’s a place, like any other. Some things are better, some things are worse. Magic still exists but there, it’s celebrated not feared. People often use it to help one another.”
The thought of magic being celebrated gives you pause. “Really?”
As long as you can remember, magic has been something of a dark subject. Logically, you know that’s not right. There are all different kinds of magic. Gifts which heal, not harm. Some magic can bring light, some magic saves. But then there are humans who command death. Humans who reign curses. Ones who call upon pain and anger, skin bristling with the current of fear.
This is the kind of magic you’re used to. This is why magic is feared in Morsus.
“Really.” Mark’s gaze is earnest. “Things are… different, across the sea.”
You frown, still trying to understand. “But how? How can things be peaceful with magic around? Look at what happened to our kingdom.”
Mark’s expression sours. “Magic didn’t hurt Morsus, Y/N. Magic is neutral, it doesn’t corrupt - humans do. Even in a world devoid of magic, humans would still find ways to hurt one other.”
He’s right. You stare at Mark, unsure of how to respond. You’ve seen enough politics and mind games to know that even without magic – humans are still capable of plenty of harm. Like this stupid rule imposed on you, to marry a Prince.
Mark watches your expression change. “You see?” he breathes.
You’re suddenly very aware of how close you are. There’s not enough space between you, Mark’s body is just inches away. And yet, you don’t find yourself wanting to move.
Tilting your head back, you look at him. “You do have an interesting way of seeing things, don’t you?”
Mark’s lip curves. “You have an interesting way of listening.”
The space around you falls silent as you seem to run out of words. “Well,” you say, blinking back at him. “I should probably get back to the party.”
“Should you?”
His question hangs in the air. Yes, you should. Yes, you should find your brother, you should return to your responsibilities. You should mingle, talk, dance with others. You should do all these things, but you don’t.
“Or,” you say, pausing. “You could tell me more about this land you can’t name?”
Mark’s eyes glimmer. “What do you want to know?”
[Master List]
#the 7th Prince#got7 fic#got7 fanfic#got7 fanfiction#got7 fantasy#got7 au#got7 series#mark tuan fic#mark tuan fanfic#mark tuan fanfiction#jaebum fic#jaebum fanfic#jaebum fanfiction#yugyeom fic#yugyeom fanfic#yugyeom fanfiction#bambam fic#bambam fanfic#bambam fanfiction#got7#jaebum#jinyoung#mark tuan#jackson wang#bambam#yugyeom#youngjae
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The Lion King Vs Simbas Pride Vs The Lion Guard
I know it doesn’t look like this is about shipping but it technically is because I find Kovu and Kiara absolutely adorable.
I just decided to watch Simbas Pride the other day after watching a few clips of the Lion Guard because damn that direct to video movie looks gorgeous in comparison.
I just watched Simbas Pride again because I started to realise they actually paid attention to detail but we’ll get there.
Also I’m not dealing with TLK 1 and a half because it doesn’t add anything to the story. Hands up here who are sick to death of prequels when a sequel has been practically gift wrapped for them.
The Lion King
This has and will always be my favourite CLASSIC Disney movie. The animation especially the attention to detail, the music, the characters and the emotional moments. Its all so beautiful. Almost perfect.
However, since Simbas Pride exists I have to compare the two movies.
Simbas Pride
I know this will be a rather unpopular opinion especially since I’m referring to a Disney direct to video sequel but after watching Simbas Pride just now I realised that I think its better than the original.
Now obviously it suffers from the poorer animation all direct to video sequels have BUT I think it looks better than most Disney sequels. While watching I kept looking at the other characters in the background and i was like hey wait they’re moving, they’re reacting its like they actually exist in that moment and haven’t turned to stone. Most Disney sequels will have other characters in the background but won’t really do anything with them, they’re just there because they’re there. The animation is still very similar to the original with just a few awkward moments here and there like in one scene Kiara walks as if her paws are sticking to the ground but its still very lion king and I am not a fan of the constant flashes of white teeth, like you showed them smiling normally before why the teeth now.
The music I think is better, He Lives in You (yes I know its from the West End/Broadway version) is my absolute favourite. My Lullaby is my favourite villain song. We are One is catchy and memorable. Upendi can fuck off though, that song is an evil ear worm, One of Us is an awesome song and finally Love Will Find a Way which I definitely prefer to Can you Feel the Love Tonight.
The stakes are much higher here. In the original Simba returned because he was the rightful king, and for some reason Scar’s rule turned the pridelands into a wasteland but the conflict in Simbas Pride is between 2 warring prides. If Simba loses to Zira his entire pride will be slaughtered. And the violence in this my word, I mean its a Disney flick there’s no blood or visible wounds but we can use our imagination, Disney distracts the kids from this by giving Timon and Pumbaa some screen time but you can’t look away as an adult. You see outsiders biting pridelanders throats, several pinning down one lioness and tearing at her. I mean yeah its a good thing Simba let the outsiders join the pride since he must have lost over half of his lionesses in the battle. And lets not forget Nuka’s tragic death, crushed to death by logs wow Disney you really can be dark sometimes.
Zira and the outsiders are better antagonists than Scar and the hyenas. Now don’t get me wrong I love Scar and I think he’s a great villian but he only commands hyenas who are only able to help him takeover due to their large numbers. Zira commands lions and I’m not entirely sure how many since every shot there seem to be more but I would guess between 10 and 20 lionesses. She has them train every day to prepare them for their inevitable battle with the pridelanders. Every time she speaks to her pride as a whole during battles she’s saying ‘remember your training’ and telling them the best way to incapacitate her enemies. Notice that she NEVER enters the battle herself. She holds back commanding from afar and only steps in when she’s sure of herself. Zira and the outsiders are fighting because they used to live in the pridelands while Scar ruled and Simba banished them to the outlands where they struggle to survive so to them Simba really is the villain of their tale whereas Scar and the hyenas do what they do because of a hunger for power. Because Zira and her pride were once pridelanders under Scar it adds a sense of mystery to them. With Scar you didn’t really need to know why you just accepted he’s evil and moved on but with Zira and her pride you do want to know. Why would Simba just straight up banish a large part of his pride just because they were Scar’s supporters or did something happen? Why does he warn Kiara they can’t be trusted? Sigh, it makes me sad when you see all these questions could have been answered in another film, film set during Scar’s reign in The Lion King would have been ideal.
The romance in this was fairly rushed but I don’t really care because I love Kovu and Kiara. From their first meeting they are absolutely adorable. My favourite moment is when Kiara tries to get Kovu to play with her and when he acts confused she switches to something she thinks he knows its just a shame Simba had to interrupt when he did. I’d have loved to see them tussle a bit first. Then when they’re grown they help Timon and Pumbaa and Kovu is confused again because all he thinks about is training but Kiaras like screw training lets just have some fun and he loves it, even when the rhinos are chasing them he’s got the biggest grin on his face. Their awkward nose touch after the rhino chase was so sweet. I like the scene after when they’re looking at the stars, Kiara points out a baby rabbit and Kovu immediately picks out an image of violence showing a clear comparison of their worlds. What I love most and I’m most surprised about, Kiara never believes that Kovu was behind the ambush. Most stories like this result in the character being misunderstood so everyone turns from them but Kiara doesn’t.
The Lion Guard
Ok so I realise this was made with little kids in mind but its the kind of show that will be dumbed down. I remember being excited when they announced the film, I watched about 2 minutes then gave up. The lazy animation style was too unbearable, even if it was made for kids if they at least tried to stick to the original animation style I would have been happy to watch, well only if they kept the character’s personalities too. I mean no don’t worry about following the much beloved source material just make these wonderful characters into cardboard cutouts I’m sure that won’t backfire in any way.
I don’t watch the show but I sometimes view clips on Youtube. I watched one where Simba is stung by a scorpion and faints. Nala cries his name once and thats it for Nala. For the rest of the scene she’s sat gazing down at Simba as if he’s dead already and she doesn’t move at all its like they’ve replaced her with a cardboard version for the rest of the scene. Kions the only one who’s trying to get a response out of Simba I mean yeah he’s the main character of the Lion Guard but Nala is SIMBAS MATE, she should be frantic nudging him, speaking to him, asking Rafiki if he’ll be ok but no just have her sit mutely in the background because only Kion matters. What is the point of having these characters if you’re just going to ignore them.
This is possibly the worst thing about watching something animated. In live action shows there is always something happening in the background because its real life but in animation it only happens if the animator can be bothered to do anything more than the initial plot point.
I know this was quite biased but this is just how I feel especially since it baffles me that they decided to do something more with Lion King so forced a character who didn’t exist before into the story since Kion can’t possibly be a part of Simbas Pride when they could have just continued with Kovu and Kiara (pretty sure EVERYONE wanted that to happen, its like Spyro, Cynder and Skylanders all over again). Isn’t that the point of the Circle of Life, they could do lion king movies forever and go on for generations and generations if they wanted to.
This was also partially inspired after reading Savu0211′s comics again on deviantart https://savu0211.deviantart.com/, I would highly recommend them to any lion king fan, just note Savu is german and his english and grammar isn’t perfect but you can usually figure out what he’s trying to say.
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