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cassandraclare · 4 years

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The Anniversary Party

Someone asked me about the flash fiction this month, and I realized I’d sent it out in my newsletter, but forgotten to post it! So here’s the whole Jan/Feb story, in which we get a bit of background on Cordelia and her family. Art by Cassandra Jean, of course! This is the last of the flash fiction stories, and it’s been a pleasure to share them with you!

THE ANNIVERSARY PARTY

FRANCE, 1899....

Cordelia did not like Menton very much. She should have, in theory. Menton was a pretty seaside town, a jumble of pink and yellow buildings along a small harbor, mostly slips for sailboats and some fishing boats. The air was warm and Mediterranean, the fish was exceptionally fresh, she could see Italy from her bedroom window across the far side of the harbor. What was there not to like?

They had come for her father’s health—why else did they go anywhere, after all—and Cordelia could understand why Menton had a reputation as a healing destination for the sick and the elderly. Indeed, her father’s health had rebounded since their arrival a few weeks earlier and he was in a period of good spirits, willing to dance with her in the parlor and even managing to drag a smile out of Alastair on occasion. Alastair had entered a turbulent adolescence, as Cordelia overheard her mother say to her father. Cordelia hoped that when she was Alastair’s age she would maintain her composure a little better than he was managing.

But Menton’s charms quickly faded for her. Its popularity with the sick and the elderly meant that the town’s population had a large proportion of both, and while Cordelia wished them all well, they did not offer her much in the way of companions or even adults interested in conversation with a girl for whom French was her third language, and not very strong. The beach turned out to be made not of sand but of large round pebbles—Cordelia had never heard of such a thing, a beach made of rocks, very uncomfortable on bare feet, not pleasant to lie on, and offering no opportunity for building castles or digging trenches.

Worst of all, her parents continued to be as antisocial as ever, making no efforts to reach out to the local Shadowhunter community (the closest Institute being in Marseilles). And so Cordelia was alone. Sometimes she was alone with Alastair, but he mostly ignored her, and even so they were both duly sick of each other’s sole company after a week.

The only source of relief was the knowledge that this, too, would pass—the Carstairs family moved constantly, obsessively, for the sake of her father’s health. Cordelia could never understand the logic of it, except that she agreed that it was worth doing anything if it meant her father’s wellbeing. In this case, it was a bit of a relief. She knew they would not stay in Menton more than a few months.

This was, she felt, why she was so alone. Her family never stayed anywhere long enough for her to meet anyone her age, much less make friends. Her only real friends in the world were Lucie and James Herondale, and only because, Cordelia knew, Will and Tessa Herondale had always worked very hard to make sure that their children saw the younger Carstairs. It was still a rare treat to see them, as the Herondales ran the London Institute, and thus were usually in London, and occasionally in Idris, while Cordelia and her family were all over the map.

And here again, the Herondales came to her rescue, this time in the form of a letter her father read aloud at the breakfast table.

“’Good morning, Elias and Sona,’ – I say, how would he know what time of day we’d read it, the man is mad as a hatter—”

“We are reading it in the morning, though,” Cordelia said. Her father gave her an indulgent smile and went on.

“’It is a capital day here in London, and I hope it will be a capital day in Paris six weeks hence, when Tessa and I will celebrate our nineteenth wedding anniversary. As it is not the custom of any known culture to make a to-do out of the nineteenth wedding anniversary, we have decided to throw an enormous party.’”

“A ball!” cried Cordelia, but a worry poked at her. Would her parents attend such a thing? Her father was frowning at the letter, but possibly he was simply trying to make the words out better without his glasses.

“It’s not a ball,” said Alastair, who had stopped halfway down the stairway to listen.

“’A ball, if you will,’” her father read on. “Well done, Cordelia.”

Cordelia stuck out her tongue at Alastair.

“’We would love if you and your darling children would join us…if you would do us the pleasure of responding…,’ et cetera, et cetera…” Her father scanned the letter. “And then it has the date and the address and all that.”

“It started out strong, but it ended in something of an anticlimax,” Alastair said.

“Can we go?” Cordelia said eagerly. “Can we please? I would so like to see Lucie and James. And maybe I’d meet some of the people Lucie talks about in her letters!”

“I would like to see anyone at all other than you lot,” said Alastair mildly. “No offense intended.”

“Alastair!” Sona scolded, but Cordelia was not about to let Alastair distract from the main point. She redoubled her efforts in the direction of her father.

“Papa, can we go, please? You’ve recovered so well, surely a trip of only a few days would be possible. Don’t you want Shadowhunter society to see how well you are?”

“Hm,” her father said. He looked at her mother, who looked back. They exchanged a series of incomprehensible looks with one another.

“If you think it would be a good idea,” Sona said to Elias. Cordelia’s father gave Cordelia a long look. Cordelia tried to catch Alastair’s eye, but he’d turned away and was looking with disgust into the middle distance, a typical expression for him these days.

“I think we could manage a train trip and a few days in Paris,” her father allowed. “I do adore Paris.”

Cordelia threw her arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Cordelia spent the next weeks in a state of constant dread. She didn’t dare remind her parents of the upcoming trip, lest they remember that they had intended to cancel and not attend after all. It had happened before, but never before for an event in which Cordelia had a strong investment.

But when the event was a few days away, her father brought up the timetable of the Calais-Méditerrannée Express train at breakfast. Tickets were bought, bags packed, and still Cordelia could barely believe it when she found herself the evening before the party, pulling into the Gare du Nord in an elegant blue train car, clutching her hands in her lap in anticipation: Paris, at last she was in Paris! She would see her future parabatai, and her brother, and the cream of Shadowhunter society, and she would do so in Paris.

The next day found her gazing into the full-length mirror in their rooms at the Hôtel Continental on the Rue de Rivoli and wondering that she was even the same girl who had been miserably pining away a few days before. Her mother had helped her select her dress, a frothy lemon confection of lace and silk. She wasn’t entirely sure it suited her, but it was very elegant.

Even Alastair regarded her with something in the neighborhood of admiration when he came in to fetch his gloves. “You look surprisingly mature,” he told her. Cordelia thought that was probably equivalent to a full swoon, for Alastair. For his part, he was clearly aiming at “mature” as well, having put on a brown sack coat with only one of its buttons buttoned, and having dared to apply a dab of pomade to his black hair, which, Cordelia had to admit, did make it shine compellingly.

“You look like you’ll be trying to impress someone at the party,” Cordelia teased him. “Anyone in particular?”

“Everyone,” Alastair sniffed. “Everyone that is anyone.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes.

Her father was in high spirits as they entered the carriage a short time later, joking and laughing. Her mother was quiet, watching her husband with a smile and a considering expression, and that is how they were for the entire ride to the Paris Institute.

She had been practicing her French, and when the imposing figure of Madame Bellefleur greeted them at the Institute door with a paragraph of rapid-fire enthusiasm and questions, she understood them: welcome, how was their journey, isn’t it frightfully chilly tonight. She began to think of a reply, and found that her entire speaking ability in the French language had departed her brain in exactly that moment.

Her father’s French was fluid and expert, and Cordelia felt a little rush of pride as he said, “Madame Bellefleur, dear! You are looking as lovely as ever, Odile. But what has become of you, that you’ve fallen so far to be working the door?”

Madame Bellefleur laughed, a hearty chuckle that made Cordelia like her immediately. “I sent the maid off to enjoy herself. I like answering the door, Elias — it may be the Herondales’ party, but it’s my Institute.”

Inside, Cordelia slipped away from her parents as soon as it was feasible and went to look for her friends. It took her all of five minutes to become hopelessly lost. Unlike any Institute she had been in before, this one was laid out as a labyrinthine series of interconnected salons. Each looked much like the last, and was crowded with adults, none of whom Cordelia knew, and most of whom were speaking in rapid French. She had not spotted a single Herondale, and the clatter and chatter of the party guests was beginning to make her feel less like a young sophisticate at the ball and more like a little girl who had lost her mother at the market.

Out of nowhere came a whirlwind of petticoats, which turned out happily to be Lucie Herondale, throwing herself into Cordelia’s arms with great force and a squeal of delight. “Cordelia, Cordelia, you must come, Christopher is going to teach us how to eat fire!”

“I’m sorry?” Cordelia said politely, but Lucie was already pulling her toward the door to the next salon. “Who is Christopher?”

“Christopher Lightwood, of course. My cousin. He saw a man eating fire in Covent Garden and he said he’d worked out how to do it. He’s very scientific, Christopher.” Lucie’s progress was stopped short, and Cordelia looked up to see a tall, slender older girl, with dark hair braided atop her head and a striking look. She was wearing a lacy blue dress without much enthusiasm. She raised her eyebrows and stared Lucie down. “And this is his sister Anna,” Lucie said, as though she’d planned the encounter.

“Christopher will not be eating any fire,” said Anna, “or indeed anything other than the canapes tonight.”

Lucie said, “Anna, this is Cordelia Carstairs; she’s going to be my parabatai.” Cordelia felt a rush of affection for her friend—she felt so alone so much of the time, but she wasn’t, not really. She was going to have a parabatai; neither she nor Lucie would ever fully be alone again. Or that’s how she had come to understand it would feel.

Anna, however, merely arched an eyebrow. “Not if Christopher burns the Institute down, she won’t.” She turned her piercing gaze onto Cordelia. “Carstairs?” she said curiously. “What Carstairs?”

Cordelia knew what that was about. She gave Anna a smile. “Jem Carstairs is my second cousin. I only know him a very little bit, unfortunately.” Jem, who had been Lucie’s father’s parabatai, had a long and tragic story that ended with his having become a Silent Brother. He was Brother Zachariah now.

Would he be here? It was strange to imagine among the sparkling, laughing conversation, the clinking of glasses, a parchment-robed silent figure drifting about. But why wouldn’t he be? Lucie spoke of him all the time. Cordelia felt a little frisson of nerve at the thought of meeting him again—eagerness but also worry.

“Any Carstairs is welcome,” Anna smiled back airily. “And obviously any parabatai of Lucie’s is essentially a member of the family. Speaking of which.” She turned back to Lucie. “Don’t encourage Christopher, Lucie. You know how he is.”

“It wasn’t my idea!” Lucie protested. “It’s Matthew who set him on it. You know how he is.”

“I don’t,” said Cordelia mildly.

Lucie gave her a look of wide-eyed horror. “Oh, dear, what kind of host am I? Here is my best friend in the world, and I haven’t even introduced you to everyone! Anna, we must go.” She reached for Cordelia’s hand again.

“It was lovely to meet you,” Cordelia said to Anna.

Anna tipped her glass in Cordelia’s direction with a small smile. “Likewise.”

“All right,” Lucie narrated as she pulled Cordelia into yet another salon. “Matthew is Matthew Fairchild, he’s the consul’s son but don’t worry, he’s all right and not a bit stuck-up about it, and anyway Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Henry ran the London Institute when my Papa was young—he lived there, you know—and they’re over there, actually, hullo Aunt Charlotte!” Lucie waved a hand madly.

Cordelia looked over and quickly spotted Charlotte Fairchild—even someone as socially deprived as she was recognized the Consul—who was in the middle of saying something very serious to a group of equally serious-looking people, and didn’t notice Lucie’s wave. It was funny; Charlotte was tiny, bird-like, and towered over by the men around her, but she had a presence that dominated the room regardless. It was an admirable way to be, Cordelia thought.

Next to Charlotte was a red-headed man in a Bath chair, who did see Lucie wave, and waved back madly himself with a grin. Henry Fairchild. He was too far away for them to speak, but Lucie pointed at Cordelia and raised her eyebrows. Henry raised his hands and exclaimed in pleasure, and Cordelia waved too, a little less madly than the others.

“Is that Matthew with them?” Cordelia said. “The tallish one with his father’s hair?”

Lucie snorted. “Oh no! Matthew would be so offended. That’s his older brother Charles. He’s, well….”

“What?” said Cordelia.

“He’s a little dull.” Lucie had the good manners to look ashamed at her admission. “He’s very interested in politics and Shadowhunter business and all that, and he treats us all like children.”

“We are children.”

“Yes, so is he!” Lucie said impatiently. “But you wouldn’t know it from the way he acts.” She sighed. “He’s an all right sort, though. Next salon!”

With rapid speed Lucie took her through the remainder of the people Lucie considered it important for Cordelia to know. Her Aunt Cecily and her Uncle Gabriel—Gabriel also turned out to be among the group surrounding Charlotte—who were Anna and Christopher’s parents. Her Aunt Sophie, who had worked at the Institute as a mundane and then Ascended and married Gabriel’s brother Gideon.

Gideon, Lucie explained, was not here, because Thomas—oh, it was a shame that Cordelia was not going to meet Thomas, and also Thomas would never have allowed Christopher to get within a mile of fire to eat it, if he had anything to say about it, but anyway Thomas had broken his leg and Gideon had stayed home with him.

“Also there are the older girls,” Lucie said darkly. “Barbara and Eugenia. But they’re not much like us. They’re not even here; they had something else tonight. Can you believe it?”

Cordelia wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to believe it or not believe it, having never met either girl, so she only shook her head understandingly.

“Lucie!” A woman with heaps of curly scarlet hair was advancing on them at speed. “I need someone to help me put out the silver. Congratulations, girl, you’re hired.”

“Bridget,” Lucie protested. “Bridget was my nursemaid, when I was young enough to have a nursemaid,” she explained to Cordelia.

“And now your repayment of my kindness to you continues,” Bridget said sharply, “with the putting out of the silver. Come along.”

“I can help,” offered Cordelia.

Bridget looked offended. “I’ll not have a guest doing work at a party. This one here is hosting the thing.” She dragged off Lucie, who gave Cordelia a beseeching look of apology as she vanished into the crowd.

This left Cordelia back to meandering a bit aimlessly. Perhaps, she thought, she would go back and speak more with Anna, who had been so kind. Perhaps she would seek out her own family and see how they were making out.

Where were her family, though? After a few minutes’ wandering she spotted her mother, who seemed to be unusually in her element, animatedly telling some story to a captivated audience. But she couldn’t find her father, or Alastair, anywhere. It was a large party, surely, but she would have expected her father to be with her mother, or if not, captivating his own audience. Cordelia had been able to tell that he was the second-most excited to go to the party after herself. So where was he?

Perhaps, she thought, he had slipped away to the library. She wanted to get a look at the Institute’s library herself, anyway. She managed enough French to ask directions from one of the waitstaff. It was down an iron spiral staircase, and Cordelia allowed herself to feel like a princess descending a tower.

The library had a tremendously high ceiling, which gave it an airy feel, but on the ground it was crowded with ancient, heavy oaken bookshelves, all of which were piled so densely with books that they were bent over by the weight, and it was astonishing that they had not already collapsed. Cordelia loved the place immediately. It was crumbling, in the most beautiful way possible. The light was warm and orange, and dust motes floated in it. It smelled pleasantly of must and old paper, and here and there were chairs of cracked, heavily aged and stained red leather.

Down at the other end of the room there was indeed a figure seated on the windowsill, curled up with a book, but it was obviously not her father. As she got closer, the dark-haired figure raised its head to peer at her, and she realized: it was James Herondale.

Part 2

“Hello,” said James Herondale. He peered up at Cordelia owlishly, as though he’d just come out of a reverie and wasn’t quite returned to the fully waking world.

“By the Angel, I’m awfully sorry.” Cordelia couldn’t help feeling she had interrupted something. She had met James before, of course—Will Herondale had been nothing if not diligent about making sure that his children and the Carstairs children knew one another—but she would not have described him as a friend, necessarily. He was a bit unknowable, in his odd way.

“No need to apologize,” James said mildly, “it’s me who’s skiving off this party to read.” He sat up rather suddenly, as if he’d only just realized he had been splayed casually across the windowsill and he should seek some kind of propriety.

“Most people don’t skive off parties,” Cordelia said, amused. “It’s usually lessons and chores, that sort of thing. Do you not like parties?”

“I like parties just fine,” James said, a bit defensively.

Cordelia crossed her arms and said sternly, “Well, I am in the library because I wanted to see the Paris Institute library, but also because almost the whole party are strangers to me. But they’re your friends, aren’t they? Wouldn’t you want to be with your friends? Matthew, and Thomas and the rest?”

James gave Cordelia a long look. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “They are my friends, I suppose, but really they’re more like relatives. I’ve always felt out of place among them.”

The thought of James being out of place anywhere struck Cordelia as funny. Compared to herself, he was self-assured, charismatic, effortlessly interesting. Compared to her awkward discomfort inside her own body, he was graceful and strikingly handsome—

Good Lord, Cordelia thought, where had that come from?

It was true, though. Among the pillars and medieval arches of the library he looked as at home as a marble statue, an oil painting of a classical youth at study. How could someone who matched his environment so perfectly be uncomfortable?

“I always feel out of place too,” she offered. “But I thought it was just because my family is always traveling so much. I’ve never stayed in one place long enough to make friends.” She looked down at the ground. “Maybe it’s more complicated than that.”

James said, “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Cordelia gave a little laugh. “Well, yes. We are. But how often do we see each other? Once a year, maybe twice, if we’re lucky?”

He shrugged. “I don’t see most of the people at this party more than that, anyway. We’re always in London and they’re usually in Idris. Although we’re meant to go to Idris this summer, so perhaps I’ll see them a bit more. And of course, we’ll all be at the Academy this fall.” He sighed. “Maybe I’ll start to think of them as real friends at some point. I just feel so different than them. Like…like everyone else is looking out at the world, at other people, but I am always looking inward, instead.”

Since to Cordelia James appeared to glow from within slightly, this struck her as an odd facet of his personality, but she supposed that the shy and retiring came in all shapes and sizes. “‘All man’s miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone,’” she quoted. “My father always says that.”

“Your father sounds very wise,” said James.

“Actually,” said Cordelia, “I think Blaise Pascal said that, and my father was only quoting him. You’d get along with my father,” she went on, surprised to find herself saying it out loud. But it was true; both her father and James had the same sense of the world being a bit too much for them, of preferring solitude, of seeking refuge in books. “I should go find him,” she said. “Again, I’m so sorry for interrupting your reading.”

James put the book down on the side table next to the window. “Again, please don’t apologize, I’m always happy for the opportunity to talk with you.” Cordelia found herself blushing, a bit, but James didn’t appear to notice. He stood up and said, smiling, “I shall escort you in your endeavor.”

On the way out of the library they fell silent, and Cordelia began to feel a bit awkward. It was usually so easy to speak with James, and yet she was unaccountably tongue-tied. Finally, desperate for a conversational gambit, she blurted, “Did you know that the original Paris Institute library burned down in 1574 when someone opened a Pyxis containing a Dragonidae demon?”

James raised his eyebrows. “I did not know that, Miss Carstairs,” he said, and Cordelia burst into giggles.

The smile was wiped quickly off her face, however, by the arrival of Alastair, who looked grim. “There you are,” he said, but he sounded more relieved than angry. He had a tired look in his eyes. “Father’s not well,” he said. “He’s asking for you.”

“Oh!” said Cordelia. She felt a brief, uncharitable flash of annoyance — her father’s sickness had spoiled so many parties, even Cordelia’s first rune-day. She turned to James. “I should go to him.”

“Of course,” said James. “I’m so sorry to hear he’s not well.”

“There’s an old monk’s chamber down that hall,” Alastair said, gesturing. “Father said he wanted to be someplace cool and dark.” He shook his head, agitated. “Sorry, Cordelia.”

Cordelia wasn’t sure what he meant—perhaps that it was usually her that Elias asked for when he wasn’t well, and not Alastair? She hoped it didn’t hurt Alastair’s feelings. She assumed it was because Elias believed girls made better nurses than boys, though she wasn’t sure that was true.

She left James and her brother there, looking askance at one another, and went down the hall until she found a short little heavy wooden door set in the wall. It swung open at her tentative push, and inside she found only a bit of dim light and a sparsely furnished room, with a small platform bed in the corner on which her father sat, his arm over his eyes.

“Papa,” she said, “I’m here.”

He groaned. “Cordelia, my love. It came on so suddenly.”

Cordelia felt a wash of guilt at having resented her father. “I know. I’m here, Papa.”

She went over to the bed and sat down next to him. The room was suffused with the strong smell, herbaceous and strongly bitter, that she associated with his episodes—the medicine that the Silent Brothers gave him to keep his health under control, she assumed.

“I’m sorry to ruin your party, Cordelia,” her father said after a moment. His voice was throaty, his words slow, as though it pained him to speak.

“No,” said Cordelia gently. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I know you had looked forward to the party as well.”

He looked up from his arm and gazed at her fondly. “I already feel better now that you’re here.” He reached out and took her small hand in his larger one. “You’ve always been my best charm for getting well.”

Cordelia rubbed his hand anxiously. “What can I do, Papa? Is there anything you need?” She glanced around the room, looking for anything that might be helpful. Her eye fell on one of the room’s few decorations, a small shelf with a selection of cloth and leather-bound books arranged haphazardly across it. “I could read to you,” she said. That was what she would want if she were feeling ill, after all. To be read to would be the greatest act of love she could receive, so it only made sense to offer it here.

“Yes, that would be very nice.” Her father closed his eyes and smiled, as if in anticipation.

Cordelia went to examine the shelf. Doubtfully she said, “Well, in English we have either the 1817 classic How to Avoid Werewolves—”

“You mean, socially?”

“I’m not sure,” said Cordelia. “Your other option is the classic travelogue of the Shadowhunter Hezekiah Featherstone, Demons With Whom I Have Had Relationships.”

“Should you really be reading that second one?” her father rumbled.

“Papa!” said Cordelia, scandalized. “I don’t think they are romantic relationships.”

“Well then,” said Elias, settling back on the bed, and Cordelia thought he did already sound like he was feeling a bit better, “surprise me.”

James thought, it wasn’t Cordelia’s fault that he had been left alone with her older brother. It was only an unfortunate side-effect of the situation.

Though only a couple of years apart in age, James had always thought of Alastair as impossibly older than him, and Alastair, for his part, had treated James as impossibly younger. James supposed this was a natural result of being an older sibling. Certainly he could not imagine taking anyone fully seriously who was only his little sister’s age. In this circumstance, however, it left him unsure what to say to Alastair, or whether to wait for Alastair to speak, or whether to simply bolt from the room at top speed and assume Alastair was too slow to catch him.

Alastair ended the mystery by saying, in an odd tone, “My apologies for all this. My father is often unwell.”

“It’s all right,” James said, feeling strange to be reassuring an older boy. Tentatively he said, “Your father is a hero, after all.”

“What?” said Alastair, thrown off guard.

“Your father,” James said. “He killed the demon Yanluo.”

“Not by himself,” said Alastair.

“No,” said James, “but still. My father says an experience like that can leave scars. It’s a kind of sacrifice that heroes make, taking those scars so others don’t have to.”

He had meant it kindly, but was dismayed by the way Alastair’s face shut down. He became a blank, and when he looked at James, it was clear that he had ceased to regard James as being present in the room, or indeed, existing at all. “Quite,” he said. Without further comment he headed down the hallway toward the library..

“I’ll see you at the Academy,” James offered, one final try. “This fall. I’ll be starting.”

Alastair turned back, and in the same oddly neutral tone, he said, “That’s right. I suppose you will.”

After Alastair departed, James stayed where he was for a while, alone in the narrow, whitewashed corridor of the Institute. There was a party shaking the very rafters of the building, and yet here there was only silence. James thought of Cordelia, comforting her ill father, of Alastair stomping off for the sake of stomping off, obviously with no destination in mind.

His father had always made such an effort to get the two families together, the Herondales and the Carstairs. He had told so many stories about them, and was always encouraging their spending time together. And James had always been fond of the Carstairs, especially Cordelia. But now he thought, it’s odd, really, how little I know them as people.

He thought of the cousins, the parents’ friends, the Enclave members celebrating above. Other than his own family, he knew so little about any of them as people. And while he felt safe here, in the quiet, in the dark, he could tell that the world would not let him remain there for much longer. He would be out in the world, and he would need friends, and family, to help get him through.

Perhaps at the Academy, this fall.

#flash fiction #chain of gold #tsc #shadowhunters #the shadowhunter chronicles #.cog #cog2 #tlh #cassandra jean #cassandra clare

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hecohansen31 · 4 years

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Maybe In The Next Lifetime:

Reincarnated! Ivar The Boneless+Reincarnated! Reader (Modern AU)

(A/N): Hello there, lovelies!

I have been finally able to pubblish @peaceisadirtyword‘s fic for the Ko-Fi she has been so kind to offer to me, something that has been helping me greatly in supporting me!

So, again thank you for choosing to support my writing and I hope you’ll like this, although it isn’t the most amazing piece, but I have always been very very curious about the reincarnation concept!

As always: don’t forget to give feedback in form of comments and reblogs, because it helps us a lot.

It makes our heart beat stronger and our fingers write faster!

Have a nice reading!

SUMMARY: It isn't a coincidence anymore, when Ivar keeps on seeing your face everywhere and nowhere.

Telling you the story of something that has passed and is going to rehappen int he past.

Maybe Fate might have given him another chance.

And does this mean that he'll be able to catch it, before it is too late?

WORDS: 4 K

WARNINGS: Reincarnation Cycle, Menton of Violence and Blood, Inaccurate Portrayal of Iceland.

Ivar didn’t believe in all the reincarnation cycle shit.

He barely believed in his own gods and his mother.

But then you had happened in his life.

Nothing more than a maid in the hotel he was staying in on his trip to Iceland.

A tourist exactly like him.

It would have been difficult not to notice that accent and its heaviness in your tongue and it had been the first thing that he had seen as you talked outside of the hotel with some fellow maids, probably on a smoke break, since he saw a cigarette being passed around as you mumbled tightly something in your native tongue.

The syllables rolling on your tongue strongly and thickly and for a moment he had caught himself in staring at you.

And you had turned to him, probably not even noticing him in the crowd of tourists coming back from their usual hiking trip, a bare smirk on your lips.

And his mind had broken apart.

He had seen you in the same spot, but in different clothes no maid uniform but a rough fabric dress that certainly didn’t help your elegant figure, as you laughed loudly with other girls, all dressed in the same dreadful rags.

But your beauty shone even through that.

And you turned, smiling uneasily at him, almost as if you weren’t sure whether he’d return it or not.

And he found himself returning it.

And then he bumped into a fellow tourist, ruining his fantasy, as he noticed that you had probably finished your small break, returning inside, rapidly because the spot where you had stood was painfully empty.

He had thought it was just his dehydrated brain, coming back from a hard trekking session, imagining you the way it had happened.

But then it had started happening again.

He saw you at the lunch buffet, although you mostly worked in suites, but probably you had been asked to help out, walking in with plates and tissues, again in that horrendous maid uniform.

But this time he noticed you because a rather enormous man bumped into you, making you lose your balance and although you were able to grab the plates, steadying them, you bumped back in the man.

Who looked unhappy for that gesture.

Although he had been the one starting it.

And suddenly the scene changed and you were splashed with what looked like ale and smelled like it, a beautiful flowery crown on your head, lightly disheveled due to the hit you had received, a man looking at you, as ale also drenched him, probably from the tray you had been holding.

The man started screaming, and you endured it, but fear appeared in his eyes as his hand grabbed your wrist, and again your eyes met Ivar’s dangerously pleading and before he, himself, even knew it, he was up.

And he came to the enormous man, shifting from what looked like a warrior to an annoyed tourist and his sole presence was enough to shoo him away, as you were backed up by a friend of yours, probably having witnessed the scene.

She steadied you, getting the plates from you, and she muttered she’d cover you, also her face shifting against a more modern version of herself and an older one, with a matching flowery crown.

But you stayed in the past, your dress drenched and your hair disheveled, looking like a princess with your grateful smile as you muttered a ‘thank you’, some trace of warmth on the words, and Ivar was left paralyzed on there.

Hvitserk ushered him back, as slowly the world became of the bright minimalist style the hotel had chosen for its details, and ditched the darkness of a great hall, only lighted up by torches and fires, but he couldn’t push it out of his mind.

He couldn’t push you out of his mind.

Because, as if the daily hallucinations weren’t enough, you tormented his sleep.

You’d appear in your old-fashioned clothes and your sweet smile and you’d meet under a starry sky, as you brushed his hair back and told him things that didn’t seem to have any sense for him.

‘… we shouldn’t be doing this’ you whispered in his ear, as you pushed yourself away, playfully, as he brought you back in his lap with a steady hand, as his eyes shot in your beautiful ones.

Something didn’t change also in dreams.

‘Then why are you here?’ he heard himself ask, as his lips moved on their own, almost as if they had their own script ‘… why are you here, little thrall?’.

Although he understood every word, he couldn’t deny that he knew they weren’t talking in his native tongue, although it looked a distant relative of it.

Almost as an ancient ancestor.

One that spoke of magic and prophecy.

‘… don’t call me “little thrall” ‘the way you said it, made you hiss your breath through his teeth, although you didn’t look as threateningly as he roared under you, pushing himself on top of you, meanwhile he lightly pushed down your dress in his movement ‘… haven’t you promised me to be “your queen” ‘.

He didn’t feel solely your voice, but also his uneasiness at your wicked humor, that hit him somewhere deep.

Somewhere not everybody could reach.

And you noticed it.

‘… you know that I don’t mean anything bad with it’ he replied softly ‘… I just play around, Ivar’.

‘Will you play around with my heart too?’ he said with a sneer as he brought himself away from you, although all his body ached for you again, as he brought you closer to him again ‘… will you be a ruthless queen?’.

‘I’ll be your ruthless lover if you allow me’.

He had then woken up, with the thought of coldness coating his body, although the air in the room was hot and he had blankets all over him.

His hands reached out for you, but found nothing but emptiness.

And he realized that he was slowly going mad.

It didn’t help in the slightest that you were always somehow around him, something that he dreaded, trying to spend as little time in the hotel as he could, even thinking about taking the offer of staying with Floki, who had moved to Iceland since Helga’s death.

He knew the old man wouldn’t have hated him, but he also understood that Floki needed his space.

To distance himself from the painful memories.

He had visited him that one morning after the dreams had become too much for him and he had been barely able to look at you, when you served him his coffee, unable to properly forget the way your body had felt against his.

And the way you looked without clothes.

‘He’ll think that you hate her’ had commented Hvitserk, as the girl skittered off, with Ivar not even thanking you for the service.

‘Good’.

Because he preferred hate to uncertainty.

Mostly when the dreams showed him so much intensity that made him uneasy.

Working with Floki on small projects, starting from his latest boat, did help him get his mind off, but strangely his mouth had voiced a question to the old man, a pagan like him and quite more convinced in signs.

And he didn’t even seem fazed when Ivar told him about the girl of his dreams and hallucinations.

‘… maybe I just got wrong the dosage of the pain medicine’ he had muttered, meanwhile Floki’s face assumed a strange twinkle ‘… but it just… it haunts me in a way that is uncomfortable’.

“Maybe she is your soulmate from a past life” muttered Floki “… or maybe lady Freya, herself, is tempting you…”.

“I don’t know which one is cringier…” replied tightly Ivar, although he had been thinking some pretty similar option, even more since it seemed too much of a coincidence “… old man, you should get your head away from your fables”.

“… then why did you ask me for a suggestion?” shot back annoyedly Floki, although he had a soft smirk on his bearded face “… you know that this isn’t normal Ivar, you just need to believe”.

“I don’t know about you, knock-legged fool, but I find it hard to believe that a girl might be interested in me”.

“On that I agree” Floki replied softly, a reprimand and a laugh in his voice, as Ivar shot him the sponge with which they were cleaning his boat “… but there might be some freaks out there”.

He had come back from Floki’s house a bit more of good humor in his walk, but at the same time he couldn’t help but overthink about whether he was maybe just overthinking this all.

Or maybe if he had a reason to overthink everything.

And maybe he did, since he bumped into you, on the way back home.

You looked quite different in ‘civilian clothes’ probably having just finished a turn at the hotel, and on your way to some party, seeing the jeans miniskirt you were wearing and the glittery top, enhancing your perfect curve, although he had seen you in satin and silk in his dreams.

And you always looked beautiful.

He moved to let you pass, having blocked the exit of the hotel, as he slumped to his side, hoping you wouldn’t notice it, as he kept up on his rude persona.

He might have been considering that you were his soulmate, but this didn’t mean he wanted anything to do with you.

Or better… that you wanted to do anything with him.

But strangely you did.

A light of recognition shone in your eyes and for a moment he thought that maybe you had also been plagued by weird dreams, but then a soft blush, familiar to him, because it always shone under the stars they met in their dreams, appeared in your cheeks.

“Hey, I just… Gosh this is awkward…” even your voice seemed the same, modernized by your lack of knowledge of islandic “… I wanted to thank you for sticking up for me, a few days ago”.

“… you are welcome” he replied in a tight English, something that made her breathe out in relief, again that beautiful smile on your lips, and it shifted slowly from the focus of artificial lights to the one of torches.

“… I just… I just didn’t want to seem rude, but I wanted to make sure that you knew that I truly appreciated it, not many would have done it” you then moved to English, which you handled better, as his eyes stuck onto your eyes, a beautiful color shining in them.

And if they said that eyes were the mirrors of your soul, he saw himself reflected in them.

But it wasn’t him in his lazy pants and Norwegian metal band t-shirt, but it was him in original Viking clothes, staring at you with a harsh smile, hidden behind a good dose of annoyance.

But he knew that he was for sure enjoying whatever you were blabbering about.

You gave him your name, although he had caught it in the tag of your uniform, but he felt well properly introducing to you, a bit less ‘the stalker next door’.

“… I wanted to tell you this morning, but… you seemed a bit… away” you spoke to him, almost at ease although your words raced away from your mouth.

And although he had pushed you away all this time, he didn’t have the heart to tell you that he had tried to avoid you.

He might be a monstrous boy, doing monstrous things.

But he felt like when it came to you, past and present, he couldn’t just be cruel.

“… it was the coffee” he commented, searching the most trivial of excuses “… it fucking sucks”.

You erupted in a laughter after he uttered those words and again you had that crown of sunflowers in your head, a beautiful pair of bloody rubies earrings catching the light as your breath smelled of ale, something hazy and lazy in you

“I can’t say anything about that” you muttered, before leaning conspiratorially in, and Ivar couldn’t help but feel your smell, probably to be fresh and clean at the party, not definitely for him, but something reeked from the angles of his memory.

Spices and fresh flowers.

“… that isn’t coffee… it is dirty water” you commented, showing him your perfect teeth, as he shook his head, unable to withhold a laughter “… but I know a place where it is decent…”.

Was that invite?

Suddenly his mind shifted away, another sneaky proposal, another cheerful smile.

He had been crying over his mother’s death and you had come to him, softly and attentive, careful in your movements almost as if you were approaching a wounded animal.

‘I know a place where you could be alone’.

‘I wouldn’t be alone with you, stupid thrall’.

‘… don’t worry, my king, I’ll leave you alone, I have no intention to stay near somebody who is…’.

He had turned to you, willing to hurt you, just to ease his own hurt, but then he had been taken back by the determination in your face, something wickedly smart shining in your teary eyes.

You were also mourning.

‘… atrociously rude’.

“… so, I could offer you a coffee to thank you more properly…”.

You were tentative, almost as if after gaining the courage of approaching him, you had grown shy, but you were stubborn and wouldn’t have backed down.

He knew it.

Deep in his bones.

And who was he to oppose Fate?

And who was Hvitserk not to meddle in his brother’s love problems?

“Yeah of course, Ivar will join you!” he commented coming from behind with that knowing smirk of his, the one that got easily on Ivar’s nerves and although you seemed a bit shocked, you simply nodded, exchanging mechanically your number with Ivar, something for which he was grateful because the modern thing made him focused on the present.

‘… I can pick you up at the end of my lunch turn, so that I can lead you to the bar, if you won’t think that it is creepy’ you had explained with one last smile.

‘You don’t seem like the ordinary psycho” shot back Ivar, gaining a little giggle from you ‘… and I mean… my brother would come searching from me… I hope’.

Hvitserk didn’t look too convinced, but he nodded, and you speeded off, your phone coming to life, probably some friends asking you why were you late and you excused yourself, meanwhile you pushed between the two brothers, turning one last time to Ivar.

A silly smirk on your lips, as you lightly bit them.

And your past-self looked at him and before he could even blink, you were gone, enough to make him think this was all a dream.

Till Hvitserk sent him a light look and a confused one, eventually settling up for a brotherly hug.

‘… can’t believe that my brother, the rude one, got a date with a pretty girl!’.

‘… it is just coffee’ it would have just you hoping to seem nice to him, because you felt like you owed him ‘… it isn’t anything too much’.

But for a moment he had thought to see a light of understanding in your eyes, as they met his.

But he didn’t want to be mistaken.

He certainly wouldn’t have asked you:

‘Did we meet in a past life?’.

… if you hadn’t already thought, he was a creeper, you’d have thought it for sure if he acted like that.

And yet what he dreamed that night shook him to the very core: for now he had dreamt sweet moments, hot moments and some quite angsty ones, his own personality flaring up and contrasting with your gentle but stubborn one.

But that night… that night ripped his heart apart.

You laid naked, exposing the wound in the middle of your chest.

He had witnessed many death, or at least in the version of his dream he had, since he was somehow an old soul, but yours shook him to his very core, as he ran up to him, although his braces weighted him down extremely, making him trip and fall right on top of you.

And as he raised his head, he was right in front of your face.

You looked terrified.

Death hadn’t caught you prepared.

Death had taken you away from him too early.

And this couldn’t be true.

He had screamed for you, grabbed your head and put it onto his lap, he had tried any way to usher you closer, to bring you home to him again, as he begged Hel not to take you, eventually understanding that whoever had taken you, had taken you meanwhile you were surprised.

And you hadn’t been able to fight back.

And he knew deep down it was his fault.

Deep down his arrogance had made him pay dearly for the crown of thorns on his head.

And you were the price of it.

You, who should have had a matching crown of flowers and a dress of pure golden as you looked out to him and smiled, keeping your promise to be his ruthless lover.

His ruthless queen.

He had cursed the gods.

And promised you that he’d have found you again.

In another life, maybe.

And when he woke up, he finally realized what was happening.

The gods had heard his curses, and they were coming for him in a dreadful way.

He wondered if you knew.

If he had been the only one ‘blessed’ with that memory, although he almost wanted you to be spared from the pain of seeing your own death.

He hadn’t seen you enough to have noticed if you also knew him as well, and again… asking would have made him seem quite crazy, but right now he couldn’t help but feel like there was such a longing in him.

Almost as a possessive wounded animal.

But again… he didn’t want to be a stalker.

He almost wanted not to show up, but he thought that it would have made his staying just awkward and since he had to stay for one more weak.

But at the same time, as he finally seemed to understand what was going on… he didn’t know if he wanted to get further in this or if… he should have just let it go.

He didn’t know which one pained him more.

Although he barely knew you.

Gosh, this entire thing was crazy.

In the end, he decided to go to the ‘date’, but he would have tried his best to keep the entire ‘having vision’ back, alongside the fact that he was quite sure that his ‘charming’ personality wouldn’t have won another date.

But you strangely seemed eager to meet him again, as he met you at the service exit, seeing you in comfortable black shorts, and a small white sleeveless shirt, elegant enough to show that you had put an effort, but casual enough to seem comfortable.

And that damn smell of fresh flowers and spices followed you like a trace.

The trip to the small coffee shop he hadn’t noticed, although Iceland was a second home to him, was filled with you talking, something that he allowed happily, mostly because although he knew flashes of his past and how the stories had started and how it had ended…

… he didn’t know who you were, truly.

But he discovered it quickly.

You were a student of journalism and that year you had decided to work abroad in Iceland, your dream place, although you couldn’t deny that the language was pretty difficult, gaining quite the laugh from Ivar as you mistook in Icelandic ‘cherry’ with ‘donkey’.

‘It’ll get better…’ he had commented before sending you a lightly humorous look ‘… maybe… I mean… Hvitserk learned it so… everybody can do it’.

You had seemed shocked to discover that he had four brothers, one of which was a step-brother from a previous relationship of his father, something that had made him understand that you hadn’t been blessed with visions of your past life together.

‘… yeah we are kind of “The Sound Of Music” but you have to replace the music with stabbing and trying to punch each other when we are all in the same room together’ he had commented, proud of the laugh you had given him for that silly humor.

‘Sisters are worse’ and for a moment your voice was old and young at the same time, and the memory of smaller version of you gossiping with you in barely lighted room made him aware that you had had one sister ‘… they steal your clothes and pull on your hair’.

‘I am not proud of it but… we might have had a pulling hair contest, not too long ago’ he mumbled, trying to shift the attention away from that thought of the past.

He was in the present.

And although he had been given some kind of other opportunity with you…

… it didn’t mean that it would have worked out, also this time.

Gods had the strangest way to work.

He had born with his legs broken, but they had given him a functioning brain, which was much more than abled people had and yet… he was missing on so many things…

‘… you have pretty long hair, I can see that happening’ you teased him.

An immediate and intense comfortableness between you two, heightened by the small coffee place, definitely not crowded with a local aesthectic but a mixture of different locations inside of it, with all the pictures at the walls, lined by postcards.

‘… whenever I feel homesick, I come here’ you had commented, as you settled down by what you called ‘the nicest table’, since it stood right next to the window, giving a view of the small city ‘… and sometimes I like spying from here’.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a spy?” but he knew all too well that you had been one for him, a long time ago.

And it had gotten you killed.

“… just an observer” you commented with a small smirk “… I swear I am not a stalker”.

“I’ll believe you on your word” he shot back, with a wicked smile that made it almost seem as if they understood each other “… and I hope the coffee is good”.

“Don’t worry, I assure you it is the best” the air changed to a less heavy one, for which he was thankful, but your eyes shifted hiding under the men, moving away from you and for a moment he was disappointed.

He thought you were hiding yourself.

And the conversation subsided becoming more chatter.

Soft and sweet chatter, almost as if they had always known each other.

“… are you thinking of celebrating Midsomar, here?” you had asked him, after he had told you that he had been coming to Iceland since he was a child and he worshipped the ways of the old gods, leaving you quite impressed, as you explained your fascination for the Nordic style of life “… the girls… my other friends at my hotel want to go to some party… but…”.

“… but you want the whole experience” finished Ivar, as if the words had always been there for him to say “… flower crown, comprehended”.

“Don’t tell me that you won’t wear it?” you teased him back with an easiness that made him smirk lightly.

“… maybe”.

A blush appeared on your cheeks at his devilish tone.

Then a shade of seriousness passed in your ancient eyes.

“… we might think about passing Midsomar together, if you have an idea on how to spend it that is better than holding back your drunken friend puking in the first bush they find” you suggested, innocence appearing in your eyes as you suddenly almost seemed to hear for the first time the words you had spoken, before mumbling hurriedly “… I mean… it might seem crazy… Gosh we have just known each other”.

“… I don’t mind it” his words were suddenly in that old and the accent of the old language of reeked them, as you met his eyes again “… we should pass Midsomar together”.

Your whole face lighted up as you raised your face to meet his eyes.

“I know this might seem crazy…” your voice seemed almost a prophecy “… but it seems like I have known you all my life”.

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popculturebuffet · 3 years

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Pinky and the Brain: A Pinky And the Brain Christmas Review or I Just Think Schotzie’s Neat

Christmas Continues on this blog... and getting away from one set of Christmas commissions and into another, I offered my friend Blahdiddy three commissions as a present. The other two we’ll get to eventually, but with Animaniacs on the brain, heh, due to the reboot, he selected two Pinky and the Brains and one Animaniacs for me to cover. And while I intended to cover this one sometime this month anyway, my friend’s recent and sad covid diagnosis meant i’m bumping this one all the way up to the front of the line so he has some christmas cheer during this rough time. So with that in mind let’s talk about pinky, pinky and the brain brain brain brain brain shall we? Of course we can’t really talk about pinky and the brain without talking about Animaniacs. I absolutely love the series, I grew up with it as a kid and reconnected with it as an adult when it ended up on netflix. It was smart, well animated and most importantly really fucking funny. I highly recommend checking both the original and reboot of it out some time if you have Hulu. Speaking of the reboot while I might go on in full about it at some point it’s pretty good, with some creatvie jokes, some nice updates, with Rita Anita Anrita being a great new addition to the warner side of things. It’s only real flaw is it gets a bit reptitious as for the most part there’s only really the warners and pinky and the brain with a few exceptions one of which DAMN well deserved at least two segments and we all know which one that is.

Bring.. this.. to series. The warners and pinky and the brain segments weren’t bad, but as is inevitible in a screwball comedy some just weren’t as good as others and those fell harder when you’ve already seen 2 or 3 better versions of this sort of skit in the season. They did really find their groove towards the end and if you like both Animaniacs and Pinky and the Brain, or even just one or the other, it’s worth checking out. But enough about the reboot let’s talk about those labratory mice whose genes have been spliced. Thanks to wikipedia, I now know the duo were based on Eddie Fitzgerald and Tom Minton, who worked with Tom Rutgeter on Tiny Toon adventures, with menton being the one who came up with Narf, even saying it in one episode of Tiny Tunes. During the creation of animaniacs, Bruce Timm, yes THE Bruce Timm, sketched the two, and Ruetger added mouse ears and the rest was history. Maurice LaMarche was the one who added the Orson Welles to the character, as LaMarche saw the Orson Welles in Brain, ran with it and got the part and a long and storied career in voice acting as a result. In a nice and fitting bit of contrast, Rob Paulsen got the part.. because he was already on the show. Not to downplay Paulsen’s clear talent, I just find it hilarious.

That’s about what I could dig up on the behind the scenes of the show. From what I can tell it was greenlit because Animaniacs was a massive it, and Pinky and the Brain was the most popular segment, so it just made sense. The show would likewise be a massive sucess with both adults and kids, and go on for three seasons and what should legally be considered a war crime.

For those of you blissfully unaware yeah, that happened, no no one people actually LIKED from Tiny Toons was in it. And yeah if you want me to talk about it commission it otherwise not going near this one. While I do need to tackle more bad animation... I’ve successfully avoided watching an episode of this show for 22 years next wedsday, I’m not breaking the streak for free.

But some.. things aside I remembered liking the series as a kid but just never got around to seeking it out as an adult. I had nothing against the animaniacs segments and I even still have a stuffed brain doll I got at a garage sale.. the pinky is sadly missing and persumed dead. I just wasn’t as bit into it as I was the slappy bits rewatching animaniacs and didin’t really see reason to watch the show. Watching this though made me realize I was wrong and I probably watch more of it in the future This special is damn good, i’m pleased ot review it and to revive and old childhood memory. So with all the exposition out of the way let’s talk Pinky, PInky and the brain brain brain brain christmas edition after the cut.

This was indeed a special: while it was presumably produced with season one of the show and is packaged with it both on DVD and on Hulu, where I watched it, the special was aired in prime time and even put on it’s own VHS.. which I found out and of course, like with my review of the Darkwing Duck Pilot, had to use as the art for old VHS’ tapes for cartoons.. was really fucking beautiful and it’s a nice break from my traditional screencaps. So we open with a clever Christmas rendition of the theme, frequently sprinkling in bits of other christmas stuff, utterly fantastic. The intro animation is less impressive as it’s literally just the regular intro but with a stock snow effect over everything. In case you thought Ducktales doing that was a new thing. I do not blame the team however, as apparently they only had a week to get the scripts out, so I highly doubt warner was forking out more cash for the animation than they had to. They still forked out enough to make it LOOK really good mind you, something I wish they’d do more often with their DTV Movies but do do with their animated shows still with certain exceptions so good on them, i’m just saying they clearly cared more about money than having a memorable christmas opening. Given a budget to actually make one, i’m sure the animators would’ve come up with something lovely, and i’m sure the same is true of Ducktales and other shows and like i’ve said, i’m highly in favor of shows actuallly doing unique openings for the holidays, especially since Holiday episodes tend to get reaired every year as long as the show is in circulation on the network. Sometimes even if it isn’t. So it’s fully worth the effort to fork out a little extra for this as while you’ll most likely only use it once, you’ll be using the special for years. You can afford to treat yourself networks come on. It’s...

Just like Pinky, Elmyra and the Brain. But onto the episode itself after 80 years. We find Pinky writing his Christmas list to santa, complete with Narf, a gag I like. As usual for a comedy show, I will try to gloss over as much of the gags as possible, to avoid repetttion but yeah this episode is really damn funny and reminded me just how good these characters are. Maurice and Rob just have perfect chemistry. It’s like Tom and Jerry: It’s a very simple premise, that one being “Cat chases mouse and Mouse beats shit out of mouse”, and pinky and the brain of course being “Super genuis mouse and dimwitted but loveable sidekick try and takeover the world eveyr night”. But a simple premise can be used just about anywhere and adapated for anything. To me a cartoon’s premise only has to be as complicated as it needs to be to work. Sometimes you have a vast complex tapestry behind the world like She Ra, Steven Universe or Avatar with lots of planning and ins and outs and deep character stuff.. and sometimes you just have two mice who get into shenanigans because one is a would be dictator who sounds like orson welles and the other’s a loveable british weirdo/moron. Sometimes simple just works.

Anyways, Brain, noticing Pinky’s distracted and replaces himself with a horrifying poorly made doll of himself called Noodle Noggin, which is both an excellent name and not the only time they’d use the name either, as there was an animaniacs short about Brain making himself a fad to endear himself to the children of the future with the same name. It’s just an inherently funny set of words, but also shows Brain’s genius in a subtle and clever way as he never spells it out, but despite sounding kind of ridiculous for such a buttoned up intellectual like brain... he knows that’s the kind of name kids will eat up. His schemes may often fail, but he’s an objectively brilliant schemer and i’ts often either PInky’s incompetence or his own miscalculation of humanity, either over or underestimating them, that undoes Brain. Back to the plot, so Brain’s plan is to distribute noodle noggins around the world, make it the hot new toy, and as always, take over the world. Problem is naturally two Mice simply don’t have the resources to make the billions of dolls. But PInky stumbles upon the solution in the paper: a want ad for elves! Everything about that sentence except “pinky stumbles upon the solution” has not aged paticuarlly well, but point is they have a plan and we have our christmas special. This does bring me to my one problem with the special.. Brain’s weird inconsistency towards Santa. What I mean is he spends the portion doubting Santa can do anything he’s claimed to despite being proven frequently he can. That part is not all that annoying as it’s in character with him and while yes, he is a talking mouse, he’s also a man of science and reason and Santa is the opposite of that. That would be fine... IF it wasn’t for the fact that said magical bollocks weren’t constantly part of his plans. Despite Brain constantly throughought the special doubting Santa... his plans FREQUENTLY rely on everything we’ve heard about him being right. His initial plan here ENTIRELY runs on the fact Santa has a massive workforce to make the toys yet even if that’s true by Brain’s own logic, he wouldn’t be able to deliver them. Later when the boys need to escape, They hide with the Reindeer despite Brain just saying santa can’t be everywhere in one night.. which if he can’t then the odds are slim he’ll wind up at Acme Labs isn’t it? It would be fine if the special acknowledged any of this outside of one bit we’ll get to, but other than that one bit.. they don’t. IT’s just really frustrating and really sticks out since the rest of the special is perfection, so this one failing bit really grates. That being said, it dosen’t last long enough to really drag the episode down as a whole, just to annoy me a bit every so often. It speaks to the episodes quality that the bad part ONLY drags so much because everything else is so well put together. So our boys head to the north pole with the help of a kooky pilot and a santa dummy, this pilot is voiced by Tress MacNeile and is easily one of the best parts of the special. And naturally given their luck, she asks them to take the wheel so the plane instead jerks and causes them to fall out. Luckily they end up near Santa’s workshop and soon apply for temp work with local head of things and gruff type Shotzie, played by Jeff Bennett. And yes that is his name. I like Shotzie: he’s a goateed elf and Bennett just plays him well.. hard to explain honestly I may just like his name and Bennett’s voice for him, one he used before in animanaics for various bit parts and in shows after this, it’s just a voice i’ve always liked.

They get put to work in the mail room, which is the bit I mentioned: Brain earlier scoffed at Santa answering all the letters with Pinky simply suggesting that Santa had his elves go through all of them. Turns out Pinky was right... while he may be a BIT stupid, one intresting thing i’ve found about Pinky after watching the reboot that ironically the friend who comissioned this and I discussed is that he’s not ENTIRELY stupid, it’s just , much like Dan from Dan Vs his knowledge is just random.. he can not know how a lot of things work, but sometimes like in this instance Pinky generally just GETS something. It’s part of why he and Brain are such a good team despite their failures: Brain is all about planning and thought and research, Pinky is about intuition and gut instinct. He just does things and it often works out. This also makes their recently added backstories all the more brilliant as they explain this well: Pinky started life just being told to find the diffrence in cheeses and thus was taught form childhood to trust in himself and his weird brain. Brain was cruelly torturued with an experiment on learned behaviors via electroshock, and was taught to never give up control again, to always know what’s going on and to always control it. It perfectly sums up who the two are and why they are that way. Brain however quickly pivots, as the mail room ends up being the perfect location to start his plans. Since their job is to file away what each person wants Brain simply adds Noodle Noggin to it and plans to put his plans into the workshop. While Santa and Schotzie are suprised and baffled, Santa quickly adds it to the list. However things hit a snag when Schotzie gets supscious when the two try to sneak into the blueprint room to drop theirs off and he accidently yanks off their disguises leading to a REALLY fun chase scene, as the boys end up in a toy wherehouse and thus try out various toy cars: a barbie dream car that dosen’t have a working motor, a toy truck that dosen’t go very fast, and finally an rc car that while fast naturally just means Schotzie can grab it and capture them. It’s easily my faviorite scene of the episode just for how clever it is and as someone whow as a kid around the time this came out, I applaud the accuracy.. granted I didn’t have any of those personally but I had lots of friends so yeah.

So our heroes are interrogated.. and again Brain brilliantly pivots. Schotzie assumes since they have the blueprints their spies for the easter bunny or the tooth fairy or Herschel, the Hanukah Goblin. Why Herschel never got his own Hannukah special trying to stop Pinky and the Brain from using it to take over the world, I genuinely do not know and that’s something the reboot really needs to adress in the future. Seriously Hannukah needs a mascot and it’s either Herschel or the Hannukah Zombie. Kwanza already has Kwanzabot. I want to see more of Herschel the Hannukah Goblin dammit!. I love goblins. Especially this one.

And this one

And most of all this one

I likes goblins. It’s a thing. So anyway, point is Schotize has the blueprints taken in while our boys slip out and sucessfully make their way outside, though they have to find a way home to turn on the mind control device. They see Santa and brain being a dick refuses to let pinky hand in his letter.. but does as mentioned earlier have them pose as reindeer. So our heroes make their way home and in time to be able to activate the device once santa’s route’s finished!

And.. then land directly on the mind control device thing, meaning they now have to scramble to repair it. Oh and Pinky is inconsolable after realizing Santa didn’t get his letter and Brain is a HUGE dick about it. Easily the worst i’ve seen him just far more focused on his machine than his friend’s wel lbeing especially since ALL he needs from pinky is for him to throw one lousy switch.

But we then get easily the best part of the entire special. As Brain scrambles to rebuild his device while abusing his best friend we get a really nice tense sequence as Brain rebuilds while kids all over the world warmly receive noodle noggin. I mean.. it’s not the creepiest doll I’ve seen a kid enjoy.

Also Bill Clinton gets one because the series apparently really likes “Bill Clinton is stupid jokes” Oh you poor innocent dears who haven’t had to suffer through the president being revealed to be a sexual predator, the one after him being even dumber if not a predator, the one after that being easily one of the best people around, and the outgoing one being a waking nightmare whose both a preadator and dumb beyond all comprehension ina dangerous and soul crushing way.

But yeah onto the good part, Brain, for whatever reason, reads the letter.. and finds Pinky asked for nothing. He just wanted to give Brain the world at long last, recognizing his friend really and genuinely means well for it and that he’s worked hard to conquer it. And with that goal in reach, with the very thing he’s always wanted his... Brain instead uses the device to wish a merry christmas. He sees through his friend’s kindess and selflessness that he himself.. has been selfish once again turning something into a world destroying plot and being cruel to his best friend... when all his best friend wanted was to selflessly make sure he finally got what he wanted. It’s then that Brain, for all his cold and cynical logic and superiority complex, realized the true meaning of christmas, which i’ve said before and i’ll say again: it’s about giving, about giving someone something with your heart and soul just to be nice with no expectation of something in return. It’s about being selfless for once instead of selfish. I’ts about love. And Brain loves his friend too much to destroy his faviorite holiday. For once the world can wait.. and for once they all join in saying merry christmas to one another and in love and camradire. And I know not everyone celebrates christmas, there are other winter holidays and not everyone in the world would willingly do this. I know all that.. but the special has such a well meaning message, I really can’t be mad at that or get into the weeds too much> This isn’t some jackass making an entire movie, of which there have been several, saying “There’s a war on christmas” which instead equates to them just bitching about not everyone celebrating HIS holiday. It’s about a mouse for one moment truly being selfless and putting ihs loyal and faithful friend over his greatest want to give him a nice christmas and to do something nice for the world instead of trying to take it. And that.. that’s really damn heartmelting. So we end on the two exchanging presents, with it being a little extra heartwarming as Brain likely already got Pinky something meaning even before his big revelation, he really does care beneath all the dope slaps. Pinky got him a keychain of the world and rather than be frustrated like you’d think.. Brain just takes it in stride. It is christmas after all.. the world.. it can wait. For now it’s just the two of them having one moment in time, this merry christmas. Final Thoughts: If it wasn’t obvious, I loved this freaking special. It’s funny, clever and has one hell of an ending. There isn’t much more to say other than go watch it if you have Hulu.. you will not regret it and a sepcial thanks to Blah for comissioning this. it was an amazing time and is now a competitor for a spot on my best christmas special list. For now though it’s just really good and I say go check it out. Merry christmas, happy holidays and later days.

#animaniacs #pinky and the brain #warner brothers #pinky #the brain #santa claus #christmas #blahdiddy #christmas specials #reviews #animation #kids wb

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queenhelenblackthorn · 4 years

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Chain of Gold Extra, January: The Anniversary Party

THE ANNIVERSARY PARTY

FRANCE, 1899

And here again, the Herondales came to her rescue, this time in the form of a letter her father read aloud at the breakfast table.

“’Good morning, Elias and Sona,’ – I say, how would he know what time of day we’d read it, the man is mad as a hatter—”

“We are reading it in the morning, though,” Cordelia said. Her father gave her an indulgent smile and went on.

“’It is a capital day here in London, and I hope it will be a capital day in Paris six weeks hence, when Tessa and I will celebrate our eighteenth wedding anniversary. As it is not the custom of any known culture to make a to-do out of the eighteenth wedding anniversary, we have decided to throw an enormous party.’”