#seems fortuitous lol
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we hit 200k at the same time as i hit 200 followers T_T
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Addams! AU snippet 5: 'Kidney'
FULL CREDIT TO WRITER NewFallenLeaves ON A03! SHE HAS SO MANY BANGERS, THIS IS JUST A TINY TASTE OF HER TALENT!!!! PLEASE GO READ HER STUFF AND SUPPORT HER!!!! I SAY PLEASE BUT I AM DEMANDING NOT ASKING!!!!! GIVE HER LOVE!!!!!
As always, additional art! I'm sure this is what Mikey thought he looked like in this snippet, lol!
Full snippet below the cut! ⬇️⬇️⬇️
“Donnie!” Mikey dashed into the lab without knocking and flung himself onto the dissection table. “Take out my kidneys.”
“Not that it’s going to influence my answer either way,” said Donnie, already unfurling the blades on his mechanical hand, “But why?”
Mikey dug through his pockets and unrolled a burlesque magazine. He pointed to the front cover and a model who was wearing an orange, pink, and black laced corset with frills and embroidered sugar skulls, reminiscent of ‘Day of the Dead’ festival decorations. “I wanna wear that.”
“So wear it,” said Donnie. He filled a syringe with a noxious-looking yellow fluid. “You dress in that tawdriness regardless of how many times we’ve said it makes you look asinine. What’s that got to do with your innards?”
“I tried a corset from the costume bin at Mama’s, like the highwire dancers wear, but it doesn’t look the way it’s supposed to.” Mikey leaned down to buckle his ankles into the dissection table’s straps. “I read that human ladies got their ribs and kidneys and livers and stuff taken out to get the shape right. So you can do that for me, right?”
“Of course I can, but removing your internal organs will have no bearing on the forms of your carapace and plastron, those are inflexible.”
“Wait, you mean you ca–aahhhhhnnn’t…” The word trailed away as Mikey slumped backwards, limbs slack, head lolling.
“Oops,” said Donnie, removing the syringe from Mikey’s neck. “Did I accidentally administer sedation before you could retract your request? What a shame.”
He set the needle aside and snapped a surgeon’s glove onto his hand, ignoring the puncture that already marred the palm and the stains from the samples he’d been working on previously.
“Well, the subject volunteered and is already fortuitously in a prepped state. Might as well make sure the opportunity to harvest doesn’t go to waste. What was that, Mikey? How many organs did you say I could take?”
He strapped Mikey’s arms in place and straightened his head by locking a clamp around his neck.
“As many as necessary?” Donnie said. “What a generous offer! I always knew you wouldn’t hold out on me. Not like Leo.”
Donnie clicked one of the bone saws on his mechanical hand into place and it began to spin, pitching into a piercing whine.
“This is why you’re my favorite brother!” Donnie said, raising his voice above the noise. He slid his goggles into place and peered at the armored ribbing along Mikey’s side. “And because of that, while I’m at it, I’ll see what I can do about the plastron and the carapace. What do you say?”
He reached his free hand up to Mikey’s head and gave it a nod.
“Great! We’ll make this a quick outpatient procedure. You’ll be on the highwire by the end of the night, and my freezer will be stocked.”
And with that, he got to work.
***
Barely three hours later, Leo watched as Mikey twirled through the living room in his corset, imitating the routine he’d seen the highwire dancers perform. Unfortunately, he seemed to lack their grace. His feet dragged clumsily across the concrete and each dip and sway made it appear as though he were drunk.
“Leeee-ooooooh,” said Mikey, “Do I look preeeeeettttyyyy in my corset?”
Leo eyed him thoughtfully. An intoxicated Mikey was a completely normal occurrence. So was the choice of clothing; he was always wearing showy outfits for the circus. This one seemed to fit a little more snugly than usual, but not in a way that looked out of sorts.
No, what alerted Leo was something else entirely.
“Mikey,” said Leo. “Why are you yellow?”
“Hm?” Mikey tried to spin on one foot and wound up tumbling into Splinter’s chair. “Whaddya mean?”
“Your skin should be green. Not the same color as your spots.”
Mikey held up one arm and twisted it in front of him, as if looking at it for the first time. “Oh!” he said. “That’s the jaundice.”
“And why are you jaundiced?”
“I think,” said Mikey, scrunching up his face like a toddler thinking very hard about something. “Donnie said…it was because of my kidneys. No! My liver. That thing. Wait, maybe both! Because they’re gone now. To make room inside my plastron!”
“Uh-huh.” Leo grasped Mikey by the wrist and hauled him up out of the chair, towards Donnie’s lab.
“Did you know,” Mikey giggled, allowing himself to be dragged, “That human ladies take out their ribs and stomachs and lungs and stuff so they can wear corsets?”
He was still sniggering when Leo toppled him back onto the dissection table.
“Hey,” said Donnie, “Don’t clutter my workspace with little brothers.”
“Fix him,” said Leo.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Put Mikey’s organs back.”
Mikey gasped and sat up. “But then I won’t fit into my corset!”
“See?” said Donnie, “He doesn’t even want them!”
“Donnie…”
“I was just about to put them in the embalming jars!”
“If I can’t wear a corset then what’s the point of living?”
“All the experimentation timelines will go to waste! I have them prepped!”
Leo folded his arms. “Put Mikey’s organs back, or I’m telling Mama.”
“Gasp!” said Donnie.
“Snitch!” said Mikey.
“You’re bluffing,” said Donnie. “You despise talking to her, you would never.”
“I hate you groveling over her approval more, but I’ll leverage it if I have to,” said Leo. He spun his sword to open a portal, and through it, they could clearly see Mama’s plush office. He took a step towards the gateway. “I don’t think she’d approve of you jaundicing her favorite little circus pet.”
“Okay okay okay!” said Donnie, desperately. “Mikey, sit still.”
“No!” Mikey lurched like he wanted to roll off the table, and looked ready to run. “I won’t go back to being a corset-less turtle!”
Donnie extended the titanium arms from his shell and grappled with Mikey as he began to thrash. “Leo, quit with the blackmail. Be useful and help me.”
“You made the mess,” said Leo. He swiped the portal out of existence. “You fix it.”
If Donnie was being completely honest, his efforts were not completely wasted. He did get to do exploratory surgery and pioneer a plastron/carapace shaping technique that did, in the end, make Mikey’s waist a bit narrower. Plus, he got to strap Mikey down and sedate him twice in the same day.
Small victories.
#addams! tmnt au#rottmnt au#rottmnt#leo rottmnt#rottmnt mikey#rottmnt donnie#tmnt au#rise of the tmnt#tmnt fanfiction#NewFallenLeaves#cw dissection#cw organs#cw syringe#addams! mikey#addams! donnie#rottmnt fanart#rottmnt art#rise of the tmnt fanart#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles au#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#rise michelangelo#rise leo#rise donatello#rise donnie#rise mikey
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Rebels Rewatch: "The Protector of Concord Dawn"
In which Kanan is the best and Sabine eventually learns to follow his example on things.
I honestly don't think I've watched this one often enough to remember it that well so this'll be an adventure for me.
Having been driven off Garel the Phoenix Cell fleet is once again just kind of ambling through realspace in the middle of nowhere.
Rex casually recanonizing the "Mandalorians trained the clone troopers" thing from Legends.
Oof, you know this conversation had to hurt Sabine in some private places.
Lol, Hera's "Sounds familiar." She talking about Sabine there? Probably.
Sato's line here about warriors only understanding strength is interesting, considering it was suggested/implied that he's a former Separatist. Who knows if he ever had to tangle with Mandalorians during the Clone Wars, but he clearly recognizes that they tend to be a stubborn and belligerent people.
Side note, I love how bouncy Hera's lekku are.
"There was a time when it [diplomacy] always won the day." *CRIES ABOUT THE GOLDEN AGE OF THE REPUBLIC FOREVER*
You uh... you look like you're missing a little... a lot of... something there, Concord Dawn.
This is a unique music cue, frenetic and tense even before there's any actual danger.
Hera's slight hesitation when she talks about those who would stand against the Empire, hngl, she's so hopeful for the best-case scenario, she has so much faith in people's inner goodness and desire for freedom and autonomy.
Too bad Fenn Rau already made a self-preservation deal with the Empire.
This battle is really nicely staged and shot.
Was that a very fragmented excerpt of the "Shenanigans" theme?
*listens harder*
Sounds a bit like!
Sabine groaning in aggravation when Hera tells her to "just follow orders" oooh boy that's a sour spot for her.
I think it's only thanks to their bonding in "Out of Darkness" that Sabine chooses to trust Hera.
AND THE CURSED WORDS, "I'LL BE RIGHT BEHIND YOU."
FANDOM DID NOT FORGET THAT THOSE WERE THE LAST WORDS KANAN SAID BEFORE HIS HEROIC SACRIFICE IN "CALL TO ACTION", WRITERS.
:((((((((
My gosh the way shards and pieces still seem to be floating around the A-wing like they're pulled by gravity towards it.
Wonder if the Chimaera looked similar when it exited hyperspace, wherever that was.
The worry in Kanan's eyes and his pinched brows, ugh.
The kids waiting anxiously for news about mom. :(
Sabine immediately blaming herself, and I can't help but think about the parallels to "Call To Action", how Ezra must have blamed himself for leaving Kanan behind, for not fighting alongside him.
Sabine sounds so vulnerable here, ouch.
Kanan backstory! If I remember, the issue of the Kanan: The Last Padawan comic that covered the event he's referencing here came out right about when this episode was airing, in a bit of fortuitous narrative timing.
Sabine be very angry. That Mandalorian call for revenge be beating strong inside her.
Kanan decides to protect the others by barring them all from coming, only risking himself.
Except, grudgingly, Chopper, who is none-too-happy about this lol.
Takes his frustrations out on Ezra, of course.
"You must be pretty distracted not to have noticed I stowed away." Well, you know, Hera is in the ICU, that's probably pretty distracting.
I actually really love that Kanan is going full Jedi here, offering the protectors, and Fenn Rau specifically, another chance to do the right thing. There's something to be said about his and Hera's shared faith in the true inner goodness of people.
"This Jedi philosophy stuff doesn't work for everyone." "That's why we're at war." CHEEKY BASTARD KANAN.
He's right though, if everyone were just more forgiving and self sacrificing and compassionate like the Jedi there would be far less problems in the galaxy, "You said the biggest problem in this galaxy is that nobody helps each other." CATCH ME SOBBING ABOUT THE PURE GOODNESS OF THE JEDI ORDER AND THEIR MODUS OPERANDI OF SELFLESS COMPASSION AND HOW THEY DIDN'T DESERVE ANY OF IT.
"You always bring enough explosives." Lolol Kanan knows his surrogate foster daughter.
Subtle animation appreciation moment: Kanan leaning in and peering through Sabine's helmet antenna display.
Sabine gives every impression that she intends to take revenge for Fenn hurting Hera so it's a little bit weird when she suddenly backs off from her rage and anger to reinforce a "no killing" moral.
The only reason she doesn't follow through is Kanan's Jedi influence, so I'm going to picture him as a little shoulder angel next to her ear, whispering to her the right thing to do and I'm going to assume that's the deliberate intention of the writers.
Side note: Kanan gives a lot of encouraging/calming/reassuring touches to Sabine's shoulder in this scene. It's adorable.
Oh wow, Kanan legit pushed Sabine's blasters down as they were sneaking here.
This location feels very weird to see in light of "Imperial Supercommandos", I swear they reuse shot and camera angles for some of the scenes.
Kanan saying he trusts Sabine, aww.
Rau is remarkably considerate of Kanan's intrusion. I really like this scene. Gives the impression of two worthy foes sizing each other up. Feels very much like some kind of callback to classic samurai films.
Rau puts his blaster away when he learns Kanan's a Jedi, a subtle hint to his true loyalties. Rau wants to believe in the miracles the Jedi are capable of but years of subjugation have made him cynical and bitter.
This tapping percussion bit in the score is often used to signify stealth or infiltration.
LOL Sabine blowing her cover by banging her head on a fighter, lololol.
I remember fandom went kind of nuts when Sabine declared she was "House Vizsla". I was never really into the Mandalorian lore side of things so I was like, "Cool. That's nice."
(Basically it means her family was Death Watch and caused way too many Problems On Purpose in the Clone Wars.)
"I believe they have the strength to defeat you and the resources to back it up." UNEXPECTED THRAWN PARALLELS HELLO??!?!!!??
No but seriously, Fenn Rau allied with the Empire for much the same motivations that Thrawn did, to preserve his own people and further their interests. He owes no true loyalty to the Empire but his strategic mind has determined that acquiescing to them is the best option to protect his own.
Wow I did not expect that in this rewatch.
Lol Kanan's whole expression of, "Goddammit Sabine."
Subtle animation appreciation moment: The way Sabine's bangs bounce as her head moves.
Kanan desperately appealing to Sabine's better instincts, the ones Hera instilled in her, and Sabine seeming serious all the way to the end until she holds herself back and shows mercy.
Aaaaaaaaaaah I have so many feelings!
Also LOL at Kanan being so frustrated with Mandalorians and how they fight at any provocation.
Sabine's "You need to trust me." sounds like she's already mentally backed down from her "RAWR MUST TAKE REVENGE" plot and is more calmly assessing the situation and figuring out how to accomplish the goal and adhere to Kanan's (and by proxy Hera's) wishes.
More Old West Hollywood shots here.
I don't think the visual similarity between this moment post-explosion and Sabine's fight with Gar Saxon in "Imperial Supercommandos" is a coincidence.
"You love making this hard for me." Lol aww.
...Where was Fenn intending to go? No really, this is gonna bug me. Was he going to search for the ship Kanan and Sabine clearly came in? Was he going to contact the Empire?
Oooh there's a leimotif in here that I'm sure I've heard, I can't determine what it's meant to symbolize or be associated with (maybe Kanan?) but it's a good one.
Obligatory pretty cloud shot.
Looks Rau straight in the face as he stabs his lightsaber through the Fang controls lolol, what a badass.
Kanan is exceptionally competent here. It's really sexy.
For those fans whose primary blorbo is Kanan I mean.
Fenn Rau begrudgingly accepting his defeat in acknowledgement of Kanan's raw skill. <3
It's not exactly what Hera wanted but it's close enough. Rau submits to a clearly superior foe and chooses to hedge his bets by ordering his men to grant them safe passage, out of a chagrined respect.
Love the callback to the joke in "A Princess On Lothal" lol
SABINE ACKNOWLEDGING KANAN'S POSITIVE JEDI INFLUENCE ON HER AND IMPLICITLY CALLING KANAN AND HERA HER PARENTS WITH HER COMMENT ABOUT BEING "RAISED RIGHT", WEEPING, SOBBING, GNASHING TEETH.
Awwwwwwwwww!
I... don't remember being super into this episode when it first aired. Mandalorians infighting with Mandalorians was never a drama I was into and I thought Sabine was frankly a little... boring?... as a character? In the early days for me at least. I was never much invested in her focal episodes in Season Two. She only really started getting interesting for me in Season Three.
But I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed rewatching this episode and seeing Sabine struggle against the competing family instincts and influences inside her.
That being said, it's Kanan who really shines in this episode, demonstrating perfect Jedi training and compassion, determined to find a peaceful solution to the conflict that honors both his values and Hera's wishes. He tempers Sabine's instinctual rage and anger and drive for revenge with calm serenity and mercy and it's this example that would influence several of her decisions in Season Three.
This episode is honestly a really quality one for the Kanan-Sabine bonding and relationship exploration. Maybe I didn't give its due at the time, but I'm finding myself really liking it now.
We're about to hit the Golden Streak, I am SO looking forward to covering the next several episodes. <3
#star wars#star was rebels#and his rainbow colored cupcake#(that's my tag for the kanan-sabine relationship)#rebels rewatch#liveblog
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Prompt: eye contact across a crowded room
(PHENOMENAL yes this is made for me lol; Hookhausen, JungleCorpse)
The hotel conference room flipped into a catering free for all around 10:30 this morning; the specifics don't really matter, but it's worth mentioning. Staff has set up long tables along the patterned carpet. It's one of the nicer rooms, and definitely the largest, and they needed it since the pre-Canada tour kick-off means everyone is present.
Staff has tried to keep things orderly, they really have, but chaos descended almost immediately when the food came out. Instead of two orderly lines at the ends, there are multiple half-formed lines every few feet. Wrestlers aren't very good at following rules, after all. They bump and shove to get to the ladles and plates and bowls, talking and laughing and celebrating. The Canada tour, at the end of the day, is a big deal.
It's easy to get caught up in the sway and the buzz, but we aren't here for the faces turned up towards the fluorescent lights in amusement. There are four figures who have barely moved, even with all the energy around them. These four, you see, are having trouble joining in the excitement that has swept away everyone else.
Two of them are standing next to each other, a valiant bid to keep the loneliness away. It's not a bad choice; most of the time, having someone to talk to makes the event go faster. But misery shared is never really halved, and hearts broken by others rarely line up correctly. Hook is staring at his phone. Jack is staring at the far wall.
You see, Hook expected a text message that never came, and he's struggling with the realization that he is the reason it failed to materialize. He thinks he should have gotten a warning, and he didn't. He is staring at his phone to avoid staring at the face across the room—the face he has, if we are being honest, and we are, been waiting to see again for many months.
Jack didn't expect a text, and he got one. The bare vulnerability of it has left him too jittery to hold onto a normal conversation, so it is fortuitous, then, that his companion is not fond of speaking. He does not look at his phone, because he thinks if he ignores it, then perhaps the overwhelm swelling in his chest will recede.
They receive a few curious glances, but their silence isn't out of the ordinary, and everyone else is too busy making plans and eating their banquet.
Hook opens his message thread again. He types out a few words, chews on his thumb, and then deletes them. His hand falls back down to his side.
Jack hasn't taken a bite of his meal yet. His stomach has turned upside down and no longer knows what to do with the offering.
They are, by themselves and together, a rather miserable pair.
Hook runs a hand through his hair; he will have to rally to save this evening. Jack lets out a deeply weary sigh—he will need to face the music.
It's worth mentioning here that, if they would only talk to each other, they would find they have much in common at the present moment, but conversing fits poorly on them both, and practice is too daunting a thought. Perhaps later, when the dust settles, they might find the possibility more enticing.
Finally, Hook’s shoulders straighten. Something seems to bloom inside, a second wind. He clicks his phone on and types with purpose. He waits for one long, agonizing moment. Then he sends his message to the other side of the room, to the phone number he has long memorized.
I think I love you.
On the far side of the conference hall, a phone buzzes. The owner's head snaps up. He's grateful he's got the full range of motion back to reach for it and tug it out of his pocket. He reads the new message with an eerie sort of calm, though it's mostly shock. Surprise gives way to a panicked euphoria, the kind most are intimately aware of, even if they claim not to be. He looks up, scanning the room.
Their eyes lock across the bodies. Hook doesn't move, and neither does Danhausen. They remain as they are, staring across the space that has now been bridged.
They'll find their way across it later, as one would hope; Hook has laid the first brick in rebuilding. Next to him, oblivious, and again, if only they would speak to one another, Jack sucks in a deep breath, the steadying kind that normally fails to produce the desired effect. He wrenches his gaze from the wall and searches expanse of space.
He finds his target, though he almost wishes he hadn't. The stare he receives is more of a glare, really, sharp-edged: shields, one might say, cast up to protect everything beneath. Jack's lungs expand like balloons and press against his ribs, waiting for Darby to look away, though he never does. Jack inhales, holds the air, and then exhales in a rush.
Between them, like a wrecking ball, hangs the message received twenty minutes before the event started that Jack will never, ever be able to forget.
I think I love you.
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‘Robert Smith isn’t people’s perceptions’: Stories behind classic photos of The Cure
As the Cure head out on tour across the UK, renowned photographer Tom Sheehan takes us on a trip through some classic pictures of the band.
LAURA KELLY
Tom Sheehan has been taking photos of The Cure since the ’80s. Snatching moments on tour in dressing rooms around the world. Persuading the band to pose in major European cities. Capturing that intense connection Robert Smith has with the camera, and acting as a conduit to the readers of Melody Maker, NME, Sounds and Record Mirror.
Sheehan’s new book The Cure: Pictures of You is a visual record of one of the UK’s most influential bands. As The Cure head out on tour across the UK, Sheehan looks back on his decades of working with the band to share his memories and the behind-the-scenes stories of some of his favourite shots.
The first time I met Robert [Smith] and Lol [Tolhurst, the Cure’s former drummer] was at the Shepherds Bush Hilton in 1982. The Cure were supporting the Banshees, and Robert was also playing in the Banshees so he was a tired boy, I guess.
We were under the cosh because they were about to head off to soundcheck. So, my journalist colleague got about 20 minutes on tape. I got a few frames of them going through a revolving door going out of the hotel. When I look at those pictures, I see there’s a lot of humour going on.
On that half roll of film, the majority of them they’re larking about and Robert was smiling. It was a very comfortable entry into the world of The Cure. There’s that kind of rolling humour that The Cure have, which, luckily for me, I seem to have tapped into from our very first encounter. The perception of Robert at that time wasn’t a very happy guy. He isn’t what people’s perceptions of him are.
Prior to a band recording or doing a gig or whatever, there’s always a little bit of camaraderie. You’re setting things up and there might be a little bit of joshing going on, but the minute you start rolling, you’re working. I’m performing as much as they are. They’ve got to respond to me.
Robert does have a reputation for being a control freak, but I think he hands over the baton to whoever is working with. He ain’t going to leap through hoops of fire, and it was never in my modus operandi to get pictures that made the turn look foolish. But I think he trusts people that he knows can do the job.
The Cure on tour: Robert Smith in Bologna. Photo: Tom Sheehan
Robert Smith enjoys the sculptures in Bologna: The Cure on tour in Italy, June 1984
This was on The Top tour. I joined them in Italy. They were quite a tight band. There’s always this thing when you join a band on tour, even if they know you a bit, you still feel like the outsider because you’re not part of the gang. Although you might be an honorary member for two or three days, you’re an outsider. It’s like you can’t argue with a married couple. It’s the same with any band, you know: they’ve got their own lingo, their own ways. You’re witnessing it, but you’re actually outside of it. And you’ll never be able to penetrate it.
That statue with a fountain is in Bologna, and it’s on a Sunday morning. The day before, the gig was great… but earlier on in the day, Robert had a dicky tummy. I think he’d eaten a dodgy prawn or something and he was laying on the on the dressing room floor, groaning in pain prior to soundcheck.
He recovered enough the next morning to go out. But it was a case of, let’s nail it. So that was just a quick once around the block and take some pictures. It was really fortuitous that there was some nice architecture around to utilise.
Lol Tolhurst and Robert Smith. Photo: Tom Sheehan
A cheeky moment with Robert Smith and Lol Tolhurst: The Cure on tour in Italy, June 1984
I have a history of them doing stuff [for other photographers] and me walking in and taking over the studio. There was this really famous Italian photographer who was shooting them for a really high-end publication. This guy was set up and then he was done, and he was talking to his assistant. I just shifted the lights around a bit, and whacked off a couple of frames. That was on the hoof, you know? If something presents itself, you just go to go, there you go chaps. And bang, bang, bang. This picture is the one Lol used on the cover of the UK version of his biography, Cured: The Tale of Two Imaginary Boys.
A dressing room portrait. Photo: Tom Sheehan
Getting Robert out of bed: The Cure on tour in Brussels, November 1987
It was a Saturday night, they played some club in Brussels which I can’t recall. We’re in the dressing room and Robert’s sorting out his hair and all that stuff. I’ve just got a couple of plastic backgrounds on a wall and I’m just saying, “Robert, the blue one.” I’m getting them as they’re ready.
If they’re getting ready for a show, they don’t really want me in their in their hair as well. So I pinned up two backgrounds next to each other so I could switch, one to the other. Then the Melody Maker’s got a choice of colours.
Those pictures have quite clear lighting, they’re quite defined. Good for a cover, perhaps. But I was gagging for something in daylight. So, I said to Robert, can we meet tomorrow lunchtime? I get there at one or two o’clock, and the bugger’s still in bed. It was in November, and it was getting dark. So, I thought I better go from street level up to the roof. And then Robert turns up and it’s that classic kind of ‘Tommy, do I really have to be here?’ kinda look. This kind of weathered, aged, ‘is this totally necessary?’ look. I always remember it, because it doesn’t look as dark as it was getting… or maybe it was just my sheer panic.
Eye contact is vital to make a photo work on the newsstand. Photo: Tom Sheehan
‘Give us your eyes’: The Cure on tour in France, 1989
This was a swifty – dive in and dive out. You can’t take a photograph of The Cure in their fatigues. You can’t do it until he’s ready, in the sense of made up, ready to go. The eyes are on, the lips on, the hair’s done. If they if they’ve got a gig coming, I have to be quite economical with the time because they’re on stage in 30 minutes.
Robert is really good at connecting with the camera. He knows what’s required. It’s not like the [Melody] Maker was some sort of art magazine. You couldn’t have some enigmatic, looking-at-the-stars shot, because it’d be too dark and the ink would fuck up. A lot of time it had to be quite clean.
When Melody Maker, along with the NME and Sounds and Record Mirror, was sitting with a multitude of other magazines on the news stand at Tottenham Court Road when you come out of the tube station, you’ve got to be able to see those minces [mince pies, rhyming slang for eyes] on the other side of the road. Every time I’m working with a man, whoever I’m photographing, I say, give us your eyes. Unless you got eye contact, you can’t expect people to look at it the same way.
Sometimes when you look into the lens and look into their eyes, it is a bit of a staring competition. With Robert I think he’s always been confident. I mean, God knows what he thinks about in his own time, but when he’s working his confidence is great. He’s always appeared to be older than his years as well.
A big day out to Westbury White Horse with the Cure. Photo: Tom Sheehan
Robert’s side hustle as a National Trust guide: The Cure in southwest England, 1995
This was a great day out. The band were done in the southwest recording [the album Wild Mood Swings] in that actress’s house [Jane Seymour’s house, St Catherine’s Court in Somerset]. I came down when they’d been stuck in the studio for a couple of weeks, so I’m sure they wanted a distraction. In other words, taking the piss out of a mature lensman. So, off we went.
Robert was, and probably still is, a member of the National Trust. So he had it all worked out, where we’re were going. We got in a van and we just travelled around. We went to Cheddar Gorge and all round that area. Robert had made a few notes, so he’d be looking at the map, and saying, “Coming up is…”
The horse doesn’t have any hidden meaning. It’s just the British countryside. But I like to think it confused a lot of people overseas, in Japan or whatever.
The Cure at Westside Studios. Photo: Tom Sheehan
Music icons: The Cure in Westside Studios, London, 2005
It was 2005, and The Cure were in Westside Studios recording. I was taking a picture of Robert with a copy of Bowie’s …Ziggy Stardust… for series of portraits on music icons and the records that inspired them. I said to him, “let’s get a couple of other portraits while we’re here”. There was this spiral staircase outside, so we headed there. Robert said to me “you’ll do better getting me from above…” and he was right. I like taking photos from above, you get a better line on people’s jaw. Their faces look better.
I think Robert worked out his relationship between him and the camera. I mean, he got his whole thing together, didn’t he? With the hair and the lips and the clobber. If you’ve got all that stuff around, you could confuse the viewer. So I’d always say, I still want the eyes. I want that contact.
The Cure: Pictures of You by Tom Sheehan, with a foreword by Robert Smith, is published November 3, 2022.
#article#tom sheehan#the cure#robert smith#simon gallup#perry bamonte#roger o'donnell#jason cooper#lol tolhurst#book#merch#music#alternative rock#gothic rock#new wave#post punk#80s music#90s music#2000s music#1984#1987#1989#1995#2005
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Thank you for Angel's Egg posting, saw it recently with some friends and so your posts on it felt fortuitous.
How did you interpret the soldier and egg girl? We spent ages after the movie trying to work out how we felt about them so I'd be interested to see what you thought.
Oh that's so cool! I'm glad you enjoyed it, I remember watching it on a whim with my sister years ago and just being awestruck and hypnotized by the movie. I've become a bit of a fanatic since then and singlehandedly drove up the value of merchandise of the movie by collecting all of it lol. It's dear to my heart for sure.
I think if you know anything about Christianity then the parallels between the soldier and Jesus should be fairly apparent. A lot of people think (I presume rightly) that the giant eye is supposed to be God, and the soldier seems connected to it in some way. He has a cross-shaped weapon and bandages on his hands. I think given the history Mamoru Oshii had with religion and the crisis of faith that inspired the movie make his role fairly certain in my eyes.
The girl, however, I don't really have a clear role for. A few interpretations of the film say she's going through a biblical test, which I think is probably accurate, but I'm not sure she represents a specific biblical figure. I'm not the most well-versed in religion despite knowing more than the layman though, so I might be wrong. I think that a big part of what makes her interesting to me though, and also the soldier, is this idea about their level of awareness or the intention behind the universe and what they're doing.
If the girl is undergoing a biblical test, does she even know why? Maybe, much like the story the soldier tells, she's forgotten why she's filling the jugs with water and protecting the egg. It may also be a bit unfair to say this given the soldier breaks the egg, but I also feel relatively certain he's in the dark too. Part of why I actually Angel's Egg-posted when I did is because I watched a video essay of someone's personal take on it because I was thinking about it, and it made me realize that the scene in the beginning with the bird in the egg was probably the dream the soldier alludes to. He also expresses memory loss and I feel inclined to believe him. The question of if the characters are genuinely being tested or if they're victims of a God who abandoned the world is probably the most important part of what makes the story interesting.
I'm presuming you know this much but for the uninitiated Mamoru Oshii made this movie right after having a crisis of faith after being deeply religious for many years, to the point of considering being a priest. I think a big part of Angel's Egg is that it is a way of expressing his uncertainty. There's a bit of spite there, but also grieving. There's no solid answers and things are open to interpretation because he also doesn't really have them. He was just trying to understand himself amidst this massive loss in his life, and channeled it into this bizarre biblical test that makes you wonder about its level of intent and if the characters' faith was rewarded at all.
I may have rambled on a bit about adjacent topics, sorry lol. This movie is just so fascinating I kinda can't help but infodump and discuss it. I just hope that what I said was in focus enough that it answered your question haha
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ohhh finally figured out my preferred aspect pairs :) (adding this afrer finishing the post: THIS GOT LONG SORRY LOL)
UNIVERSE: space/time. space includes everything, all matter and beings and potential in a chaotic, disorderly mess; time provides a dimension of order and routine to make space meaningful. together they create the fabric of the universe, the backdrop to existence
COMMUNITY: blood/breath. blood includes all bonds between persons, all relationships and connections that establish community; breath provides the individuality and necessary disconnects to ensure the community is comprised of distinct individuals. together they create society, rights, individuality, relationships
SELF: heart/life. heart includes the soul, the intangible essence of what makes a person themselves, including all potential choices they could make and lives they could live; life provides the physical form through which the soul interacts with the world, the body that defines who they become. together they create people, lives, alternate selves
EMOTION: rage/hope. rage includes a wide range of emotion, created through complacency, such as anger, disatisfaction, depression, anything resulting from the inability to see a way forward; hope provides that path forward through trust, courage, high spirits. together they create the emotional range of people, the reactions that guide them
FATE: mind/doom. mind includes all possible choices and actions, all potential timelines and alternatives that people can choose between; doom provides the inevitable fate of what will come to pass due to the immutable laws of the universe and alpha timeline, the structure for which choices will persist. together they create the distinct paths and alternate timelines through which people can travel
FORTUNE: void/light. void includes the nothingness that is the majority of the universe, the high probability that things will happen randomly without regard for good or bad; light provides the small, undeniable chance that the most fortuitous outcome will occur, the goldilocks planet in the vast expanse of space, the lucky break that seems too good to be true. together they create probability, potential, the ineffable random chance on which many things still rely
btw I framed these pairs very specifically to further split them into two broader categories; chaos (what would exist without interference) and order (the interference that makes existence meaningful). the aspects split as follows:
CHAOS: space, blood, heart, rage, mind, void
ORDER: time, breath, life, hope, doom, light
connections can be drawn between chaos aspects and order aspects (and, in fact, they often are). you can also divide the aspects further into reality (the backdrop on which people live and interact with one another) and inhabitants (the people who live and interact with one another on the backdrop of reality), which draws a few more distinct connections. the split is as follows:
REALITY: space/time, mind/doom, void/light
INHABITANTS: blood/breath, heart/life, rage/hope
and in this division, we can see some pretty clear parallels in terms of relative scale, for three subcategories: everything (everywhere, all at once), alternatives (clearly defined options to choose from), singularity (highly specific, in the moment chance). these divisions are as follows:
EVERYTHING: space/time, blood/breath
ALTERNATIVES: mind/doom, heart/life
SINGULARITY: void/light, rage/hope
this is it for me tbh. ive ordered the aspects in a way that makes sense to me; they all fuckin tie together. theyre split into pairs that cannot exist without the other, while still maintaining the connections to other parallel aspects that you cant really ignore. and man.... each aspect has two others completely disconnected from it and check this out
space: life, hope
time: heart, rage
blood: doom, light
breath: mind, void
mind: breath, hope
doom: blood, rage
heart: time, light
life: space, void
void: breath, life
light: blood, heart
rage: time, doom
hope: space, mind
doesnt work for all of them but hey. a lot of those aspect groups are ones that belong to kids with pretty notable relationships. something there about the aspects drawing in energy they dont have...... idk ill stop lol. but the point is I get aspects now!!!
#it me#homestuck#classpects#idek how to tag this#I feel like its important to say in the tags here that ive NEVERRR considered void and light as inverses before btw#like I was a big light/doom inverses truther for a long time#and I knew there was a connection to time there too!!#but thats just the order aspects that correspond with the reality stuff; theyre all pretty tied to fate#framing light as something 'significant' happening as opposed to 'nothing' happening helped a lot#I didnt wanna just base it on the more heavy handed symbolism yknow#but the fact that it works out like this makes me happy hehehehe#pair this w my class post and I can finally do true classpect inversions lmaooo
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astarion's thoughts on arlis AND as a bonus his thoughts on laera pls
𝑨𝑺𝑲 𝑨𝑩𝑶𝑼𝑻 𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑰𝑶𝑵'𝑺 𝑹𝑬𝑳𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑷𝑺…
❝ What do I think of Arlis? ❞ The question is met with one of his own as he casts a knowing gaze over to his companion. ❝ There are many traits I can assign Arlis. She's distant, resilient, dangerously cunning, and sorely lacking in people skills. Like quite a few other people I know, actually. Even so, she's incredibly resourceful and dependable in all matter of situations. Admittedly… I've come to appreciate her as something of a friend. She's honest, not just with herself but with me as well, and I like to believe that despite her reservations, she's willing to put her trust in me. ❞ His thoughts briefly flash to the moment she sought his confidence; her dark gift revealed to all, and it was him she chose. The gesture moved him then as it does now to think about.
❝ I seem to attract a type! Laera isn't so different, in fact. Unmovable as a tree stump in her convictions, but I suppose her unwillingness to budge on anything proves useful when she puts herself between a horde of goblins and us. ❞ He chuckles, continuing on with a cock of his head. ❝ Another resilient soul; I knew it then when I found her in the woods, and Laera continues to be fortuitously steadfast… She's staunchly loyal and unbearably willful. ❞ Astarion pauses in his thoughts, long a drawn out before speaking his next words in contemplative quiet. ❝ We've become close, she and I; I enjoy the time we spend together. ❞ Lips purse together, returning to his gaze to some unobvious spot That is all he has to say on that.
lol he says all these things about arlis, but i swear it's coming from a place of endearment. he recognises a lot of himself, his actions and motivations in both arlis and laera, and i think that's why he's drawn to them both. he might not be there yet, but arlis coming to confide him has perhaps changed his perspective on the party. they're not there just to benefit each other in the single goal they share, but they're also forming meaningful friendships! honestly, i think arlis and astarion have a lot of potential to become close. like… ' i will stand by you no matter what comes. ' type of close, and i'm HERE for it.
additionally, about laera, he is wrestling with what he feels for her and what she feels for him. laera has been very transparent about her feelings towards him, and it terrifies him. he's been conditioned to treat 'relationships' as meaningless, and without emotional attachment, but he can't deny that he's also drawn to her. i've always said their relationship goes in reverse: they develop a strong physical attraction toward each other and then all the emotional sorting comes later lol. it's daunting for astarion to navigate his own freedom and it's possible he might not even realise that if he wants, he can choose to love someone. the bes thing laera has offered him thus far is patience, and he's quietly grateful for that.
#darkgifted#❛ 𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖓. / headcanons.#❛ 𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖓. / loves (𝑙𝑎𝑒𝑟𝑎).#I LOVE HE AND ARLIS SM.#this took me a while but ITS DONE.
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To be fair, if you hadn't added the tag "ncuti just finished sex education like last week" I would have been confused at why he wouldn't have been able to get it. It's because the casting of the role was delayed. At first, the title made me think that David recommended him. Also not going to read the salty posts, haha.
Yeah, I, er, probably wouldn't have used the title myself, lol (sorry OP). But I think the post's point was that it wasn't, as it might have seemed to the public, that they cast Gatwa, and then retroactively crammed in the Tennant and Tate specials -- rather the idea for the Tennant and Tate specials came as an idea first, that pitch led to RTD taking over, and therefore led to him casting the next Doctor (and that casting happening fortuitously at a time when Gatwa was looking). If the Tate/Tennant pitch hadn't happened, who knows what would've gone on, who would've taken over the show, if it went on hiatus, who would've auditioned for the Doctor role if there'd been a new one cast, etc.
And yeah Gatwa has been busy! As I understand it Sex Education was meant to wrap in December but they got called back for reshoots and he only just finished. He posted an IG story when he wrapped. So, it seems doubtful he'd have been available to be the 'main' Doctor for episodes airing in 2023 anyway.
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hey cherry!!! ur wips look so interesting!! i was wondering about Fortuitous Encounters and Rumored Nights 👁
wip game
fi thank you!!! ❤️❤️ i talked about rumored nights and included a snippet here!
fortuitous encounters is a romcom style strangers to lovers that i've been plugging away at for a while! y/n and yoongi keep running into each other. they've never met before but all of a sudden they see each other literally everywhere. they know the same people, work in the same building and the universe keeps finding scenarios to put them together. i'm still plotting where we go from there lol but i've written a bit already so snippet below!
“Oh! This is my best friend, Y/n." Seulgi motions to you and you simply lift a hand in his direction.
"Nice to meet you. This is my best friend, Yoongi." Your ears perk up and your eyes dart behind him. It can’t be who you think it is, can it?
Sure enough, the thin, brunette boy you’ve run into on two separate occasions over the last month reaches the top of the stairs. He stands behind Hoseok with his hands in his pockets and his eyes locked on you.
The four of you stand there silently for a few more long, terrible seconds of no one speaking before Hoseok clears his throat.
"Hey so, Seulgi, wanna go uh, talk?" She nods so fast you think she gives herself whiplash.
"We'll be right back!" She sputters out before taking Hoseok's hand and disappearing into the bedroom behind them.
You and Yoongi are left in the hallway then and it seems a lot like the first time you met.
"So, this is crazy, huh?" Yoongi speaks up after what seems like an eternity.
"I know. What are the chances that our best friends were planning to meet up and fuck each other’s brains out."
Yoongi snorts, which turns into a cough when he tries to hide it. You smirk, and can’t help but think it was kind of cute.
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General. 3. 2. Story Specific. 7. 9. 11. 12.
Baldur's Gate 3 Companion!Tav Ask List || accepting [🏹]
|| @spiderwarden
General
3. Does your Tav have any comments or advice when you recruit other companions?
She would caution about those who seem to have more... dubious morals. Overall she's accepting of people joining the group, they need all the help they can get, but she will express caution to Tav.
2. Do the other companions have special comments or reactions upon recruiting your Tav?
"A ranger, out here in the woods? Seems fortuitous." "You're not from the Sword Coast, are you?" (upon hearing her thick accent) "A spider hunter? To each their own, I suppose." I don't know who would say what exactly lol.
Story Specific
7. What can they be found doing at the tiefling/goblin party?
Dronia is probably having a drink at her tent while tending to her armor and gear. The death of her fiance is still fresh and while there is reason to celebrate saving the tieflings (she leaves if you side with the goblins), she doesn't feel like celebrating much of anything, unfortunately.
9. Do they have unique dialogue if the Player Character lets them die when they steal the Blood of Lathander?
"I thought we were a team. What happened back there? While I appreciate that you brought me back, the fact that my death was an acceptable outcome hurts a lot, I won't lie."
11. What do they say if the PC tries to force them to go up on stage with Dribbles the Clown?
"After everything we've been through? I won't forget this."
12. Is it possible for your Tav to be kidnapped and replaced by Orin? How is Orin's deception revealed? How do they react to the PC rescuing them in the Temple of Bhaal?
Yes. The deception is revealed when Dronia suggests something completely out of line with her morals as a means to defeat the Absolute. The fake Dronia then leaning in to Tav like she's about to bite when Orin reveals her true form. Upon rescue, Dronia, shaken to the core, especially with the stink of blood soaking the place asks to return to camp, she needs to clear her head.
#🏹|| dronia | bg3 verse companion#m|| memes#ooc|| the bird has landed.#spiderwarden#i may have accidentally originally answered the story specific questions as if they were the general questions and quickly realized my goof
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Minfilia/Galbana Lily Bodyswap Excerpt
Gonna workshop that title, lol.
This teaser isn't quite the best slice of the fic to present. But I write linearly, so it's literally all I have done at the moment. Just wanted to show I've made some progress on the promised story.
Without further ado.
As the sun hung low upon the western skyline, a cool summer breeze slipped into the port of Valnain from the southern bay. Night would soon fall on the people of Dalmasca, the stars twinkling to life far above Valnain’s wooden and stone piers. It was a sight Minfilia had never grown tired of seeing no matter how many years passed, and tonight was no exception.
A week short of three months ago she had come back from the dead, her soul carried out from the depths of the aetherial sea in the bosom of her shining beacon of light—the Warrior of Light, Galbana Lily. After reuniting with the body Hydaelyn had crafted for her, she remained in Sharlayan for a time, that she might acclimate to mortal life once again. But restlessness was quick to set in for the both of them, and after just two short weeks they departed by sky for these distant lands.
They had been here for about nine weeks now. If they weren’t fighting in skirmishes between the Dalmascan resistance forces and the scattered remnants of the IVth Legion, then they were putting their minds and means to good use supporting Princess Ashelia’s restoration efforts. Just a week prior, they aided in putting down an attempt to seize the docks by the remaining soldiers under the command of Origa rem Brunyasch—an aging Hrothgar lioness and veteran of countless battles across Ilsabard’s southern seaboard.
With her defeat, the ships needed to reopen trade with the outside world remain in Dalmasca’s possession. More than that, Ashelia and her entourage were able to set sail for Thavnair, where they could begin laying the groundwork for a brighter tomorrow.
That’s what they were here for, more than anything else. Whatever glory there was to be had in fighting the IVth Legion paled in comparison.
All that said, it was rather refreshing to be out on the frontlines for a change. To step out from behind her desk, from behind her duty, and live a life all her own. So she didn’t mind it too much that Lily—or Ktjn, rather—suggested they set aside their names for the occasion. She swore it was just an alias, and Minfilia saw no reason not to humor her. But it was amusing, seeing her get flustered whenever she mispronounced it.
And as for herself…
“Ascilia, look over there!” exclaimed the soldier beside her—Zulal was her name; an Auri farmgirl with teal blue hair, a passion for winemaking, and a mere twenty-two summers behind her. “I think I see a ship on the horizon!”
At Zulal’s request, Minfilia had transferred to her unit two weeks prior. Before then they weren’t even acquaintances. They hadn’t even met, in fact, and while Zulal knew of the mercenary calling herself a Warrior of Light through gossip, Zulal herself was just another rank and file scout and sniper. If not for a fortuitous encounter Minfilia might never have met the girl, nor learned of her gift.
“Hold a moment,” Minfilia told her as she reached for her pack. After producing from within it a simple but high quality spyglass—a parting gift from her brother, Thancred—she brought it up to her right eye and peered across the horizon to the southwest. “... You’ve a good eye, Zulal. ‘Tis indeed a ship, and it’s flying our colors, too. Seems Her Royal Highness has concluded her business in Thavnair.”
“Really? May I see?” As Minfilia silently handed her the spyglass, Zulal took it and peered through the crystal lens on the small end. “Oh thank Faram. When I’d heard where the Princess had run off to, I was worried sick. Er, do you think she’s alright, actually? That’s where the Final Days kicked off, after all...”
“According to my partner, Thavnair managed to weather the Final Days better than most afflicted nations,” Minfilia explained, recalling the stories her kith and kin shared of the event. “But if you’re truly curious, why not listen in on them?”
Zulal gave her a quizzical look. “Weren’t you the one who stressed using my power responsibly?”
“Setting your mind at ease is a very responsible use of the Echo,” Minfilia answered, nodding sagely and giving the girl her most innocent smile. “Though if you feel you’d be crossing your own boundaries by doing so, then put the thought out of your mind. We must simply imagine the Princess safe and sound.”
Handing the spyglass back to Minfilia with a heavy sigh, Zulal turned to face the ship in the distance and closed her eyes, appearing to concentrate. Her mind was elsewhere now, a curious manifestation of her Echo. Where most could only glimpse memories of the past, she was able to experience them as they were being made. Power such as this would ordinarily require specialized equipment and powerful magicks—yet for an ordinary girl like Zulal, it was almost effortless.
But it was not always so, nor could she control it when her Echo first awoke in the tail end of the FInal Days. The girl had shared plenty of stories of losing consciousness for hours at a time, her mind adrift like a leaf on the wind. Yet through Minfilia’s own guidance and training, she was able to master this sliver of power bequeathed unto her by her own sundered soul. Even better, she was able to make good use of it in her duties to the Resistance.
Well, most of the time.
Several minutes had passed before Zulal’s eyes fluttered back open, her cheeks flushed red as her gaze slid to the floor beneath them. “W-well, she’s safe and sound, alright. But I think that surly attendant of hers might have a few words for me after they make landfall…”
“What makes you say that?” Minfilia asked, her curiosity piqued. “Whose mind did you anchor yourself to?”
“Princess Ashelia’s,” Zulal admitted, tapping her forefingers together sheepishly. “She, um, was sleeping. And cuddling a little stuffed lion.”
“That’s adorable, hm hm,” Ascilia softly chuckled. “But surely that wouldn’t trouble you so much. What happened?”
“Her attendant was glaring daggers at me the whole time,” Zulal began to clarify, looking Minfilia in the eyes like a scared doe. “At first I thought she was just keeping a close eye on the Princess, but as I was leaving she, she called out to me.”
“... By name?” Minfilia asked, somewhat incredulously.
“Mhm.” Zulal nodded. “I didn’t think she even knew who I was.”
“Mayhap she knows you better than you think,” Minfilia offered, though another possibility came to mind.
If this attendant was able to identify the presence of a wandering mind by name, then it suggested a unique talent in her own right: The power of soul sight. A gift able to be replicated, just as Zulal’s projection, but not quite to the extent the attendant had demonstrated. Of course, this was no more than an educated guess.
“Anyroad, don’t worry yourself sick over this,” she continued, clapping her young friend on the shoulder. “If she comes asking, state your case calmly and be sure to mention my role in getting you to spy on her, alright?”
“Thank you, Ascilia. Faram help me, I could face off against a dozen IVth Legion dastards, but the thought of getting on Her Majesty's bad side…” With another heavy sigh, Zulal shook her head. “We’d best stop slacking off. Only an hour left ‘till shift change. Any plans for the evening? One of my friends invited me to play cards, and you’re welcome to come along.”
“Actually, I was planning to seek out my partner,” Minfilia beamed. She wouldn’t have minded joining Zulal, of course. But it had been some time since she and Lily had been intimate, and she was feeling a little needy tonight. “Would you mind looking around the city for her? I’ll repay the favor next chance I get.”
At this, Zulal’s skin began to pale. “Y-You want me to spy on the B-Black Vulture? But d-doesn’t she have the Echo? She’ll see me for sure!”
But Minfilia merely shook her head. “Ktjn isn’t that gifted. So long as you don’t try anything funny with her, she won’t even notice.”
“O-Okay…” With a heavy swallow, Zulal turned around, scanning the breadth of Valnain’s rooftops. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find her, at least. Even someone like me could make out a soul with a presence like hers…”
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#27 Hail
[¯\_(ツ)_/¯ i was going for in a "hellooooo" hailing kinda thing but then they decided to be a dramatic jerk instead and didn't :V oh well. a continuation of #25/part 17 or whatever of time travel au]
While Thancred launches into an expansive retelling of Qahs'a's ability to wreak havoc on anyone's plans, the twins come over to sit with Qahs'a.
"I must admit, I don't know much about what was supposed to happen in Ul'dah, but you seem to have managed nearly the opposite of what I did know," Alphinaud murmurs, trying to keep his voice down enough so Ascilia won't hear them.
"I really didn't mean to," Qahs'a says wistfully.
"You absolutely did mean to," Alisaie grumbles.
"Well," he says. "I... I mean I couldn't have just left them, but the Echo..."
Both twins stare at him.
"The Echo what?" Alisaie asks, not keeping her voice down as much as she ought, and causing the various Circle of Knowing people to pause their discussion.
Qahs'a rubs his forehead. "I swear it's... confused? I've been, getting, you know, the usual," he waves a hand in lieu of a description of how the Echo actually drives his life, "but also... not? I get weird feeling... flashes of, I don't know... what.... should..." He trails off when he realizes he's being listened to by everyone.
Thancred crosses his arms. "You're vaguely aware of what might have happened had you not appeared so fortuitously."
Qahs'a winces and looks at the ground again, then shrugs one shoulder.
"The future is ever in motion," says a new voice. G'raha Tia is standing there, arms crossed, but it is clear he is leaning much more on his Exarch self than his younger one.
"And who might you be?" Y'shtola asks suspiciously.
"I am G'raha Tia, and at this point in time you would be able to find him living on the Isle of Val with the other Students of Baldesion," he says stiffly.
"So where have you been then?" Alisaie asks.
G'raha sighs, and crouches with their small group. "Mor Dhona. It is, unfortunately, much changed from that which we know. I daresay the Tower is out of our reach, but I fear it would not avail us even so."
"Why not?" demands Alisaie.
All G'raha says in response is, "I am intimately aware of the results with meddling in time."
[i go by the short timeline mostly so, funfacts, qahs'a and the twins are the same age as *consults my age tracker spreadsheet* luciane of the archer's guild, trachtoum of the fraudulent heroism, and vorsaile heuloix. but since none of those are particularly notable, i'll just say that cid, nero, and carvallain are a year older, and the people who are a year younger aaaare thancred, maybe yshtola, aymeric, estinien, jannequinard, severian, and leofard. and g'raha is physically the same age as niellefresne and novv the sahagin. he's also possibly the second oldest person here lol]
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maliketh look like a long panther
https://64.media.tumblr.com/993a7384cba39fe35b0efce9f97a4f05/d2e4df3d1092b253-d1/s2048x3072/70a5e707d1d37d418553df1829ce88ea7b902f1e.pnj
Wow Anon, great call, I think you're really into something!! Let's look at it. This is Anon's unholy picture :
At first I couldn't quite believe the legs were this long, as he gives me strong vibes of being like 60% torso, 30% arms and 10% legs (I'm exaggerating, you catch my drift). But I checked for proportions and it's entirely correct.
I drew over the 3D model from join to joint, and keeping it all proportional, applied it to other shots. I stopped at the base of the foot, didn't include toes/claws so it's a perfect match.
Moving on, I think you're definitely right. It's way more likely he's a deformed panther than anything else. Case in point, enjoy this montage I made comparing wolf and panther over him. You can open it in browser to have a closer look.
The leg proportions are a surprising fit! So are the arms and the general limbs-to-body proportions! Then of course, the tail... We're tricked by the long carded hair, but we KNOW that Fromsoft can model a wolf beast just fine :
This isn't accidental.
Then look at the face! The panther profile is almost a perfect match, in length and width. The wolf's snout is longer than the model when matching eyes with the base of the ears. It's also super thin and doesn't accommodate his jaw. The one thing it does better is the concave face, instead of the panther's more convex one.
Anothing thing is that panther teeth are most definitely not a match for Maliketh's teeth.
Seems like a different hunting/feeding lifestyle. The mouth in general doesn't really match, with thicker, shorter lips and a large... erm... whiskers area? lol Lateralis nasi I guess. While Mal is more wolf like in that area, even if he has a cat's nose.
And then of course, none of this explains why he has such a large jaw/stubby face while being so NARROW. If it weren't for this shot, he'd be much easier to classify. He's so squished... And it doesn't really fit his helmetless model. I wonder if the animators did some model manips for the money shots of the cutscene.
If any of you have a good access to photomode, I implore you to bring us close-ups of Maliketh facing the camera!!
Final point : the idea he's panther based is great to match his armour, black and gold instead of Serosh or Blaidd's silver! Probably fortuitous but it's neat anyway.
I'm convinced, Anon. Mal is probably a panther with some wolf features. If not within lore (I'm happy to wave off the details in the face of the "beast" designation), then at least in model inspiration.
#maliketh#maliketh the black blade#elden ring#maliketh elden ring#elden ring meta#meta#anon ask#thanks anon!#Seriously great call#fromsoftware#fromsoft
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top shelf//MGG - part 1
summary: broke and having a bad day, Reader runs into Matthew outside a café. after a couple encounters, his financial support and friendship become something more.
word count: 3k
content warnings: swearing but nothing else!
pairing: Fem!Reader/Matthew
A/N: hi! welcome to my new series. i don’t think this will be super long in terms of parts, but i’ll try to update as frequently as possible for you all. this chapter is pretty expositional, so i’m sorry in advance lol. also i know i made it short but lmk if you want them to be longer. also shoutout my sweet sweet angels @reidsconverse and @voidsfilm bc i would literally cry without both of you. also THANK YOU to @dr-spencerr-reidd for this concept bc i probably wouldn't have written it without your ask!! sending hugs :)
you throw your phone down on the passenger seat with a frustrated groan. after everything that's happened today, you're now stuck on a congested street with your car barely inside the parking spot alongside the sidewalk.
your screen sits there beside you, blank and unresponsive, and you know you're going to have to go inside the coffee shop to ask to use their phone and call Triple A. of course it's not working because nothing is working today. you might as well just sit in your car and cry.
but you can't, because you have a huge project for work that you need to get done by next week, and you've already procrastinated enough. a red glow from the headlights of other cars on the street shine through your windows like melted wax, distorted by the rain. it's been pouring all day.
bracing yourself for the onslaught, you grab the old umbrella from the foot well of the passenger seat and open the door of your car. the torrents hit your body like a wall of ice, soaking you as you try to get to the safety of the café. the umbrella helps a little, but then you get to the overhang and have to actually close it before you head inside.
your fingertips slip around the metal, trying to shove the thing closed while water drips off the bridge of your nose. it's frustrating. your footsteps are still determined as they move towards the entrance, but you're distracted by the stubborn nature of the object, so you don't see the man walking out.
it's not even a bodily collision, really. it's so much worse: the sopping material of the umbrella pokes him in the stomach, knocking the hot cup of coffee all over his sweater.
your eyes widen.
"oh my fucking god, I'm so sorry--" you stutter over your words, completely at a loss. his face is twisted up in an expression of concealed pain. it can't feel good to have hot coffee seeping through your clothes after being prodded by a piece of metal. you move your wet hair out of your face in order to look at him full-on.
"it's fine, really." he gives you what's supposed to be a friendly smile, but looks more like a grimace. your stomach twists; he's hot. like, if you saw him at the bar you would stare at him all night kind of hot.
"no, it's not," your face heats up, despite the cold, damp air. "let me buy you another coffee."
"I--" he glances down at his sweater, which is knitted with cute foxes on the front, then back at you. he pauses a moment and you have to bite down on your tongue to keep from collapsing. he's considerably older than you, but he doesn't dress or act that way. maybe late thirties, if you had to guess. "sure. thanks."
a flowering relief in your chest, partly because he doesn't seem angry and partly because you'd like to look at his face just a bit longer. your eyes stay on his until someone walks through the door of the café and reminds you of where you are.
without a word, you brush past and go into the building, him trailing behind.
Matthew watches as you walk ahead, your clothes spattered with rainwater and your hair somewhat messed up, too. he smiles to himself at the way you almost bump into the corner of a table, nervousness evident in nearly every movement.
you head to the counter, setting your hands on the granite while the barista checks out your unkempt appearance.
"hi," you smile at her before realizing you have no idea what this guy wants. you turn around and see him standing slightly behind you, suppressing a smile. he can tell how flustered you are, and now you look like a fool. "what coffee do you drink?"
"can I have a medium Americano, please?" he asks the barista with a friendly smile. he's got straight teeth, dimples... holy shit. you wish he had been unappealing so that this whole situation would be less humiliating.
you pay for his drink before getting out of the way, both of you slowly walking to the pickup counter.
"again, I'm really sorry. that stupid umbrella." you shake the thing at your side, raindrops falling to the floor. you run a hand through your wet hair.
"it's okay. I appreciate you getting me another cup." he flashes that smile again and you remember that his sweater is all stained. before you can think to do anything else, you pluck a handful of napkins from the self-serve station and start to dab at the material.
he looks down at you for a second, surprised by the way you grab his clothes. Matthew feels your hand pressing into his stomach innocently, and he feels himself blush a little. it's only when you pull away that he's able to regain his head.
"it's still bad," you throw away the napkins and re-evaluate the garment. "jesus christ, it's a nice sweater, too."
"hey, it's totally fine. I can just wash it out." he lets out a slight chuckle, and the sound makes your heart flutter. he's got a dad laugh. deep in his chest.
"baking soda and water." you say abruptly. he frowns.
"what?"
"to get the stain out? I use baking soda and water for coffee stains and it usually works." you explain gently, your eyes meeting again. his irises are a brownish hazel color, warm. the laugh lines by them are charming.
"oh," he grins. "do you get coffee stains often?"
you twist your mouth to the side and glance at the windows of the coffee shop. he's teasing you and you'd be remiss if you said you don't want to play along. "more than I'd like to admit."
you can feel him looking at you with that stupidly brilliant smile and it's really setting you off-kilter. someone shouldn't be that attractive; it's not fair. and yet you want desperately to stare, if purely for the sake of aesthetic enjoyment.
"I'm Matthew." he extends his hand, which is decorated with a series of rings. you realize that you don't even know his name.
"Y/N." you shake. his fingers are softer than you expected.
"nice to meet you, Y/N."
"and under such fortuitous circumstances." the corners of your mouth turn up as you relax a little.
he laughs at your words, the delightful ring of it interrupted by a new Americano showing up on the counter. he glances at the to-go cup, then at you, then goes to get his drink. you wish you knew what he was thinking, but he's not displaying anything past friendliness.
"well, um." something like disappointment settles in your stomach as you recognize this will be the last of your interaction. there's no reason for him to stick around, and you need to get back home to work, anyway.
"I'll let you get back to your day." Matthew doesn't seem nervous, just unsure as he grips the coffee in his hand. you open and close your mouth like something impressive enough to keep him here will come out. you know it won't.
and then you remember the state of affairs, the existence of your useless car and the useless phone in the front seat, how you're going to have to call Triple A and then your roommate to come get you.
Matthew realizes that you aren't going to say anything and he gives you one last smile and an awkward wave before turning to go. you watch in silence as he crosses the room to the door. two more seconds until he's out of your life forever. so of course you choose this exact moment to speak.
"wait."
his head jerks suddenly to look at you. this is embarrassing, but you have nothing to lose.
"can I... borrow your phone?"
Matthew tilts his head to the side slightly, frowning as though deeply confused. and you suppose it is a strange thing to ask, especially given that you're a younger person and most people your age carry their phones everywhere. "sure." he walks back over to you, pulling his cell out of his pocket.
"I just--" you fumble with the device while you decide how to phrase it without sounding like a pathetic mess. "my car keeps breaking down and my phone battery is, like, totally fucked, so it just turns off and on constantly and it’s still in my car but it’s raining and I just wanna see if it’s back on so I can call my roommate." you immediately cringe at yourself. the rambling isn’t cute.
he’s not too bothered by your panicking, though, his mouth only forming an O shape. "it’s no problem."
you dial your number, fingers trembling while he waits. he's turned his eyes to the rest of the coffee shop, but it still makes you nervous that he's standing right there. you put the cell to your ear and pray that it rings out.
you’re greeted by the sound of your own voice telling you to leave a message. great. with a frustrated sigh, you hang up and Matthew gives you an inquisitive expression.
“it’s still off,” you explain. “I’m gonna call my roommate.”
he nods and shoves his hands into his pockets while you punch in the other number. for a split second, you peek his way and admire his side profile. he really is something to behold; a model, maybe.
"hello?" good thing Cecilia has no problem answering unknown numbers. you bite your lip.
"hey, it's me."
"Y/N? whose phone are you using?"
"uh, someone I just met--" you frown as you try to find a way to describe him without something as insulting as a random guy. "anyway, my car broke down so I was wondering if you could pick me up."
there's a pause on the other end of the line, like the movement of sheets and the slightly disappointed groan of another person. she probably has her boyfriend over again. "sure, of course. where are you?"
you give her the address and hang up before dialing the car repair company. Matthew gestures to a table off to the side so that you two don't need to stand, and then you sit down across from him. you're so distracted by the person on the other end of the line that you don't even think about it.
Matthew twists his rings on his fingers. he's fidgety and it's sort of cute. you try not to stare at his hands, at the black spot of ink on the outside of his pinky. either he writes a lot or he's an artist. you have to focus on the table in order to keep from blushing.
finally, you finish up with the phone and hand it back to him. "you're a life saver."
"do you want me to wait with you until your friend gets here?" he gestures out the window. your immediate reaction is to say yes. it'll be awkward to sit here alone without your phone, without coffee. but you don't want to keep him any longer than you already have.
"it's okay, I'm sure you have places to be." you smile accommodatingly. he chooses his next words carefully, it seems.
"I don't, really. but I'll leave you alone if that's what you want, too." the way he speaks, offering his company without trying to impose... something about it makes your heart melt a bit. you appreciate his thoughtfulness. it makes you want to know more.
"okay," you nod as you make your decision. "if you wanna stay. it shouldn't be too long."
"great," he settles back into his chair, the light from the café lights above you reflecting off the lenses of his glasses. "why does your car keep breaking down?"
you exhale sharply at the thought. "that's a really good question, because I don't know the answer. it's super old and I'm too broke to afford a new one."
he nods.
Matthew's mind turns to different avenues at this knowledge. he knows you're young and that usually means that there isn't a lot of spare income. and he doesn't know if you have a job. but what he does know is that you've got an energy about you-- a sweet, well-intentioned manner that draws him in. every once in a while throughout the conversation, you throw out certain phrases that hint at a quick-witted intelligence.
you're funny, but not boldly so. and when you two get on the topic of how you ended up rain-soaked, shoving your way into a Los Angeles café, you tell him about your day.
"--and I have this shitty job right now working for one of my old professor's friends, so it's not like I can afford to constantly repair the damages. all my money is going towards my savings so I can pay for grad school, anyway." you sigh. he listens intently to your words, and he never shies away from eye contact. every time he nods along, you practically feel your heart leap.
"what do you do?" he asks.
"I write for a wellness magazine, but I'm sort of a fraud." you joke.
he laughs. "why's that?"
"I don't know, a lot of it is about different yoga methods and meditation, stuff like that-- but I don't do any of that in my daily life." you admit. it should be embarrassing, but you don't feel ashamed of the fact. he seems to find it funny.
"working your way toward a different kind of job, then?"
"I'm hoping for a more editorial role, honestly, but..." you lift your eyes to his. they're bright, he notices; full of a deep-rooted hope. "gotta start somewhere, right?"
"very true." Matthew wants to tell you just how much he understands, about the roles as an actor he's taken and the hours he spent making films in college, just hoping that one day he'd be able to make things on his own, but he doesn't want to scare you away or sound like he's bragging. it's not your fault you don't know who he is.
"sorry," you speak through a silence he doesn't realize he's left between you two. "I've talked your ear off and you don't even really know me. what do you do?"
"oh--" Matthew actually blushes this time. you see the pink creeping up his neck. "I'm an actor."
in the same way they did when you ran into him, your eyes widen. "an actor?"
"yeah," he smiles at the expression on your face. "you know that show, Criminal Minds?"
the name is familiar, but you've never seen an episode. "yeah, of course."
"I'm in that."
you don't know a lot about the program, but you've heard it talked about and you know that it's a popular show. so this guy is an actual actor, not just some LA wannabe. that makes him about five times more intimidating. you feel even more idiotic for not seeing it before.
"oh, shit," the words tumble out. Matthew grins at the bluntness of your reaction, and you scramble to recover. "sorry I didn't know who you are."
"no worries!" he laughs it off. "it's not a big deal."
"do you like it?" you ask. "being famous, I mean."
he shifts in his seat for a second as he makes a face like he doesn't know how to answer. you wonder if there's something deeper to him that you just haven't seen, yet. secret feelings about the subject. "I'm really not very famous, but I love the work."
genuinely humble. you can see it in his face, the sparkle in his eyes. and maybe he's just charming and you're just a girl blinded by his attractiveness, but your gut tells you that he's being real.
this time, you're the one who falls silent. admittedly, you get a little in your head sometimes. and it makes sense, now, the smoothness of his behavior and the sheer beauty of his face. this is a show business city-- of course he's famous.
Matthew's phone rings and he jumps, as if jolted from a dream. your attention moves immediately to the screen and you recognize Cecilia's number. he pushes the device over to you.
"hello?" your voice sounds far away.
"hey, I'm here. where are you?" she says.
"I'm just inside the café."
"oh, okay, I'll park and come in--" you hear the click of a seatbelt and start to panic. she can't see you in here with him.
"no!" you say too loudly. Matthew's head jerks up to frown at you.
"why not?" Cecilia asks, confused.
"no reason," god, you're a bad liar. "I'll come out and we can wait for the Triple A person in your car." you and Matthew make eye contact again. he gives you an understanding smile. your stomach flips.
"sounds good." she hangs up and you grab your umbrella. time to go.
"thanks for letting me use your phone." you stand, not really wanting to say goodbye but also lacking a reason to stay. he remains in his spot, seemingly now settled into this little corner of the café. it sort of suits him, this place. all cozy and slightly strange.
“happy to help.” you notice the tip of his tongue dart out over his bottom lip as if deliberating whether or not to say anything further. but he doesn’t and you feel awkward just standing there by the table.
“I’ll, uh…” you could ask for his number. but that would be weird, right? he doesn’t really seem to have an interest, anyway. “I’ll see you around, then.”
“yeah. it was nice to meet you, Y/N.” he gives one more of those killer smiles and you turn around, almost bumping into a display of coffee beans before correcting yourself and heading back outside.
taglist (lmk if you want to be added or removed!): @la-vie-en-amour1 @reidsconverse @voidsfilm
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You Never Break ⚜ Part Ⅰ
⊰ ☘ ⊱ Cardan's POV: The Queen of Nothing, from the end of Chapter 13 through Chapter 17.
⊰ ☘ ⊱ A massive, pterodactyl-screeching thank you to my dearest punishment @euridce and the bombastic @figonas for dealing with my bullshit and allowing me to subject them to betaing this (and literally everything else), but especially for being my Hype Train Goblin Queens and not letting me lose to my perfectionism.
⊰ ☘ ⊱ { edit: the wordcount actually turned out to be 3,765 because I added more shit after I copypasta'd here but I literally cannot be arsed to change the graphic lol. }
≼ FIC MASTERLIST HERE≽
Contrary to erstwhile thinking, it is not quite as simple a task to travel at any expeditious speed whilst carrying a half-dead goblin through the biting nighttide—whilst also taking care to keep yourself and aforementioned half-dead goblin undiscovered by those who would very much like to lop your kingly head right off of your kingly shoulders.
And, if all of that is not enough of a juggling act, appending the minor detail that you’ve just taken flight on a steed conjured from the ragwort in your pocket, after leaving your wife below (at her behest and your protest) to fend for herself with naught but a magical cloak and her unspoken, mortal promise to do as you say...
Well. There are reasons you are not lauded for your prowess as a jester, just as your Queen is even less admired for her graces of verity.
Yet, surely by some feat of fortuitous magic, Cardan does manage it; the concealing mists part just enough to allow the flying mount and its travelers to slip through.
Braving a glance over his shoulder, he watches as the fog coils and swirls closed like a protective curtain behind them. It's disorienting—very like taking an overconfident step forward, only to find the ground is not quite as close as you first perceived.
Even as one often besotted with wine and other such stupefacients, Cardan does not particularly enjoy that feeling.
Sea fret mingles with the haze of preternatural clouds as they begin a descent. It veils his lips, clings to his wool-spun clothing and weighs down his hair. He shakes the dampened curls from his eyes just as the four isles of Elfhame begin to take shape in the darkness beneath him, and lets out an unsteady breath; he wonders, absently, if he's exhaled at all since leaving Jude on the ground.
He cannot help the inglorious relief that the Roach, in his state, does not hear it.
It’s an odd sensation, to observe your kingdom from such a high vantage point. Perhaps, before now, he disallowed himself to feel the full measure of his obligation; the sobering comprehension that this vastness of soil and sapling and stone, along with all its inhabitants, will thrive, or decay, under his governance.
Looking down at the land—his land—brings that realization crashing down upon him with as much force as one of Balekin’s punishments.
Cardan tightens his grip on the animal’s leafy mane against a bout of dizziness, abruptly wishing he had something a bit less insubstantial with which to steady himself.
The Crooked Forest rises to meet them, gnarled limbs twisting upward as if to embrace their sovereign. That seems illusionary, though Cardan does note at once the marked shift in the air; while still cool, no longer does each inhale carry an icy jab to his lungs or bite at the tips of his ears. It envelopes him and his company, gently carrying them above the mossy heads of slumbering root men and women.
None of them stir, thankfully, but Cardan isn’t altogether sure his arrival goes unnoticed by them, either.
Welcome home, young King, the wind seems to whisper in his ear. Cardan shivers, and it has nothing to do with the weather.
Alighting just at the edge of the hollow hill, Cardan takes a half-breath to think—and reproaches himself for not doing more of that before they had landed; the Roach’s etiolated complexion, rattling breath, and stiffening limbs are not an entirely promising combination.
Then, there is yet the matter of finding Liliver, who might not even be in the palace. And even then, there is the very real likelihood that he is already too late, that the deathsweet’s effects may have already reached its peak.
Cardan has to swallow against the bile creeping up his throat at that unsettling thought.
If only Jude had just come with him.
Mistress of strategy and scheming, she would have drawn up a clever plan before they even took flight, as well as a surfeit of contingencies. Moreover, she would know better than he whether or not they held the favor of time; her province of poison is concerningly vast, as she had proven when Cardan himself very nearly shuffled off his immortal coil in dissolution.
Jude had known in an instant, merely by tasting the wraithberry that had stained his lips. How she knew its savour, to say nothing of how she knew it so intimately, Cardan knows not and she has yet to divulge.
It is but another closely-clutched secret he must tack onto the growing list of queries for things a man really ought to know about his wife.
In the interim, the High King of Elfhame—and, more regrettably, the Roach—must rely entirely on himself.
Not much of a comfort, that.
Keeping a hand on the Roach to prevent his suffering an unnecessary fall from the horse, Cardan swings himself off of the thing’s back. With care, he lifts the inanimate body of his mentor into his arms. A low, distressed groan comes from the Roach at being jostled—the first sign of cognizance he’s shown since they left Grimsen’s forge. As pained as the sound is, it nonetheless gives Cardan a small hope that perhaps he hasn’t been too late after all.
Its magic spent, the ragwort pony dissolves in a puff of yellow perianths; an indolent breeze scatters some of the remnants across the dark hill, while others continue their aimless drifting to pollinate elsewhere on the isles. Cardan watches a lone petal catch in the wiry hair of the Roach’s brow and without thinking, he brushes it away. He justifies this allowance of rare gentleness with the fact that no one is around to bear witness to it.
As friendship goes, Cardan is all too aware he hasn’t known much in the way of loyalty or for reasons beyond selfish gain. His former companions had desired only what they could glean from him, the immunity his sway as a prince that had granted them the ability to carry out whatever deviant fancy they could dream up. Even Nicasia had had her own contrivances for being his lover, until she had ultimately found more excitement in the stories—and bed—of Locke.
He is not experienced in having a friend simply for the sake of it. In having someone—or a few someones, for that matter—enjoy his wit and cleverness and skills. That enjoy him, Cardan Greenbriar, rather than what advantages the crown atop his head can give.
Perhaps it is dangerous territory for a king to have bonds extending beyond those of mere allies. Perhaps the trust that comes with such friendships is a bit like handing over a blade to your enemy, freshly sharpened, and saying, Here you go, this holds all the ways with which to kill me. I’ll just turn my back.
Even so, when all you have known your entire life is the contempt and malignancy of those who ought to love you, it is not an entirely stunning realization that you would hand over that blade so willingly.
And he had done, in earnest; in his naivety with Nicasia. In his camaraderie with the Court of Shadows. In everything with Jude.
This is doubtless the reason Cardan’s feet begin to move now, carrying him and the Roach in his arms to the palace entrance with some new swell of confidence.
Perhaps it is a detriment to believe that these new friends would not be so hastened and flippant as the last to betray him, but he believes it nevertheless. He also knows, albeit by way of unfortunate experience, that when the situation had been reversed, they had not wasted an idle moment in saving him.
So on he goes, through the wall and into the brugh, careful to keep the Roach’s pallid face hidden in the crook of his arm and denying any assistance his guards offer with a firm shake of his head. They move to follow, but halt at once and return to their posts when Cardan waves them off. Of the merits that come with being King, Cardan is especially grateful that denying explanations is one of them.
Even more fortuitously, his journey is not further hindered by any member of the Living Council—who have undoubtedly been tearing at their beards and skirts attempting to locate and descend upon their unruly monarch. Cardan imagines even now they are in the war room or assembled in his chambers, pacing and theorizing and crying out in panic.
At the thought of the Minister of Keys pounding his fists on the table and cursing his luck for having such an impudent master to serve, the corner of Cardan’s mouth twitches. If only the wizened Randalin had the sense to make himself more difficult to nettle, perhaps Cardan would try to do so less.
Though the hill is yet alive, with lingering revelers still clutching the edges of twilight and servants clearing the remnants of food and drink, the many tricks of sly-footing he has been taught manages to keep him out of sight from any who might notice; it takes no time at all to slip through the hidden passage, into the wine cellar and emerge on the other side of the new Court of Shadows.
Cardan had hoped to show and consult Jude on the plans for these rooms, including the strategy chamber he had in mind for her—of which he was particularly proud: he had designed it himself—after she pardoned herself and returned to him.
That hadn’t gone entirely the way he had imagined, and so they had gone on with the rebuilding without her.
Cardan resolves that now, he can simply give her a full tour of them, should she come back posthaste. Should she decide to come back at all.
No, he rebuffs that line of thinking.
Jude will return, just as she promised.
When she comes home, Cardan will lead her through the rebuilt Court, and she will ooh and ahh and find him so ridiculously clever she’ll be too awed to do anything but kiss him for his prodigiousness.
She will forget she had ever been angry with him—or, at the very least, spare him the full measure of her wrath. She will forgive him for his trickery and assure him again that she had not fed his letters to the fire; she will tell him how desperately she missed him, that the mortal world is awful and terrible and nothing worth going back to. He will kiss her hair and tell her they need never be parted again.
They will begin their reign as they should have done the moment their vows were made, and all will be just fine and well and as it should be.
These are all of the things Cardan tells himself as he steps into the main chamber.
He chuckles quietly to the darkness, a sudden incredulity sweeping over him; after all his prior distaste for mortals and those little hopeful deceits they allow, to wish away an awful thing or to make that awful thing seem less terrible, he has caught himself doing just that. He wonders what Jude might say, if he said her mortality was rubbing off on him?
Upon entering the main hall, Cardan is met with a collective gasp—either from the sudden, unannounced arrival of the High King or at the state of the Roach, he doesn’t know, nor does he have time to find out; before he can call for her, Liliver is already there, her dark face paled and taut. She does not seem to even notice Cardan, her frantic, wide-eyed gaze fixed on the Roach.
“What happened to him?” The Bomb demands, seeming to realize Cardan’s presence only as an afterthought, though he does nothing to reprimand her for her tone. The current circumstance, along with the raw fear on the rogue’s face, is enough to cast any necessity for formalities into shadow.
"Darts, poisoned with deathsweet," Cardan tells her, elaborating when Liliver's piercing glare flickers up to meet him. "We... misestimated the cleverness of the traps Grimsen set to protect his forge."
The Bomb frowns at that, and Cardan is sure he’ll have much more explaining to do before the night is through and she is fully satisfied, but neither of them need reminding of the more important matter at hand.
“Let’s—let’s get him to a bed,” Liliver says. Though her voice wavers, her eyes never leave the disturbingly still body of the Roach as she leads them into a small room carved out from the main one.
She steps aside to allow Cardan to enter and lower the Roach onto the single bed, before seating herself on the edge of it. A bundle of tinctures and salves rest in her lap, from where or how she procured them so quickly, Cardan doesn’t know and isn’t inclined to ask. By the deep-set furrow of her brow and the way she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, she is calculating the situation and he wagers any unnecessary queries might hinder—or annoy—her deliberation. So he simply stands there, silent and helpless, watching her work.
The light emitting from the small orbs hanging above their heads does little to illuminate much of the Roach’s features, but it’s bright enough to view the waxen sheen of his skin, the odd way his limbs lie rigid at his side.
He looks as close to death as one could appear, and if not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, one could easily believe he had already gone.
Cardan swallows and looks away, as if staring instead at the rough stone floor will quash the disquiet he feels.
If the Roach succumbs to the poison, he knows with whom the fault will lie, and there will be none among them to scorn him as much as he will scorn himself.
As Liliver works, sifting through the assortment of small glass bottles in her lap until she picks one filled with a thick, amber solution, Cardan gives her as much detail of the night's emprises as he can in short order: their attempted (and rather unsuccessful) rescue of Jude, of the Roach’s poisoning; of why they had entered the smith’s forge in the first place.
Upon hearing the truth behind the Ghost’s betrayal, the vial slips from her hand and Cardan barely manages to snatch it from the air before it shatters on the ground.
The Bomb’s eyes are wide as saucers as she takes back the bottle, but Cardan thinks he catches the smallest glint of hope in them, despite their current predicament.
“You mean, all this time... he was being commanded? Controlled by Locke and Madoc?”
Cardan nods. “Doubtless by my brother as well, though Jude didn’t say one way or another.”
He wouldn’t have considered it debasing of Dain's character to control someone in such totality. In fact, he has no misgivings at all that there was anything, save perhaps a grubworm, that had been beneath his brother.
He shakes his head and shrugs, more to his own thoughts than the Bomb's question. “I’ll let her tell us which it is, when she comes home.”
It is too afflictive to imagine she will not, that he has yet again voraciously lapped up a lie she has fed him.
He cannot believe that as he waits, Jude is riding off through the air with her sisters back to the mortal world, laughing as she tells them how effortlessly she has fooled the desperate High King of Faerie.
He will have time enough to wallow in his own selfish, agonized reveries; Cardan wills his attention back to the present, back to the Bomb and the Roach, who appears even less on the fortunate side of time since they arrived.
“Will he…”
Live, or die. Both words are there on his tongue, but he cannot bring himself to say either and the question lingers, thick and unfinished in the air between the three of them.
Liliver doesn’t seem willing—or able to answer, only giving him a small shake of cloud-white curls as she keeps her back to him.
Watching how carefully she wipes the Roach’s forehead with a damp cloth, hearing the hushed, unintelligible things she tells him, the understanding that Cardan perhaps ought not intrude further becomes all too clear.
He has completed his task, what he promised Jude he would do. There is nothing more required of him.
With Liliver’s promise that she will send word of any changes, good or ill, Cardan excuses himself from the Court of Shadows.
Cardan spends the remainder of the day in his chambers attempting sleep, because he has proved himself of little use elsewhere, there is nothing else to do, and because if Jude were here she would tell him a High King needs rest if he is to go delegating and answering petitions and doing whatever else there is that good, proper kings are supposed to do.
However, it is precisely because Jude isn’t here that he cannot rest.
Though he does give it an honest effort. He tries lying on his back, drawing forth tiny white blossoms to count as they bloom above his head, aiming to bore himself into a stupor. He counts and counts and counts. The mingling fragrance of several different flowers permeates the room and penetrates his nose.
When he reaches six hundred forty-seven for the third time, he gives that up.
Exasperated, Cardan flops onto his side, stretching an arm across the sheets. He stares at the empty space beside him, where Jude had rested the first night they had spent together—the night he had convinced her that becoming Queen of Elfhame, his wife, was the better choice for both of them.
It had all been true, of course: everything Cardan had said to get her to agree. There had been no deception or scheming in his words; he had desired his freedom, as desperately as Jude craved power, and their union had the ability to grant both in absolution.
The Living Council had become insistent on the idea that their King should take a wife anyway, for their own overboring political reasons, and so Cardan had.
The only addendum to all of this, the only detail that he had surreptitiously kept from both the Council and Jude, was that he wanted to marry her.
Not Nicasia, as the Council had wanted, as Cardan had once believed he should and could enjoy. Not the hag Mother Marrow’s daughter, who likely would have found some clever way to cause his demise so that she might live on as the sole ruler of Faerie. None of them would have been well-suited for him, nor he well-suited for them.
None of them could give him what he wanted, because what he wanted was Jude.
That is all he wants now—to have her home and here in his bed, to fill the space that has been empty since she left.
Since he made her leave.
Cardan pushes himself off the bed in a frustrated huff. Deciding he could do with a little less sober thinking, he calls for wine, and when the servant arrives with a fresh decanter and goblet, he fills it to the brim and drinks it to the dregs. After repeating this process a few more times, Cardan rounds the large desk—his father’s desk, he cannot help to remind himself, no matter how many times he sits at it—to continue the speech he’s been writing.
He picks up the slip of paper between two fingers and holds it to the guttering candle flame to examine it. It’s already a rather lengthy speech, admittedly, but more important than any he has articulated yet.
It is one explaining to Jude that her exile had not been methodically planned, that he thought she would work it out much more expeditiously. He would further explain he had not accounted for the fact she hadn’t worked it out at all, and that he had come to fully regret his own cleverness midway through his second letter.
Of course, Jude had told him she hadn’t received any of those letters.
He cannot help recalling how she looked at him then, the last time they were here in his rooms: skittish and trembling, desperate as a wild animal backed into a corner.
Hardly a fortnight has passed since Madoc had taken her, believing he had heroically rescued her twin from nigh execution. And yet it feels as distant as any half-remembered dream upon waking, blurred on the details and every attempt to grasp the memory only causes it to slip further away. Like a hand waving smoke.
Except a dream is something usually pleasant; smiling faces, a kiss one might yearn for in the waking world and only receive when they close their eyes.
Dreams are things of wonderment. Pretty visions and heart’s desires.
No, it had not been like a dream at all—not the way she had looked at him.
That hatred, burning into him like white-hot iron, the fear she could lie away with words but could not conceal from her face, the venom in her voice when she spoke. It was more terrible than any of Cardan’s nightmares.
Everything you say to me, everything you promise, it’s all a trick. And I, stupid enough to believe you once.
He had wanted to reach out to her, to take her hand and tell her his trick had been only that, a hasty plan to keep her out of Orlagh’s grasp. He had wanted to pull her to him and breathe in the comforting scent of her hair, to feel her warmth against his chest. To beg her forgiveness and will away her anger with a kiss.
Then he had seen the glint of the blade in her hand.
Even after Vivi’s flustered explanation of her sister’s capture, after he and the Roach had set out from the mortal world to find her—even after their brief moment in Madoc’s camp just hours ago, when Jude swore she hadn’t thrown in her lot with her betrayer of a foster-father, Cardan cannot rend from his mind the image of her holding that knife.
He passes the paper through the flame and watches it burn until it is nothing but a stain of black ash on the desk.
Waving away the lingering smoke, he rises and goes to dress for the night ahead, without rest, and knowing that no amount of sleep or drink or honeyed words will erase what he has done—or may yet do.
⊰ ☘ ⊱ okAY so this first bit turned out a lot longer than I'd originally intended (legit this whole thing was supposed to just be a oneshot lmfao) but if you made it this far, I'm very sorry but thanks for taking the time to read. I hope you enjoyed it, and as usual—if you didn't, don't tell me about it.
If you want to be added to my tag list, just yeet a reply to this post and I'll add you.
⊰ ☘ ⊱ @euridce @figonas @jurdanhell
#felix's fuckin' fic list#; felix does a write#cardan greenbriar#jude duarte#jurdan#cardan x jude#jude x cardan#the folk of the air#the queen of nothing#tfota#qon#holly black#tfota fic#tfota fanfic
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