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corellian-smuggler · 4 years

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Partner

Leia couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so scared. She’d almost been shot by Imperials at least ten times in the past month, and had only evaded capture by the skin of her teeth on her last mission. The week before she and Han had had to jump from the roof of a 60-story building onto the top of the Falcon in order to escape an Imperial intelligence agency with their lives. She’d been face to face with death, defeat, and imminent torture countless times since Yavin, and had hardly batted an eye.

“D-d-don’t worry, Worship. ‘M gonna—gonna get.... get us... outta this...”

Leia touched his forehead, and despite the icy cold, found that his skin was burning.

They’d been in the mountains for three days. Leia had secured the data chip that had been their objective into her pack, and they’d embarked on the trek back to their rendezvous point to meet Chewie—but Han had been coughing. And rasping.

You shouldn’t have come, Han, she’d scolded as he’d attempted to stifle fits of coughing in the crook of his arm. You’re sick—

Corellians don’t get sick, he’d insisted, again and again. As the days had progressed, his voice had grown hoarser, his cough more sinister, and still he’d soldiered on.

You should have listened to Chewie—you’re unwell—

The look Han had thrown her had been furious.

And what? Stayed behind? Left you with one of those clueless Coruscanti blasterheads to protect you?

Our operatives are highly trained—

Trained my ass—the kid is better in a bind than half those guys.

Han—

I’m your partner, he’d snapped.

And then the storm had set in, and Han had succumbed at last to the Corellian flu.

Huddled now as they were in the narrow cave they’d discovered, Leia was truly frightened. Their location was too remote to find help nearby, they couldn’t make it to the rendezvous point through the whiteout conditions outside, and she couldn’t raise Chewie on their comms. Beside her, Han’s temperature was clearly climbing. While at first he’d attempted to disguise his shivering and downplay his symptoms, over the preceding hour he’d become delirious. Leia had already bundled him into her bedroll despite his initial protests that he was ‘fine, Your Worship—quit it with the mother nerf bit, ‘m not sick—‘ but it seemed that their two sleeping bags and the heat rods they’d had in their survival packs weren’t enough. As the blizzard raged and the temperature continued to drop, Leia found herself beginning to fear hypothermia, and Han....

Stop that, she ordered herself furiously. He won’t die. He’s fine, he’s...

From within the layers of their combined bedrolls, Han shivered and convulsed. He was hunched into the sleeping bags, helpless, barely conscious. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat that Leia feared would freeze to his skin as the wind continued to blow icy bursts of snow through the craggy opening of their meager shelter.

She felt another burst of irritation as she looked at him, remembering how she’d emptied her pack in a panic, searching frantically for the fever reducer that she knew she’d had among their limited supplies. ’S gone, Han had coughed, already sinking into his fevered haze. ’m sorry, Princess, I took it—been taking it since yesterday—wasn’t... wasn’t feeling great...

What do you mean, you took—?! And you didn’t tell me! If you were sick, Han, you should have said—

His shuddering breath.

Didn’t want you to think—I was a liability—to the mission...

Leia felt herself near to tears. Infuriating man! Han Solo was going to die because he hadn’t trusted anyone else to protect her.

It was time to make a difficult decision. She glanced down at her pack. Inside, beside the useless bacta patches and ineffective comm unit, was their last option.

Their distress beacon.

As a last resort, when their long-distance comms failed and they couldn’t contact the alliance, a rebel operative could activate the distress beacon and, hopefully, be located and rescued by the Alliance.

So close to an Imperial mining facility, however... it was unlikely that the Alliance would be the first ones to pick up their signal and locate them.

“I p-promise, Leia. Won’t let anything—‘m gonna get you... outta this...”

Leia squeezed her eyes closed, unable to bear the sight of his suffering. Another frigid gale howled into their cave, and Han moaned. She sent a desperate, beseeching prayer into the cosmos.

Please, Chewie, she begged. Please, please...

With fingers so numb with cold they *hurt,* Leia activated the distress beacon.

Then she started to take off her clothes.

Leia, Han whimpered, as she peeled back the sleep rolls. He recoiled from her, and from the draft of cold air.

Leia crouched beside him in her underwear, shaking uncontrollably, skin burning from the cold. She bit her trembling lip.

“Move over, hotshot,” she whispered, trying to keep the panic from her voice.

Han seemed to come to his senses enough to help her take his clothes off—Leia wanted to shake her head with fond exasperation at that, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t.

She was so afraid.

“You’re so warm,” Han choked into her neck, when she’d shimmied into the bedrolls with him. She shoved one of the heat rods down by their feet, bundled Han’s coat over his shoulders, and wedged herself in tight against him, wriggling around to zip them in. Once enclosed into the sleeping bags, Leia felt immense relief, for Han was radiating a heat so incredible it brought tears to her eyes, but Han seemed unable to escape the chill that wracked his body. Clutching her to him, his face pressed against her shoulder, Han shivered and shivered. He held her like she was the only thing in the world that could help him, but like she wasn’t enough. Leia wanted so badly to be enough.

“‘M sorry,” he moaned, over and over, teeth chattering, limbs trembling. “Sweetheart, ‘m sorry—‘s my fault—‘m sorry—“

“It’s alright,” Leia breathed, again and again. She held him against her bare skin and rubbed her hands up and down his back, friction—more heat, they needed more heat. “Chewie’s coming,” she promised. “Chewie’s on his way, don’t worry. We’ll be on the Falcon, soon...”

She didn’t want to think about the alternatives.

“This ain’t how I pictured it,” Han groaned against her shoulder. Leia continued running her hands along his arms and back, along the body that had become so precious to her—how had Han Solo become so precious to her?

“Pictured what?”

Han didn’t answer, and for a moment Leia wondered if he’d been pulled again back into a fitful, frightening sleep. But then he ran his palms over her shoulder blades and back, and nuzzled his face against the side of her neck.

Oh, she thought. Oh.

She didn’t know if it was because she thought he wouldn’t remember anyway, or because she expected both of them to be frozen to death by morning, or because she assumed that if they weren’t they would be in Imperial custody by sunrise, but Leia squeezed him tighter, and whispered, near his ear: Me neither.

xxx

“‘M not drinking that.”

“Oh yes you are.”

“Kid, listen, I appreciate it, but it tastes like nerf piss—”

“It’s medicine, Han, it doesn’t matter how it tastes—”

“No? Then how about you drink it?”

Leia smiled softly outside Han’s cabin.

“You’re an even worse patient than Leia,” Luke sighed.

She heard Han’s outraged huff.

“Now wait a minute, kid. Nobody’s a worse patient than Leia—”

“I don’t know about that, flyboy,” Leia murmured, rounding the corner into his cabin at last. Han, propped in his bunk, grinned. “At least I have never threatened to disassemble a medical droid and sell it for parts on Kessel. It’s no wonder the medcenter was so quick to discharge you.”

Han shrugged and smirked.

“Thought it was Threepio,” he grinned.

“Chewie says the soup is almost ready,” Leia murmured.

Luke turned to Han with a determined gleam in his eye.

“I’ll bet Chewie can get you to take that,” he threatened, gesturing at the medicine Han was supposed to drink every four hours. He strode from the room, presumably to bring in reinforcements.

“Nice try, kid,” Han attempted to shout after him, “but I don’t gotta do what he says—”

His voice was still so hoarse and his sinuses so congested that Han’s blustering retort dissolved into a hacking cough.

“Nice,” Leia shook her head, watching Han reach furiously for a tissue, expression incredulously disbelieving: betrayed by his own body such that he couldn’t even holler threats across his own ship.

Han caught her eye and smiled again.

“Just givin’ him a hard time,” he shrugged. Still Han eyed the medicine like he’d have preferred to drink engine coolant.

Leia looked down at her lap. Han had been so unwell when they’d gotten him back to base that they hadn’t had much time to talk—by the time Chewie had found them, he’d been unconscious, and had remained so until they’d gotten him back to the medcenter on base. Leia decided not to mention to him that she’d sat at his bedside for sixteen hours, worried he wouldn’t wake up.

“Listen, Leia.”

Startled out of her thoughts, she glanced up. The look on Han’s face was one of disgust and resolve.

“I know I screwed up,” he muttered. “You knew I was too sick and I shouldn’t’ve tried to deny it—”

“Han—”

“‘M only saying, if you just give me another chance, it won’t happen again.”

Leia raised her eyebrows.

“Another chance?” she repeated.

There in his bunk, with his untouched medicine and rumpled hair, Han looked uncharacteristically shy.

He shrugged and glanced down at his mattress.

“Well I... I almost compromised the mission,” he muttered. “Figured you might’ve decided to do the next one with one of your highly trained operatives...”

Softly, Leia shook her head.

“You’re my partner,” she reminded him. Before she could think anything of it, Leia leaned forward to press her lips to Han’s cheek. When she drew back, his eyes were wide. He lifted a hand slowly to touch the place where her lips had been, and Leia watched the corner of his mouth draw up.

A roar sounded from the doorway.

“Alright, alright, I’ll drink it!” Han yelped, reaching for his medicine while Chewie brandished furious soup ladle.

Leia grinned and stood carefully from the bunk. She resolved not to think that night about lying bare flesh to bare flesh with Han in the bedroll... or about her name on his lips for hours on end as he’d tossed and turned with fever...

No, Leia wouldn’t dwell on that.

“Feel better, Han.”

#my fic #han solo #princess leia #star wars

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claudiablanche · 4 years

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✧ ━━ the courts of switzerland present CLAUDIA BLANCHE VON SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN of GERMANY, the FIRST PROTECTOR of the TEUTONIC ORDER. the TWENTY-FIVE year old has been GUILEFUL and ABSOLUTE before the break of war but has now become HAUGHTY and POWER-HUNGRY. SHE is often remembered by her likeness to ELIZABETH DEBICKI and THE THRUM OF FARAWAY DESTRIER STALLIONS IN WARS BYGONE ; CALLOUSED PALMS SLIDING BENEATH A TORN SILK BODICE ; THE INVIGORATING WEIGHT OF A JEWELED CROWN RIGHTFULLY CLAIMED. the rumour mills of europe claim that her allegiance lies with HERSELF and that she is for WAR.

FATAL FLAW.

what retributive, wrathful seeds you have sown in your gardens of dark / how cruelly you have seduced your child to bite the fruits they yield.

tw: physical abuse

Before she was Prinzessin Claudia, announced for the first time in twenty-five years to an awestruck court that had believed her dead, she was Ritter Helena of the Teutonic Order, an iron-clad maiden who, on an ivory steed, single-handedly blooded and seized masses of territory for the Holy Roman Empire. There were other names, too, given to her for this particularly glorious era—War-Monger, Sun-Bringer, First Protector of the Empire, Prophet of the Father—but it was Helena by which Konrad called her. And where Claudia would have happily pierced his gut clean with her Christened blade, a younger, blinder Helena answered to no other name but the one he gave her.

After all, before she would conquer men and kingdoms in his name, she would conquer needlework and morning mass first as young Freiin Lena: knees rubbed raw from praying at an altar she’d rather spit on, mouth twisted permanently in rebuke, knuckles bruised purple and red by thin-lipped teachers who’d have subjected her to worse if it weren’t for the Emperor’s enduring favor. This is where she learned obedience—eventually, anyway. Before Konrad dragged her out to the battlefield for play, he taught her control and composure: the rhythmic precision of embroidery, the patience needed to recite page after page of Latin scripture, the necessity of being able to sit at a table without upending it in a fit; staining her gown in shades of spilt wine; cutting herself on the shattered glass. The maids who cleaned up Lena’s messes would whisper amongst themselves derisively: Now what kind of lady is this? What feral little thing has the Emperor plucked so lovingly from the filthy loins of war? Why does he continue to spoil her, when she presents nothing but unbridled fury, but monstrous rage?

And all the while, Konrad himself would watch Lena struggle, and cry, and snarl, with nothing but absolution in his eyes. Her wilderness, her chaos, her hurt—where did it all come from? Ah. He knew.

For before she was a Freiin, she was nothing at all. They said he’d found her tucked away in the rubble of a ravaged land, a weak babe fussing and keening for survival. They said merciful, pious Konrad had sensed something in her: a greatness, a divine calling, an affection that compelled him to rescue and take her under his wing. She was less than a daughter, but greater than a subject. She was given her own land and title, but denied the luxurious spoils other children of imperial favor enjoyed. In fact, she remained shrouded from the public eye for years to come: locked away in some undisclosed tower, unheard from and unspoken to.

It was harsh of him, perhaps, to begin at such a young age. Some would say cruel; others insisted it was a stern kindness needed to lift her into glory. To the little girl in the tower, it was simply how the world worked: in endless jabs and cuts, in broken bones and shorn hair—fighting tooth and nail, slammed to the ground over and over until it no longer frightened her to fall. Before she ever wore a gown, she wore armor; before she ever held a needle, she held a blade. Konrad’s best generals taught her, then would bring squires and older boys to drive the lessons home: in barracks, in stables, in dead black fields—

Day after laborious day, year after unrelenting year; he was teaching her, slowly, how to fight—but more than that, he was teaching her wrath. It was important to the Emperor that his weaponry was not only functional, but doused in a rich, dark fury that would ensure her success. He sowed these seeds of rage deep, deep within her: every split lip, cracked rib, denied privilege, clear prejudice a means to cultivate something truly, truly dangerous.

And he did. Perhaps, more than he has anticipated.

For now, Claudia is a woman truly worth fearing. The years have aged her like honey wine: she is a valkyrie on the field, a vixen in the courts—and carries with her at all times an inaccessible air of perfect, stoic control. Those who see her now, the poised princess returned to a joyous Germany, seated calmly at a table with nothing but a pair of cold blue eyes for accessory—they would not believe she is, deep down, made of molten ire. They would not believe the havoc she wrecked in the wake of the discovery of her birthright: the broken jewelry and splintered bed frames and torn shirts—and Konrad’s blood, caked beneath her nails from the one good swipe she got in before they finally subdued her. Since then, her anger appears to have dissipated, smothered out as she’s matured into a regal womanhood; but in fact, it sits like a fire in the pit of her stomach, both an engine and hazard.

She has grievances, an appetite for vengeance, an inability to forgive—and with all of that, an increasingly volatile, out-of-control temper to match.

TASTES.

what blood i cannot spill on fields of war, i lick from a lover’s lips / what violence i abstain from in daylight, i pursue beneath exotic moons.

tw: sex, unequal power dynamics, internalized misogyny

The Princess of Germany is, by unanimous agreement of anyone who is asked, an unconventional one. She is a knight, and a war hero, and stands at a height so great she—quite literally—towers over any suitor who would dare court her. Indeed, princess, for as short an expanse of time she has occupied the title, is one Claudia has decisively outgrown. Her most curious, and scandalous, point of unconventionality, however, has to do with her choice of companionship; or lack thereof.

At twenty-five years of age, Claudia is young for a knight, but old for an unmarried maiden. Predictably, she has refused any offers both prior and after her return as princess—and given her intentions to continue serving on the battlefield, has made it clear that marriage is and likely never will be a serious consideration. A declaration so bold would fare worse for someone positioned less uniquely than she, but such is Claudia’s stance on the matter—and so it has been respected.

Of course, being unwed does not mean the young woman is without an appetite. In fact, Claudia is an extremely sexual being: she is austere, unromantic, and wholly uninvested in anything but her own future—but possesses an energetic carnality and sophisticated sense of eroticism all the same. Men, however, do not interest her: in youth, they were her foul tormentors and fixed enemies; in war, her brothers in arms and family; and in womanhood, they have proven themselves to be her cunning keepers, her foolish kings, and her negligent gods. Men have consistently wounded her, betrayed her, or simply failed to measure up. No, Claudia finds them entirely unappealing, and more importantly, untrustworthy. If she had once harbored affections for any man at all, the feeling has been cleanly discarded of; at the very least, she refuses to acknowledge it.

Which leaves women. Women, with their soft voices, smooth skin, long hair—graced with an anatomy Claudia is familiar with, knows how to work with ruthlessness. They are not loud and brutish as men are—but rather, speak with their eyes and hands. Many are intelligent, and know the same truth as Claudia: that this world was not meant to carry them safely into and out of the world. So we must carry each other, and ourselves instead. Claudia even loved one such woman, a long time ago. But just as there are beautiful, precious women in the world, there are even more worthless ones. Conniving women who would see her ruined; desperate women who plead with her in the mornings to be saved and loved and lavished; unmemorable, meek, resigned women who have lost any agency of their own to better their luck. Women who take it like whores and don’t complain.

Then again, it’s oddly thrilling, isn’t it? To bruise her up, to hold her down until she shakes, to push her legs apart and tear her to pieces until she looks at you the way women look at men: helplessly, adoringly, fearfully. It feels briefly powerful to be wanted like that, to know you can hurt, and hurt, and hurt—and she won’t hurt you back.

REFINEMENT.

joan’s downfall: not knowing when to stop kissing God’s wrist, and start biting it. / who needs martyrdom? this is my empire. i strike the flint. i set the torches.

Claudia is a study in duology: she carries herself with both the graceful severity of a knight, and the coy entitlement of an imperial heir. Perhaps she is an unconventional one, but Claudia, in many ways, is a princess. She wasn’t ever pampered or swaddled in opulence, but raised all the same to believe she was deserving of it: every strike against her cheek, every bitter night spent shivering in the dark an unspoken promise of her worthiness. At some point, she understood why things were made so difficult for her: it was because Konrad believed she could do more, be better, rise to extraordinary heights. If an Emperor saw as much radiant potential in her—why oughtn’t she see the same in herself? Besides, few can say with Claudia’s same self-assuredness that they have worked hard enough to deserve anything they please.

Claudia, therefore, is not shy about her desires and standards of quality. She is neither spoiled nor overindulgent, unlikely to splurge on useless merriments, but is unabashedly particular with what she does feel is necessary and proper for a woman of her standing to possess. The few material goods she holds dear have each been carefully curated and adjusted to her exact liking. Her stallion is a white destrier, purebred and an unparallelled companion in warfare; her diadem a halo of luminescent gold, embellished with tasteful sets of Chinese jades, Portuguese sapphires, Russian alexandrites, each piece of jewelry imported from a different corner of her someday-empire. Her selection of gowns remain remarkably slim and extravagant for royalty, but each dress is tailored to immaculate perfection, cut from fine silks and dyed in rich shades royal purple, deep cerulean, vivid crimson. The same quality of care, if not more, is given to her armory and weaponry—each piece of iron casted and crafted under her watchful eye.

Some may call it vanity, but Claudia answers to dignity. She has always believed in excellent living: holding oneself in high regard the same way one is held to high expectations. When all is said and done, it would be unfitting to adorn a future Empress in anything less than the very best her Empire can offer.

#bgintro #( hi everyone! excited to be here hehe )

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kewltie · 5 years

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“I’m so, so sorry Your Majesty!” Izuku says, bowing profusely in front of her table. “Please excuse my tardiness. An issue suddenly came up, and I had to resolve it right away.” As he raises his head, he wraps his arms carefully around his tummy. It’s not there yet, Izuku knows, but he frets all the same.

Empress Akai places her teacup back down on the table and smiles at him but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “No matter,” she says, gesturing to the chair across from her. “Please have a seat Midoriya-kun.”

With a shaky exhale Izuku nods his head and gingerly sits down, resting both hands protectively against his stomach. He can’t help feeling like he’s on pins and needles, gearing up for his own execution but he knows the Empress wouldn’t ever dirty her hands like that. There are worst things than death and they are both intimately aware of that.

“Would you like to add anything else to eat?” she asks, hand hovering close to a tablet screen built into the large dining table.

Izuku shakes his head; his nerves are too frayed and he doesn’t think his stomach can hold it. “No, thank you.”

For a moment, his eyes wander pass her head to glance around the grandeur of the private suite that feels entirely too empty and cold and he, a small insignificant thing trapped within its four walls. When the hostess had escorted Izuku further into the VIP area, where the Empress await him in one of the rooms, he had bypassed the line of heavy duty Imperial Guard stationed outside the stretched out hallway leading into the suite. It doesn’t take much for him to get the blatant hint. It’s part intimidation and a show of power.

The hostess had guided him through a great double doors and into a massive room that seemed to swallow him whole. He was immediately met with a crystal chandelier that hangs above them; the dinnerware sets made of porcelain and intricate gold linings platting the table, and the foods spread out before them are extensive and every bit mouthwatering as he could ever hope for. Even the décor, golden undertones cut into large handwoven tapestries as it serve as a backdrop and antiques that are worth its weight in age scattered across the room, does not let up.

All of it is enough to make him feels out of place and outclassed. He had even put on his best dress pants and shirt that he only wore once to a formal event with Katsuki at the Imperial Residence, but even that wasn’t enough to keep the insecurity down.

As anxiety and doubt dig into his heels, Izuku’s gaze once again falls back to the woman who is the source of his wariness.

Katsuki’s grandmother, the Empress of Japan, had never once requested to speak to him alone despite Izuku having known her since he was eight years old. There was always Katsuki or someone else between them as though they were too far apart in social status and power to ever allow to exist in the same space. But she had always been a benevolence force in Katsuki’s life ever since the death of his parents, scooping Katsuki and Izuku right out of the Hiroo Friends and into a home where they could grow and prosper.

It doesn’t necessary make her kind though. Or gentle even.

Empress Akai may be old and passed her prime, but she doesn’t carry herself like that. There are streaks of grey carefully woven into her hair like ornaments instead of a sign of aging. Her eyes are keen and her smile is sharp and pointed as she turns it toward Izuku. An old dragon, Katsuki had called her half admiration and grudging acceptant.

Katsuki’s grandfather, Emperor Hideo, is the one seated on the throne but he has bedridden for several years now. Nobody say it out loud but they know the true head of state is currently the Empress, who although has no real blood tie to the throne wields an iron fist as she alone carries the burden of the nation on her shoulders. And she does it with her head held high and her feet planted firmly on the ground.

It makes her an effective ruler but a terrifying woman to face.

“Um, is there something you would like to talk to me about, Your Majesty?” he starts, crossing his ankles underneath the table. Izuku doesn’t get the intricacy of the cloak and dagger that comes with politics but he will rise to the challenge anyway if it mean he can get her approval. They may not be on friendly terms with each other but she’s important to Katsuki so that make her important to him.

Empress Akai levels a piercing look at him. “You and Katsuki are close,” she says evenly. It’s not a question but it’s a loaded statement, anyway.

Close doesn’t even begin to encompass everything he and Katsuki are to each other and she knows it just as much as he does. “Yes,” he drawls, his right hand clenching tight against his stomach.

“In the orphanage where there too many kids and lack of adults to go around, I can see why you and Katsuki cling to each other,” she starts, “but you’re not children anymore. Nearly adults by society’s standard, so I thank you for being there for my beloved grandson after all these years but your service is no longer needed.”

Izuku blinks, nearly jerking out of his seat. “W-what? I’m sorry, Your Majesty but what do you—”

Empress Akai raises her hand deliberately and cuts him off. “I will name Katsuki my crown prince after he graduate from high school this year,” she says, and it’s a knife to his chest.

Izuku’s breath hitches. The news doesn’t come as a surprise to him. After all, the Empress has been grooming Katsuki’s ascension to the Chrysanthemum Throne since she had picked them both up from the orphanage nearly ten years ago. He had heard it enough times to know she wants to keep the Imperial Seat within the main family and Katsuki is the only direct descendant she has left. The Imperial Family is dying and Katsuki is their last hope.

“And I want nothing to hinder his rise to be my heir,” she continues blithely, each word twisting the knife further in, “so Katsuki’s strange obsession for you is unnecessary and must be uprooted at all cost.”

“I—“ Izuku starts and then shakes his head, his mouth going dry against the nauseating feeling like he’s being unseated, “Your Majesty, please reconsider your decision! Kacchan and I have been together since we were children so to separate us now would only hurt the both of us.”

The Empress’ lips thin out. “As I understand it, you also lost your only parent in that careless accident alongside my daughter and that useless husband of hers, Midoriya-kun. It’s unfortunate that you lost so much at such a young age and my heart go out to you but Katsuki doesn’t owe you anything.”

Izuku’s deafening silence following that is hard to argue.

The Empress sighs. “Rie,” she says, waving her hand forward.

A familiar figure appears right before her as though the Empress had summoned her with a single word. “Your Majesty,” Shirane Rie, the Empress’ personal aid, says as she hands Empress Akai a thick folder before disappearing back into her corner.

“Thank you, Rie,” The Empress replies, placing the folder on the table in front of her.

Shirane had been so quiet and unobtrusive that Izuku forgot that between him and the Empress, they’re not the only one in the room. It should have been expected because the Empress has always keeps her loyal right hand close to her side, silencing carryout out her duty like the world’s most efficient machine. Izuku can’t remember a time when the Empress is without Shirane.

“All the information that pertains to you are all collected here in this folder,” the Empress explains, addressing Izuku with cold indifference eyes, “I had my Intelligence Agency dig into your family history and background.” She taps a finger on the folder pointedly. “Born to Midoriya Inko, who got pregnant when she was only seventeen to an unnamed man and was the sole provider of your household. Your mother also lost her own parents long ago before you were ever born and was raised by her grandmother before she passed away from old age. You have no other extended family to rely on so when your mother died, she left you all alone in this world.”

Izuku swallows around the stiff knot in his throat.

“The clothes you’re currently wearing, the roof over your head, and the food on your table. Those are all provided by Katsuki isn’t that right?” Empress Akai asks even though she clearly already knows the answer to her own questions. “You have no immediate family, no money, and no standing outside of Katsuki but my grandson is still a child under the law and all that money must come from somewhere.”

Izuku’s twists his hands underneath the table and tries to open his mouth but it wouldn’t budge as though it was sewn shut.

“Forgive my bluntness, Izuku-kun, but you’re a leech on Katsuki, on my family really, so how long do you plan to suck him dry before you no longer have any use for him left?”

It hurts.

Those perfectly sharpen words was enough to break the chain of silence surrounding Izuku. He slams a hand against the table and the impact is loud enough to sting his palm, causing the surrounding silverware to rattle from their place. “Never! I would never use Kacchan like that. I love him,” he insists loudly and fervently. “He could be a beggar and I would still follow him anywhere. I don’t care if he’s a prince or not, I just want to stay by his side so please, please don’t separate us. I would never do anything to jeopardize Kacchan or his future.”

“My Katsuki,” the Empress begins, and the possessive way she lay claimed to Katsuki as her owns make Izuku’s heart throb uncomfortably in his chest, “is brilliant and headstrong and since the moment I met him, I saw that he got the aura of a great ruler around him. I know he’ll do many great things for our nation and people and I want nothing to hold him back from his destiny.”

Izuku knows all too well that Katsuki’s ambition and greatness is too immense and significant for Izuku’s alone to contain. Katsuki got grand plans to change the world, to make it a better place for not just them but everyone before and after them. He is meant to stand on the biggest stage on earth and lead Japan right to the top, and Izuku has no right to tie him down with his affection.

He knows it. He knows it all too well, but Izuku is selfish and thought even if he can’t stand next to Katsuki then let him stay within his large shadow. He just wants to be close to Katsuki, to be beside him and that’s all he had ever wanted.

“Can you be one hundred percent sure that you won’t harm Katsuki in the future? That you won’t be the cause of his downfall? Because you’re a nobody who is trying to attach himself to the future Emperor of Japan. How do you think the public will see your relationship with Katsuki and not tear it apart?” she asks him. “Their Emperor besotted with another man with no social standing and family. That kind of stigma will mar and plague his rule.”

Izuku’s eyes drop to his lap helplessly for a brief second before it jerks back to the Empress. “Kacchan won’t let it get to him though. He’s strong enough to bulldoze his way through it,” he insists.

“Alright, fine,” Empress Akai says, and a long sigh leaves her but it doesn’t sound like defeat. “Let me phrase it this way instead: if you love him then let him go. I already lost my daughter to that man who stole her away from me but I won’t make the same mistake twice.” She looks at him with the same pair red eyes that remind him keenly of Katsuki but while Katsuki’s eyes are warmth and familiar to him hers fiercely cold and harsh as it cuts him to the bones. “You may not have any family left but Katsuki is the only family I got left. Do not make me remember the painful experience of what it means to lose someone I love again. He’s my only connection to Mitsuki and I won’t let you take him away from me.”

It’s not a warning but it’s a fact. A fact that is sharpened and raised against him. She won’t give Katsuki up to Izuku. She’ll do everything in her power to assure that Katsuki will sit on the throne and Izuku as far away as possible from him.

It’s a war of attrition that Izuku has no hope of winning.

“I—I understand, Your Majesty. I won’t see him anymore,” Izuku murmurs. The words are dragged out of him like barbed wired cutting into his flesh with every breath.

“Good,” she says as though she expected it. “I will provide you with a check for two billion yen to secure your future in the next decades. You can use to it to buy a house, pay for college, or waste it away for all I care. Just do not approach my grandson anymore. Leave him alone and I’ll make sure he won’t search for you either.”

If Katsuki was in his place, he would have fought to the bitter end for them but Izuku is not Katsuki. Izuku is not strong like him and surely not brave enough to stand against the entire nation and the Empress either. If he had said no today, then the Empress will not give up her mission to systematically remove all traces of Izuku out of Katsuki‘s life. It’s a simple truth that he has come to accept with a bitter certainty.

The Empress is a harsh and unforgiving old dragon in front of him but she is a grandmother and before that she was a mother and she loves Katsuki absolutely even as it clashes with what Katsuki actually want. This he understands completely because he too loves Katsuki enough to go against Katsuki’s wish.

He doesn’t have any power to go toe to toe with the Empress and what the weight of her station allow her to do, but this at least he can protect. He gently runs a hand over his still flat belly and commits everything he got to it. If he can’t have Katsuki then at least he’ll have a piece of him.

“I don’t need that money,” Izuku insists loudly, raising his head to meet her eyes head on for the first time. “But do not worry Your Majesty, I’ll keep my words. I’m not doing this because you told me to but because I love Kacchan more than you could ever hope to understand and I want the best for him too.”

He gets up from his seat and with a hand close to his belly as he gives her a low bow. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner to have this frank discussion with you, Your Majesty, but I’m sorry that I must take my leave now,” he says even though he hasn’t touch a single bite on that table. He raises his head just in time to catch her narrow eyes of annoyance but doesn’t stay long enough to listen what else she has to say.

Izuku is weak and pathetic and he wishes he could be better, but this will be his choice at least. He chose to walk out, chose to end this, and chose to keep this precious secret with him so that even she can’t take the last gift that Katsuki had given him.

#bakudeku #fic snippet #series: kasumi vs the world #:'(((((( IZUUUUUUUKU

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brilliantorinsane · 6 years

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The Speckled Band on Stage: Yep, Still Gay

Note: I tagged those who reblogged the first part of this series. Please let me know if you would prefer not to be tagged in future posts.

This is the second installment in my series on obscure Sherlock Holmes film adaptations and their depiction of Holmes and Watson both individually and in relation to each other. (For a discussion of the 1921-23 silent films starring Eille Norwood, which appears to have been Doyle’s favorite adaptation, see here.)

I really didn’t mean to write a post about this one, seeing as it doesn’t strictly fit the theme of this series. It is a play, not a film, and it is only sort of an adaptation—although a retelling of The Speckled Band, it is written by Doyle himself. But while researching a very gay and very terrible 1931 film, I discovered that it was loosely adapted from this play. Naturally I read it as part of my research, telling myself that I wouldn’t get sidetracked writing a post about it. The failure of my self-control now lays before you.

In my defense, this play really is … well it really is Something. All sorts of wonderful and all sorts of tragic. If you’d prefer to read it for yourself before encountering the spoilers in this post, hop on over here and scroll to the second half of the webpage. And if you’ve got your subtext glasses so much as perched lightly on the end of your nose, be ready to be sent reeling by what you find.

(Spoilers below the cut)

Production and Reception

Doyle’s decision to adapt The Speckled Band for the stage was rather spur-of-the-moment. He had leased a theater for six months in order to showcase The House of Temperley, an adaptation of his novel Rodney Stone, but the play was largely unsuccessful (x, x). Threatened with considerable financial loss, Doyle set to work and within a week had written The Speckled Band. Despite its rushed composition the play was decidedly successful, and Doyle seems to have been quite pleased with it (x).

The play alters the original short story considerably. Some changes are so inconsequential as to be puzzling—the villain’s name is changed from Roylott to Rylott, the names of the stepdaughters are switched, etc—but other alterations are structural and make a significant difference. In particular, instead of following Watson’s pov, the audience’s perspective revolves primarily around the Rylott house. The scenes introducing Holmes and Watson are also considerably altered and expanded for potentially unfamiliar audiences, and a good deal more shouting and action is introduced throughout.

Oh, and Watson is engaged to Mary Morstan. Yeah. More on that later.

I have two complaints: First there is an uncomfortable dash of orientalism (i.e., western depictions of the east which cast it as mysterious, dangerous, and Other, and which played a largely unintentional but nonetheless significant role in justifying British imperialism), which is present in the original story but rather more prevalent in the stage play. Second, the female protagonist, although commendably brave, loses what little agency she had in the original story. But aside from these elements, I loved this play. The pacing is good and kept me engaged even when neither Sherlock or Watson are present, Dr. Rylott is genuinely frightening and I was really rather tense at times despite knowing the ending, and the occasional humor is on point—I actually laughed aloud once or twice. Further, ACD’s allegiance with the oppressed is out in full force, and there’s some genuinely touching commentary on the debilitating effects of abuse. And then, of course, there is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson …

Sherlock Holmes on Stage

Guys. This is, pure and undiluted, Sherlock Holmes at his best. If you ever start to fear that Sherlock really might be the cold and detached reasoning machine some folk have fixated on, just read the way Arthur Conan Doyle writes him in this play. You will never doubt again that he is anything besides a snarky ahead-of-his-time genius with a heart of literal gay gold. We’ll get to the ‘gay’ part in later section, so we’ll set aside his interactions with Watson for the moment. There is plenty else to discuss.

You see, this Holmes does spout a variation of that much abused line from A Scandal in Belgravia, saying: “[love] would disturb my reason, unbalance my faculties. Love is like a flaw in the crystal, sand in the clockwork, iron near the magnet.” I understand that the statement, here and in Scandle, refers specifically to romantic love. Yet I cannot think it’s an accident that nearly the very next moment Holmes is flatly refusing to find the wife of a clearly abusive husband, asking only enough questions to ensure that she has found a safe refuge, even though the law is on the husband’s side and the man offers a whopping fee of 500 pounds. As if Doyle wants to drive home that Holmes accepts cases purely on the basis of empathy for the downtrodden and not finances, Holmes then remarks: “I’m afraid I shall never be a rich man, Watson.” Added to this, the manner in which he listens to, comforts, and puts himself in danger for Roylott’s step-daughter Enid is genuinely touching. As many of us have asserted for years, Sherlock Holmes is the champion of justice, ally of the oppressed, and altogether a beautiful smol man. ‘Love is a flaw in the crystal,’ indeed.

There is also a pleasing dash of Holmes the psychologist. It appears most obviously in an early analysis of Dr. Roylott, but most touchingly toward Rylott’s mercilessly abused servant Rodgers. The man is essentially good-hearted but entirely incapacitated by fear of his master, and this leads to his betraying Enid’s attempts to contact Sherlock. It was obviously a shitty move, but Holmes, who earlier expressed understanding of the thoroughgoing damage caused by the man’s long, forced dependence on a maniac for his basic needs, responds compassionately: “He is not to be blamed. His master controls him.”

Added to this we have Holmes in disguises, bamf!Holmes, Holmes calling people idiots and taking far too much delight in dancing circles around them, and of course utterly brilliant Holmes (though that’s a given), so it seems almost an embarrassment of riches that we also get peak sassy Holmes. He makes a number of delightful appearances, although my favorite is the following, which occurs after he has agreed to protect Enid from Rylott:

RYLOTT: What I ask you to do — what I order you to do is to leave my affairs alone. Alone, sir — do you hear me? HOLMES: You are perfectly audible.

As utterly delightful as all of this is, Holmes’s darker side is not entirely absent, at least in his personal habits—the cocaine does make its appearance. But more on that later.

John Watson on Stage

To be honest, I found myself rather anxious about how Doyle would depict Watson. We fans have been in the habit of discovering Watson between the lines of the cannon stories—as the man is far more interested in talking about Holmes than himself, it takes a bit of digging to discover Watson’s outstanding qualities. But what if the Watson we love so dearly is our own invention, and Doyle himself was simply uninterested in the man except as a conduit to portraying Holmes?

I really shouldn’t have worried.

It is true that Watson rather disappears into the background once Holmes is working. But that is not to say he becomes at all useless. In fact, the Watson in this play is quite simply our Watson—kind, steady, intelligent, dangerous, and with something of a temper hidden beneath the steady veneer.

In the play, Watson is the doctor who examines the body of the first murdered sister (who is here called Violet) two years before Holmes becomes involved in protecting the remaining sister, Enid. Watson, bright fellow that he is, clearly suspects that something is off. Ultimately there is nothing he can do at the time, but his involvement allows for one my favorite moments: Watson employing Holmes’s deductive skills. True, it is for a single, relatively inconsequential matter; but he does it and he’s right and he impresses the whole room and guys! Watson! is! an! intelligent! man! I mean, we’ve all known that for forever, but its rather nice to get such a clear nod of agreement from Dyole.

In addition to his intelligence, Watson exhibits a empathy and compassion that in this story will be matched (not surpassed) only by that of Holmes. As an old friend of Rylott’s now-dead wife, Watson acts as comforter to the surviving girl. We are told that he came immediately and probably well in opposition to his own convenience when first he heard of the tragedy, and his treatment of Enid is gentle without being patronizing. Unsettled by the Rylott household and clearly wishing he could do more, he also repeatedly urges Enid to contact him if she has any suspicion of danger. All of this prompts Enid to declare: “Your kindness has been the one gleam of light in these dark days.” It is a lovely description of the man who has been a light in the dark for at least one other—the sort of testament we would have been unlikely to hear of if this story were reported through Watson’s own narration.

Again, I’ll leave the majority of his interactions with Holmes for the next section, but it is worth mentioning that there is no objection from him when Holmes turns down an easy 500 pounds. Watson is intelligent and he is good—he saw the signs of abuse and he would not have his friend benefit on those terms. These scenes also provide a wonderful dose of protective Watson. And while Holmes is of course at the head of the investigation, he and Watson are wonderfully in sync, and Watson proves his worth.

When it comes down to it, the Holmes and Watson in this play are transparently the two deeply compatible men we seek to dig out of cannon: mutually sharp and compassionate, courageous and quick to protect, with Holmes giving Watson stimulation and purpose and the means to aid others, and Watson providing Holmes with a firm right hand and a ready ear and a steadiness that counteracts the extremities that drive Holmes to cocaine. Watson and Holmes as Doyle portrayed them—as no other adaptation would portray them for far too many years—are just kinda perfect for each other.

But Watson is engaged.

So … What About Johnlock?

*buries head in hands* *giggles* *sobs* … Yeah. Yeah, it’s here. Yeah.

I really wasn’t sure what to expect from this play. I thought that perhaps the stage would strike Doyle as too exposed and vulnerable, or that perhaps he wouldn’t trust the actors, or that he would feel unsafe without the veneer of Watson’s narration—that, one way or another, he’d be persuaded to leave the gay subtext out of this one. But, um, Doyle? Buddy? Don’t get me wrong, I’m absolutely chuffed that you managed to avoid allegations a la Oscar Wilde. But also … how?

Honestly, I’ve always wondered whether Doyle was aware that he was writing a love story or whether that’s what wound up on paper regardless of his intent. This play just might be my answer.

a.) Sherlock Holmes: The Work as a disguise

The most blaring subtext is concentrated in Act II Scene II, where Holmes first enters the stage and his primary interactions with Watson occur. This play takes place during one of the dark times when Watson isn’t living at Baker Street, and when he visits Holmes to present him with Enid’s case, Holmes comes out disguised as a workman. (Before this Watson comments with dismay on the evidence of Holmes’s continued cocaine habits—this will be significant later). The disguised Holmes pokes fun at Watson, who doesn’t recognize him, accusing him of being responsible for Holmes’s untidy habits. There may be a rather tragic subtextual undertone to the whole conversation, but there’s too much else to discuss. So I’ll leave that aside and instead highlight the exchange that occurs when Holmes drops his disguise:

WATSON: Good Heavens Holmes! I should never have recognized you. HOLMES: My dear Watson, when you begin to recognize me it will indeed be the beginning of the end. When your eagle eye penetrates my disguise I shall retire to an eligible poultry farm.

Now, this could be innocent enough—just a fun way to introduce the clever detective. But if one is at all alert to the mere possibility of subtext, alarum bells should be ringing full force at the fact that the first on-stage interaction between these two characters consists of Holme demonstrating his ability to hide his true identity from Watson, and then saying that if he was unable to deceive Watson it would literally be the end of his life as he knows it. And it’s worth taking note of his phrasing: not “when you begin to recognize my disguises,” but rather “when you begin to recognize me.” Is this just a matter of professional pride, or is there something deeper that Holmes is afraid of having discovered?

But you know, maybe I’m just reading into this. This is a story about preventing Enid’s murder, its got nothing to do with romance or love, that would be thematically inconsistent and out of place—

HOLMES: Well, Watson, what is your news? WATSON: Well, Holmes, I came here to tell you what I’m sure will please you. HOLMES: Engaged, Watson, engaged! … The successful suitor shines from you all over.

Oh. Okay then.

Now, it is important to understand that Watson’s marriage has literally nothing to do with the Rylott plot. The engagement in no way affects Watson’s movements, and Mary never appears on stage. No; the first half of this scene is devoted entirely to introducing us to Holmes—the few clients he sees in this section are clearly selected to give us a sense of his character, methods, and values. That means that for some reason Doyle thought that a proper understanding of Holmes requires a discussion of love and marriage—specifically, Watson’s marriage.

Watson, being an imbecile as well as an intelligent man, thinks Holmes will be pleased with his news. Holmes rises to the occasion as best he can, calling the news “better and better” when he discovers Mary Morstan is the woman Watson has chosen, but not before he lets slip the sentence: “What I had heard of you, or perhaps what I had not heard of you, had already excited my worst suspicions.” Worst suspicions, Holmes? I thought this was supposed to be giving you pleasure? Well, perhaps he’s merely being facetious.

But next moment he slips again, saying, “You lucky fellow! I envy you.” When Watson suggests that Holmes might find a woman of his own one day, Holmes cryptically replies: “No marriage without love, Watson.” This might have been the first line that really floored me—the bare fact of Holmes’s conviction that he will never love a woman (‘woman,’ of course, being implied in the concept of marriage at the time). But when Watson asks why, Holmes falls back on the “[love] would disturb my reason” nonsense.

Now to be clear, I understand that Holmes is specifically discussing romantic love here, and that there is no connection between a lack of romantic attachment and a lack of sentiment and care for others generally. But here’s the thing: Holmes’s self descriptor doesn’t depict him as aromantic—i.e., ‘I just don’t feel romantic stuff.’ It depicts him as a reasoning machine—‘strong emotions disrupt my process.’ And in context of literally every friggin thing he does in this entire play, that’s nonsense. It is abundantly clear that reason is his tool, but compassion and sentiment are his motives.

One might argue that this is slightly sloppy writing (it was composed in a hurry, after all), or that Holmes simply doesn’t have the words to describe his aromanticism. Yet just moments before he said he envied Watson’s relationship, and moments before that revealed himself to be a consummate actor whose very existence as he knows it depends on disguise …

The already unwieldy length of this analysis requires that I speed a bit through the goldmine that follows: through Holmes punting aside requests from a royal family and the actual Pope because Watson has a case in which he has a personal interest—and I can’t resist pointing out that Holmes says he will of course take the case if Watson has “any personal interest in it.” It’s not ‘I’ll make time in my busy schedule if this is really very important to you,’ it’s ‘oh, you have a thing that you at least kinda sorta care about? The Pope can wait.’ I must gloss over Holmes transparently wanting to get as much of Watson’s company as he can, declaring that he has always seen Watson as his partner, and wishing for a plaque with his and Watson’s names on it, despite heavy implications that Watson has been almost entirely absent from Holmes’s work for some time. I’ll just mention in passing the truly remarkable number of “my dear fellows” and “my dear Watsons" Holmes manages to drop in a brief space of time, his clear desire to protect Watson from the dangers of the case despite later informing Enid that he is “a useful companion on such an occasion,” and his cry of “No, Watson, no!” when his friend leaps up to protect him from the poker Rylott is threatening him with.

I will not, however, pass over what occurs when Watson leaves Holmes, intending to meet him at the train station later that day. Watson’s final words on his way out are: “Good bye—I’ll see you at the station,” to which Holmes replies, “Perhaps you will,” adding to himself: “Perhaps you will! Perhaps you won’t!” Ah, what’s that? On about disguising yourself from your best friend again, eh Holmes? But then, within the play this refers to the fact that Holmes intends to actually disguise himself at the train station, so it has a literal meaning and not a metaphorical one, it has nothing to do with a deeper hiddeness, certainly nothing to do with love—

HOLMES: Ever been in love Billy? BILLY: Not of late years, sir. HOLMES: Too busy, eh? BILLY: Yes, Mr. Holmes. HOLMES: Same here. Got my bag there, Billy? BILLY: Yes, sir. HOLMES: Put in that revolver. BILLY: Yes, sir. HOLMES: And the pipe and pouch. BILLY: Yes, sir. HOLMES: The lens and the tape? BILLY: Yes, sir. HOLMES: Plaster of Paris, for prints? BILLY: Yes, sir. HOLMES: Oh, and the cocaine.

Oh … oh. Shit.

Please understand that this exchange—consisting of Holmes again raising the topic of love immediately after returning to the subject of his disguise, both of which he addresses as soon as Watson has left, as if he could not discuss them in front of his friend—comes apropos of nothing except Watson’s announcement of his engagement far back at the beginning of the scene. And I don’t see how the way he raises the subject and dismisses it can be seen as anything but the covering of some deep emotion—there is longing in the way he immediately brings it up, showing that it has stuck in his mind the whole while, and something tragic in the way he next-moment dismisses the clear preoccupation with the claim of being ‘too busy,’ clearly echoing the ‘I envy you … love is not for me’ progression of his earlier exchange with Watson.

And I get that in theory this longing for but dismissal of love could be read in a number of ways besides a socially forbidden love for his recently engaged partner. One might argue, for example, that he is aromantic but lonely and longing for the consistency of attachment others find in romantic love, or that he’s bursting with all sorts of hetero affections that he has chosen to sacrifice for the sake of The Work.

I would simply ask any inclined towards those arguments to consider the framing of this scene. I would ask them to question why ACD chose to introduce and conclude the scene which functions as an introduction to Holmes with the detective’s ability and need to disguise himself from Watson specifically, immediately juxtaposed with discussions of romantic love and Holmes’s desire for it which is clearly present but immediately veiled—disguised?—by his commitment to the work, with the cocaine hovering ominously behind. Then consider that between these mirrored book-ends we watch Holmes allow the man from whom he must disguise himself to disrupt the flow of the work which he claimed was supreme, making clear his wish that Watson be drawn into that work—a desire counteracted only by the transparent fact that he would prefer to risk his own bodily injury rather than put his friend in harm’s way. Add to all of this that Doyle works in a mention of the Milverton case and thus allows Holmes to comment on how his ruse to undermine Milverton involves courting and being courted by a woman and how distasteful he finds the experience and—well, you much reach your own conclusions. I have reached mine.

b.) Watson: Substitutionary desire

I began by speaking of Holmes because the subtext is monumentally more apparent on his part, and unlike Holmes it would be easy and even (though I cringe to say it) reasonable to read Watson as a comfortable heterosexual in this play. Does this mean that Doyle wrote one of those dreadful adaptations in which Holmes is pining away with an unrequited love for a Watson who is incapable of returning his romantic affections?

Not necessarily. As far as I can tell, without the clear implication of Sherlock’s affections one would be on shaky ground arguing that Watson was intended as anything besides a Hetero Bro. However, the clear coding of Holmes as in love with Watson causes one to wonder whether the affection might not be returned, and the results of investigation are inconclusive but intriguing.

Although he doesn’t make an appearance until the second act, Holme is mentioned by Watson in the first scene. Assuring Enid that she can turn to him if she is in any need, he admits that there is little he can do on his own. But he then adds: “I have a singular friend—a man with strange powers and a very masterful personality. We used to live together, and I came to know him well. Holmes is his name—Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It is to him I should turn if things looked black for you. If any man in England could help it is he.”

To be fair, it is not unusual in stories for someone to describe the hero in grandiose terms before he is seen directly by the reader/audience. Still, that��s quite a way to describe one’s friend. I find myself particularly fixating on “strange powers and a very masterful personality.” You do realize that you could have just said he’s smart, right Watson? I mean, maybe things were different back then, but if I described my friend as having a ‘masterful personality’ and then tried to claim they were my platonic bestie, I’m pretty sure I’d get my fair share of dubious glances.

Watson mentions his friend once more when his application of Holmes’s methods to clear up a detail of the investigation prompts an impressed exclamation from the coroner, to which Watson responds: “I have a friend, sir, who trained me in such matters.”

So at the very least, we have a Watson who idolizes, respects, relies on, and emulates his friend—all of which makes the fact that he is no longer living with Holmes something of a puzzle.

You see, the play never gives us a reason for Watson having moved out. The comment to Enid in which he mentions that they “used to live together” occurs two years before Sherlock becomes involved with the case and Watson becomes engaged to Mary, so it clearly has nothing to do with her. Yet not only has he moved out, his involvement in the cases is implied to have dwindled significantly or even stopped altogether—in one of the saddest lines of the play, Holmes comments that of course Watson wouldn’t remember Milverton because: “it was after your time.”

But why these degrees of separation? At no point are there signs of any ill-will between the friends. The danger certainly wasn’t an issue for Watson: when Rylott threatens Holmes Watson literally “jumps” to protect him, and he insists on sharing the danger of the Rylott house. Nor does it seem viable to speculate that Baker Street’s location became inconvenient for Watson—the speed with which Rylott makes his way to Watson’s home and from there to Baker Street demonstrates that they still live quite close. One might more plausibly theorize that Watson was becoming more invested in his medical practice and involvement in Holmes’s work was interfering, but why would ACD make an alteration so irrelevant to the story and then not even explain it? After all, the friends were still living together in the short story from which this is adapted. What could be the point of such a change?

Well, the fact is, while their bond is undeniable and remarkably strong, there are hints of something … off between the friends. Despite claiming to see Watson as his equal partner, Holmes fails to communicate with him about how they will be involved in the Rylott case, telling Watson to come on the 11:15pm train but neglecting to mention that he will be going to the house in disguise some hours earlier. The motive behind this omission is unclear—he previously tried to dissuade Watson from joining the case on account of the danger, so perhaps Holmes intends for Watson to give up and stay away when Holmes does’t appear. (Watson, of course, comes anyhow). Or perhaps Holmes wished to be apart from Watson for a time in the wake of hearing of his engagement (Holmes calling for the cocaine comes unsettlingly to mind here) but knew Watson wouldn’t allow him to go to Rylott’s alone. But whatever Holmes’s motive, Watson knows only that he has been excluded and cut out. Similarly, if in the past he has sensed that Holmes was on some level disguising himself from him would he would not have been likely to imagine a flattering cause. One cannot help but wonder whether it is these exclusions that cause Watson, despite inserting himself determinately when Holmes’s safety is at stake, to feel that he must offer to remove himself from the room when Holmes calls in clients. Certainly Watson has no inkling that Holmes might be in love with him—no kind friend who suspected as much would introduce his engagement by saying: “I came here to tell you what I am sure will please you.”

This then, is what we have: two men who deeply admire each other, long for one another’s company, and would clearly die for one another, and yet one of them is hiding and the other running first from the house and then into marriage. We have good reason to believe the one is hiding because he fears revealing his love; is it unreasonable to suppose the other is running for the same reason? Is it strange to think that Watson, feeling unable to trust to his powers of disguise in the way Holmes can, feeling the continual sting of Holmes hiding from him and cutting him off and unable to interpret those actions as anything besides distrust or indifference, would have sought safety in distance and ultimately comfort in binding himself to another?

A final note: we know nothing about Mary in this play. Despite having come in part to announce his engagement, Watson has no rhapsodies to offer on behalf of his fiancee—he seems far more interested in Holmes’s propensity for love, and, failing that, in Holmes’s work. Although Holmes’s (admittedly not impartial) deductions imply that Watson is genuinely pleased with his engagement, we learn precisely two details about Mary, both from Holmes: first that she has red hair, and second that Watson chose a woman who Holmes “met and admired.” Despite their seemingly limited contact over the past two years, Watson still seems unable to be married without at least some reference to Sherlock Holmes.

c.) Sorry … have some petty ACD as recompense

I feel I owe you an apology. I am aware that if you had the patience to read my ridiculously long ramble and are convinced by my interpretation of the Holmes and Watson’s relationship in the play, your ‘reward’ is having a dark but ultimately triumphant detective story transformed into a fucking tragedy that ends with two broken hearts. All I can offer is the comfort of knowing that for 130 years neither marriage nor death nor the near erasure of Watson from the first forty years of stage and film adaptations have been able to keep these two apart. They will find their way back to one another.

Oh, and you also might enjoy hearing that this play is totally ACD’s revenge on heteronormativity.

Okay, I can’t prove that. But it really looks like it. You may be aware of the 1988 play Sherlock Holmes, written by Doyle and William Gillette. If you’re like me a week ago, you may not know that Doyle wrote the original script himself, and Gillette became involved only when Doyle’s script was rejected and the producer urged him to bring Gillette on to rewrite it. I like to imagine that the rejection letter went something like: “Look, buddy, you can’t have Holmes staring forlornly after Watson while instigating a wistful conversation about love with Billy. You just can’t,” but realistically we don’t know why the first draft was rejected. But we do know that Doyle specifically requested that Gillette not give Holmes a (female) love interest, and that Gillette sent Holmes off into the sunset with a woman anyway (x).

Then, eleven years later with a failing theater on his hands, Doyle locks himself away in a room and says, “Fuck it. Imma write a Holmes play, and when I introduce him the first thing everyone is going to know is that he’ll never marry a woman, and the last thing the introduction will tell them is that he’ll never marry a woman and—you know what, I’ll take that Milverton story where Holmes groans about needing to date a woman and throw that in the middle.” And that’s true of the play even if you don’t buy the queer reading. But also, its super gay.

And frankly I just love that not only did Doyle refuse to give in to society’s attempt to fit his story into their heteronormative mold, it actually worked and Doyle made up all the money he was poised to lose and more by shoving a gay love story into his audience’s face.

Well done, ACD, well done.

Conclusion: Should You Read It?

I mean, I think my answer is fairly obvious by now. If you’re interested and have the time, it is 100% worth it. And I hope it doesn’t feel like I’ve spoiled all the good parts. There are reams of gems I didn’t even allude to—and that’s not counting everything I doubtless missed.

I just have one request: if you do read the play and end up posting about it on tumblr, would you tag me in your comments? Hearing someone else’s thoughts on this hidden treasure would be a delight.

@thespiritualmultinerd @a-candle-for-sherlock @missallainyus @steadymentalityengineer @iant0jones @devoursjohnlock @disregardedletters

#ACD cannon #Holmes adaptations #the adventure of the speckled band #the speckled band play #Arthur conan doyle #stage adaptation #johnlock #meta #sherlock holmes #John watson

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egregiousderp · 7 years

Text

A little late, and I’m not sure if it’s a pairing or not. Your mileage is up to you on if it’s Kallus/Lyste or Thrawn/Kallus or anything at all.

Imperials anywhere and kittens galore anyway.

Happy Imperial Valentines. This is for @averyimperialvalentines

——– ——–

Lyste is no longer sure what to think.

Most times one is called for a private meeting with a commanding officer, there’s a certain etiquette to follow, a formula.

Thrawn though has an odd habit of calling his inferiors in for seemingly inconsequential things. And Lyste is many things, but art critic isn’t one of them.

Botanist is another thing he isn’t, and he has rather unpleasant memories of Thrawn watching with his glittering red eyes while a gently undulating succulent took offense to his fingers before the Admiral dismissed him with a casual wave of one blue hand and a

‘That will be enough, Lieutenant.’

If anything, spotting Kallus there already only makes it worse.

Kallus has a reputation for a sort of refined brutishness among the officers. Never mixed much. Polite but would probably gut you for a promotion. Coruscanti. Probably connections and old Patriotism and all that. No one really interacted much with him aside from the cadets who got sent to pester him with odd orders on dares from their peers. Lyste had never known Kallus well, even before the incident where he vanished for a full three cycles outside of geonosis, and returned limping. Lyste isn’t high enough up to read agent Kallus’s reports-

-Yet.

He was an example in Lyste’s training. On surprising the enemy with what was available to you, the cleansing of Lasan. Lyste wonders sometimes if Kallus knows it. If he would be proud of it or just pinch his mouth into a line with a look and a line about doing his duty.

No one knows anything about Thrawn, of course.

Kallus frowns at him, doesn’t seem to take well to the scrutiny.

“Yes, Admiral?” Lyste asks.

“I was wondering if you could help me with something, Lieutenant.”

Lyste tensed a little.

“Yes…admiral?”

Thrawn waved a hand.

“This creature.”

Pointed ears, slim legs, bushy tail.

Lyste blinked as the creature gave a harsh yowl at Kallus, hissing. The agent’s nose scrunched in distaste.

“It’s- a lothcat, sir.”

“Agent Kallus has already informed me of its species, Lieutenant Lyste, I was rather hoping for a more dynamic input,” Thrawn drawled so the color crept into Lyste’s ears and he wasn’t sure if the point was to make him feel stupid or not.

“What would you like me to do, sir?”

“Pick it up.”

“I-” Lyste looked at Kallus for help.

“You heard him,” Kallus replied, something pinched in his mouth again.

This was obviously some sort of test.

Lyste looked at the lothcat, and stepped in between it and Kallus, taking off his hat.

“May I ask where it was found? If it’s been…tested for any unusual diseases?” Lyste asked a little nervously.

“You may of course,” Thrawn said, sounding pleased, “This one was found living in one of the settlements on Lothal recently brought under Imperial Control.”

“So…it’s a pet?” he asked, eying the wary animal.

“That is a possibility,” Thrawn drawled.

The creature’s ears were still back, tail puffed out.

Lyste shushed the cat, setting his hat to the side, offering his fingers for a sniff.

The cat’s ears tipped up curiously.

“Has it been checked for identity chips?” Lyste asked.

Thrawn said nothing. His forefinger and thumb bracketing his chin.

Lyste stroked the creature’s ears, scratching under its chin.

“Shhhhh. There there…” he murmured absently, “You just wanted her moved?”

“Her?“ Kallus blinked.

“This…marking type is mostly female,” Lyste faltered, “I…assumed.”

“You assumed correctly in this case. Yes. Pick her up, Lieutenant.” Thrawn murmured.

Lyste carefully scooped up the animal, supporting it. It immediately went for rubbing its oversized head against his uniform, rumbling loud purrs.

“Very interesting, wouldn’t you agree, agent Kallus?”

“I must admit I don’t grasp what’s so interesting here, Admiral,” Kallus replied in his slow, careful way, frowning.

“I had Agent Kallus move the animal from its cage to the table. He chose a grip behind the scruff of the neck, as one might when dealing with something dangerous. It is a technique one would expect from the Empire’s Riot Control Troops.” Thrawn said.

Kallus’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m only doing my duty,” Lyste parroted, catching Kallus’s glare, trying to appease him. It didn’t do to cultivate enemies if one wanted to make higher than lieutenant, higher than acting captain.

“On the contrary, the Empire has need of such as you,” Thrawn drawled.

“…Sir?”

“I have need of a face for a propaganda campaign targeting Lothal. I wish to portray the Empire as not without those capable of gentleness to the frightened, and the displaced.” Thrawn murmured, drawing close to Lyste with measured strides.

“Why- Lothal?” Lyste stuttered.

Thrawn’s blue hand moved out to stroke the ears of the rumbling cat in Lyste’s arms.

“Lothal is important to the Rebels. I’ve reason to believe it isn’t the incompetence of those assigned to Lothal which is to blame for your current difficulty. I wish for the Rebels to know we too are attached to Lothal.”

Thrawn paused, almost dreamy.

“Your birth planet is Garel.”

“I- Yes, Admiral.”

“You were conscripted from the general populace, weren’t you, Lieutenant?”

Lyste halts, looks to Kallus.

Kallus’s chin has firmed up. He nods at him, oddly, as though trying to encourage him, oddly grim, like there’s something more significant at stake.

“I…was, Admiral.”

“Agent Kallus has noted in his reports that you have a special attachment to the planet of Lothal and it’s locals.”

Lyste tenses, hands frozen on the lothcat, staring up at Kallus.

Kallus had the look of a man trying to keep his own job, his own position when faced with the unpredictability that was Thrawn.

He couldn’t really blame him.

“If you mean to say it reminds me of Garel…You’d probably be right,” Lyste hears himself saying, scrutinized by those unnerving red eyes. “We- always had rebel activity. Even when I was a child. I saw- the way it affected those I grew up with. The common people.”

Lyste squares his shoulders.

“Then you side with the empire out of convenience?”

“I believe the Empire has the greater infrastructure to do the best possible good for the common people, Sir. I don’t…regret being conscripted if I can help the people of Lothal. The common people of any world, really.”

He glances again at Kallus, but Kallus is inscrutable.

Thrawn’s strangely curved features lift slightly.

“Then you want to do what is best for your empire.”

“With all my heart, Admiral.” Lyste insists.

Thrawn draws back from him, red eyes fixed on Kallus.

“Agent Kallus, the Empire has need of you as well.”

“Sir?”

Kallus is too crisp, too polished for much uncertainty, but it creeps warily into his tone so even Lyste hears it.

“The Rebels must look like the aggressor. You are familiar with what is required of you, no doubt.”

Kallus’s shoulders square.

“What would you have me do?”

Thrawn smiles. It’s a cold, tight smile.

——–

Lyste’s role, as it turns out, is simple, hold the cat and soothe it while Thrawn directs crew of engineers with lighting staves.

Lyste is not a brilliant man, and he’s aware of this as he contemplates the oddity in Thrawn staring down at agent Kallus, red eyes flickering over him.

“Bring that weapon of yours to me. I’d like to see it in demonstration?”

“Sir?” There’s something uncertain in Kallus’s perfectly groomed face so Lyste almost pities him.

“You are to be our stand-in for a rebel, Agent Kallus. I wouldn’t have you serve in that way at less than your full capability.”

Textbooks, Lyste reflects, don’t do justice to the way Agent Kallus fights. He’s far more flexible for one, than Lyste had ever suspected. Graceful, even. The woken weapon a dancing thing in his hands. He must have been terrible, he thinks, when he was younger.

He’s been stripped of his armor, clad in drab colors, his hair mussed beyond regulation. His movements are weirdly crisp anyway, oddly regulation.

One day, Lyste will be high enough in rank to read the reports of the Imperial intelligence Agency, he thinks.

He will discover one day, long after everything that is to come, that Kallus wrote of him, that he said he’d never seen a man fall so sincerely in love with his posting. Decorous, in line of everything that was to come, his reports careful, and always so polite, revealing nothing.

By then it will be far too late.

A full squad of troopers serve as Agent Kallus’s opponents, closed defensively around Lyste like he’s something precious, with his long-since squirming animal.

Kallus is terrifyingly capable, batting them aside like they’re paper, matching evenly, overpowering the duo of heavy troopers designed to hold him back.

“Harder.” Thrawn intones from the sidelines, taking his holostills, hardly even looking up, “Don’t hold back. He’s a rebel, after all.”

Kallus fights hard, Lyste reflects, drawing back slightly. If anything, the admiral’s urging of the troopers up and at him only makes Kallus fight harder.

He stumbles, falters under a stunning tasp that should bring down a wookie so Lyste feels the breath catch in his chest, feels it catch even harder when Kallus’s golden eyes flick back up to him with an impossible determination and violence, when he goes down to a sonic grenade and pulls himself up impossibly quickly, that smoking golden staff in his hand, Thrawn’s single word in his ears on repeat, urging:

“Again.”

When he stumbles, when Kallus finally falls, Lyste starts breathing again. The agent is less than two feet away, considering some impossible lunge if the deranged look on his polished, perfectly bred face is anything to go on.

Lyste has never been quite so alarmed by one of his superiors being dragged down beneath a good five white-armored bodies, struggling all the way, even exhausted, even dragged to an inch of his endurance.

If Rebels were anything like Kallus, Lyste thinks, half-admiring, half-horrified, they’d never stand a chance.

“Enough.” Thrawn intones lazily, gazing a little too long at Kallus.

Long enough Lyste gets the sense this has nothing to do with him, is some strange power-play instead, between two of his superiors.

Kallus stares at Thrawn hard back, hotly, red-blonde hair mussed and in his eyes.

Thrawn shifts ever so slightly, gazing on him with something approaching interest.

The cat in Lyste’s arms squirms.

“Are you…alright, agent Kallus?” He asks.

“Fine,“ Kallus snaps, pulling himself up, stormtroopers darting away from him like the last one caught touching him will pay with a crack from that awful, alien weapon of his, like his pride is worth violence.

The weapon in his hands doesn’t look anywhere near as menacing and terrible, somehow, when Kallus is in full uniform, with his hair slicked carefully back, Lyste reflects.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Lyste, Agent Kallus, this has all been…quite useful,” Thrawn murmurs, blue hands folded behind his white back.

A needy, mewing pawing catches Lyste’s attention.

“Respectfully, sir, when was the last time this lothcat was fed?” Lyste asks.

“Ah. Yes. You are dismissed, Lieutenant Lyste. Tend to the beast in any way you see fit. You have done a service to your empire.”

Thrawn’s red eyes pass back to agent Kallus, half-bent against the deck plating, all but ignoring him.

Lyste isn’t gifted with an over-abundance of imagination. He leaves quickly, mewling kit still in his arms.

#star wars rebels #a very Imperial Valentines #skuun writes things #Lyste/Lothal is the OTP #I have no idea how else to tag this but this was what popped into my head #Google Imp always snapping pics #Yogar Lyste: Poster Boy Cat-Cuddler of the Empire.#Day 1: 'Your Empire Needs You'#get Lyste a Lothcat 2k17 #Throw Kallus into things 2kforever #Yogar Lyste #might as well throw that in his character tag #he gets so little

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