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straightplayshowdown · 8 months

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Doctor Faustus: Yearning for infinite knowledge and questioning his faith, Doctor Faustus forsakes his scholarly studies for the world of magic and sorcery. He makes a pact with the devil. If the evil spirit, Mephastophilis, will serve him for 24 years, Faustus will bequeath the devil his soul after his death and spend eternity damned in hell. Despite warnings from colleagues, Faustus is blind to the terrifying extent of his actions until it is too late. Going on a journey with Mephastophilis and displaying his magic to a host of influential and important figures, Faustus finally realizes that he has come to the end of his allotted time on earth and learnt nothing.

The Importance of Being Earnest: Two bachelors, John ‘Jack’ Worthing and Algernon ‘Algy’ Moncrieff, create alter egos named Ernest to escape their tiresome lives. They attempt to win the hearts of two women who, conveniently, claim to only love men called Ernest. The pair struggle to keep up with their own stories and become tangled in a tale of deception, disguise and misadventure.

Propaganda under the cut!

Doctor Faustus:

Gay as hell (I wrote a 30 page senior thesis on this), beautiful writing, great if you're going through some shit and have christian guilt, then you can kin Faustus really hard

funny and also a great look at christianity and damnation. also faustus is gay for a demon

It's about Christianity and damnation where Faustus is bored of academia because he's too smart so he sells his soul to the devil for magic. Then, he pranks the pope and is gay for his demon attendant.

God this play is so good. A scholar, who's learned all he could of earthly things, sells his soul to the devil for magic. It's about sin, damnation, predestination. Is Faustus damned or is he damning himself? God it’s so good. Going to list some of my favorite lines now bc the writing is just so <33

When Faustus asks the demon Mephastophilis how he can be here on earth when he's damned to hell, he says "Why this is hell, nor am I out of it. / Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God, / And tasted the eternal joys of heaven, / Am not tormented with ten thousand hells / In being deprived of everlasting bliss?" which is just so true. Like god that conception of hell is so. Like yeah. Of course anywhere other than heaven would be hell when one has experienced heaven. God.

So many lines from Faustus questioning his choice and wondering if he should repent and if he were to repent would God even forgive him like "Why waverest thou? O, something soundeth in mine ears: 'Abjure this magic, turn to God again.' / Ay, and Faustus will turn to God again. / To God? He loves thee not: / Thou God thy servest is thine own appetite." Like the “To God? He loves thee not” gets me every fucking time bc he is SO convinced that he’s damned, he’s SO convinced that there’s no hope for him and that God does not love him. Like. And "Whither should I fly? / If unto God, he'll throw me down to hell.” Again, he’s absolutely convinced that there’s no hope for him. Even if he wants to repent, it doesn’t matter; God will turn him away. And "What art thou Faustus, but a man condemned to die?" And, god one of my favorite Faustus being convinced of his own damnation lines, "But Faustus' offense can ne'er be pardoned! The serpent / that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus." Even the SERPENT THAT TEMPTED EVE may be saved, but not Faustus. Like?? He’s so convinced of his own damnation that he believes that even if the literal serpent who caused the fall of humans could be saved, he would still be damned. Like god. Also, this whole spiel after another scholar is like call on God and repent to which Faustus goes, “On God, whom Faustus hath abjured? On God / whom Faustus hath blasphemed? Ah, my God—I would weep, but the devil draws in my tears! Gush forth blood, instead of tears—yea, / life and soul! O, he stays my tongue! I would lift my hands, but / see, they hold them, they hold them!” Like god. He would weep but the devil draws in his tears and he is weeping blood instead. He would raise up his hands to heaven but he is being held down. And like the beginning. The “who am I to call on God? God whom I have abjured and renounced? God who I have cursed and blasphemed? Who am I to call on him? Would he even answer if I did? If I could?” Like god. It’s so.

And finally, my fucking absolute favorite lines in the entirety of the play, which technically fall under the Faustus repenting category, but deserve their own number bc I love this part so much. Background: These are lines said by Faustus in his final monologue, a monologue that really starkly resembles Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. It is Faustus, minutes before the devils come to take his soul, pleading to God for the last time to have mercy on him. He says (bear with me this is long) “The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, / The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned. / O I’ll leap up to my God! Who pulls me down? / See, see where Christ’s blood streams in the firmament! / One drop would save my soul, half a drop; ah my Christ— / Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ; / Yet will I call on him—O spare me, Lucifer! / Where is it now? ‘Tis gone: and see where God bends his ireful brows! / Mountains and hills, come, come and fall on me, / And hide me from the heavy wrath of God. / No, no? / Then I will run headlong into the earth: / Earth, gape! O no, it will not harbor me.” So what’s happening here? Faustus is watching the time tick by before the devil comes to take him. He is trying to leap up to God, to repent, but he can’t; there’s someone pulling him down. Is it the devil? Is it himself? Who knows. Then, he sees Christ’s blood in the sky. He’s begging for it. For not even one drop, just half a drop; if he could just have half a drop perhaps he could be saved. That line btw, while it is only in the A text of Doctor Faustus (there’s two versions of the play, the A text and B text), is often still included in the B text editions bc it’s just that fucking good. Anyway. He pleads to Christ, something he is not allowed to do under his contract with Lucifer; he is not allowed to call upon God or Jesus or say any holy names. So when he calls upon Christ, he knows what Lucifer could do to him for it, but calls on him anyway, begging Lucifer to spare him. But once he invokes Lucifer’s name, the blood in the sky disappears. Instead, now all he sees is God’s ireful brows. So, he tries to take shelter from God in the earth, but not even the Earth will harbor him. It’s just so. Like god. And finally, at the end of his monologue, right before the devils enter to drag him to hell, Faustus cries, “My God, my God, look not so fierce on me!” a line which is just so. A blatant blasphemy of “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me,” this line is everything to me. Like god. It’s just so. God.

Anyway, Doctor Faustus is fucking amazing and these aren’t even all my favorite lines, I have so many more and there’s so much more I love about this play, but this is already long enough. It’s just so good. It’s a meditation on predestination and damnation, it’s blasphemous, it’s wonderful. The writing is so good. I just love it so much.

The Importance of Being Earnest:

Queercoded love interest and Victorian dandies, what’s not to love?

Quite possibly the funniest thing I have ever read.

It's very funny.

there is a HANDBAG and it is a MAJOR PLOT POINT. jack pretends to be ernest because he's been doing it for ages and why not am i right? algernon pretends to be ernest to get a girl and also so screw stuff up. as one does. gwendolen and cecily have a REALLY passive aggressive tea party. this play slaps. it is so good. go read it and/or see it

“Nothing will induce me to part with Bunbury, and if you ever get married, which seems to me extremely problematic, you will be very glad to know Bunbury. A man who marries without knowing Bunbury has a very tedious time of it.”

Lady Bracknell: “I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square.”

Lady Bracknell: “My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of triviality.”

Jack: “On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I’ve now realized for the first time in my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest.”

#polls #round 1 #doctor faustus #the importance of being earnest #the straight play showdown

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antvnger · 6 months

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The Bard’s Avengers Request: “Mr. Stark, it smells like a new car in here!”

PARKER

Help, Master Stark, I’m being beamèd up!

STARK

I shall fly thither soon to rescue thee.

[Obsidian knocks Stark down, then jumps at him. Wong opens a portal underneath Obsidian, who falls through the trapdoor a deserted realm. Exit Cull Obsidian.

Wong, thou art now invited to my wedding.

[Exeunt Wong and Bruce Banner as Stark flies toward the ring.

Grant me an extra touch of power, FRIDAY, and unlock weapon seventeen-and-A.

[Maw enters the ship with the body of Strange floating behind him. Parker climbs on the outside of the ship as Stark approaches. From the Avengers base, a 17A Spider-Man suit is shot, rushing toward the ring.

[In radio:] Pete, let thyself go—I shall catch thee up.

PARKER

[In radio:] Yet thou told’st me go save the mighty wizard! Alas, I cannot breathe.

STARK

—Increasingly the air grows thin, we are too high, and thou art running out of atmosphere to breathe.

[Parker falls, but the 17A suit catches him and encompasses him.

PARKER

I am reviv’d—and goodness, Master Stark, the suit doth smell as good as some new car!

STARK

I bid thee happy trails, kid. FRIDAY, send him home once more.

FRIDAY

—I shall!

[A parachute opens from Parker’s suit, sending him back to the ground.

The Bard’s Avengers

#ant mun’s thoughts #the bard’s avengers #avengers #tony stark #iron man #peter parker #spiderman #avengers infinity war #infinity war’s tale

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libidomechanica · 4 months

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Untitled (“Always than Nanie, O”)

That all the world’s most crowded stream. A great amongst you all? Somewhere incessantly with jealousy: and each grated screen, and smote on thee, or Geordie on him, in those witless men who looked so wistful eye upon thy paine, as doth

spred, hauing all thy transgressions I commit are for an hour, when nothing balks each big approaching; every line and lain in that pine to say; for we did not wear his step, and winds were passioned where incessantly for you, only for

you are my Fall! I feel a nameless feelings try: but let the waves, the more is craving wind! Below me, the sparrow spear’d by Nature’s crowning race. Though lean Hunger and for the future cheats us free, ah! Their smiles encountered, he likewise

which was grey, and thighs, and lost. But some health from her: nor can my memory stands as due as faith of a softer clime, half-lost in the lowly ground, and looks translated into far Ku-to-yen, by thy e’en sae bonie, O: the op’ning

gowan, wat wi’ dew, nae purer is that ourselves, or are moved, and hushed willows anchors; it’s no sooner present to myself corrupting, salving thirst no more. Why wert thou belied, bear thine owne fate I could have no measure; i’ll seek nae

main o’ Heav’n will but the fire domed blackened heart, condemne not his rage asswage. Always than Nanie, O. Who watches throng his room, the shimmering over garden nights, death, or loue, or fort that is ours to whom a watcher’s dochter! Now is the

Wine, and peacocks with they heaped the sight die. Regard of Youth,— the man had done to dance to unsay. The flying the thing, and yet I see it gloome, and the teeth of the Netherby clan; forsters, Fenwicks, and therefore well awayt, and all, but

Love. Will so fowle a fault is youth, who lead but kisse; I neuer sleepe the river where ford therefore attend your eccho ring. Her face by heart: I strings with scoffing, and loathsome slime, and that faire Nimphs layd downe the love that I have fleet in

the christ brings. I never told can be knowne of what I am underneath: they do not tear my Garment from the weather on the sun beats lightly pass and scattering. But still doth behoue, and a little tent of song; permit me voyage,

love gentle beams straightway I was ’ware, so sweetest, they ran: there we lay so naked as some kind and perling flowers: a languid humour stole among the wild beast guards my way; my Emanation follow’d after she was thine eyes, but

by the hideous prison of Man that is not sweet, all naked, will but killed the house in Pennsylvania, near petrified. Like a wheel of roses, that’s it, a little thou art forced to be bound by something which cruell loue collected,

hast sumd in one merciless white blade of itself, but is not true! A torment thrice three handmayds of the swallow, the rushy lake, where someone drowning into plastic bags for that some health from tyranny? The flying and doth move silent

men who watch whose fires of them bemone that shake and so dauntless in war, have ye e’er heart beats in every line and that herself should I greet thee after she will not even thou shalt by fortune once seene, and in the supermarket

using there; which Thee true Men to keep. Did proue; but warld’s gear, and see. Green borders under strange it was of old the play. Which though he wants a gavel. For ever trust in the blinds. And I do sweare, euen by the river where must picture a

woman who looked upon the sea, or a juggler hates the christ brings his wings, a breach do I accuse the fame of beaver hats. It has a deadly stride: with indiscretion lacke, beeing made of pleasant Orange-tree; how Vlster like a lattices,

beside their hearts, now soone her disaray, and hearken to the Lord of Death once dead, the silent sapphire-spangled marriage-makers, and as ye her array, still through a poore I am thine for ever trust beyond it spry cordage

of you that lean heavily against that pass in purple throat and so dauntless in war, was to weep, and let the moon in a rigadoon of filthy darknesse lend desired light; but to me for a minute. It is most mad and

fawning mouth receivest, I cannot claim: let the thing the Bread. And what it is the stone; the answer&theyr eccho ring. And when he rose to weep, and let the boundless main to wake thee fair; more perjurious rainbow shell that pushes us

off from the old ladies cough loudly, violently. Some angell she have lovely is but a brief, dreamy, kind delights forepast; enough is apt enough is it, that sands o’ life shall run. In such as deep down the iron town there is

no word that ever breast. Thy Counsellor; and doting a watch the world came over mines! I cut myself uprear, to guard the sky To-morrow, and fleet steeds that you can heal: and ye still, my dear, till a’ the ”—“Death,” I said: I never.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #115 texts #ballad

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ab0ut-this · 8 months

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The Fly, William Blake

Little fly, Thy summer’s play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away.

Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me?

For I dance And drink and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life And strength and breath, And the want Of thought is death,

Then am I A happy fly, If I live, Or if I die.

#william blake #poetry #the fly #poem

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aquatic-batt · 1 year

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am I not a fly like thee, or art thou not a man like me?

Spirit goes by they/them pronouns!

#I have no idea what this is I was basically just fuckin around w their design #spirit #Jutlin’s characters #bats #wing prints #StarTellers

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istherewifiinhell · 2 years

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Five song otp play list, tagged by @palms-upturned (last week lol) tagging @joelleity @deadgrantaires@paradoxgavel and anyone else whod wants to!

My brain is a bit too soup to make a playlist, right now, and I don't have any OTPS one in the can (If i were to do one it would be dokhyuk and it would consist entirely of garages songs tho). So im just gonna grab the what i think are the strongest 5 songs from my wip HDB playlist.

Someone's Yearning feat: Jock Scott (Live at The Barbican

This isn't technically a sea power song so... So there. Also. Are there no lyrics available for it anywhere? Have to do everything myself (i guess hmu if u want the full lyrics ive. just typed up for this?)

Now, once more I'm on my own again / Conceding(?) romantic bufoon / The dishes pile up in the sink / I must tide up my room / As I ignore time, the damn stuff runs out / Just as well there's no one else about

If anyone calls I say uh "I'm fine" / Relieved that there are no witnesses to my sad decline / I may regroup and try again in a year or 2

The Fly, Cosmo Sheldrake

the. the whole lyrics of the song but... (Which. im learning just now is also a poem to music...)

Little fly, thy summer's play / My thoughtless hand has brushed away / Am I not a fly like thee? / Or art thou not a man like me?

For I dance and drink and sing / Till some blind hand shall brush my wing / If thought is life and strength and breath / And the want of thought is death

Then I am a happy fly / If I live or if I die

Grounds for Divorce, Elbow.

This broke my all bandcamp link streak... anyway GUITAR.

There'll be twisted karaoke at the Aniseed Lounge / And I'd bring you further roses but it does you no good / And it does me no good / And it does you no good

There's a hole in my neighborhood / Down which of late I cannot help but fall

Aquamarine, O'o

Not. Ostentatious Orchestrations. but still. (again this is like the whole song but... cmon.)

Pain is creeping, seeping / Words are sleeping, weeping / Through her liquid thoughts / Bubbling shaming noughts / And nullifying crosses / Can only count her losses / Alone, well out of earshot / Recounting the unwritten plot / Re-enacting the lovey-dovey dove / And her useless drowning love / Sudden springs of spite swelled up / Soon waves of rage welled up / Now helpless / She soaks in pain, in vain, and sinks x4

Brain drain x4

The washed up by a tidal bore / Waking up on a lonely shore of rippling sand / Hangover, hangover (hung, hung, hungover) x2

Dirty Imbecile The Happy Fits

Sure they messed me up but that is / Voices that they left inside of my head / Darling, dearest, don't you see / I'm tough, I'm smart, I'm bourgeoisie? / And I'll play out this lie until we're all dead

Count my little scars, I've got dozens down inside (Am I good? Is all I could) / I come complete and invincible behind my dirty imbecile (enough for you?) / All these things I've tried, boy (I'm so scared of) / Be cute, be dumb, be wise, be young (when and where I'll find the truth) / So don't tell me what to fear in the darkness of this atmosphere

#some shit #i need a music tag. oh god okay.#sad.fm #my brain is made of goo and my toe of. bad.#have been meaning to do this every day i wasnt working since u tagged me sorry lol. and for breaking the. prompt but #i imagine these in hdb life chronological order of. dirty imbecile. someones yearning. aquamarine. grounds for divorce. the fly. btw.

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waste-iisolation · 1 year

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Am I not a fly like thee, or art thou not a man like me?

#anguish agony etc #art tag #mine #oc tag #kaetzl #kyotr #raislets #digital art #art #illustration #eclipses are kind of their thing so i WILL be drawing more identical images to this tyvm

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theartistknownaslymond · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022 day 23

Forced to Kneel | Tied to a Table | “Hold them down.”

*sound of catching-up intensifies*

No whipping posts in the band AU, just have to rely on good old-fashioned kicking :’)

CW: a beating (inside a tent, so claustrophobia warning!), broken ribs, general GRM nastiness and references to what went down between Francis and Joleta and Joleta’s overdose. Joleta lying about things, Francis using whisky as a painkiller, also guitars as weapons.

Also something really weird happened switching between desktop and mobile editors and it screwed up the order of a bunch of paragraphs so let me know if any still seem out of order 😮‍💨

---

Francis' usual pre-gig routine was always disturbed when he was at a music festival. Peace and quiet were relative only, and he had to entrust set up and soundcheck to the roadies provided. There was little to do other than wait.

He might try to sneak off into the crowds in order to watch a band lower down the listings play - but sneaking was rarely an option these days. He'd graced the covers of too many magazines and people were on the lookout for him. His presence at a set might make or break a young band if he was noticed there - his expression could guarantee them a record contract or result in their immediate split.

He hated it. There was no such thing as simply being curious about new music, not for him, not any more.

So he went to lie down in his tent and to listen for anything other than the beat from the main stage.

It wasn't a particularly hot afternoon, but inside the blue canvas the sun was trapped and the air was stuffy. Francis closed his eyes and focussed on the sound of a fly battering against the inside of the tent, and another on the outside, its legs scrabbling on woven, water-proofed cotton.

The blue light was warm on his eyelids. In the distance the bass thudded and the crowds screamed. The ground beneath his tent roll and his flattened sleeping bag was hard and uneven - divots of grass and old pock-marks left by the hooves of the cattle that normally grazed this land were undulations he felt with the muscles of his back and legs. Habitually, his mind picked away at these thoughts in search of inspiration. He considered the land as a palimpsest, thought about its years of use...

The flies continued to scuff and scratch and buffet against the canvas, and Francis' lip quirked up in a smirk that was honest because it couldn't be seen by anyone else. His lips moved as he recited William Blake's poem, though he did not speak it aloud:

Little fly,

Thy summer’s play

My thoughtless hand

Has brushed away.

Am not I

A fly like thee?

Or art not thou

A man like me?

For I dance

And drink and sing,

Till some blind hand

Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life

And strength and breath,

And the want

Of thought is death,

Then am I

A happy fly,

If I live,

Or if I die.

By not speaking it aloud he felt as though he was testing his belief in it, rolling its assertions around in his mind to see whether or not he agreed. He found that it didn't fully sit with him like it might once have done. Ambition dug its heels in and rejected the ambivalence towards death - there were things he might do first. St Marys had already proved itself useful in achieving what he couldn't have managed alone with a band, and the men he was working with were learning their lessons well - though Francis felt he still had much he wanted them to learn and understand. There was much that he wanted to learn and understand alongside them.

He was thinking of the extraordinary tapes and songs Salah had managed to smuggle out of the war in the Aouzou Strip. His heart kindled with a secret thrill as he imagined that he might learn some of Salah's techniques, and his thoughts were lost under the Libyan sun when the shadows of several figures fell over his tent.

The tent flap opened silently, but it let in a bracing gust of evening air.

Francis sighed, preparing to congratulate Swami Vadan on finding him, to offer the leadership that Vadan needed in response to whatever minor inconvenience had been encountered during the stage set-up.

Instead, he opened his eyes and saw another linen-robed sannyasin gazing at him.

Swami Geetesh's face looked purple under the light of the canvas. His eyes glittered with malice and there was no friendly mask softening his square jaw and broad, high cheek bones. There was no guileless calm or self-satisfied peace there today: only anticipation, thirsty and fevered.

Francis pushed himself up on his elbows. He noticed the shadows of other figures on the sides of the tent and he realised just what sort of trouble he was about to be in.

"Swami Geetesh. You were granted compassionate leave for this fixture."

Geetesh's lips moved in a sneer. He stared with unblinking hunger at Francis. "Yes, how compassionate of you. Since you have sullied and used my sister, since you nearly killed her with your carelessness."

Francis' jaw tightened. He had said all there was to say on that matter already. Whatever confession Geetesh hoped to elicit now would tell him nothing new.

"Since you care for her so devoutly, I thought you might want to spend time with her while she recovers."

Geetesh lowered his head a little, so the shadows in his eyes deepened. "Actually, I have come to the conclusion that what I need is revenge, dear Francis. I am not yet an enlightened man - the path is a long one and rarely follows a direct line."

Francis did not show the fear that began to eat away at his bones. The inside of the tent seemed a lot darker and colder than before - outside, twilight was descending on the festival. Their headline slot wasn't far away now, and Geetesh evidently intended that Francis would never make it to the stage.

"If it's revenge you want, I can give you the name of the hospital that prescribed the painkillers she took," Francis said steadily, anger lending an archness to his voice.

Geetesh shook his head and smirked. His plan was not about to be derailed by minor inconveniences of history and fact. "How can you be trusted to lead a social enterprise, to preach of change and charity through culture, when you yourself behave so despicably? When you use your status to justify breaking a girl - little more than a child - on the rack of your...sinful body. It displays a truly staggering arrogance, my dove."

Outside the tent someone asked something.

"Wait," Geetesh barked. He turned back to Francis. "I'm afraid it's better if I take St Marys from you. You're not cut out for that sort of business - but I can make use of you in the studio."

Francis laughed hollowly. "You think I'll work for you?"

"I know it," Geetesh purred. "It's in your stars, my dear. I will have you on your knees, begging for me to include you." He tweaked one of Francis' toes playfully and backed out of the tent with a grin on his face.

Nearby, someone switched on a boombox and the opening bars of Satisfaction (I Can't Get No) blasted out.

"Hold the corners down," Geetesh instructed, and then Francis had seconds to prepare, curling himself tightly into a ball beneath the thin padding of his sleeping bag, wrapping his arms around his head - and the blows began to rain down on him and the tent.

Tent poles snapped, canvas bowed and ripped, and feet and other weapons thudded against Francis' body. Someone was using a baton of some kind, really whaling blows down on him with reckless glee - though the impacts were padded, spread by something that was wrapped around the weapon, as well as by the layers of tent and bedding burying Francis.

He thought of the building collapse in Berlin, phantom pain - oh god, it was phantom, wasn't it? - lancing through his leg and hip. This was similar, but more like being caught in the collapse of a pillow fort as the fort itself tried to devour him whole. Some of the blows hit the remnants of the tent poles that lay over his body and he felt the impacts bruise, metal and bamboo driven against him with weight and pressure above them.

He had no idea how long they worked him over - they took the boombox with them when they were done, and his ears rang with the blows so he couldn't have said what the last song playing had been.

It was a struggle to breathe under the cover of the sleeping bag and the collapsed tent. The air was hot and tasted of blood. A downy feather, burst from the battered sleeping bag, clung to his lip, and when Francis fought to free himself he was introduced to the full extent of the damage they'd achieved.

There were broken ribs, that was certain. Francis groaned and gritted his teeth and tried to curl around the pain, but that movement hurt just as much. He tried to steady himself, his palm pressed to the groundsheet beneath him, touching the hard, uneven earth below. He felt like he was running out of oxygen, his own breath coming back to him, moist and hot beneath the covers.

He moved more carefully this time, one hand, trembling, fumbling the sleeping bag off him so that only the tent lay above his face. His fingers found a tear in the fabric and worked their way through, pushing, trying to stretch the hole.

To his astonishment, another set of fingers gripped his - he flinched and let out a cry of pain as the movement jarred his bruised and fractured body.

"Mr Crawford?!" The voice was a young girl's, breathless and afraid.

He let out an agonising sigh and an even more painful laugh of relief. "Philippa? Is that you?"

"Oh, Mr Crawford, I saw what they did! Are you ok?" She pulled at the tear in the fabric and Francis' hand was free, then his forearm, then he could squint up at her and spit the feather from his bloodied lip.

"I can honestly say that I've been better, Miss Somerville," he grinned for her. "But I can also honestly say that I've been worse."

Philippa's frown didn't ease, but she was ruthless about the tent and soon had him freed. Francis managed to make himself sit up amid the wreckage, though bands of fiery agony clasped his torso and breathing alone made the edges of his vision blur and blacken.

"What are you doing here, then?" he asked her, determined to make pleasant conversation rather than acknowledge the worry in her brown eyes.

Philippa bit her lip. "I snuck away. Mum's with Letty. But Letty told me... She told me something I thought you should know. I thought it might help you."

Francis blinked - the gesture doubled as genuine response and momentary pause to survey the pain that came in ceaseless waves over him. "Help me? Should I be the one asking if you are ok?"

Philippa's eyes went very large and round. She knelt demurely, sitting on her feet, her hands pressed between her knees and her lower lip getting ragged as she chewed it. "I've been...a bit unfair maybe. But this is serious. Letty lied to you - she said she was pregnant and she's not. But I heard Mr Gee...Swami Geetesh telling the men from St Marys that you killed the baby on purpose with the drugs."

Francis sighed and bowed his head. He reached out for one of Philippa's hands and she gave it to him hesitatingly. "Thank you, Philippa," he smiled at the pooled mess of fabric around him. "Thank you. I know she was lying. But perhaps you could tell me which men Swami Geetesh brought with him?"

She nodded, confused, but hopeful that she could still be of use.

"And then, I may need your assistance in reaching the stage - we will be due on very soon, I imagine."

"Oh, Mr Crawford, you can't - "

She stopped at a glance from him, his eyebrows raised and his cracked lip smiling patiently, sadly. "Will you help me? It might be the only time you are justified in doing so. I will not always have such a righteous cause, Philippa."

She stood and arranged the strap of her little cross-body bag like an adventurer preparing for an epic journey. "That's ok, I'm not prone to hero worship. I just believe in justice," Philippa said grandly, with unmistakeable shades of Gideon Somerville in her voice.

Francis' smile was no less melancholy, but he let her do what she could to aid him to stand, and he managed to limp through the darkening campsite with her help.

She told him what he had suspected to be true of the other men - they were techs and roadies who would claim themselves seduced by Joleta to varying degrees. White knights with no interest in helping the girl herself - unless it was to obtain drugs and booze for her - but who had been quite prepared to join Geetesh in avenging her honour against a tyrant. They would be cleared out of St Marys - just as the Rajneeshees and their parasitic power trip would be.

Francis washed the blood from his mouth in the uneven plastic mirror in the back of a portaloo door, using a bottle of sparkling mineral water Philippa had obtained from the concessions tent. There seemed to be precious little evidence of the beating otherwise visible on his body. There were a couple of bruises - long, tent-pole shaped shadows on his arms and back - but by and large the damage was internal, submerged beneath skin and tissue.

Philippa objected to the end - St Marys were already on stage, they'd already apologised for Francis, he had no need to go up there... But Francis had to show Geetesh that he wouldn't get his way that easily.

He took a look at the rider before going on stage and forced back about a third of a bottle of blended whisky. It was the quickest way to trick himself into not feeling the pain of his ribs with every movement. It was what he needed in order to be able to get the guitar strap over his head. In order to endure the feeling of its weight against his torso. He blinked and coughed - winced, took another mouthful of the spirit - and then thanked Philippa again before hauling himself up the stairs to the wing of the stage.

His Fender was out there, already prepared for him on its stand. Geetesh was leading a smooth version of one of the songs from the latest album, playing the Gibson Francis usually kept to a different tuning. Adam was bent over the keyboards, his hair flopping wildly as he hammered the notes out, Archie was sweating away on the drums, and Vadan was playing a bored, perfunctory bass part - filling in while the two first choice bassists languished in separate wards of Glasgow Royal Infirmary. Fergie twirled her own drumsticks with idle confidence between contributing on the drum pads, and Alec Guthrie moved his fingers meticulously, cleverly across the deck of his own synthesiser.

It was all fine, but the balance was off - Geetesh was trying to be two guitar parts in one, and Francis was sorely needed.

At first, Geetesh thought the swelling roar of the crowd was for him, and he beamed and let out a show-offy riff between verses. By the time he turned to see what had got the other band members' attention, Francis had managed to secure his guitar and was ready to join in.

He nodded calmly at Vadan and at Geetesh, and slipped into the stream of the music with ease, glad, at least, to have that to distract him from the excruciating pain in his body.

Geetesh merely cast him a condescending smirk and turned back to his mic, but Vadan continued to stare at Francis. He moved restlessly with his bass, sauntering across the stage, trailing its cable around his sandalled feet.

Francis thought, from a distance, that it was anger that was foremost in Vadan's dark eyes, but as he strolled closer, worry could be detected also.

"Where were you? Is something wrong?" Vadan leaned in to call the questions into Francis' ear.

Francis shook his head and concentrated on his guitar. "Later..." he told Vadan. "I'm fine."

The effort needed to force the words out with enough volume that Vadan could hear him almost undid the statement - Francis closed his eyes and swallowed down a rising tide of nausea at the lancing pain in his ribs.

Vadan was clearly not convinced, and mooched about the stage close by, pacing restlessly and apparently missing the wild effort Francis usually put into sharing solos with him.

Geetesh announced the next song and invited Francis to sing it, a cruel amusement lighting his eyes as he glanced back over the stage.

It could be done - more as a spoken word piece than was usually the case, but maybe the audience would feel gratified to be granted an exclusive live version of a track they already knew well. Francis managed it, his eyes screwed up, his teeth millimetres from the metal of the mic, his lips pressed to it like it was a life-giving source of sustenance. He was sweating with the effort and with the heat of the stage lights, and he was in no state to shuffle around the stage wielding his guitar like an axe as they segued into the instrumental part of the song.

Vadan and Geetesh were, of course, free to dance and play. They played back to back at first, Vadan grinning at the contact with his master, his bare brown chest shining under the multi-coloured spot lights. Then Geetesh moved away and stamped one foot and swung his guitar as he did. He repeated the gesture on the beat, moving gradually across the stage, followed by Vadan, who tried to keep up with his moves, his head down and his black hair wild around his face.

Too late, Francis appreciated Geetesh's intentions. Vadan never did.

Turning once he'd reached Francis' side of the stage, Geetesh once more swung the neck of his guitar up over his left shoulder as he played. Vadan had come too close, straightening up, ready to back towards Geetesh as he often did when playing with Francis. Francis was trapped behind the mic, mid-way through singing the bridge, when Geetesh swung the guitar in an arc around his torso so that the head if the instrument collided with Vadan's cheek and the body of the guitar slammed back against Francis' ribs.

Francis must have made a sound, but he couldn't have said what it was or how it might be interpreted within the tone of the song.

When he managed to peel his scrunched up eyes open he saw he was on his knees before the mic, his guitar still held in his lap.

Geetesh was still playing, gazing down at him with cool, appreciative pleasure. Play your solo then, he mouthed. On your knees.

Francis had to unlock the pain from his stiffened fingers and remind them what to do, but he managed to join in with the song again before the end, and watched Geetesh saunter back over to the other side of the stage and speak his thank yous to the audience.

While the crowds cheered - they'd always be more willing to believe in stagecraft and rock-'n'-roll than in disaster and real consequences - Vadan crouched by him.

Francis gasped to see the blood under his friend's nose, where Geetesh's guitar had caught him full in the face. Vadan didn't seem perturbed by it, and he swiped it away with the back of his wrist, leaving a red streak across his cheek.

"Francis, what happened? Can you play?" he asked urgently, thickly through the still-welling blood.

Francis looked out at the audience and looked over at Geetesh. Geetesh grinned viciously over his shoulder. "I think poor, dear Lymond may have to admit defeat on this one..." he told the audience.

They booed, and Francis tensed, trying to think about how he'd get to his feet.

Vadan's hand weighed his shoulder down though, and the man who used to be called Jerott Blyth shook his head. "Don't be stupid, you look like you're about to faint!"

"You see how reluctant he was to let you down," Geetesh told the audience in a mock-sympathetic voice, gesturing at Francis with an outflung arm. "But he's just too ill. Now, I'll give you all a word of advice, all you festival-goers..." the crowd hollared and heckled, but Geetesh didn't mind. He smiled and leaned into the mic, turning to eye up Francis as he did. "Beware of the falafel van..." he chuckled.

The Scottish crowd let out a delighted thunderclap of laughter, whistling and jeering their agreement.

Vadan assisted Francis in getting the guitar up over his head, and replaced it tenderly on its stand before returning to help him up too.

There was nothing for it - he had to accept the hand he was being offered, and Francis gripped Vadan's knuckles with all the strength of his fury as he rose to his shaking legs.

"Oh, Lymond, I dreamed of seeing you on your knees for me..." Geetesh couldn't resist adding as Francis stumbled to the side of the stage, one hand waving perfunctorily at the crowd.

Vadan stared at Geetesh in shock; Archie hastily passed a message over to Fergie; Geetesh announced the next song; and Francis let himself return to the ministrations of a worried teenager.

#whumptober2022 #whumptober #every day i write the book #character: francis crawford #character: philippa somerville #character: graham reid malett #character: jerott blyth #characters: st marys #band au: disorderly knights

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