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crystalninjaphoenix · 3 years

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Hospitals & Hellos

A JSE Fanfic

Consider this a follow-up to the action of the previous part. A lot happened, including a cliffhanger that really left you dangling >:)c Sorry about that, but also not sorry. Anyway since it’s so closely related, I’m having trouble summarizing it. Basically, Chase and Marvin get some good news, there’s a brief intermission when something else happens, and then we cut back to those in more danger. That may sound confusing but I don’t want to get too spoilery. Read for yourself =)

You can find the other stories under the pw timeline tag!

Chase woke up to the sound of his ringtone, the sensation of someone shaking his shoulder, and the pain in your back and neck that develops when you fall asleep somewhere you’re not supposed to. He groaned, and opened his eyes. Where...? Ah, right. Jack’s hospital room. He fell asleep? For how long? Visiting hours must be almost over by now.

Marvin shook him again, leaning over from his chair next to him. “You keep getting a call,” he said. “You should probably pick it up now.”

“Right.” Chase stretched, wincing a bit at the ache in his body, then dug his phone out of his pocket just as the ringtone ended and the call dropped. But looking at his lock screen, he had three missed calls from one Detective Nix. “Oh shit!” He was immediately awake. “I gotta call back—”

Before he could do that, his phone rang yet again as it received another call from the detective. This time, Chase picked it up instantly. “Hello?”

“Mr. Brody?” asked the somewhat-familiar voice of Detective Nix.

“That’s me. Sorry about all the missed calls, I-I fell asleep.”

“Ah, I see.” Nix sounded amused. “I suppose I have to plan for calling you several times.”

Chase laughed nervously, glancing over at the others. He’d fallen asleep to Marvin teaching Jack the beginnings of BSL, but now both of them were staring at him, listening in to the conversation. Jack was sitting straight up, without leaning against the bed. Marvin kept bouncing his leg. The two of them were clearly anxious. “So...wh-what’s the situation?”

“Well, there’s good news, bad news, and good news,” Nix said. “Which would you like to hear?”

Chase inhaled sharply. “Bad news first.”

“We couldn’t find your friend Henrik. Or the other one who’d been taken a month ago, Jameson.”

“Oh.” Chase’s heart sank. “What’s the good news, then?”

“First things first: your friends’ tips were extremely helpful. We managed to find the house they were talking about,” Nix said. “We didn’t recover many things from the location, but we found something else. Or rather, someone else. Jackie Donovan.”

If his heart sank before, it now rocketed upward into his throat, rendering him speechless. Finally, he managed to get out a strangled, “What?”

“He was in one of the house’s bedrooms, badly injured and tied to a chair, but alive,” Nix continued. “He’s at the hospital now.”

“Which hospital?” Chase asked.

“Southpoint General, in the—”

“Holy shit, we’re literally there right now!” Chase stood up so fast he knocked his chair over. “Where is he?! Can we see him?!”

“He’s recovering in what is, I believe, the emergency ward,” Nix said calmly. “Don’t worry, he’s stable, but as I said, badly injured. Unconscious, actually. Visiting hours are basically over, but if you’re already here, and you insist, you could probably hurry if the staff lets you—”

“That’s what we’ll do, then. We’ll be there as soon as possible!” Chase hung up without saying goodbye, and turned to face the other two.

“What was that all about?” Marvin asked, confused but hopeful.

“They found Jackie!” Chase shouted, unable to contain his overflowing joy and relief. “They got him back, he’s here, at this hospital right now!”

“What?!” Marvin shot to his feet. “We gotta see him!”

“That’s what I said! If we run, we might be able to squeeze in just before visiting hours end.” Chase started to head towards the door, then stopped, and looked back at Jack. “Oh, uh, sorry, you probably want—”

“Go!” Jack waved at the two of them, pointing at the room’s doorway. “Gogogogogo!”

Chase laughed. “Alright, we’re going! I’ll see you in a couple days, probably!”

“Go!”

“Okay, bye!” Chase hurried out the door.

“Bye, Jack!” Marvin added, following Chase.

Jack waved at the two of them as they left.

From there, the two of them hurried to the nurses’ station so they could ask where Jackie was. Once the nurse confirmed he was in the emergency ward and gave them the room number, they practically sprinted to the right wing, desperate to make it before visiting hours were over. They ended up making it just in time, and both skidded to a halt outside the right door, breathing hard.

The door to the hospital room was ajar. An older man leaned over and peered through the doorway. “Ah, hello Mr. Brody.”

“Hello, Detective,” Chase said. He paused for a moment to breathe, then added, “We’re here.”

“I can see that,” Nix replied, smiling a bit. “Well, you and your friend come in. It’s Mr. Maher, isn’t it?”

Marvin nodded. “Yeah. Weren’t you at the trial? You talked about the case?”

“So I did.” Nix nodded.

“Huh. So you’re handling the whole thing?”

“Indeed. It’s turning out to be a complex beast of clues and crime. Anyway.” Nix stepped back, and Chase and Marvin entered the room.

Most of the emergency ward was large rooms with multiple beds, but there must have been certain circumstances in place to let Jackie have his own room to himself. It was small, but a bit more homey than Jack’s room in the ICU, with cushioned chairs and a couple small tables, even a TV in a cubby in a wall. The hospital bed didn’t have as much medical equipment surrounding it. But Jackie wasn’t awake to appreciate any of this.

Chase stopped short, just staring. It was eleven months since he’d last seen Jackie. He hadn’t always been that pale, had he? His collarbone and cheeks hadn’t always jutted out like that, had they? His hair was a shoulder-length mess, having grown out, and his eyes had deep purple bags under them. He was wearing a hospital gown, but there were scars visible on his arms that certainly hadn’t been there before, as well as some bandages wrapped tightly around his right arm above the elbow. Despite all this, he looked rather peaceful in sleep, breathing steadily.

Marvin made a choked sound, unable to say anything else.

“He’s...fine, right?” Chase asked, glancing at Detective Nix.

“The doctors say so,” Nix assured him. “He was injured when we found him, but they say it’s not life-threatening.”

“H-how? How was he injured?” Chase asked hesitantly.

“Well...you can see his arm. His legs are bad, looked like someone used a knife to slash them up. And there was a stab wound in his stomach. But he hadn’t lost too much blood. They say his main problem is malnutrition. He’ll be okay.”

Chase let out a long breath. “Okay. Okay. That’s good. Good to hear.”

Marvin stayed silent. He walked up to the bed and, after a moment, gently took Jackie’s hand.

“I’ll let you two have a moment.” Nix slid out of the room, closing the door behind him.

The moment passed in silence.

——————

The car ride back was silent as well. A lot had happened that day, and the two of them sat, quietly processing everything. They lost Schneep, but found Jackie, each within a few hours of each other. Who knew what would happen tomorrow?

Chase pulled onto the street where Marvin’s house sat, and noticed something odd. “Is there someone outside your house?”

“Hmm?” Marvin, previously spacing out, snapped back to reality. “Why would someone be at my house?”

“I dunno, I assumed you would. Not expecting anyone?” Chase shrugged. “Maybe they’re in front of the neighbors.”

“No.” Marvin narrowed his eyes, staring down the road. “There’s someone at my door. A car in front, too. Who is that? I can’t see them.” He shook his head. “Too dark. The city needs to work on installing stronger street lamps in the area.”

Chase chuckled a bit. As he approached Marvin’s house, he pulled to the side of the road, right behind the strange car that was already there, and tried to get a good look at whoever was at the doorway. A woman. Dark-haired, wearing a brown leather jacket and jeans. She was facing the door, her back to the road, but when the car pulled up she heard the sound and turned to look. Odd...Chase recognized her. But he couldn’t place where he’d seen her before. “You know her?”

“Uh...I don’t think so?” Marvin shook his head, looking confused. “But I think I do? She kinda looks familiar.”

“I was thinking the same thing, actually.” Chase parked the car and opened the door. “C’mon, I want to talk to her.”

“Yeah, let’s ask her what she’s doing at my house at like ten o’clock,” Marvin said, opening his as well and heading out.

The two of them walked up the short path to the door. The woman, noticing them, waved. “Hello! I’m very sorry, ah—one of you is Marvin, right? Actually, you both look—maybe you could both help me? I’m looking for Henrik.”

That voice made Marvin stop in his tracks. “Mina?!”

Chase visibly started as the pieces clicked into place and he remembered who this woman was. Mina von Schneeplestein—or rather, Mina Pfeiffer, as last he heard she was going by her maiden name again. What was Schneep’s ex-wife doing here?!

“Ah, you recognize me, so I have the right address.” Mina nodded, satisfied. “You are Marvin? I saw you on television, I recognize your hair. Though it’s longer than I remember. But to be fair, my memories of faces are vague.”

“You saw me on TV?” Marvin repeated, looking even more confused now that he realized who the woman was.

“Um, hi.” Chase waved awkwardly. “I’m Chase, I’m a friend of Schneep’s. What are you...It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, were you out of town or something?”

“Oh, Chase! I remember you. Yes, I went back home and stayed with family for some time,” Mina said.

“Why are you at my house?” Marvin blurted out.

“Well, ah—sorry about that. It was the only address I could think of.” Mina sounded fairly embarrassed. “I thought you would be home. I am looking for Henrik.”

“Why? We haven’t seen you for more than a year!” Marvin pointed out.

“Yes, I know. It is...a complicated situation.” Mina glanced back at the door behind her. “Should we go inside and sit down?”

“No, I’m fine,” Marvin said. “We can talk about this while standing.”

“...oh. Okay.” Looking even more embarrassed, Mina stepped away from the door, walking a bit closer to the two men. “I suppose this wouldn’t take too long.”

“So you’re looking for Schneep?” Chase asked.

Mina nodded. “Yes. I received some phone messages and mail from this hospital they said he was staying at. But I threw them out. Shortsighted, it would seem.”

“I think I know what you’re referring to,” Chase said. He recalled a conversation he had with Dr. Laurens, where she said they were trying to contact Mina but getting no response. “Did you think they were spam or something?”

“Ah...no, not exactly.” Mina grimaced. “It is really a long story, and it is cold and dark out, so I would prefer if we could step inside—”

“No, tell it quick,” Marvin interrupted.

Mina bristled a bit. “Well!”

“Marv, c’mon,” Chase pleaded.

“Look, no one disappears for a year without a reason,” Marvin insisted. “And something about this seems fishy, so I want to hear the story before I let her into my house with my pets.”

Mina sighed. “I do not see why you are so concerned. Henrik and I are married.”

“You’re divorced.”

“No, they’re separated,” Chase added. “It’s a different thing.” But personally, he still considered them exes, even if the separation had been friendly enough. The pair of them had rushed into marriage, likely due to some family pressure, and later agreed that they needed some time apart to sort their own lives out. That was about three or four years ago, and shortly afterwards Schneep had been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder. As far as he knew, they hadn’t gotten back together since the separation.

“It’s just weird that you’re showing up looking for him now,” Marvin said, crossing his arms. “Where were you when he first went into Silver Hills?”

“I was out of the country,” Mina repeated.

“On purpose?”

“What?”

“Were you avoiding him?”

Mina looked like she wanted to protest, but then straightened, adjusted her jacket, and said, “If you must know, then yes.”

“Ha!” Marvin barked.

“You must be missing so much of what happened,” Mina said, leveling him with a stare. She was about equal height with the two men, so it wasn’t hard to do. “Henrik and I...were starting to try again. But then his behavior became erratic, and the next thing I knew, he put his friend in a coma and started killing strangers.”

“He wasn’t the one killing them,” Chase corrected gently—mostly to prevent Marvin from saying the same thing, much louder.

“Well I know that now, but at the time, it seemed fairly obvious,” Mina pointed out. “So I left for some time. I returned a couple months ago, but only now heard the news about the truth of the situation. I saw clips from the filmed hearing between you, Marvin, and that doctor. I saw them on television, and realized something was off. So I looked it up, and now I know, and now that I do, I have to talk to Henrik about something.”

“You know...it seems a bit sketchy that you immediately thought he must be the killer,” Marvin said. “Because he was, what, ‘erratic’?”

“Yes,” Mina said firmly.

“You should have realized he would never do anything like that!”

“I wasn’t about to stick around and have blind faith! That is how serial killers draw in women, it has happened in the past!”

“Schneep would never—”

“I did not know that! He was being very strange, and with his condition—”

“Get off my property.”

Mina blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Marvin leaned close to her. “Get off my property.”

“No, you do not understand, I really must know how to talk to Henrik,” Mina said, tone shifting from defensive anger to a strange desperation. “There is an important matter—”

“Find that mail you threw out and get the address from there. Google it, I don’t care. Though really, if you keep talking like that, I wouldn’t let you anywhere near Henrik.” Marvin growled. “If you stay here one second longer, I’m calling the police. Leave.”

Mina looked like she wanted to protest more, but thought better of it. She walked around Marvin and Chase, staring at the two of them as she did, and then hurried down the path to the street. She got inside the strange car Chase had parked behind, started it, and drove off.

“You could’ve handled that better,” Chase said.

“You didn’t say anything,” Marvin replied, facing him.

“No, I know. You’re right, something about that seemed...weird.” Chase couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about the way Mina was acting was...strange. Not in a bad way. But it felt like there was something more she wasn’t saying.

“I don’t like people talking about people’s ‘conditions,’” Marvin muttered.

“Yeah, that was a bit...Just, the way she said it, like it was a given, y’know?” Chase shook his head. “But you really went off there.”

Immediately, all the fire drained out of Marvin’s body. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m just...tired.”

“I don’t blame you. I feel it too.” Chase nodded. “You, uh...want to go see Jackie sometime soon?”

Marvin nodded. Day after tomorrow? he asked, signing.

“That could work. We’d have to be quick, though, Stacy will be dropping off the kids in the evening for the weekend.”

Oh, you sure? I can go tomorrow, or even after the weekend.

“No, it’s fine, I...I really want to see him.” Chase swallowed a lump in his throat. “I’ll pick you up. How about around two?”

Marvin nodded again. That would work.

“Great. See you then.” Chase retreated to his car, turning back before getting inside to wave at Marvin one last time. Marvin waved back, then turned around and went through the front door to his house. Once he was gone, Chase got in his car and drove away.

This day just kept getting longer. He really needed to get home and go to bed.

——————

Two days later, Chase picked Marvin up and the two of them drove back to the hospital around two o’clock, when visiting hours started. They remembered the way to Jackie’s room, and found it quickly. Nobody else was there. Chase half-expected Detective Nix to still be here, doing some sort of police stuff, but no, the room was empty. Jackie was lying in bed, eyes open, hands folded on his stomach, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t moving at all, except for the up-and-down of his chest as he breathed. Chase hovered in the doorway, Marvin nearby, feeling uneasy. This sight was a bit...worrying. Was Jackie okay?

Marvin leaned over and whispered, “Is he awake?”

“I don’t know,” Chase replied in the same hushed tone. “His eyes are open.”

“Maybe it’s like with Jack? How he was before?”

“God, I hope not. I don’t want anyone else to go through that.”

At that moment, Jackie’s head turned, and he looked at the two of them. He must have heard them, despite the whispering. Chase gasped a bit before coughing to clear his throat. “Hey, Jackie,” he said awkwardly. “It’s uh...it’s us.”

Jackie didn’t respond, just kept looking at them. His eyes darted up and down as he took in their appearances. Self-consciously, Chase tried to brush some nonexistent dirt off his jacket. He should have worn a newer one instead of the old one with the first merch design for his channel.

Marvin waved. “Hi. We’re here now.”

“Yeah, hi.” Chase waved again. “Uh...how are you feeling?”

Still no response. Though Jackie looked a bit confused now.

“Uh...can you hear us, bro?” Chase stepped forward until he was standing next to the bed, then put a hand on the non-bandaged part of Jackie’s arm.

“Holy shit!” Jackie jerked his arm away and bolted upright. “You’re really here!”

“Wh—yeah?!” Chase said.

Marvin laughed.

Chase glanced back at him. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“Sorry, sorry, I-I dunno what that was about, nervous reflex,” Marvin waved away Chase’s look. “It was just a bit funny, cause he jumped up like that.”

“I—I wasn’t expecting that,” Jackie said, sounding a bit dazed.

“You...weren’t expecting us to actually be here?” Chase clarified.

“Yeah, I-I-I thought that—it’s all a bit—never thought I’d—” Jackie paused, gathering his words. “I thought that maybe...I was just daydreaming a bit. To make myself feel better. This whole place, actually.” He gestured around the hospital room. “I guess it was all so surreal, and I...I was kind of out of it, a-anyway, so I thought this was just more of that.”

“Oh. Well, no, we’re here.” Chase squeezed Jackie’s arm. “You’re really in the hospital. Southpoint General, actually, the same place Jack is.”

“Really?” Jackie laughed a bit. “Cool, I could go visit him.”

“Well he’s in a different, um, ward, or whatever,” Chase said. “But yeah, technically you could.”

Jackie smiled, but then the grin slowly faded from his face. His eyes glazed over a bit.

“So...” Marvin jumped in, walking over to stand next to Chase. “What do you remember?”

“Huh?” Jackie blinked, and looked over at him. “Remember about what? You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

“I mean about the whole rescue operation,” Marvin explained. “How did the police find you?”

“Oh. Uhhhh yeah like I said I was really out of it, so...” Jackie shrugged. “Not that much. I remember them appearing, I think. There were, like, footsteps, and then a bunch of strangers appeared in the doorway.”

“Did they have to kick it down?” Marvin asked, sounding a little too excited at the idea.

“No, it was already open. I dunno why. Maybe he forgot to close it all the way, he was in a hurry.” Jackie mumbled that last part under his breath, but Chase and Marvin heard it easily enough. “Anyway, they picked me up, and I’m sort of assuming there was a ride to the hospital of some kind, but I completely zoned that out. I kinda vaguely remember a bunch of doctors and some bright lights? But, uh...yeah. Otherwise, I just woke up here, in the bed, and thought I was daydreaming it all.”

“You must have some vivid daydreams, bro,” Chase muttered.

“Yeah.” Jackie nodded.

Marvin gave Jackie an odd look. “I don’t know if having daydreams that strong is normal.”

“No, probably not, but it doesn’t matter, really,” Jackie dismissed.

Marvin looked like he was ready to push the issue, but Chase put a hand on his shoulder and subtly shook his head. This wasn’t the time. “Well, we’re...we’re just really glad you’re okay, Jackie,” he said softly. “We were so fucking worried. You—you’re alright, right?”

Jackie patted himself over, wincing a bit as he pressed on his chest. “Mostly, yeah.”

“Yeah. We’re so happy you’re back,” Marvin added. “What...what happened?” Chase gave him a sharp look, but it was too late, the question was out.

“What happened?” Jackie looked at Marvin incredulously. “I got fucking kidnapped, that’s what happened. And then—a-and then—I was—we—” He stopped, taking a few deep breaths. “Sorry, I...I can’t talk about it.”

Marvin winced. “Sorry. Th-that was—that was rude. It just sort of came out. You don’t have to talk about it. Like Chase said, we were just...really worried, and we—we want to know you’re okay.”

“It’s fine, just be careful,” Jackie said quietly. “I’m okay. Except for the obvious.” In the moment of silence that followed, his eyes drifted down, attention drawn by the bandages on his upper arm. Frowning in strange concentration, he reached up and started pulling at them.

“Whoa, dude, what’re you doing?” Chase almost reached out to grab his wrist, but stopped, thinking that wouldn’t be well-received. “You need those!”

“I just wanna confirm something,” Jackie muttered, managing to loosen the tight bandages enough to start unwinding them. “They can be put back on.”

“I—you’re not wrong, but—what if there’s—I don’t know, a lot of blood, or something?” Chase speculated.

“I don’t think so. Not if I’m remembering right.” Jackie slowly removed the bandages, unwinding and pulling them off. Until, eventually, the wounds underneath were visible.

All three of them stiffened in unison. Jackie’s arm was cut up, but not in a random or accidental way. Instead, the word WARNING was carved into his skin, in bleeding capital letters, going from his shoulder, all down his arm, reaching his elbow.

“What the fuck...?” Chase said, unable to say anything else. He couldn’t believe what he was saying. Stuff like that didn’t happen in real life, only in crime dramas. Who would actually do that?

Jackie’s face shifted as he covered up his distress with a blank expression. “So I was right,” he said tonelessly, attempting to rewrap the bandages one-handedly. Chase pulled himself out of his stunned stupor to bend over and help him with them.

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“Huh?” Chase stopped, looking back over at Marvin.

“Anti. I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Marvin repeated through gritted teeth. His posture was stiff, unmoving, his fists clenched. “He takes our friends—JJ, Schneep, Jackie—and does this? I’m going to kill him. I’m going to take a fucking knife or a gun or rope or whatever I can find and I’m going to kill him and watch the fucking life drain from his eyes—”

“Jesus, Marv, calm down!” Chase cried. “You gotta think this through.”

Jackie nodded. “Yeah. You’re not a killer.”

“I could be,” Marvin said bluntly.

“No!” Chase straightened, grabbing Marvin by the shoulders and forcing him to look at him. “Marvin, I get it, you’re upset by recent events and clearly filled with rage. For good reason, I’ll say. But you can’t just walk up to a professional assassin and attack him, you’ll just get killed! Besides, JJ and Schneep wouldn’t want you to do that, even for their sake. Just...take a step back. Go walk around and get it out of your system, if you have to. Don’t do anything stupid.”

For a moment, Chase’s words only seemed to anger Marvin more. But then, he broke away, letting out one long, single breath. He pressed his hands to his eyes, breathed some more, then let out a shout and hit himself in the chest a couple times. Chase jumped in surprise, instinctively reaching forward to stop him, but Marvin was already done. “Alright, fine, you have a point. That’d be a dumb move. Impossible and not worth it. But fuck, we gotta do something.”

Chase nodded. “Yeah. I know how you feel, bro.” Even though common sense would say to leave this to the professionals, he couldn’t just sit by while his friends were in danger.

“Um...” Jackie waved a bit, drawing the other two’s attention back to him. “What do you mean ‘professional assassin’?”

“Oh. Do you not...know?” Chase asked. “I mean, I thought you would, but...I guess maybe there wasn’t an opportunity. That’s, uh...kind of what Anti does. I think what he’s done with Schneep and whatever he has planned now is just...a side thing, maybe. We actually found his website—oh shit!” His eyes widened in remembrance, and he whirled back to face Marvin. “Marv, you’re not gonna believe this, and you probably don’t need any more reason to hate this guy, but he might be the one who stabbed you.”

Marvin gasped. “Shit, really?!”

“The one who what?!” Jackie repeated.

“Oh, right you were...gone by the time that happened.” Marvin grimaced, then quickly filled in Jackie with what happened at the boutique he used to work for. Finding out it was a front, having someone stab him on his way home one night, getting home and patching up just barely in time, then figuring the owners of the front tried to kill him and heading back to Ireland for a few months to let things calm down. “How’d you figure out it was Anti, Chase?”

“I checked his website. He has reviews from past, uhhh…’clients,’ and one left one talking about a failed hit on a guy who sounded like you,” Chase explained.

“Well, shit.” Marvin folded his arms, face grim. “That’s not good. Well, I’m not gonna leave again until this whole thing is cleared up. Fuckers try to kill me again.”

“Y’know I really don’t think you should tempt fate like that,” Jackie pointed out.

“Fate doesn’t exist, only karma. They’ll get what’s coming to them thricefold, I’m not leaving.”

“I guess...you don’t have to,” Chase said skeptically. “But be careful. We’re not losing anyone else.”

Marvin nodded, expression finally softening. He grabbed Chase’s hand and squeezed it. “I will be.”

“Good.” Chase sighed. “Well, Jackie. This has been a lot of excitement. We should probably let you get some rest.”

“No no no!” Jackie protested. “I-it’s fine, I don’t want you guys to go yet. I...it’s been...so long. You know?”

Chase nodded sadly. “Almost a year.”

“Yeah. Exactly.” Jackie grabbed the edge of the hospital blanket, twisting it. “So...you have a lot to catch me up on, then. I-it’s gonna take a while. You should sit down.”

Marvin and Chase glanced at each other. Then Marvin shrugged. “There are better chairs in this room than in Jack’s,” he said.

Chase laughed. “I mean, I wasn’t gonna say it—”

“You were thinking it, though?”

“Exactly.”

“Glad to hear my chairs are superior,” Jackie said, smiling a bit. “Pull one up.”

“Alright, Jackieboy Man, we have some time,” Chase grinned. “There’s a lot you’ve missed.”

The three of them sat, talking for hours about things that mattered a lot, and things that didn’t matter at all.

——————

“—can’t believe they—how did they know about—probably figured out about the others too—”

Jameson wasn’t paying much attention to Anti’s muttering, but every so often, he caught random snatches as Anti paced back and forth. Every time he passed by the doorway, more angry phrases passed through into the bedroom beyond. Something really had him upset, didn’t it? From what little he heard, someone had found something, and that was a big problem. Well...he had wondered if the police found Anti’s previous hideout, and if that was the reason he had to drag them out of there. Whatever the case, good. If Anti had a problem, he deserved it.

“—three fucking people in this tiny—gotta find out what’s still—somewhere new? Maybe?—”

Lying on the bed, Jameson saw Anti’s shadow pass to the left...then the right...then the left...then the right.... It kept cutting across the light that was shining into the dim bedroom from the room outside. The living room, to be exact. The living room of the apartment he was now trapped in, to be precise. Though, Anti did seem to be distracted. The bedroom door was wide open, if he wanted he could run out and—No, it probably wouldn’t work. Anti told him the front door was locked, and he probably still had the key on him. Jameson couldn’t take it from him; Anti was much stronger. Besides, even if the key had been sitting out on the table, Jameson wasn’t the only person who needed to get out.

Speaking of which...

He rolled over to his side, now facing the bedroom wall. There was a window on this side, but the shutters were closed, and actually had a padlock making sure they couldn’t be moved. Anti probably had that key, too. There was a wardrobe in one corner and a dresser in the other, the former having its doors ajar to show it was empty inside. Or...empty of clothes, at least. A figure was pressed against one wall, huddled up, indistinct in the shadows. When Jameson had woken up a few hours ago, there had been faint mumbling and sobbing coming from that direction. Now, there was nothing.

After a moment of listless staring, Jameson sat up, glanced out the doorway to make sure Anti was still occupied in his pacing, then stood and walked over to the wardrobe. He pushed the door farther open and stared down at the figure. A man. Knees pulled up and arms covering face, the classic defensive position. A moment more passed before Jameson sat down on the wardrobe floor next to the shadowy huddle.

“Ah!” The man gasped a bit, then looked up. Wide blue eyes reflected the little light in the dim room. He stared at Jameson, then asked, “Jackie?”

Jameson shook his head.

“No, no. Of course not. I’m sorry, I am just confused.” The man’s eyes squinted a bit. “Do I...know you?”

Jameson shook his head again.

“Oh. Good. I was worried for a moment there.” The man uncurled a bit, taking his arms away from his face. He reached down to his ankles, slightly adjusting the cuffs around them, binding them together. Then he glanced around. “I do not recognize this place, either. Do you?” When Jameson shook his head for a third time, the man tilted his head. “Can you...not speak?”

Faintly surprised, Jameson nodded. Most people would ask why he was quiet or demand that he talk. Only a few caught on to the reality without him somehow cuing them with signs or writing.

“Ah, I’m sorry, then. Can you hear me?”

A nod.

“I see.” The man glanced out at the room again. “My name—my name is Henrik.” So Jameson’s guess was right. This was the Dr. Schneeplestein he’d heard so much about, and had one brief meeting with, a meeting that had ended badly. “What is your—what do I call you?”

Thinking for a moment, Jameson reached out and gently took one of Schneep’s hands. He stiffened a bit, but allowed him to do so. Jameson then drew out the letter J twice on the surface of his palm.

“JJ? Oh, that is very nice.” Schneep smiled faintly. “I understand some sign language, you know. But I am afraid I am very rusty. I do not think I could hold a conversation.” His smile fell. “Do you...know why we are here?”

Jameson nodded sadly. He gestured out towards the room, in the direction of the doorway Anti was pacing and muttering in front of.

Schneep shuddered. “Yes, I—I have—he has—I have been in this situation. Before.”

Jameson pointed at himself, then made the sign for also by pointing his fingers and touching his hands together.

“I know that one. You...you know him, too?” Schneep’s voice held a combination of horror, sympathy, and strangely, hope. Hope that he wasn’t alone. “I suppose I don’t have to explain, then.”

Letting out a huff of dark laughter, Jameson shook his head.

“Hmm. That is good.” Schneep scanned Jameson, taking in as many details he could in the faint light. “I...something about this time is...different. Than when he last took me.” He suppressed another shiver as he looked up towards the shadow passing back and forth on the ceiling. “I...am sorry you are here.”

Jameson scooted closer to him. He put one hand on Schneep’s shoulder and signed Sorry with his other. Neither of them should be here. Anti should never have interfered in their lives again.

Schneep let out a shaky breath, and leaned closer to Jameson until he was resting his weight against him. Jameson pressed his head against his. And together, they listened to the sound of their nightmare pacing and muttering, wondering what was next for them.

#jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye fanfiction #jacksepticegos #jacksepticeye au #septic egos #septic egos au #chase brody #marvin the magnificent #jackieboy man #jameson jackson #dr schneeplestein #brigid writes fanfiction #pwtimeline

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doublethetheories · 3 years

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New Evidence!! (Maggie and Star Host Connection)

MC finally released an update on the progress of the comic’s next update and the reason for delay, and with it, we have two new shots to analyze! It also provides a good opportunity for me to review one of the “common knowledge” theories of the fandom for those of you who are new. (I might make a separate post later with a summarization, to the best of my abilities, of all the theories we currently accept as canon as a fandom.) So, let’s get into it.

RECAP: MAGGIE’S FAIRYTALE

For those of you who don’t know, every main character (specifically, each host) has a fairytale that MC has confirmed will parallel their story. I’ll go into the others in another post, but for now we’re focusing on Maggie’s: The Beauty and The Beast. Maggie’s story will take her away from Gil and towards a new character, who will help her through her fear of a real relationship (which has manifested in her shallow tastes in people) and eventually show her what it means to love. It is my personal belief, as a veteran AD theorist, that Ava is the reason Maggie is all guarded and shallow, as they were probably each other’s first loves (or just first really close relationship, even if it was platonic) and things ended badly, resulting in Maggie becoming closed off.

Above we have panel #0358, which is the premise for a lot of theories in this fandom. In this post, I wanted to bring it back to remind everyone the evidence for many theories that are just “common knowledge” these days, i.e. Maggie ending up with Star Host specifically. The panel above is when Gil is making him and Maggie tea, and her cup has a teabag with a green triangle (symbolic of Maggie) and a yellow star (symbolic of Erios, the star host) combined, which has been the basis for a lot of theorists even before analyzing the BaTB connections. Combining the fairytale and this panel though, we can conclude that Maggie will end up in some sort of relationship with Erios very soon and, over time, will fall for them for their personality regardless of their looks.

[Note 1: Star Host’s pronouns have been confirmed to be they/them.

Note 2: We know Erios’ name from snacks on the ship translated to be wishing ‘Erios’ a happy birthday, I believe.]

ANALYSIS TIME!!

Image One:

First impressions:

This is definitely the star host based on the star shaped helmet and the guitar, which matches that of the Star Host’s silhouette on the cast page.

No other clear geometric shapes (or even vague ones) except for the notable pink triangle buttons on the front of the coat.

“tube”-like patterns on neck and torso resemble that of a high-up TiTAN follower but maybe they’re an escaped follower? Coincidences don’t happen in AD and there’s no way this character’s a devout follower based on their outfit

Triangles are also very prominent everywhere in the background of this shot, which I have a mini-theory about later in this post

Image Two:

First Impressions:

More triangles present in background

Paradise-eqsue feel to the scenery (this was present in the first image as well, it’s just more visible here)

Five new (background) characters; We know they aren’t mains because none of them (silhouette or shape-symbols) match with unidentified cast characters

New bg characters also have triangle themes (in a lot of ways)

In this post I mostly just wanted to share my thoughts/impressions on the panels and point out some imagery things for them, but I do have a minor theory that I’d like to share.

THEORY: ERIOS’S LOVE OF MAGGIE

One of the curious things about the BaTB story paralleling with Maggie is that in the fairytale, the Beast needs Belle to fall in love with him for his personality in order to break the spell put on him and his castle. While I don’t believe Erios is under any sort of spell, I’ve been looking for something to explain a need (or reason) for Erios to become close to (or obsessed with?) Maggie in the first place. These images helped.

I believe that, for some reason, Erios and the fellow people on this planet are awaiting fulfillment of some sort of religious prophecy (?) involving a girl with strong ties to triangles. Everything on this planet, from what we’ve seen, is centred around the triangle. Why would that be the case if Erios, the character of this planet, is the star host? Because they’re awaiting the arrival of their foretold love. The background characters’ designs also imply that Erios is in some position of leadership on this planet, as they seem to be an exception to the triangle basis of character design. All the other characters also seem to merge better with the scenery of the planet than Erios, which means that they are either above conforming to the norm (which is what I’m leaning towards) or maybe they’re from another planet.

There isn’t much to base this theory off of but there’s something to the fact that the planet and new bg characters are created around the triangle, and the setting design does imply a paradise (utopian.dystopian possibly) vibe to the planet, which means a “prophecy” is not out of the question. Especially not when Odin’s planet had mythology about Wrathia and Nevy (and minorly Pedri and Tuls too).

#theory #ava's demon #theorist #webcomic #ava ire #Gil Marverde #nevy nervine #wrathia bellarmina #pedri #tuls tenebrose #maggie lacivi #star host #panel 0358 #erios #maggie and erios #maggie and ava #prediction

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96thdayofrage · 3 years

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The anti-racism consulting industry does deserve both some sympathy and some credit. Its intention, to prod white Americans into more awareness of their own racism, is beneficent. And their premise that white people are often unaware of the degree to which racial privilege has enabled their success, which they can mistakenly attribute entirely to merit and effort, is correct. American society is shot through with multiple overlapping systems of racial bias — from exposure to harmful pollution to biased policing to unequal access to education to employment discrimination — that in combination sustain massive systemic inequality.

But the anti-racism trainers go beyond denying the myth of meritocracy to denying the role of individual merit altogether. Indeed, their teaching presents individuals as a racist myth. In their model, the individual is subsumed completely into racial identity.

One of DiAngelo’s favorite examples is instructive. She uses the famous story of Jackie Robinson. Rather than say “he broke through the color line,” she instructs people instead to describe him as “Jackie Robinson, the first Black man whites allowed to play major-league baseball.”

It is true, of course, that Robinson was not the first Black man who was good enough at baseball to make a major-league roster. The Brooklyn Dodgers decided, out of a combination of idealism and self-interest, to violate the norm against signing Black players. And Robinson was chosen due to a combination of his skill and extraordinary personality that allowed him to withstand the backlash in store for the first Black major leaguer. It is not an accident that DiAngelo changes the story to eliminate Robinson’s agency and obscure his heroic qualities. It’s the point. Her program treats individual merit as a myth to be debunked. Even a figure as remarkable as Robinson is reduced to a mere pawn of systemic oppression.

One way to understand this thinking is to place it on a spectrum of thought about race. On the far right is open white supremacy, which instructs white people to fight for their interests as white people. (Hence the 14-word slogan, “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.”) Moving to the left, standard-issue conservatism tends to discount the existence of racism and treat all problems in pure color-blind terms, as though racism has been banished. To the left of that is standard liberalism, which acknowledges the existence of racism as a problem that complicates simple race-neutral solutions.

The ideology of the racism-training industry is distinctively to the left of that. It collapses all identity into racial categories. “It is crucial for white people to acknowledge and recognize our collective racial experience,” writes DiAngelo, whose teachings often encourage the formation of racial affinity groups. The program does not allow any end point for the process of racial consciousness. Racism is not a problem white people need to overcome in order to see people who look different as fully human — it is totalizing and inescapable.

Of course, DiAngelo’s whites-only groups are not dreamed up in the same spirit as David Duke’s. The problem is that, at some point, the extremes begin to functionally resemble each other despite their mutual antipathy.

I want to make clear that when I compare the industry’s conscious racialism to the far right, I am not accusing it of “reverse racism” or bias against white people. In some cases its ideas literally replicate anti-Black racism.

Glenn Singleton, president of Courageous Conversation, a racial-sensitivity training firm, tells Bergner that valuing “written communication over other forms” is “a hallmark of whiteness,” as is “scientific, linear thinking. Cause and effect.”

This is not some idiosyncratic oddball notion. The African-American History Museum has a page on whiteness, which summarizes the ideas that the racism trainers have brought into relatively wide circulation.

“White” values include things like “objective, rational thinking”; “cause and effect relationships”; “hard work is the key to success”; “plan for the future”; and “delayed gratification.” The source for this chart is another, less-artistic chart written by Judith Katz in 1990. Katz has a doctorate in education and moved into the corporate consulting world in 1985, where, according to her résumé, she has “led many transformational change initiatives.” It is not clear what in Katz’s field of study allowed her to establish such sweeping conclusions about the innate culture of white people versus other groups.

One way to think through these cultural generalizations is to measure them against its most prominent avatar for racial conflict, Donald Trump. How closely does he reflect so-called white values? The president hardly even pretends to believe that “hard work” is the key to success. The Trump version of his alleged success is that he’s a genius who improvises his way to brilliant deals. The realistic version is that he’s a lazy heir who inherited and cheated his way to riches, and spends most of his time watching television. Trump is likewise incapable of delayed gratification, planning for the future, and regards “objective rational thinking” with distrust. On the other hand, Barack Obama is deeply devoted to all those values.

Now, every rule has its exceptions. Perhaps the current (white) president happens to be alienated from the white values that the previous (Black) president identified with strongly. But attaching the values in question to real names brings to life a point the racism trainers seem to elide: These values are not neutral at all. Hard work, rational thought, and careful planning are virtues. White racists traditionally project the opposite of these traits onto Black people and present them as immutable flaws. Jane Coaston, who has reported extensively on the white-nationalist movement, summarizes it, “The idea that white people are just good at things, or are better inherently, more clean, harder working, more likely to be on time, etc.”

In his profile, Bergner asked DiAngelo how she could reject “rationalism” as a criteria for hiring teachers, on the grounds that it supposedly favors white candidates. Don’t poor children need teachers to impart skills like that so they have a chance to work in a high-paying profession employing reasoning skills?

DiAngelo’s answer seems to imply that she would abolish these high-paying professions altogether:

“Capitalism is so bound up with racism. I avoid critiquing capitalism — I don’t need to give people reasons to dismiss me. But capitalism is dependent on inequality, on an underclass. If the model is profit over everything else, you’re not going to look at your policies to see what is most racially equitable.”

(Presumably DiAngelo’s ideal socialist economy would keep in place at least some well-paid professions — say, “diversity consultant,” which earns her a comfortable seven-figure income.)

Singleton, likewise, proposed evolutionary social changes to the economy that would render it unnecessary to teach writing and linear thought to minority children. Bergner writes:

I asked whether guiding administrators and teachers to put less value, in the classroom, on capacities like written communication and linear thinking might result in leaving Black kids less ready for college and competition in the labor market. “If you hold that white people are always going to be in charge of everything,” he said, “then that makes sense.” He invoked, instead, a journey toward “a new world, a world, first and foremost, where we have elevated the consciousness, where we pay attention to the human being.”

Whether or not a world along these lines will ever exist, or is even possible to design, is at best uncertain. What is unquestionably true is that these revolutionary changes will not be completed within the lifetime of anybody currently alive. Which is to say, a program to deny the value of teaching so-called white values to Black children is to condemn them to poverty. Unsurprisingly, Bergner’s story shows two educators exposed to the program and rebelling against it. One of them, Leslie Chislett, had to endure some ten anti-racism training sessions before eventually snapping at the irrationality of a program that denigrates learning. “The city has tens of millions invested in A.P. for All, so my team can give kids access to A.P. classes and help them prepare for A.P. exams that will help them get college degrees,” she says, “and we’re all supposed to think that writing and data are white values?”

Ibram X. Kendi, another successful entrepreneur in the anti-racism field, has a more frontal response to this problem. The achievement gap — the long-standing difference in academic performance between Black and white children — is a myth, he argues. The supposed gap merely reflects badly designed tests, he argues. It does not matter to him how many different kinds of measures of academic performance show this to be true. Nor does he seem receptive to the possibility that the achievement gap reflects environmental factors (mainly worse schools, but also access to nutrition, health care, outside learning, and so on) rather than any innate differences.

Kendi, like DiAngelo, argues that racism must be defined objectively. Intent does not matter, only effect. Their own intentions are surely admirable. But the fact is that their insistence on denying that America provides its Black children worse educations inhibits working toward a solution. Denying the achievement gap, like denying the gap in how police treat white and Black people, seems to objectively entrench racism.

It’s easy enough to see why executives and school administrators look around at a country exploding in righteous indignation at racism, and see the class of consultants selling their program of mystical healing as something that looks vaguely like a solution. But one day DiAngelo’s legions of customers will look back with embarrassment at the time when a moment of awakening to the depth of American racism drove them to embrace something very much like racism itself.

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squeezeofthehand · 4 years

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A (late) Review of Moby-Dick: A Musical Reckoning

I saw Moby-Dick: A Musical Reckoning by Dave Malloy last month, and I can basically divide it into “The Good, The Bad, and the Racist/Queerphobic/Ableist etc”

Some background: As most people who’ve ever spoken to me will know, I have a special interest in Moby-Dick AND Dave Malloy/Rachel Chavkin musicals (I truly believe that Great Comet is one of the best works of all time) and I consider Malloy and Chavkin both to be my biggest heroes and inspirations, at least when it comes to their respective style of writing and directing. That being said, they’re not perfect. I waited for this musical for about two years, and music/set/etc wise it exceeded my expectations, but it also majorly let me down in a lot of ways.

The Good: The cast! The crew! The set! (It was literally The Pequod - like, they got rid of the stage.) The lighting design in particular was really good - thank you, Bradley King. Manik Choksi, Andrew Cristi, and Starr Busby are gods. I do not have a singular bad thing to say about the cast or the design team! Even the stuff that was tacky/campy (i.e. some of the puppets) was tacky/campy in an enjoyable way. And the “fun” parts of the show were REALLY fun - the fact that they invited the audience on stage, the fact that they TRIED to make Moby-Dick more accessible even if they didn’t do it perfectly at times….the music, when not problematic, was BEAUTIFUL. Listen, I’d be lying if I said Dave Malloy wasn’t one of the best composers when it comes to skill. Everyone in that show sure can act, and sing…the band too, was marvelous, I heard no errors from anyone. This is, what, a three hour long show? And the cast/band was just like, “oh, no big deal.” Which makes “the bad” and “the racist” even worse because these people deserve better. This show deserves better, it deserves to be better.

The Bad: Well, as a book fan, I disagreed with a lot of characterization…most of which can fall into The Racist etc, so I’ll just focus on the “bad but not inherently problematic” here. I really didn’t agree with a lot of things about Ahab’s characterization, i.e. I did not read him as just a bad white guy who’s the epitome of privilege. Stubb, on the other hand is, a canon white supremacist in the book and that barely gets acknowledged in the ways that it should. I do get what Dave was trying to go for, especially in re: Ahab & climate change, but this wasn’t the show for it - or at least, Ahab wasn’t the character for it. Which brings me to my next point: Most of the time, I’m a fan of the quirky Malloyian anachronisms and parallels to modern day issues, but I feel like he was trying too hard here and stepping out of line. Loose adaptations can be fun, anachronistic adaptations can be fun, even INACCURATE adaptations can be fun…but this just wasn’t. It didn’t feel like Moby-Dick, but more like a story vaguely inspired by it. If that had been what he was going for, it would’ve been fine, but he really acted like this would be an accurate adaptation of the book, so I felt let down. The only anachronism/breaking of the fourth wall that I somewhat liked were the talks of Melville and Hawthorne, honestly, and even those I’d sacrifice in favor for accuracy to the source.

And now…The racist/etc.

So.

Where to begin? I suppose chronologically. Queequeg. Who, according to Dave Malloy, is a stereotypical flamboyant queer person of color! and also a quirky cannibal! He’s trans in the musical, apparently, but there’s not much indication of that in the show beyond from him wearing a binder and a skirt. Now, I am all for trans Queequeg of course, but he was a caricature in this particular adaptation. I do not blame Andrew Cristi. I blame Dave (and mayyyybe the costume designers to some extent). I felt baited. Also, early production rumors and quotes said that there would be a song in which Queequeg saved someone from drowning. That never happened. It pains me to say it, but he didn’t feel that much like an important character (due to the bad writing -- again, it has nothing to do with the actor).

Additionally, Dave Malloy said that Queequeg and Ishmael would be a clear gay relationship…but the musical left so much room for them to just be interpreted as friends. It somehow became less gay than it is in the original Melville novel. The marriage was excluded, as were the quotes about them being a cozy and loving pair and about Queequeg holding Ishmael like a wife. They were replaced with the “I don’t wanna sleep with a cannibal” song, which was fun to watch at first but way too grossly stereotypical for me to genuinely enjoy it. Queequeg deserves a fun and light-hearted song, but he does not deserve a racist/homophobic one. My advice? Replace it with the actual chapters from the book, please. I do like the fact that The Pacific was a romantic duet and that they sing directly at each other during Squeeze Of The Hand, but those two songs are mere scraps especially compared to, for example, the Bosom Friend chapter of the book. It looked like they were going to kiss during The Pacific and I was very disappointed that they did not. Perhaps the team should keep the songs the way that they are for future productions, but add more romantic staging.

Pip-not-Pip/Elijah/??? (Ashkon Davaran’s character) and Fedallah were also major, major, issues. Not the actors, I love them. Not the book characters, I love them. But the musical characters.

Basically, Fedallah gets this 20 minute long monologue that can be summed up as “religion is bad” and a lot of other things including but not limited to egotistical fake-woke praise on color conscious casting and how badly America is fucked. And that’s not even mentioning the fact that Fedallah is Parsi and Zoroastranian in the book (and it is NOT good rep in the book by any means, trust me, I’ve been calling Malloy out on his racism but I can’t act as if book!Fedallah was anything less than an ~exotic caricature~ either). However, that’s beside the point, at least in this review. Musical!Fedallah is not Parsi nor Zoroastranian. Don’t read this the wrong way, I’m all for Black Muslim rep! But with a character who is already canonically something else? Take a white character and make them a Black Muslim, I encourage that, but when a character is already something else, no.

If the monologue was influenced/written by the actor, that’s one thing and I’d have less issue with it, but I think Dave wrote the vast majority of it, which…yikes…

My constructive criticism: Cut the Fedallah monologue. If the creative team still wants the actor/character to have the same amount of stage-time as he does now, replace it with a different monologue, maybe something from the book? Something about whaling history?

Another thing that needs to be cut or at least completely rewritten: Tambourine. The song starts off with an ableist verse that can be summed up as “you think you’re crazy because you get nervous on the subway? No! I’m more crazy than you!” Don’t take this as me saying that Pip’s trauma/PTSD shouldn’t be addressed at all, but this is the absolute worst way to address it. The song also has a lot of performative lines such as “is god cisgender?” Which, considering this is the same musical that also has trans bait, I truly hate it. Not that I think God should ever be viewed as a cis white man, but much like the “America is awful” stuff in the Fedallah Monologue, this is an offensive and fake-woke way to address such a topic.

Part IV was really heart-wrenchingly beautiful. No criticism there.

To summarize by part-

Part I: Cut/replace the campy Queeqeug song, but otherwise keep it as it is.

Part II: Cut/replace the racist and xenophobic Fedallah monologue.

Part III: Cut/replace Tambourine. The rest of the Ballad Of Pip (starting with Kim Blanck’s beautiful song) is alright. Good, even.

Part IV: Great! No editing needed besides from the typical tweaking that writers may choose to do after their first draft.

In general: Make Ishmael/Queequeg more obvious, make Queequeg less of a caricature, do some major editing to Fedallah and Pip-Not-Pip/Elijah/???. Tambourine and Fedallah’s Monologue need to be completely rewritten, but I get that the creative team may not want to take scenes away from the actors, which is why I encourage them to remove all of the racist bs and create something completely new/different for the actors to perform.

I understand that Moby-Dick is clearly a work-in-progress on all levels. I do not dislike for the show for being a scrappy rough draft. I judge it for its racist, homophobic, ableist, etc messages. Dave has acknowledged that this first copy is far from perfect, and I sincerely hope that the racism/etc. is the first and main thing that he fixes.

#moby dick #moby dick: a musical reckoning #dave malloy #call me sky #reviews

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welllpthisishappening · 4 years

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Once Again as in Olden Days

She’s absolutely freezing cold.

It’s a dumb metaphor, one that only serves to make Emma even more pissed off than she already is. Because two hours ago it was summer. But a few more hours before that, she was also locked in a tower guarded by a fire-breathing dragon. And now she’s outside. With her kid. And a pirate that isn’t hers, explicitly, but keeps staring at her like he wouldn’t mind if he was.

So maybe it’s not the worst. Maybe she’ll be able to get warm eventually.

-----

Rating: A whole bunch of teen-type canon divergence. Word Count: 6.4 K to fit in all the ridiculous Meet Me in St. Louis references AN: Back at it again with the Festive Fic Prompt A Thon and two anon prompts today: "you can put your cold feet on me." & "i don't wanna get up-- you're comfy." I started writing this as Lieutenant Duckling the other day, got a thousand words in, was like nah, then came back today and wrote nearly six and a half thousand words of 4x22 canon divergence with a frustrated Emma, enthusiastic Henry and deckhand!Hook who just wants to help. And listen to badly summarized movies. Anyway, they kiss.

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

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She can’t stop shivering.

Every inhale comes with an almost automatic exhale that seems to wobble its way out of Emma, uneven and shaky and neither of those are good adjectives, but none of this has been good and the storm had come out of nowhere.

She assumes it’s a last-ditch effort to steer them off course, and while he might not be exactly the same man, Killian Jones is still exceptionally good in a crisis. And on his ship.

She hasn’t told him that the Jolly is his ship yet.

So, really, she might be the world’s biggest coward.

Mostly Emma is pissed off.

Magic storms. In the middle of summer.

Of course.

Fuck this reality, honestly.

She lets out another burst of air, and it’s cold enough now that she can see it linger in the space in front of her. Every inch of Emma feels frozen—muscles tense and skin raw from the shackles she is positive she can still feel and she’s starting to think in metaphors now, anger curling at the base of her spine and threatening to burst out the tips of her fingers, but that may also just be her magic and—

“Mom?” Henry mutters, snow clinging to the edge of his hair. She jumps approximately forty-seven feet in the air.

It is admittedly a rough estimate.

Henry’s teeth find his lower lip, far too familiar to be anything except vaguely jarring. Emma huffs, and she’s not sure where her lungs continue to find enough oxygen to keep doing this, pressing the heel of her hand into her cheek, like that will help ground her and her vaguely vertical emotions.

“Yeah, kid?” He jerks his head behind him, lights Emma hadn’t noticed before glimmering in the not-so-far distance, and maybe this will be ok. At least passably acceptable. Possibly warm. God, she wants to get warm again.

That’s another metaphor.

Killian hasn’t said a single word since they anchored the Jolly. Emma hopes that isn’t because she’d teleported them off the Jolly. She was actually surprised she’d been able to do it, but Regina had always told her magic was about emotion and she’s been feeling nothing except emotion, every single thing she hasn’t said yet and wants to say and is hopeful she’ll eventually be courageous enough to actually say.

She’s started biting her lip at some point too.

“We could get inside,” Henry suggests, already backpedaling and Emma knows there’s not really another option. The ends of her gown are drenched. She doesn’t want Henry to be out in this snow much longer.

She’s going to strangle Issac as soon as she sees him.

And then Rumplestilskin.

And then Isaac again, for good measure.

“Maybe get some food,” Henry continues. “That’s how it always works in the stories, right? Roadside taverns and mead and—’ “—You are not getting mead,” Emma cuts in.

Henry makes a distinctly teenage noise in the back of his throat, a bit of normal that Emma is going to think about for at least the next forty-five minutes if only because she can practically hear the nervous energy rolling off Killian. She wishes he would talk. She’s not sure what she’ll do if he does talk.

“Alright,” Emma says, inhaling sharply. She’s desperately got to learn how to breathe. And control her magic.

Killian flinches slightly.

Henry widens his eyes. “Unless you guys want to break into some barn somewhere. Hay is warm and it’s not like we have any gold, do they use gold in the fake Enchanted Forest?” “No idea,” Emma shrugs. “I could probably just magic it, though. I think that’s possible and—” “—I have gold.”

She whips around so quickly she almost loses her balance, far more fabric around her ankles than she’s used to. Killian’s staring at his shoes by the time she straightens out her knees, lips tugged tightly behind his teeth and impossibly straight shoulders, more nerves and anxiety wafting off him.

Emma resists the urge to reach her hand forward.

They’ve got to get out of here.

She needs to magic herself some new clothes too.

“You don’t have to do that,” she whispers, but that only gets him to furrow his brows, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Her magic flares, racing up her spine and taking root in the back of her brain and the center of her soul, which also seems impossibly melodramatic. Killian lifts his head.

“What else am I going to use it on?” he reasons with a shrug, and Emma can’t help the sound that flies out of her.

It’s not a laugh — there is absolutely nothing funny about any of this — but it’s not quite the sigh she expects, something closer to a scoff and a hint of disbelief and her hand moves.

She absolutely cannot help it.

Her fingers brush over his, a quick hitch of his arm, like he’s not sure if he should pull back or push her away and Emma rocks closer, ducking her head into a gaze that can’t seem to hold hers for more than five seconds.

Those few strands of hair drifting over his forehead may be the death of her.

“It’s a fair question,” Henry mumbles. He’s smiling. She can tell, hear it in his voice and Emma’s cheeks object to her own lip-type movement, but it’s still snowing and freezing cold and—

Seriously those strands of hair.

“See,” Killian says, “the lad’s got some sense.” Emma lifts her eyebrows. “Seems to suggest that I don't.” He blushes. It’s absurd and wonderful and entirely awful. All at the same time. She has no idea how she’s going to sleep when her magic is roaring in her veins.

“No, no, no, that’s not—” Killian stammers, and Henry doesn’t even try to mask his laugh that time.

“No?” Emma prompts. Killian swallows. The muscles in his throat move, jaw clenching and it’s another rush of passably familiar that Emma wants to hold onto with both hands. “No,” he echoes. “I—we have to get out of this storm.” “This is what I’m saying,” Henry groans. “So we’ll use Killian’s money and we’ll get some food and maybe some mead and—” “—Seriously, how is no mead confusing?” Emma asks, glancing over her shoulder. Henry sneers. Killian is back to being frustratingly silent.

The color in his cheeks hasn’t disappeared.

It doesn’t have anything to do with the snow.

Seriously, the snow has to stop soon.

“Let’s go,” Emma says. She claps a hand on Henry’s shoulder, trusting that Killian will follow them when they start to move and that’s not quite a metaphor, but it might be the basis of everything else and—

She’s right.

She can hear the snow crunching under his boots behind her.

The air is musty and tinged with what smells like a mix of sweat and ale as soon as Emma pushes the door to the inn open, biting back a groan while her stomach does its best to rise up in the back of her throat.

There are people everywhere, crowded at clearly sticky tables and tucked into dark corners, a surplus of leather and more than a few flashes of steel, the telltale sound of dice rolling on a variety of wooden surfaces. Emma’s eyes scan the space, gaze falling on what looks like the world’s oldest bar and a bald man with a round face and a towel draped over his shoulder.

She snaps her fingers.

And the magic that twists across her own face isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s warm, but it also makes it feel as if her skin is melting—like candle wax, shifting and reforming until her nose isn’t quite where it’s supposed to be, her eyes deep set and her forehead a bit wider.

Her clothes have changed as well, gown replaced by breeches and boots that almost provide some warmth to her otherwise frozen toes, a vest and empty sword belt.

She’ll have to fix that last part eventually, she’s sure.

“Whoa,” Henry breathes. “Mom, that was so cool!” Emma can’t help the quick smile she gives him, a flash of pride that disappears almost as soon as her brand-new eyes land on Killian.

He looks stunned.

And maybe just a hint terrified.

Of her. And her magic.

The witch in the tower, indeed.

“I’ll, uh—” she starts, but the words scratch at the inside of her throat like they’re not all that interested in being spoken. “I just figured it’d be best if no one saw me. I mean—do people even know what I look like?” “Lily did.” “Yeah, but she was a dragon.” “That we knocked out of the sky,” Henry reasons. “She’s probably got people to report back to. That’s how it always works in the—” “—Stories,” Emma finishes. Her stomach twists again, fear mixing with dread and those are kind of the same words. “We get a room. We eat. We get a few hours of sleep and then we get out of here. Got it?”

Henry nods once, and Emma doesn't bother glancing back at Killian. That’s not great. She’s not—

It doesn’t matter.

This isn’t real.

They’re getting out of here. She’s going to save all of them.

And Killian isn’t freaked out by her magic at home.

So.

Emma stalks forward, twisting and turning between tables and half-drunk townsfolk, doing her best to breathe through her mouth while ignoring anyone’s curious gaze. It doesn’t matter. No one casts her a second glance, and it takes a few moments of pointed coughing to get the attention of the barkeep.

He brings up the crazy weather at least six times.

Emma keeps nodding. It leaves the muscles in her neck aching, fear tugging on the nerve-endings there because she’s not entirely convinced this is a good idea, but then it’s only a few more minutes for gold to exchange hands, Killian dropping a small pouch of clinking coins on the wood in front of them.

The key to the one room they have left in this entire godforsaken place is cold in Emma’s hand.

One room.

Naturally.

She might kick Isaac too. Several times.

“C’mon,” Emma says, nudging at Henry’s back when his eyes widen at the sight of several foaming mugs of...something. “Right, left, kid and up the stairs.” He grumbles as he moves, and part of her is loathe to to be responsible in a moment like this. Part of her wants to down several tankards of ale and a few more rounds of mead, but Emma also isn’t entirely confident in how to mix Enchanted Forest alcohol and—

There are two beds in their one room.

Naturally.

Version two point oh.

She sighs, running a suddenly exhausted hand over her face, which is only a little jarring because it’s not really her face. The string of curses that fall out of her is more than a little surprising, even to herself, but— “I forgot to get food,” Emma hisses, half to herself and half to this version of the world and Henry is already perched on the edge of one of the beds.

There are only two beds.

She’s going to scream. She’s trying very hard not to cry.

“I’ll take care of it,” Killian says, soft enough that Emma barely ears him. Her magic is doing that thing again.

So is his jaw.

She’s got to stop staring at his jaw. It’s far too close to his lips.

“You sure?” she asks. He lowers his eyebrows again, a quick jerk of his head that feels a little placating and a little hers, as if he’s amused every time she lets him do anything for her.

And Henry.

For them.

Collectively.

“Positive,” Killian promises. “I’m not sure it’ll be very good food, but—" “—We’ll live,” Emma interrupts.

“Aye, I’m sure we will.” It’s not another promise. She knows. He knows. Henry knows. The goddamn barkeep probably knows. And yet. The words slink under Emma’s skin and find a rhythm with her pulse, a guarantee for a future that she’s only just started allowing herself to dream about.

Idiot.

“If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m going to come downstairs and do something vaguely threatening,” Emma says.

Killian’s lips twitch. “I’ve no doubt.” “And there aren’t clocks in this realm,” Henry adds. He’s definitely still smiling.

Killian nods again—although that one has a distinct air of confusion to it, which only serves to make Emma’s stomach do something else she doesn’t have time to think about and she’s honestly got to stop thinking such absurd things. Because then he’s sweeping back into the hall and his boots are heavy on the stairs and she doesn’t have to turn around to see the expectant look on her son’s face.

She can feel it. Behind her eyelids.

“So, uh—” Henry starts, but Emma waves both of her hands and she’s not all that surprised he ignored her. It’s a weird thing to be proud of. “He didn’t even argue, you know. When I found him.” Emma licks her lips. She shivers again.

And Henry isn’t done. “I got rid of Black Beard and then he just...I mean, it’s not right. Anything here, and especially Killian because he’s—” “—Yeah, I know,” Emma whispers.

“Still didn’t argue, though. He might not remember everything, Mom, but I know he’s—he still cares. About you. About us.” She hums, a noncommittal sound because her tongue appears to be taking up most of the real estate in her mouth and she’s still as much of a coward as advertised. Even more so than the man who’s not quite the man she—

Emma lets out a shuddering breath, stumbling back against the nearest wall. Her knees have started to wobble as well.

And Henry doesn’t say anything else.

She’ll thank him for that eventually. When they get home. Let him play video games for an extra hour or something.

Maybe go sailing.

She’d like to go sailing.

She’d like—

The door swings open again, a tray of food in Killian’s hand and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. As if he’s worried it’s wrong.

Until.

The warmth of something Emma resolutely refuses to name as soon as her gaze meets his is like falling back into blankets and some joke about the tides and a steady rhythm and his smile stretches, settling on his face like he’s just been waiting for her to make sure it lands there.

Henry snorts.

Whatever is in the bowls Killian is holding is steaming.

“Not exactly dinner at the palace,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. Emma feels her eyes widen. “But it’ll at least keep the chill at bay and—”

He jerks his chin down, a small pile of fabric Emma hadn’t noticed before tucked under his left arm. Blankets.

Some of her muscles loosen.

In a nice way.

“Thank you,” she says, hoping she’s able to infuse as much emotion into two words as possible. Killian hums, another quick nod that isn’t quite as terrified or concerned and— “Can we eat?” Henry asks.

Emma laughs softly, reaching out to grab bowls and blankets and the food isn’t great, but she’s fairly certain none of them have been poisoned. So, she’ll take what she can get at this point.

And the whole thing is oddly comfortable—blankets strewn across the floor and Henry’s tugged his boots off at some point, recounting his defeat of Black Beard and Killian’s ability to sail through that storm, as if Emma weren’t there too, but she can’t bring herself to tell him to stop.

Not when his voice picks up that way, excitement and adventure and he’s so sure they’re going to fix this.

She’ll regret that later, she’s sure.

Letting that hope linger.

God, but she’s the most depressing person in any reality.

Henry’s eyes start to flutter shut eventually, head lolling towards his shoulder and chin bumping against this chest and Emma makes to move, but then Killian’s mumbling something under his breath that sounds a lot like I can do it and Emma’s far too busy making sure her heart doesn’t explode to object.

It might explode anyway.

She tugs her legs closer to her, resting her chin on her knees and eyes never leaving Killian as he hauls Henry up, moving him towards a bed with, she assumes, slightly scratchy sheets. Every shift of Killian’s arms is slow, almost calculated, like he’s holding something important and a word that’s bigger than that, but Emma’s having enough difficulty coming to terms with any of this that she can hardly be expected to care about syntax.

It’s still snowing out.

Henry doesn’t wake up when he rolls over, stuffing a hand under his pillow and twisting one leg across the mattress.

Exactly the same way Emma sleeps.

And exactly the way Killian has complained about Emma sleeping. Her mind jumps to memories — weeks of calm and seasonally-appropriate snow, tucked into a different bed with sheets that seemed to drape themselves over her skin and her soul and she’s clearly losing her grip on her sanity. It is, Killian frequently tells her, because Emma’s feet refuse to retain their natural heat.

It makes him jump every time, a soft gasp that leaves her laughing and giggling just a bit and she’ll never admit to that second one, but he always knows and he’s always known and the tenses don’t matter.

Emma shudders, standing up abruptly and all but sprinting towards the window.

The snow drifts look unnaturally large. If she didn’t know better, hadn’t spent the morning with sweat dripping down her back and hair plastered to her forehead, Emma would think it was Christmas. And if she didn’t know better, hadn’t watched a dragon try and burn her alive a few hours earlier, she would believe that she could be happy here.

An Enchanted Forest princess with a son and a man who would go to the ends of the world for her, no matter what he believed or who he remembered and she’s started rocking her weight between her feet. There’s a certain rhythm to it, matching up to a song no one else in this realm has probably heard of from a movie Emma only barely remembers the plot of.

Maybe she can do something about the snow in the morning as well, still emotional enough that her magic could probably move mountains and that may give up their position, but she’s not a battle strategist either or even a pirate and— “Are you alright ma’am?” It’s probably for the best that her heart has already exploded. Makes it less likely for it to shatter. Dramatically.

Emma doesn’t look behind her, can’t actually bring herself to move at the sound of Killian’s half-mumbled question and she can see his outline in the foggy glass anyway. He’s got his fingers in his hair.

“Fine,” she bites out, and the lie tastes bitter on her tongue, threatens to scorch away all those other words hanging there.

He hums, a step towards her. It’s not as cautious as it’s been in the few hours since he and Henry found her. She can’t believe it’s only been a few hours.

Emma’s perception of time is entirely skewed — and not just because of the goddamn snow, some twisted winter wonderland that leaves her thinking of more possibility and decidedly misplaced wants and there are no goddamn clocks in this realm. She can remember everything and nothing, her real life and her life here, but that’s a generous descriptor for what’s felt like decades chained in a tower.

She wonders how long it’s really been.

She wonders if this Killian Jones has ever wanted the same things she does.

“You may want to practice that a few more times,” he continues, and the floor creaks when he steps that time. “If you’d like me to believe it.”

Emma’s head nearly flies off its neck. “The cheek on you, Captain.” “I’m not a Captain.” “God, that’s so weird. It’s—do you have a sword?” “No.” “Shit. That’s—do you have enough gold for that? I mean...I don’t want to use your life savings or anything here.” The last thing she expects is him to laugh, so, naturally, that is exactly what happens. Killian throws his whole head back with the force of it, Henry mumbling at the noise, and Emma is not entirely prepared for that specific shade of blue. He’s smirking at her. The asshole.

“None of this is mine,” Killian says, laughter clinging to the words even as he keeps inching closer to Emma. “Black Beard didn’t leave much of his horde on the ship—wanted to spread things around, you see, make sure no one would be able to rob him, but—” “—You’re a pirate?” Emma suggest. “Something like that.” “You’re blushing, though.”

“Aye, that too.”

Emma twists a strand of hair around her fingers, desperate for something to do with all the excess energy she’s suddenly bursting with. And the air around them isn’t quite tension-filled, but there’s a certain charge to it, an electric current that’s always been there. More jokes about tenses.

“Were you singing just now?” Killian asks. The windows in that room have a distinct draft to them.

“No.” “No?” “We’re going in circles,” Emma grumbles, and his mouth doesn’t change. She’s got to stop staring at his mouth.

But it had taken everything in her not to throw her arms around him before, to push her own fingers into his hair and yank him forward, find some kind of steady something in the feel of his mouth against hers and the way he always seems to fall into her. Or the other way around.

Seriously, syntax is not important right now.

It’s probably best she didn’t.

Emma would not have been able to cope with it being different.

“What was the tune?” Killian asks, voice almost steady, and Emma is greedy enough to want the conversation. If only because of the color of his eyes when he looks at her.

“You wouldn’t know it.” “Try me.”

“No, honestly, it’s—” She has every intention of being stubborn. She does—walls that she can practically establishing themselves around her heart and her soul and it’s incredible that one person can be so consistently idiotic.

He still cares. About you. About us.

“When I was a kid,” Emma starts, sliding down the wall and pointing towards the space next to her. Killian sits. “I used to uh—well I never lived anywhere very long. And this time of year—” “Summer?” “Nah, winter. Well, this is fake, but—” “—The snow felt fairly real when it was falling on us. You were shivering quite a bit, ma’am.” “Noticed that, did you? And you’ve got to stop with this ma’am stuff.”

“Ma’am stuff,” he drawls. “God, of course you’d be able to tease me,” Emma grouses, but Killian’s staring at her expectantly. Almost as if he’s waiting for marching orders. That probably doesn’t happen on a boat. Ship. “I just—” “—The last thing I want to do is offend you.” The sincerity in the words rock through Emma, leaving her teeth digging into her lip again until she’s threatening to bite the stupid thing in half and Killian’s eyes flicker towards the movement, like he’s thinking about things too and— “I’m not exactly the most respectable person in the world,” Emma reasons. “A crazy witch with out of control magic.” “That’s not true.” “You didn’t know that until Henry found you.” “Aye,” he agrees. “But I—well, it was easy to believe him.” Her lungs have got to get a grip.

Or, whatever.

Work. She needs her lungs to work.

“Thank you,” Emma breathes. That’s not the working she was hoping for. “I—well, I…thank you. For all of it. Dashing rescues—” “—Did you say dashing?” “If you don’t stop calling me ma’am, I’ll punch you in the face.”

Killian barks out a laugh, the sound leaving him almost looking like him and feeling like him and Emma’s fingers flutter on instinct. With magic. He clenches his jaw. “And, uh—what am I supposed to be calling a magical princess, then?”

“You’re trying to flatter me.” “Is it working?” “Maybe,” Emma admits. “More cheek, though.” “Aye, that’s—unexpected, I suppose. But so are you, Swan, it’s—” Killian cuts himself off, eyes bugging and the veins in his throat are obvious when he jerks back, staring at Emma like she will actually punch him.

The magic in her vibrates. With want and desire and goddamn normal.

“That works,” she says.

He blushes again. He might not have ever stopped. “Has that happened before?” “Hmmm?” “The cold,” Killian says. His voice shifts again, sounding a bit farther away than it had, like he’s trying to place a memory or moment and Emma doesn’t want to hope again. It’s not the best thing to remember, anyway. “You were—we...I was…” “You were?” “Worried. Terrified, even. I can—there was ice or—” “—No, that’s right,” Emma interrupts. “It was a giant wall and it wasn’t really Elsa’s fault, but—” “—Should I know who Elsa is?” “Probably not.” He makes another noise, a slow nod that only serves to shift those pieces of hair clearly designed to ruin Emma’s whole life. “The song, then? It was inspired by the snow?” “No, I don’t—well, I don’t know, really, but the song is kind of depressing, honestly.” “Is it?” Emma nods, and her head is close enough to his that her chin nearly bumps his shoulder. She’d like to put her head on his shoulder. That may freak him out.

It’s kind of freaking her out, admittedly.

“I haven’t thought about that movie in forever,” Emma continues, “It was old when I used to watch it. A beat up VHS—” “—What is that?” She clicks her tongue, not sure how to explain now-redundant technology to a pirate who isn’t her pirate in a realm that does not have clocks. The whole thing makes her head hurt. And it’s just absurd enough to make her laugh a bit too.

Killian’s eyes flash.

“That’s not the important part,” Emma says. “And it’s not even really a Christmas movie. It’s, um—well, it’s about a family. In this place called St. Louis—” “—Is that in the Enchanted Forest?” “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a rather pitiful listener?” “You’re teasing.” Emma grins. “St. Louis is not in the Enchanted Forest. It’s a city. In the reality—shit that’s so weird to think about. You know what? That doesn’t matter either. The point is that there was a family and they lived there and then they were going to move. And Judy Garland was upset because the guy she loved—”

She doesn’t finish her sentence.

It feels like it’s weighing down on both of them anyway, more metaphors and passing similarities and she wants him to call her Swan at least forty-seven thousand times.

“She didn’t want to leave this man, then?” Killian asks. “Judy Garland? Was she a princess as well?” Emma shakes her head. “No, but she did get to go to a ball. At Christmas. With a very red gown.” “Red?” “Yuh huh.” Killian swipes his tongue across the front of his teeth, that same thoughtful look Emma’s grown to memorize and maybe covet just a bit. It’s because it always ends with that pinch between his eyebrows. “So, John,” Emma adds, “That’s the guy that she loves. HIs name is John and he...he couldn’t get to the ball at first because he didn’t pick up his tuxedo. He was playing basketball.” “What a strange word.” “It’s a really strange game if you actually think about it, honestly. Henry’s more into soccer, though, so—we’re drifting from the point.” “Are we just?” “You’ll make me think you’re not enjoying my garbage storytelling, Killian.” The pinch disappears.

At the same exact time his lips part.

Seriously, his lips.

“Does John eventually get to this ball?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods. “Romance conquers all. He gets the tuxedo and they dance and it’s—well, Judy Garland wasn’t shy about being in love with him. She sang about it at the start of the movie, but everything kind of comes to light there and, um...when I was a kid, I always thought it was very pretty.” “The dancing?” “The whole thing. Happily ever after.” She can still see the tip of his tongue pressing into the side of his mouth — another tell for her Killian and this is her Killian, just with altered memories and ridiculous allusions to 1940s musicals and—

“What happened after the ball?” “John asked Judy Garland to marry him,” Emma says. Her voice cracks. It’s ridiculous. “She says, yes, of course, but they’re still leaving St. Louis and her sister is there and she’s beats up the snowmen.” “What?” “They’ve got the most ridiculous snowmen in the backyard and Tootie—” “—This child’s name is Tootie?” “I didn’t write the movie.” He chuckles, slumping a bit against the wall. His hand is very close to Emma’s. “And where does your tune factor in?” “Uh—before the snowmen, I think. Freshly engaged Judy Garland sings this song called Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. It’s...like I said, it’s kind of depressing if you listen to the words and—” “—What are the words?”

Emma has to swallow as soon as her brain processes that particular tone of voice. Because it’s not nervous. Or anxious. It’s vaguely hopeful and a little greedy as well, an overstep for a cowardly deckhand, but exactly what Killian Jones would do and Killian Jones would come back.

With his tuxedo.

Or leather jacket.

As the case may be.

“I’m not really a singer,” Emma mutters, ignoring whatever is fluttering in her stomach. Magic, maybe. Emotion, definitely.

Killian nods, a quiet sound of agreement or acquiesce and that might be what changes everything. The easy way he’s looking at her, like explaining the plot of Meet Me In St. Louis is entirely normal and she can barely herself when she starts to sing under her breath.

It’s decidedly off-pitch, Emma desperate to keep her voice low and her nerves in the pit of her stomach, but Killian doesn’t blink and she shakes slightly when she reaches— “Until then we’ll just have to muddle through somehow.” She blinks, sudden tears on her cheeks that are a misplaced sense of warmth and she hates that she’s crying. She hates that she’s feeling, wisps of hope and shards of her own want and Emma can’t imagine there’s even something like Christmas in the Enchanted Forest.

And she’s just about to apologize for it—for being anything except the Savior everyone always expects her to be, but then there’s a crack and a shift and her magic practically rumbles out of her chest and— Killian’s thumb brushes across her cheek.

“Can you—” he stutters, color rising again and tinging the tips of his ears. “The mask. It’s—can you get rid of it?” She’s going to eventually run out of air to dramatically exhale, Emma is sure.

In the moment, though, she’s got just enough, body surging forward as soon as the thought clicks into place and he wasn’t scared of the magic.

He wasn’t scared of her.

“I’d like to see you,” Killian adds, “If that’s—” Emma blinks, nose barley settling back to its appropriate place before she’s leaning forward and that same nose is pressed against Killian’s cheek. He doesn’t kiss exactly the same.

It's not as horrible as she thought it would be.

It’s softer now—still a little cautious optimism that’s almost as weird as the rules of basketball, and it takes a moment for him to tilt his head, a quick flicker of his tongue that leaves Emma reeling just a bit. That’s all it really takes, then. She lets her fingers fly into his hair, barely any space between them when she clamors closer, knees bumping his side and his hook finding the small of her back.

Like always.

She twists and he tilts his head and it’s not quite hungry, but there’s something about it that’s almost like a low simmer, steady and even and normal. It’s absolutely, totally normal.

She’s not sure how long they stay there, making out like teenagers on the floor, but it doesn’t matter because Emma is at least ninety-six percent positive she’s just become Killian Jones’ first kiss and the thought leaves her a little dizzy and even more breathless than normal, goosebumps exploding on her skin that don’t have anything to do with the temperature.

“What happens to them?” Killian asks, pressing the question to the corner of Emma’s mouth. “John and Judy?” “Her name is Esther in the movie.” “Another strange moniker.” She laughs— giggles —and it’s easy to feel Killian’s answering smile against her jaw. “Well, they’re engaged when it ends, and it never really says they get married, but I’d imagine they do after the fair.” “The fair?” “That’s a whole other plot point we don’t have time to go into. It’s—c’mon, we should probably get some sleep.” The smile is gone. “You should sleep, Swan. I can take the watch.” “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” “Someone should be awake, this isn’t the safest place.” Emma waves her hand, lock clicking into place and it’s probably wrong to take some perverse pleasure in Killian’s stunned expression. Or the position of his tongue. “Impressive.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” “You should at least take the bed, love.”

If he realizes he’s switched endearments, he doesn’t show it, but Emma does — and so does her magic. It roars and soars and some other word that is slightly less positive because the thought of not falling asleep next to him is suddenly the single worst thing she could come up with and—

“There’s enough space,” she reasons.

Killian wavers for a moment, more than a few quick breaths through gritted teeth. Emma takes her boots off.

And climbs into the bed. “The sheets suck though,” she says, and it gets the desired laugh out of him. He probably doesn’t understand the idiom.

It doesn’t matter.

He follows her anyway — and that’s a multi-fold thing and maybe they’ll be able to find a copy of Meet Me In St. Louis at home. Maybe she can get another red gown.

Maybe they can— “Bloody hell how are your feet so cold?” Emma buries her face in the pillow to mask her laugh, body shaking despite her best efforts. Killian looks scandalized.

“Bad circulation, I guess,” Emma reasons.

“You’ll get frostbite like that, love. That can’t be healthy, I—what?” “Nothing, nothing, just...I’m sorry about my cold feet.”

He narrows his eyes, looking for the double meaning to those words and he’s always been very perceptive. So. It doesn’t take long for him to understand. “It’s alright,” he says. “Here, c’mere. You can...I’m warm, at least.”

“Yeah, I know.”

It takes some twisting to get comfortable, but that’s really more the sheets than anything and Emma’s head manages to find its way to Killian’s chest, an arm around her middle and lips grazing her hair and— “Swan. Swan, c’mon—Emma, love, we’ve got to get up.”

She grumbles, pressing her face further into the fabric under her cheek, but that fabric is also moving and the man wearing it is breathing and laughing in her ear and it takes Emma a moment to get her bearings.

There’s light streaming in through gauzy curtains, a soft roar coming from behind the closed door of her bedroom. No, that’s not right.

Their bedroom.

In their house.

With their family.

It’s—

“Merry Christmas, love,” Killian says.

Emma jerks her head up, reality rushing back to her and she’d been dreaming. Of a different reality and a past that had been fixed years before. It’s been years.

What sounds like several different crashes sound from, what she can only imagine, is the general vicinity of the kitchen.

“Merry Christmas,” she mumbles. Killian ducks his head, catches her lips with hers and he laughs again when she objects to his movement. “No, no, you’re comfortable.”

“And warm, I know. But—” He winces at another crash. “I believe the little sea monster is awake and likely determined to open the the rather alarming large mountain of presents she’s been presented with. Also, your parents will be here soon.” Emma nods, a schedule flitting through her brain that includes breakfast and lunch and dinner that will end with—

“I expect your dance card to be filled tonight, your highness,” Killian adds. He nips at her nose when Emma doesn’t answer immediately, a knowing flash in his gaze and it had been her mother’s idea.

A ball.

At Christmas.

Emma is almost unreasonably excited. If only because those few strands of hair that still fall across Killian’s forehead have started to take on a distinct silver edge and she can’t really think when she notices it.

She’s anticipating a good deal of making out. In dark corners.

And dancing.

“Aye, Captain.”

The flash gets noticeably darker, another kiss they don’t have time for, but that’s also kind of their thing and—

Crash. Several. In quick succession.

“She might have knocked the tree over,” Emma mutters. “I’ll go and assess damage. Make sure you put socks on, love. It’s probably cold downstairs.” Emma salutes—in tandem with her flipping stomach.

And the kitchen isn’t nearly as bad as she thought it would be, a living room eventually covered in wrapping paper and laughter hanging in the air and Emma lets her mother pin her hair up later.

The gold matches the red in her gown.

And the red on Killian’s cheeks as soon as he sees her, one side of mouth tugging up and that same flash—disarmingly familiar and consistent, no matter the realm or the years or the curses they’ve lived through because—

He takes a step forward, a quick bend of his head and lips brushing her knuckles.

Emma’s magic flutters.

He lifts his eyebrows.

“Your highness, ma’am.” “Captain.” “It’s a very good color.” “No problems with the tuxedo?” Killian shakes his head “I don’t know how to play basketball.”

She can’t help the size of her smile or the force of her magic, memories he probably shouldn’t remember, but they’ve watched the movie enough that he could probably sing the songs by heart now. And he does, humming soft melodies in Emma’s ear all night until she’s dangerously close to swooning.

In a slightly darkened corner.

With her husband’s mouth on hers and his hook pressed to the small of her back and happily ever after playing out around them.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #cs fic #festive prompt a thon #i'm thinking i'm going to be able to fill one more prompt before we go away #probably on wednesday #which is not the nice round ten i was hoping for #but--life #so if you sent a prompt #it will get filled #it just may not be....straight christmas #i got more prompts than i was expecting #which was very nice and very surprising

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sweetteaanddragons · 5 years

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Where Is the Power that Made Your Pride?

Title is from Rudyard Kipling’s “What of the Hunting, Hunter Bold?”

(Also, please note that the following story is from Celegorm’s perspective. All views expressed therein are Celegorm’s opinions, not necessarily mine.)

. . .

Curufin had always talked fast. His ideas flowed far faster than his mouth could move, but that didn’t stop his mouth from desperately trying to keep up.

Their father had done it to a certain extent too, but their father’s innate respect for language had at least kept him intelligible. Curufin had no such boundaries, and when he got particularly excited, his words had a tendency to run together into a block of sound that left intense impressions on the listener’s mind without imparting anything so mundane as specifics.

Celegorm was the only one who could reliably translate those rants. He was well used to decoding messages no one else thought of as language. He was the one who could capture his little brother’s brilliant ideas and summarize them for everyone else. Language was Celegorm’s portion of the family genius, and he was never more proud of it than then.

What had finally slowed his brother’s lightning mouth was Sindarin. Curufin had learned to speak it carefully, even through his scorn. He had refused to give anyone grounds to mock him for his ability with the tongue, and so he was careful to speak it perfectly, which precluded speaking at his closest approximation of the speed of thought. By the time he had learned the language perfectly, he was out of the habit.

Celegorm still held a grudge against Thingol for that.

Curufin was talking slowly now, painfully slowly, and Celegorm cursed not only Thingol but every member of his line as he knelt in the accursed halls of Doriath and held his broken brother in his arms.

“It’s . . . dark,” Curufin managed. “So dark.” His voice shook.

“It’s just the torches,” Celegorm soothed. “The fire went out during the fighting. That’s all.” It had been pure luck that he had stumbled over Curufin as he called for his brothers. Caranthir hadn’t answered at all. He was trying not to think about that.

“No.” Curufin’s voice was barely more than a terrified breath. “The Void. The Void - “

Celegorm clung even tighter to his brother, hoping that the shared warmth would convince his brother that he was not yet in the eternal chill of the Void. “You will not go to the Void,” he promised. He didn’t say his brother wouldn’t die. He could hear the strange hitches in his little brother’s breathing. He could feel how much warm blood was even now soaking through his brother’s tunics to his. He couldn’t change that now. Only this. “Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Aftercomer, Man now born upon Middle-earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall keep me from redeeming our Oath. Our deed shall not fail, I swear to you. You will not be left to the dark.”

He was the one talking fast now, and it was just barely fast enough. Curufin’s breath was thin and desperate now.

Thin. Desperate.

Gone.

. . .

By the time his men had finally managed to catch up to them, thankfully with torches, Celegorm had carefully lain his brother’s body and crawled onward. It had been possible, after all, that Caranthir was merely unconscious and might need aid.

The torches revealed the truth.

Caranthir had fallen on the far side of the room. His throat had been slashed messily.

Terrible technique, a coldly distant part of him noted. Nimloth was dead by Celegorm’s own hand, so presumably the one responsible was Dior, wounded to the point of death by Caranthir’s side.

If things had gone differently, he might have been my son.

He could walk over and finish him off. The king had mere minutes to live, all of them promising pain.

His brothers’ blood lay thick upon the floor.

He turned his back on the scene and looked to his followers. “What news?”

“We found his sons, my lord,” the captain said, shoving two young boys forward. “We’ve searched them thoroughly. Neither has the Silmaril.”

Celegorm looked at them for a long moment and tried to think what to do.

It was like that first terrible battle when they’d lost Ada and nothing had made any sense at all. He had been glad, so glad, that it was Maedhros’s role to be king, and then Maglor’s. It had been his role to hunt - hunt for orcs, hunt for food, hunt for a way to figure out the dark tongue Morgoth’s creatures spoke, hunt for a way into the terrible fortress -

And nothing had changed, he realized with something approaching relief. That was still Maedhros’s role, especially now that all that nonsense about giving up the crown was over and done with and they followed no one but Maedhros once more. It was Maedhros’s job to work out what to do. It was his job to hunt.

“Take them to Maedhros,” he ordered. “If they don’t have it, my father’s work must be with the daughter. I’ll hunt her down.”

. . .

The woods were thick with shadows and webs. The darkness had moved in quickly, eager to make up for lost time when Melian’s protection disappeared.

Celegorm had learned his art in the shadowed places outside the light of the Trees. He was well accustomed to hunting in the dark.

These days, he was even used to hunting with only the ghost of a hound’s footsteps at his side.

He had heard some whisper rumors that no hound would have him after Huan left him. Celegorm always wondered why they thought he’d given any other hound a chance. There was no possible replacement for Huan.

How far from here had Huan died?

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind where Caranthir’s ruined throat and Curufin’s terrified rasps rattled and waited to haunt his dreams. Later, he could think of them. Later, he could find a spot beneath the trees to hurl knives at the twisted wood until something else had as many holes ripped through it as he felt like he’d gained.

Later. But there was no room for distractions on a hunt.

. . .

He found them within hours. There were only two guards with the girl; they must not have run into any other survivors yet. They were out there, Celegorm knew. He’d run into other panicked trails through the woods.

He shot the first guard without thought. It came easily now.

Don’t worry, brothers, Father. I will not leave you in the dark.

He had another arrow nocked before the other guard turned around, not that such haste was fully necessary. The second guard’s arms were full of a little elleth, not a weapon.

“Give me the gem,” he ordered, directing his words to Elwing, not the guard. “Give me the gem, or I’ll shoot your guard and search you for it myself.”

She would be all alone in the woods then, and by her frightened eyes, she knew it.

The guard pulled her closer. “She’s a child, just a child, please - “

“And I’m not going to shoot her,” Celelgrom said agreeably. “Just you, if I don’t get my father’s work back. Now.”

He wasn’t sure quite how young Elwing was, but however young she was, it was too young to prize even the precious light of a Silmaril over the safe comfort of an adult’s arms. She opened her clenched hands, and light spilled out from them.

“Princess - “ the guard said.

She threw it.

Her arms were too weak to throw it far. It landed halfway between them, the light clearly visible even through the undergrowth.

“Thank you,” Celegorm said. He raised his bow a bit higher. “Now I suggest you run.”

The guard took off immediately, the princess still safe in his arms. Celegorm waited until they were safely out of sight before he dared lower his bow and put the arrow back in his quiver.

The gem was so close. It seemed impossible that he could just reach out and take it.

He stepped forward. Reached down.

And jerked his hand back as the light burned.

He stared down at the gem for a long moment.

It made sense, he supposed. A Vala had hallowed it, and the Valar weren’t exactly happy with them at the moment.

He used one of his knives to cut a strip off his tunic and wrapped the cloth around his hand before picking it up again. It still burned, but it was bearable, at least for long enough to drop it into his quiver since he didn’t have a better container at the moment.

His hand still burned, but that was alright. He could get it looked at when he got back.

And they were one step closer to keeping their vow.

. . .

Maedhros was dead.

Celegorm stared down at the light spilling from the quiver at his feet and tried to understand that.

For so long they’d stood invincible, he’d almost convinced himself that Ada would be their last loss, and now he’d lost three brothers in one day.

But he still had two little brothers to look after and Maglor to follow. He had to focus on that.

This war was a hunt, and he had to keep his focus until the very end.

. . .

Maglor kept them headed vaguely north. The Oath pulled them in that direction, but Maglor showed little inclination to actually get there.

Celegorm chafed at the pointless wandering, but even he had to admit that they need a plan before they attacked. Plans were now Maglor’s job, so he left that to him.

Until then, Celegorm hunted. The twins rode out with him most days, and they brought in badly needed meat that grew ever harder to hunt down, even for skilled hunters such as they.

Celegorm could hear what the animals murmured to each other, though there were fewer and fewer left to do it. The land was dying, bit by bit, and at this point he wasn’t sure even stopping Morgoth’s poison at the source would stop it.

Celegorm wasn’t afraid of dying.

Not so long as he fulfilled his promise first.

. . .

The first they heard of Sirion’s fall was when Celegorm realized they were being followed by someone, and Maglor turned their people back to encircle the other camp, if it could even be called a camp. They’d crowded under the lee of a small hill for protection from bitter wind, but there was little supplies to give them more protection that that.

It turned out to be Elured and Elurin, who had shown up with their nephews and about two dozen other injured, starving, exhausted people with orcs on their tail.

Of course there were.

The Feanorians outnumbered them and had the additional advantage of being comprised entirely of warriors. The other group held a few children and those who carried their weapons like they still weren’t quite sure what to do with them.

Maglor had been the one to let Elured and Elurin go free with a few captured Doriathrim guards, so it was Maglor who stepped forward, presumably on the idea that the frightened elves would be less likely to shoot him.

He was also the most diplomatic Feanorian brother remaining, though Celegorm found himself wishing fiercely that Maedhros was here for this.

“We have nothing,” Elured - Elurin? One of the two - called from where he stood protectively in front of his nephews. “We have no desire to fight. Let us go our own way. We bring no quarrel to you.”

“We want nothing,” Maglor said, a hint of soothing power in his voice, hands raised high and without weapons. Celegorm, safely hidden in the trees, had that taken care of for him. “Nothing but news. What brings you out this way and in such a company?”

“Morgoth’s forces have brought down Sirion,” the other twin said, wary, but willing to talk. As long as they were still talking, no one was fighting. “Most fled to the Isle of Balar, but we were cut off from the harbor. We had no choice but to flee. His forces ride hard against us still.”

“Then are you sure you wish us to go?” Maglor asked. “They cannot be far behind you now. Will you not accept aid in defeating them?”

It was an offer the beleaguered refugees could not possibly refuse, no matter how wary they were.

Celegorm’s grin was fierce.

At last, a proper fight.

. . .

It was a proper victory too, and the refugees ended up sticking with them after that. It was an awkward experience all around, but there was safety in numbers, or at least as much safety as anyone could get these days.

Celegorm kept the Silmaril well covered.

No need to start another fight over its brilliant light.

. . .

They found out the Isle of Balar had fallen when Amrod and Amras came running back to camp with a report of a group of orcs dragging a line of elvish prisoners, one of whom they thought might be Gil-Galad, though it had been years since any of them had seen him - not since he was a child.

They attacked because they didn’t have better ideas and because, Celegorm suspected, Maglor, Elured, and Elurin had the same rising lump of dread in their throats that he did.

The attack was a success, more or less. The orcs were dead, at least, and they managed to save five of the prisoners, though Celegorm suspected at least one wouldn’t last the night.

Gil-Galad might make it, though. The orcs had been careful with him, probably because their master had wanted the fun of torturing the so-called king of the elves himself.

Gil-Galad reported the fall of the city in a blank voice. Elwing’s fate was unknown, a fact that cheered up her wide eyed children and worried her more worldly-wise brothers.

Celegorm felt an unwilling spark of sympathy. He remembered all too well when Maedhros’s fate had been unknown.

Then Gil-Galad announced his next bit of news, and all sympathy for outsiders fled.

Celebrimbor was dead.

Gil-Galad talked about how bravely he had fought as if that somehow made things better, as if they wouldn’t all have a hundred times over preferred it for Celebrimbor to run at the first sign of trouble, or for Celebrimbor to have been a little less brave in Nargothrond, all those years ago.

Follow the leader, Celegorm had told his nephew once on a hunt, when he’d been young and impressionable and mostly done as he was told. Stay with the pack.

But little Tyelpe had grown into stubborn Celebrimbor, and now he was gone.

At least his nephew wasn’t counting on Celegorm to save him from the Void.

. . .

Celegorm confronted Maglor in his tent. The question of power had been tricky since Elured and Elurin showed up and had only gotten more so with Gil-Galad’s arrival, but Maglor maintained the majority of it by virtue of commanding the absolute loyalty of the majority of the people wielding weapons.

Maglor was the rightful leader anyway, but at least this way Celegorm only had to convince one person of his plan.

“We need to attack,” he said, and Maglor startled from his position of leaning over the battered map on an even more battered table.

“We have less than a hundred men,” Maglor said wearily. “If we couldn’t take Angband at the Nirnaeth, what makes you think we can do it now?”

“We can’t,” Celegorm admitted. “But if we can create a diversion outside the gates, we can sneak in and steal the Silmarils.”

Maglor stared at him for a long moment. “It’s a suicide mission,” he finally said.

Celegorm waved that off impatiently. “The whole continent’s dying,” he said. “We’re not getting out of this, you know that. But we can still keep our Oath.”

“Our Oath,” Maglor said bitterly and turned away.

Celegorm grabbed his arm. “I swore it again,” he said. “I swore it again as Curufin died in my arms, I swore I would not let him be devoured by the dark.”

Maglor closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His hands shook.

“Alright,” he finally said. “Alright. We’ve fought Elda and those born of Maia and Aftercomer, defied bright Vala and every law ever written. It’s time we fought dark Vala too.” His eyes opened. “But if we’re going to do this,” he said, “we’re going to do it right.”

. . .

Apparently, doing it right involved talking the others into not wanting to go gently into Mandos’s good night and then riding out to find as many of the small, desperate bands of Aftercomer, Eldar, and Naugrim that they could. If they were going to charge on Morgoth’s gates, Maglor wanted to make as much of a show of it as he could.

Celegorm wasn’t sure what number they got up to. It was still far less than they’d had at the Nirnaeth. It was still doomed, in every sense of the word.

But it would be distracting, and that was the main thing.

. . .

Maglor ceded leadership of the expedition to Gil-Galad, and Celegorm said not one word of protest. Elured and Elurin eyed them warily, but Celegorm just smiled.

These days, no one wanted to look at him when he did that, he’d learned.

Maglor couldn’t lead the expedition.

They’d need him for something far more important.

. . .

Amrod and Amras were the ones left to lead their men because it was decided that was the slightly less suicidal job, and the twins were the youngest, after all. Maglor and Celegorm were fully agreed on that; it was their job to protect them, one last time.

Celegorm was a hunter, and he was well equipped at finding game trails through places thought to be impassible.

Even if this time, the game trail in question had been made by orcs.

Below them, the free peoples of Beleriand made one last glorious charge.

Meanwhile, Celegorm quietly led Maglor up the winding trail into Angband itself.

. . .

Most of Morgoth’s forces were focused on the gate, so it was surprisingly easy to slip unnoticed to the throne room where Morgoth sat directing this last stage of the war.

His throne was at one end of a long hall, with thick pillars carved to look like agonized Eldar and Aftercomers groaning under the weight.

Celegorm was relieved. Elves were hard to spot in hunting cloaks, no matter what the environment, and he was more stealthy than most, but this was would help his purposes immensely.

Morgoth himself hurt to look at directly, so Celegorm didn’t try. Instead, he sidled to the side of the room, softer than a breath and noticeable as a dust mote while Maglor threw his cloak off and strode forward.

His brother had been beaten down by the war, but he was still a performer at heart. Even in the shabby finery that was the pathetic best the Noldor could still produce, he still commanded every eye in the room as he strode forward.

He didn’t bother wasting time with a formal challenge. Instead, he just burst into song.

The force of it nearly pushed Celegorm over, and it wasn’t even aimed at him. It must be costing Maglor enormous effort - too much to keep it up for long. And though Maglor was holding his own for the moment, with the added force of surprise on his side, against Morgoth surely it wasn’t doing much. His brother’s power was great, but he was no half-Maia brat to contend with a Vala.

And Morgoth would be warier now.

Any moment now, he would grow weary of this novelty and strike. Celegorm’s feet flew across the floor toward an appropriate position. His bow was ready at his side. He just needed the right angle.

And then two bright presences in his mind - distant, but always noted because it was always important to know where the rest of the pack was - went dark.

Amrod and Amras had fallen.

Maglor’s song faltered, and Morgoth smiled, opened his mouth -

Celegorm raised his bow. The arrowhead that was nocked against it was dull but heavy. Very heavy.

He let it fly.

He had no illusions about killing Morgoth with it, but that was alright. He hadn’t aimed for Morgoth. Not exactly.

He’d aimed for his crown.

The iron monstrosity with its twin stars clattered to the floor.

In the moment of stunned silence that followed, the orc chiefs and twisted Maia stood frozen. Even Morgoth only stared.

Maglor renewed his attack.

Celegorm was already running.

He heard it when others finally started to move after him, but he hardly cared. He was the only one who’d known exactly when this moment would come - one of only two people who had known it was coming at all - and it didn’t matter if someone caught up with him in a few moments.

A weapon whistled through the air. Celegorm hit his knees and skidded the last yard to the crown.

His brothers were counting on him. His father was counting on him.

Celegorm grabbed a gem in each hand, never minding the burn, just throwing back his head in a yell of triumph as he felt the Oath’s chain snapped.

He had one in his belt and one in each hand. All three gems were united in Feanorian possession once more.

There was no chance of prying the gems out of the crown, not in the time he had left, but there’d been an idea he’d been playing with ever since he proposed this mission, and he had nothing to lose now.

He let go of one of the gems and drew the third out of its pouch. His hand felt like he’d stuck it in lava, but it wouldn’t matter. Not for long.

The Silmarils were almost indestructible. The Valar had thought they could break one, and they were probably right, but Celegorm was no Vala.

He did, however, have a substance just as hard and powerful as the Silmarils in the crown.

Namely, another Silmaril.

Please, Ada. Let me be right. Let me do this one thing right.

He brought it crashing down with all his might on the Silmaril he’d let go of.

His whole world turned to fire, every fiber of him screaming out as the sacred fire scourged him, fused with him, and burst outward.

The clawed hand that had just reached him turned to ash.

Morgoth screamed out, and the sound ripped through whatever remained of his eardrums and twisted the world, because this was light undimmed, light unfiltered, light so holy that it was the antithesis of everything Morgoth was, and Celegorm didn’t know if this would kill the dark Vala, but it certainly seemed to be coming close.

Maglor screamed too, and it went on for just one agonized moment before his last brother’s light winked out.

The light built and burned and Celegorm would have been screaming if there was anything left of him that could -

And then everything was cool and dim, and Namo was looking down at him with an expression so stunned that even dead, all Celegorm could do was throw back his head and laugh and laugh and laugh.

#celegorm #maglor #amrod and amras #elured and elurin #silmarillion #gil-galad #character death #tolkien #fic #alternate universe #canon divergence #celegorm is the last feanorian #for about .5 seconds

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badbookreviewclub · 4 years

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Waiting for Snow in Havana: Confessions of a Cuban Boy - A Book by Carlos Eire

Please note, this will be different from other reviews as I have a deep love for Waiting for Snow in Havana. In this review, I do critique the book a bit, but it’s more a general summarization of the book. I don’t have any spoilers in it (not that you really can have spoilers for a memoir), but I do highly recommend that you read this book. I’m trying out writing a good book review for once, so please do let me know what you think. Waiting for Snow in Havana is an immersive tale of lizard hunting, Cuba-shaped clouds, and adventures someone could only have in Cuba as a young and rambunctious boy. Carlos Eire takes the reader on his own memory-filled trip that twists emotions and gives the reader a look into the life and thoughts of a young Cuban boy, who was brought into America as a refugee after Fidel Castro became dictator. As a result of these being Carlos Eire’s memories of his time in Cuba and even a little bit of when he was first in America, the book can be a bit disorganized at times and comes off as a stream-of-consciousness style of writing. And yet, it works magnificently. This style benefits the book and gives overall better imagery throughout. Waiting for Snow in Havana is not the typical autobiography and that only makes it all the more wonderful to read. Carlos Eire grew up in Cuba before being brought to America through Operation Peter Pan. His mother joined him in America about a decade later, though it was through much struggle on her own part. In the United States, Eire went on to get an education and graduated from Yale with a Ph.D. in 1979 in religious and early modern European history. He ventured out of his normal zone of comfort writing about early European history to write his memoir, Waiting for Snow in Havana, which won the National Book Award for Nonfiction in 2003. Carlos Eire gives the reader an insight into how Fidel Castro’s revolution affected families and the people that it was supposed to help. Eire’s grandfather had been in a horrible car accident and had broken his leg so badly that it could not be fixed. As Eire puts it best, “He was the kind of guy the revolution was supposed to help (pg. 364).” Fidel Castro had taken the little bit of money that his grandfather had saved up and turned it into nothing around the same time that he had broken his leg. And yet, Eire’s grandfather still had to stand in line like everyone else, in tears because he had lost everything yet again. Eire comments a couple of times throughout the book saying, “The state owns everything—excuse me—the people own everything (pg. 220).” Rephrasing it the way that Fidel Castro put it as well as the way that it actually appears to be, this dual perspective is unique to Eire’s writing. Although Carlos Eire makes it clear at the beginning of the book that he has a deep dislike for Castro, possibly even a hatred, he does let the reader know that in the beginning, he was in awe of the soon-to-be dictator. “Anyone who was against Batista must be good, I thought… Anyone who treated human beings like lizards couldn’t be a good president (pg. 180).” In the second part of this quote, Eire is referring to how Batista, the current president, tortured people before he was overthrown. Eire also compares this action of torturing people to how Ernesto, his adopted brother, tortured lizards by frying them with electricity. After Castro took over though, Eire’s opinion of the dictator quickly soured. When making a school project, Eire compares the propaganda that was repeated over and over again, from radio broadcasts and television to a scratched record when he had to make a school project for the Agrarian Reform. Eire later comments that people would turn off their televisions and radios so as not to hear the speeches, but the speakers on the utility poles quickly rid every house of silence. The reader also gets an insight into how the lives of everyone, specifically the lives of the wealthier changed, not just how his own opinion changed. Eire’s life may not have differed much after the forced take over until the forced currency change, considering that his father was a judge. Eire tells some of the stories he heard from other children and stories of what he saw on television. Fidel Castro’s revolutionaries would arrest rebels and prominent figures in Cuban society who could contradict Castro or become a threat to his dictatorship. Then, the revolutionaries would line them up against the wall, shooting them live on television for all to see. The spectators would shout ‘paredón,’ or ‘up against the wall’ over and over again before the revolutionaries finally shot to kill, torture, and maim. Eire’s own cousin, Fernando, was arrested and put through this torture over and over again, though Fernando eventually was released from the prison alive. Carlos Eire recalls one story he heard from two girls of their father being dragged from their home by revolutionaries. These two girls had seen their own father “dragged from their house weeping and screaming, ‘Please don’t kill me, please don’t!’ He had soiled his pants on the way to the paredón, and begged for his life until the split second when the bullets ripped into him (pg. 219).” Their father was taken to the paredón simply because he had worked as a mayor under the Batista regime. Despite Eire’s emotion-twisting stories of Cuba, there is more that could have been done to make Waiting for Snow in Havana a more satisfying read. Although the book is explained from a child’s perspective, it does not give much insight into how it felt as a young boy to move to the United States as a refugee. Eire does not go much into his emotions of what it felt like to have to leave his mother. He does not detail how it felt to be split apart from his brother so soon after landing in their new home. He does explain how hard it was to be an immigrant and refugee in the United States, but it feels as though it is all from a logical perspective. It stands out from the rest of the book with its lack of emotion. It would have also been incredibly interesting to see how Eire’s life changed in America in comparison to his brother. He hinted vaguely at it throughout the memoir, but to have a chapter dedicated to that would have elevated the book to an unbelievably amazing degree. Nonetheless, Waiting for Snow in Havana is a book that the reader will find themselves not wanting to put down and a story that saddens them when it is finished. Waiting for Snow in Havana deserves its National Book Award and so many more. As the reader moves through the pages, they will find themselves in Havana, right next to Eire as he plays with his friends, seeing things from his own perspective. Eire is an absolutely astounding writer and it shows in his storytelling abilities. At the end of it all, the reader will find themselves looking for Cuba-shaped clouds and firecrackers with the red paper to launch lizards into orbit. Overall I would give the book 8/10 stars. I highly recommend that anyone who likes history, memoirs, or even just having a beautiful picture painted in their mind read Waiting for Snow in Havana. It’s beautifully written and Eire pulls you into his writing. Before you know it, the book will be over and you’ll have found yourself longing for more. I recently discovered the Eire wrote another memoir called Learning to Die in Miami: Confessions of a Refugee so when I get the chance, I will be buying and reading that one. It will probably be a while until I can, considering I made a promise to a very good friend of mine that I wouldn’t buy more books until I get through the ones that I have bought (13 so far, six of which are terrible books, so wish me luck). If you are interested in purchasing Waiting for Snow in Havana, you can find it here.

#review #good book #entire book #good review #waiting for snow in havana #carlos eire #still taking that break

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self-loving-vampire · 4 years

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Politics in Fiction

Often, I see various arguments about politics in fiction (this most often happens specifically around video games for some reason). These arguments are rarely satisfying to me because I feel like I both agree and disagree with both sides at once.

One side says that some fiction has always been political, which is true but also not really what the other side is complaining about.

The other side is also prone to making many claims I do not agree with, like that including minority characters is always political pandering.

So there are actually many points I want to address on this topic and I hope I can separate them into readable chunks properly.

It is fine for fiction to be political

I do not dispute that many fictional works have political messages and themes. I also don’t think that this is inherently a bad thing.

The better Fallout games are political, for example. They often focus on the affairs of various societies and how they are (or should be) managed or governed, and their world is richer and more interesting for it.

The central choice in Fallout New Vegas is basically about which faction should control the city and its nearby dam, which results in various different policies and consequences.

Political fiction can be good, it can help develop a setting or provide meaningful and memorable decisions.

However, as with all fiction, it has to be smart and nuanced about it. I will explain more below.

Sometimes things are not actually that political

One claim I have heard is that Star Wars is about “resisting fascism”. I don’t entirely see that in the movies as I remember them (though it might be more apparent in expanded universe stuff).

The bad guys in Star Wars are an authoritarian empire, yes, but at least in the movies themselves there doesn’t seem to be anything uniquely fascist about them, and not much is said about their ideology or policies in the movies either. They feel like a generic evil empire.

I know it has been long since I watched the movies, but I never really understood what the emperor’s motivations were beyond just personal power. Why did he want personal power? I don’t know. He barely feels like a real character.

And on top of that, Star Wars does not actually discuss or criticize fascism or even authoritarianism as an idea all that much. It’s just bad guys to fight in a way that feels superficial to me.

While on this topic, not all deep themes are political in nature. I know some people believe the personal is political, I don’t (for reasons I may explain in a different post). Sometimes I see works that deal with personal issues but that are treated as dealing with political ones, they are not the same thing to me.

I feel like people on both sides do this, too.

For example, there was a recent controversy about how Bloodlines 2 will let players choose their pronouns and how this was "too political” or “pandering to SJWs”.

Some people seem to just treat the very existence of LGBT characters in fiction as a political move, but to me they are just characters.

Everyone in my Dungeons and Dragons settings (except the player characters, if they wish) is either bisexual or asexual, not because I am trying to make any kind of statement but because those are the states that are easiest for me to imagine and work with.

Sometimes the politics are not what you think they are

Because everyone has different views and experiences, people can look at the same story from a different perspective and take an entirely different message from it.

It is fine if your interpretation is uncommon, it is even fine if your interpretation is different from what the author intended.

But you should keep in mind that your reading is not the only valid one.

I most often see people on the left do this. They will claim that a piece of media is leftist, and often there may be some valid argument for why it may be, but then treat their interpretation as fact and try to shame and attack others for thinking differently without ever considering why they might have read the story differently.

For example, during the backlash to the backlash surrounding Bloodlines 2, I saw people asserting as fact that vampires are an allegory for the upper classes being parasites and therefore the people complaining are not welcome.

That did not seem right to me. All kinds of people write vampire stories and intend different meanings for them, there isn’t a universal to work with (not even when it comes to the physical powers and traits the vampires have).

Sometimes vampires are meant to represent corrupting yet irresistible sexual predators.

Sometimes they are meant to represent disease.

Sometimes they are just hot but troubled supernatural boyfriends.

Bram Stoker himself was a monarchist, and the vampires in the VTM setting are not all wealthy either. Some of them even live in the sewers and look too monstrous to be around humans. Not everyone is a Ventrue and not all Ventrue are bad, especially by the standards of the setting.

It is possible to do politics so badly that it ruins everything

I think there may be another reason why certain people may not notice that their favorite media deals with social issues and politics: That sort of thing is much more noticeable when it is done very poorly, which further convinces those people that adding politics to media is bad.

At some point social issues can stop being interesting worldbuilding or philosophical dilemmas and just become a ham-fisted allegory for a current real world issue that just hits one side on the face with an opinion they may not agree with.

For example, remember when Deus Ex: Mankind Divided pissed absolutely everyone off with that “Augs Live Matters” sign?

This has been said before, but good political stuff is vague and timeless: It deals with general principles that can be applied in multiple contexts. For example, 1984 was about extreme authoritarianism but not any one authoritarian group.

When fiction follows current issues/movements/political labels too closely, it risks being reduced to being about that specific issue instead of the things that lie underneath it.

On top of this, a lot of fiction that is deliberately aimed at being political is just badly written in that it tries to tell you how to think instead of letting you think. It is like those political cartoons that label everything and that have messages that can be summarized as “my side is correct and my enemies are dumb and evil” but do not actually tell you why that is.

I don’t like political cartoons even when I agree with them. They do not inspire deep consideration or persuade people, they just give the groups that already agreed with the message some short-term pleasure at how much better than their opponents they are.

People want interesting fiction that allows them to explore issues and come to their own conclusions. They don’t want propaganda that treats them with contempt and won’t change their minds.

If you want to see what extremely bad political fiction looks like, just check out that dying TERF webcomic known as Sinfest. In the webcomic, transgender people are portrayed as literal misogyny zombies and children are sent to “gender camps” to be forced to take hormones and re-educated.

The social metaphors in Sinfest are detached from reality yet so heavy-handed that they probably need cranes to lift their hands high enough to masturbate, and masturbate is all the author does in the comic.

If your primary aim is to make propaganda rather than to make interesting, thoughtful, and heartfelt stories then you will most likely make very bad fiction. We can see that happening here.

In my opinion, the best stories are personal or deal with timeless questions or core principles rather than just repeating current talking points or moralizing.

#long post

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flightfoot · 5 years

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By the way, these are kinda how I try to find new things I can make chapters of Memories of Godly Selfishness out of:

My biggest consideration is does it teach Apollo something I think he should know, that he has not already had hammered into his head hard enough.

So for instance, chapter 1 shows Apollo how oblivious he used to be, really letting him see his previous actions through a new lens, from an outside perspective. What had seemed like normal behavior (which it was, for gods) suddenly became abhorrent, when viewed from a mortal perspective, especially since he watched himself engage in behaviors that he hated when directed at himself, like gods sending mortals on quests without caring about their opinion on the matter, or threatening to kill mortals for no good reason and having mortals believe he might go through with it.

Chapter 2 reinforces the realization from chapter 1, but with added nuance. Before Apollo had only really realized how badly he, himself, had acted. Chapter 2 reminded him that it really WAS typical godly behavior, and that in fact, other gods were often WORSE about treating demigods like crap then he was. It impressed on him the breadth and depth of the problem.

Chapter 3 demonstrated to Apollo - at least partly - WHY the Second Titan War happened, something he didn’t seem to fully understand before. He’d realized that demigods were treated like crap, but he hadn’t really connected it fully to the Titan War. It also showed him that there was hope for the other gods changing and growing, through seeing Hermes reaction to Luke’s death, and hearing Percy’s story about Bob.

Next up, I take into account what Apollo could change to make things better in the future.

This one can be fairly vague. In chapter 1, Apollo vowed to change his behavior, to be more considerate towards demigods, and also to try to make amends to those he’d wronged in the past. Chapter 2, he promised to try and prevent the rest of his family from treating demigods so badly as well. Chapter 3 both reinforced Apollo’s desire to get his divine family to treat their demigod children better, and gave more evidence that it could occur, with Hermes and Bob’s stories. This chapter didn’t really have new themes or realizations as the main theme, but it built on ones from previous chapters that I didn’t think had been adequately explored.

Thirdly, I consider what auxiliary realizations and confrontations can reasonably happen in the chapter.

For instance, chapter 1, I was able to put in Apollo freaking out over seeing Artemis and Meg freaking out over seeing Apollo act like the Beast. Chapter 2, Apollo also realized why Piper had thought the gods didn’t care about Jason dying, and started to realize that maybe Bacchus had his own issues. Chapter 3, he was able to really see how much Annabeth had gone though, helped to comfort Meg about Demeter, realized how similar Percy’s promise to Luke was to his own promise to Jason, found out how much he failed Hermes, and reacted to Percy and Annabeth’s time in Tartarus.

Fourth, are these revelations worth the amount of time and energy it takes to write about them?

Like, for Bob, it would take a LONG time to adequately tell his story via flashback, and there wouldn’t be enough payoff in the form of new revelations for my taste. Since I could adequately summarize and still get most of the ‘oomph’ from that story, I did that instead, getting the revelation and someof the reactions I wanted out of it, but without needing to spend tens of thousands of words on it.

So this is why I’m not doing something where Apollo’s just watching some demigod die, for instance. He already knows that demigods die unfairly, it doesn’t tell him anything he doesn’t already have ingrained in his head on its own. It might be interesting to see him react to his children’s deaths, but it needs to change something.

I do have ideas for some more chapters, fortunately, though with this dratted carpal tunnel, I dunno when I’ll have them out. Except for the April Fool’s Day chapter, I’ll have that one out on time, since it’ll be short.

This is part of why I have trouble with certain chapters, because I need to meet certain qualifications, since I don’t want them to be shallow, I want each chapter to MEAN something.

I do take suggestions by the way, I just have to run the suggestion through my criteria to see whether it will work. I want to do something with Leo and Apollo, for instance, showing how similar they are, but I’m having trouble meeting the second criteria for it. Still planning on doing it, but I’ll need to figure some stuff out first.

#memories of godly selfishness #trials of apollo #fanfiction #my post #Apollo #lester papadopoulos

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piratequeenofpixies · 5 years

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WIP Tag Game

Thanks for the tag, @bookenders!

1. When starting something new, how much do you know about the story before you start writing?

That would depend on your definition of “starting,” haha. If by “starting” you mean starting the actual writing, then I generally know quite a bit: I usually have a pretty good idea of the main two or three characters and sometimes a side character or two, then the beginning and very end of the plot with maybe a random plot point in there somewhere XD I usually have a vague idea of the setting, as well. But if you mean just when I decide to start a new project (before writing): at that point I usually have an aesthetic in mind, if that makes sense: a quote or two, a color that may or may not correspond to the tone of the story, a setting or plot idea (usually not both lol), and a very vague character sketch or two.

2. What draws you to your WIP(s)? Why did you choose to write that/those over anything else?

Hmm...excellent question! For Of Stones and Shadows, it started out as more of a writing-practice attempt than an effort to create an actual story, plus it sounded interesting in my head. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Now I can hardly bear to tear myself away from the story--I’m too attached to my characters!

For my short story tentatively titled “Jack” (which I had recently tabled, yes--right before having an unprecedented spurt of inspiration *facepalm*), it sounded fun and entertaining both to write and to read, and I wanted a different kind of project (length is huge) from my main to give a little variety when I get stuck on my primary WIP. So I chose a short-story idea to work on, and “Jack” was born :) It’s just as fun as I’d imagined, and twice as interesting style-wise XD

3. Favorite writing spot? Why?

Right now, the dining-room table: I don’t write well in soft areas (i.e., couch, bed) so the hard wood works great and the backed chair forces me to sit up straight and pay attention ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

4. Share your favorite line of what you’ve written so far!

Oh--may I share one from each WIP, please? ;)

My favorite line from Of Stones and Shadows (I narrowed this down from five; you’re welcome XD): “Yes, she hated the pains that wracked her muscles--but so too she cherished them, for they were the marks not of a princess born and bred, but a princess becoming, and of her own accord.”

My favorite line from “Jack:” “Unfortunately, she did so right in front of his face so that he very nearly toppled off the beanstalk and plummeted to the earth in a wailing, thrashing muddle of boy.” I love this line--especially out of context--because it really summarizes Jack’s character as a whole and how inadequately prepared he is for their (his and Jada’s) adventure. :)

5. If you had to choose one OC to bring to life as an actual person, which one would it be and why?

Garan. 100% Garan. Not only would he make a fantastic big-brother figure, but I would have waaaaay too much fun setting him up with my friends. :P (I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have a real-life big brother--I would send him out on far too many torturous dates with my gal pals lol)

6. Are you looking to get published? If so, do you hope to make it a career?

Yes, I would love to publish :) Yes and no--while I do hope to publish and eventually make additional income off of that, it is not my main career goal. I actually will begin studying to teach high-school English this fall :)

7. What’s something you would read but would never write (or the other way around)? Any reason?

Hmm...I read sci-fi on occasion but will probably never write it. Probably. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

8. What’s something you are most proud of about your work so far?

My character development/arcs! I love my characters and used to really struggle with making them realistic and 3-D, but now I’m much better :D

9. Badly describe your WIP(s) in one (1) sentence

Of Stones and Shadows: “Girl, wash your face” and grow up already.

“Jack:” thinly-veiled story about obedience and stupidity

10. Why did you want to be a writer?

While I don’t remember a specific moment of realizing I wanted to be a writer, I do know that I want to write to inspire that feeling of being lost in another world, of stepping into another’s shoes for a brief time in readers. Those are feelings I have always loved, and I hope to inspire others to cherish those feelings as well <3

Tagging @writingonesdreams and @mvcreates! (Feel free to ignore. Also, please let me know if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list. Thanks!)

Thanks for reading! Have a great day :)

#she writes #scribblings of a teenage girl #Of Stones and Shadows #WIPs #wip #wip tag game #thanks for the tag!#tag game

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ghost-town-story · 2 years

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WTW March Madness: Day 6

Challenge 1: Summarize your wip badly

Astral: Boy wreaks havoc on world simply because he knows how to pick locks. Also ends up high lowkey spearheading a revolution. You know, as you do.

LBW: Ronan needs a nap, gets assassins instead.

Labyrinth: 3 kids fuck shit up in a death maze.

Challenge 2: Write a book jacket summary of your wip

I.... have little brainpower for thinking of new/better Astral and/or LBW summaries, so.... Labyrinth it is lol

For as long as Halion can remember, there have been two rules he’s been told to never, ever break. 1. Never climb the peaks of Sandmire, Mistpeak, or Stormking. 2. Do not enter any of the abandoned mazes of the south. But when Hal’s sister breaks both of those rules by entering the labyrinth that spans the slopes of Sandmire, and nobody else is willing to go after her, Hal and his friends will have to work together in order to survive the living maze to rescue her.

Challenge 3: Trace through the development of your wip over time

Astral: Mid 2015: I read this post, and immediately go into a frenzy of ideas and write ~3000 words of what would become Part 2 of Astral. Two weeks later I decide I’m not happy with the direction it’s going, and decide to overhaul it and write said magical adventure first, which comes to be known as Part 1. November 2015: First draft of Part 1 is written for NaNoWriMo ~Spring 2016: In the middle of posting said draft, the minor edits I’ve been making add up to a point where I go “Okay, I have to rewrite significant portions of this. Time to pause in posting and I’ll resume when I have that rewritten” ...........And then the website I was posting on shut down. Sorry anybody who was waiting for an update lol November 2016: While still working on those significant edits, I write the first draft of Part 2 for NaNoWriMo. 2016-2020: Development Hell and reworking various parts Early fall 2020: Doc is created titled “Full of unwarranted confidence for a full draft” 2020-2022: Various NaNo events add to this doc. Alas, it’s still only at part 3/12 :P

LBW: April 2021: I write a short story to the prompt “Prince/princess has to give up something to escape the world they come from.” I steal various tidbits of Astral worldbuilding (the waterkind), while making up other specifically for this, submit it to a contest, and proceed to not contemplate it further. Summer 2021: Previous point ends up being a lie. While contemplating ideas for Astral, I realize that one idea is very similar to said short story. Aaaand I start poking at it more, fleshing it out, and then suddenly it’s a whole damn thing. And then I set it in Astral due to previous stealing of Astral worldbuilding, and because I already know I’m going to have a hard time letting go of Astral when that story is said and done lol. November 2021: An attempt is made to write it for NaNoWriMo. That attempt is quickly discarded when I realize it’s gonna need more brainpower than “slap words on a page and prettify later” will allow for. 2021-Present: Development Hell.

Labyrinth: ~Summer 2021: I have a vague idea that I want to do an Astral spinoff featuring the labyrinths of Sandmire, because it’s quite frankly some cool worldbuilding that has very little screen time in Astral proper. However, no plot arises, so it simmers as a vague idea. ~Two weeks ago: I’m poking around at Racing the Sun when I have a sudden lightbulb moment: I could create a Sandmire spinoff as a test run for Racing the Sun. And suddenly my Labyrinth kids are a thing, and here we are lol.

#writing #worldbuilding #the astral chronicles #lost beneath the waves #labyrinth of the dragon #wtwevent #wtwcommunity #writeblr things

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engrfahadblr · 4 years

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7 Resume Mistakes You Probably Didn’t Realize 2020

https://www.chinesescholarshipcouncil.com/?p=2569&wpwautoposter=1592012431 7 Resume Mistakes You Probably Didn’t Realize 2020 If you’ve worked long and hard on your resume only to find that it’s not getting the response you hoped for, it may be because you have made one or more common mistakes. Over my career, I’ve seen tens of thousands of resumes and I’ve seen just about every mistake you can imagine. But some are more common than others. If your resume isn’t working for you, check whether you have made any of these frequently seen errors. 1. Focusing on Yourself Rather Than on the Employer Think of a resume as an advertisement for a product, only the “product” is you. Just like any other advertisement, positioning is everything. The person who receives your resume will scan it quickly – perhaps for no more than 20 seconds – to determine whether you can help her company. Your job is to say quickly, clearly and loudly that you can! Don’t just launch into a chronology of your career history. Instead, determine your own positioning by spelling out your message at the start of the resume and giving the reader your version of events upfront. For this reason, you should use the first 1/3 of your resume to create a compelling personal profile which highlights your key strengths in an attractive, easy-to-read format. 2. Starting with an Objective Don’t start with an objective. Recruiters and hiring managers don’t like them because they focus on the needs of the job seeker rather than the needs of the potential employer. Consider this objective statement: “Seeking a software engineer position with a progressive employer where I can contribute to the development of new technologies and work with bright, committed people.” This may be very honest but it is irrelevant to the reader, who does not care what you want and only cares what you have to offer. Instead of an objective, try using a positioning statement that clearly and concisely explains what you have to offer. “Senior Software Engineer with 10 years experience developing leading-edge technologies.” Now the reader can immediately see your value to the company. (For even greater impact, tailor this statement for each position so that the reader immediately sees a match between his/her needs and your skills.) 3. Focusing on Responsibilities Instead of Results Don’t provide a laundry list of responsibilities without showing what results you achieved. Most employers already know what the main responsibilities of your job were. They want to know what makes you different from all the other applicants. An effective resume summarizes job responsibilities in a few sentences and then provides details of quantifiable achievements. 4. Not Being Specific You must place your achievements in context by providing specifics. For example, don’t say something vague like “contributed to product design.” This tells the employer nothing about your actual contribution. Instead be specific about what you did: “Conducted market analysis for (name of product) to determine design and mechanics. Led changes to original design spec. despite initial internal objections. Received critical acclaim and sold over 4 million units.” See how being specific makes a difference? This level of detail shows the reader the contributions you have made in the past and therefore the contributions you can be expected to make in the future. 5. Poor Design and Layout At least 50% of the impact of your resume derives from design. A strong resume design will pull the eye through the document, making it easy to keep reading and will highlight your key strengths clearly. But if your resume is badly laid out, disorganized or hard to read, it will be discarded before the reader knows how qualified you are. To see examples of good designs, check out our sample resumes. Take time to understand how the page has been laid out and then apply what you’ve learned to your resume. 6. Writing about Everything (Including the Kitchen Sink) Think of your resume as a brochure, not a product catalog. It doesn’t have to tell your entire story – just the parts that will help you find your next position. So be selective about what to include. Don’t mention experiences and accomplishments that have nothing to do with your career goals. Don’t include outdated skills or computer knowledge. Also avoid including personal information. Don’t detail your marital status, age or the number of children you have. Don’t mention non-professional affiliations such as political or religious volunteer work unless it directly relates to the position you are applying for. Information like this runs the risk of turning the reader off. However proud you are of personal achievements, you should not run the risk of alienating someone before you even have your foot in the door. 7. Not Having a Clear Focus This is absolutely essential. You cannot appeal to a target audience until you know who that audience is. You must determine the types of positions you’re seeking and identify what is important to hiring managers filling those roles. If you have several different career goals, create several different resumes, each one carefully targeted to appeal to employers in that field. If you try to appeal to very diverse audience with one resume, you will simply wind up appealing to none of them. In Summary When you send your resume out, it must speak articulately for you. You can’t explain inconsistencies, clear up confusion or fill in things that are missing. Your resume has to make your sales pitch in a clear and compelling manner within 20 seconds. Invest the time to make it exceptional and you will see an immediate increase in the response rate.

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rolandfontana · 5 years

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BREAKING: US-China “Micro” Deal Does Not Mean a Thing for Most

Since the very beginning of US-China trade negotiations we have been unequivocally negative on the likelihood of a deal and we have just kept saying that foreign companies (especially those that sell their products to the United States) need to work on reducing their China footprint. Today’s micro-deal between the United States and China has not changed our position one iota.

1. Don’t Say We Didn’t Warn You.

In October, 2018, we sounded our first warning call on this blog (though we had been warning our own clients about for months). Our warning call post, China, the United States and the New Normal, was our retort to those who had been sending our China lawyers hate mail because we had in a September 2018 post predicted manufacturing orders from China were declining and would continue to decline. See On the Impact of China Tariffs: Is This a Dead Cat Bounce?

In April of this year, the Wall Street Journal quoted me in a cover story, Trade Deal Alone Won’t Fix Strained U.S.-China Business Relations, saying the following:

“There is no way any deal between China and the U.S. will cause everyone on both sides to say, ‘We were just kidding,’” said Dan Harris, managing partner at Harris Bricken, a law firm that specializes in investment with China. “The tariffs and the arrests and the threats and the heightened risk have impacted companies and that will not go away.”

Then on May 4, 2019, (one day before President Trump’s May 5 tariff tweet that changed everything) I wrote The US-China Trade War: Winter is Coming on how no matter what happens in the US-China trade war, things would NOT revert back to the way they had been.

Since May, US-China relations have swung from bad to worse, with the United States blacklisting multiple Chinese companies and China tightening the screws on foreign companies. See China’s New Cybersecurity System: There is NO Place to Hide and China’s New Company Tracking System: Comply, Comply, Comply. Most importantly, see Can Your Business Afford/Stomach the China Risks?

2. Reducing Your China Footprint is Good Business

Why are we being so negative? Because we have seen the impact the trade/cold/technology war has had on our own clients, which can be summarized as follows: those of our clients that immediately worked on reducing their China footprint have, almost without exception, benefited from having done so. On the other hand, most of our clients that chose to wait for a deal are suffering. Most, but not all, as we do have some clients involved with China for whom the trade war has had little to no impact. One client of ours pays ten cents per widget that it then sells wholesale for eight dollars. Even a 30% tariff for this company is almost meaningless. But other of our clients in a whole host of industries are most definitely hurting for having remained in China, some really badly. The ones hurting the most are the ones that stayed in China while their competitors left.

The two clients I describe below are “poster-children” for the benefits of getting out of China. In describing them, I need to be vague so as not to reveal their identities.

The first company is a big U.S. company that makes electronics and I cannot get more specific than that. The head of this company “loves” geopolitics and from day one he was convinced there would not be a quick deal between the United States and China and, most importantly, no trade deal would solve the issues between China and the U.S. and problems between the two countries would be ongoing for decades. This person declared that his company would within six months reduce its purchases from China by 50% and he wanted my law firm’s help to achieve this. What he wanted from us was the following:

Help in deciding the countries to target for its purchases.

Help in figuring out how to pressure its existing China-based suppliers to move outside China.

Help in figuring out whether to manufacture on its own in countries outside China.

Help in protecting its IP outside China.

Drafting its manufacturing contracts with the companies outside China.

Help in making sure that its products that would be made outside China would truly and legally qualify as having been made outside China.

Our lawyers were thrilled to work on a project(s) with such a wide scope, but I have to confess now (I have confessed this to the client previously so no worries there) that I did not believe this company’s 50% goal was achievable, in large part because of the nature of this company’s products: electronics. If it had been shoes or clothes or furniture or even doors or toasters I would have thought it could move 100%. But electronics, no way.

But this client has now moved about 80% of its production outside China and it has made clear to its few remaining China suppliers that if they cannot supply our client with their products from factories outside China (and soon), our client will cease to buy from them. In other words, this company — in the electronics industry — will soon be buying all of its products from outside China. And what has this move out of China done for this company? It has improved its positioning when making sales because it can and does tell potential buyers that its products do not come from China and therefore its pricing is not dependent on which way the US-China trade war winds are blowing.

The second company is a start-up that makes children’s products. This company initially came to us for a China NNN Agreement. I asked whether his products would be subject to any of what I call the Trump tariffs and he said yes. I then asked why then he was having them made in China, rather than Thailand (I picked Thailand both because it seemed like a really logical product to be made in Thailand and because a number of our lawyers have a lot of experience doing manufacturing deals with Thailand — we even have a lawyer and a Thai Business Specialist who speak Thai. His response to my Thailand suggestion was very positive, but he said that he didn’t even know where to start with Thailand. I said that we could help pretty much every step of the way and we did and the new products will soon be coming to market, with costs LESS than they would have been in China and 100% tariff free. I am guessing this client too will use its made-in-Thailand-ness as a selling point, because let’s face it, American and European consumers tend to have a much better “feeling” about Thailand than they do about China.

3. The China-US Relationship Will Not Improve. Act Accordingly.

No matter what sort of final deal the US and China eventually reach — if any — companies need to face the reality of China’s diminished international future. I can “hear” some of you saying this is just a US issue, but that is not true now and that will be even less true later. See e.g., China Hit by EU Tariffs as High as 66%.

We have been saying that we do not see an end to the trade wars against China because those are mere symptoms of the changing relationship between the West and China, not the disease. The disease is China’s unwillingness to open its market or to cease stealing cutting-end technologies.

The United States is aggressively and unabashedly doing what it can to isolate China and to remove it from the world of international trade. The new free trade agreement between the United States and Canada is further proof of this as it essentially blocks Canada and Mexico from engaging in free trade with China. See What Trump’s new trade pact signals about China. Word is that shutting out China is going to become a regular thing in all new U.S. trade agreements. See US Commerce’s Ross eyes anti-China ‘poison pill’ for new trade deals. Will the EU and Japan and Latin America play ball on this? I predict that most if not all of them will.

4. Today’s Micro-Deal is But a Blip. Don’t Be Fooled.

But what about today’s deal? Is it not a good thing? It sort of is, but it appears to be little more than financially induced stop-gap. I say “appears” because neither side has come out and explained the deal and supposedly nothing will be memorialized in writing for another 3-4 weeks — which I have to say is not something I would ever recommend to anyone negotiating a deal with a Chinese company! In any event, it seems the heart of the deal is a financial swap, whereby China buys more farm products from the United States (which it desperately needed) and agrees to limit its weakening of the RMB. In return for this, the United States has agreed not to increase tariffs next week, as originally planned.

Without any deal on existing tariffs or on China’s unfair treatment of foreign companies in China or its technology theft, this deal (if outlined properly above) should be viewed as a “nice” deal overall, but not a core change that should lead anyone to believe that much at all will change. Sure, President Trump will tout the deal as a major coup on his part and he will no doubt keep repeating that in an effort to try to bolster the market and his own popularity, but if this is in fact all we have we do not have much. In the short term, America’s farmers will benefit from this deal and many will benefit from the agreement by the U.S. not to increase tariffs further and the agreement by China not to manipulate its currency further. But beyond the increased farm sales, all we really have is an agreement not to make things worse by escalating. That is no small thing but it should not influence your company’s business decisions regarding China. I also suggest waiting to see what is actually inscribed in writing because it will be that — not political puffery — that will give us a real idea of what has and has not been accomplished.

In the meantime, we will continue to write about what North American and Latin American and European and Australian businesses should be doing to deal with the new normal regarding China.

BREAKING: US-China “Micro” Deal Does Not Mean a Thing for Most syndicated from https://immigrationattorneyto.wordpress.com/

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