martes, 26 de noviembre de 2019

THE ALIENATION OF ENCHANTMENT (on drugged sleep in three-nights tales)

The Search for the Lost Husband is a very widespread tale, closely related to Beauty and the Beast and The Master-Maid. Sometimes it seems like it's a default ending for fairy tales. 

A young woman marries a supernatural male, who seems monstrous at first in the daytime, only appearing human (and unreasonably attractive) at night. The wife breaks a taboo, and her husband vanishes. She then searches the world until she finds him and they are reunited. 

The shero is a woman, and her opponent is usually one as well - an enchantress who's trapped the husband, or a rival princess who wishes to wed him. In their notes, the Grimms wax a little poetical on how the story is about the heart being tried so that "everything evil falls away in recognition of pure love." There's also an interesting note about, in this case, light being an ill omen and darkness being good.  ​This goes back to the taboo. Often, she takes a candle and spies on her husband in the night to see his human form, or attempts to break his spell/curse by other means.

Karen Bamford has a good analysis. The wife's journey is an act of atonement; she does penance for sinning against her divine husband, and wins him back through toil and effort. 

In many cases, her long journey takes her through some kind of otherworld. In an Arabic version, "The Camel Husband," the young wife goes to the land of the djinn. The land East of the Sun and West of the Moon is a place beyond the bounds of the physical world and the laws of nature. Psyche (although her story is rather 425B, Mother-in-Law's Tasks or Son of a Witch --no offense to Aphrodite!--) literally goes through hell (ie Tartarus; she just has to ask Persephone for some beauty cream --while avoiding Charon, Cerberus, the Eumenides, the Fates, and other assorted denizens of the classical underworld!--).

This quest allows her to finally truly break the spell on her husband and resurrect him from a "metaphoric death" (Bamford). In many tales, the wife visits the husband during the night, while he lies in a drugged sleep, and tries repeatedly to awaken him. In "Nix Nought Nothing," (AT 313, ie Master Maid) the husband falls into sleep similar to Sleeping Beauty (genderflipped as a Sleeping Beau), ditto in "El sueño de san Juan" (AT 437; Aurelio Espinosa, A.R. Almodóvar, the frame story of the Pentamerone), and only the true bride can symbolically raise him from the dead with the power of love. In Cupid and Psyche, Cupid lies wounded for quite some time.

I found a 
Japanese folklore site that had an interesting perspective. (As seen through Google Translate, but whatever.) The bride's or groom's animal shape is the physical body (karada), and their human shape represents the soul or heart (kokoro), but that non-physical part of the self belongs to the otherworld. Death and rebirth are required to truly bring it into the real world. So then you have stories like the "Frog Prince" or "The White Cat Bride" where the enchanted animal spouse/fiancé must be thrown against a wall, burned to a crisp, or have their head cut off. 


The folklorist Jan-Öjvind Swahn summarizes the AT 425 tale-type as follows: ‘A mortal woman breaks the taboo which is incidental to her association with a supernatural male, and he thus disappears. She searches for him, finds and regains him.’ The AT 425 tale-type is an old story – one of the oldest – with over 1500 versions on record from all over the European language area and beyond.4 According to Richard Dorson, these ‘are only a fragment of the mass of variants that could be accumulated from the living oral tradition’. Donald Ward states that AT 425 ‘has achieved an acceptance through time and space and among peoples of the most diverse cultures as [has] no other magic tale’.

He disappears when she violates a taboo, frequently an oath of secrecy about his condition. To regain him she must perform a penitential search, overcoming apparently insuperable obstacles, such as climbing a glass hill (glacier?), as in the Scottish ‘The Duke of Norroway’ and the German Eisenofen, or crossing the sea, as in the German ‘The Singing, Springing Skylark’, or, as in the Italian ‘King Crin/Re Porco’ and many other worldwide questers in this tale-type, wearing out seven pairs of iron shoes, seven iron mantles, seven iron walking-sticks, and seven iron sun-hats. Her search usually entails the protagonist’s emotional and physical abjection: the shero of the Scottish ‘The Hoodie-Crow’ must wear horseshoes on hands and feet to pick her way over a hedge of poison thorns.When the bride of ‘Sorrow and Love’ pursues her betrothed, she has ‘only thin slippers on, and soon began to look more and more like a tramp. Gave away all her jewellery in exchange for food ... Did not know how to beg, as she had been brought up a lady. Asked everywhere for ... [him], but no one knew the name. Nearly starved’. However, the AT 425 shero is usually aided in her quest by three female helpers–usually crones, sometimes her husband’s relatives – who give her three valuable objects; they may also impose tasks, such as filling a bowl with tears. When she at last finds her husband – ‘east of the sun, and west of the moon’, in the words of the well-known Scandinavian version – he is about to be married to another; the true wife bargains with the false one, exchanging the three gifts for three nights in the same room as her husband. On the first two nights the husband sleeps, drugged by the rival bride, while the shero pleads for recognition. So, in ‘The Duke of Norroway’, she sings: 

Seven lang years I served for thee, 
The glassy hill I clamb for thee, 
The bluidy shirt I wrang for thee; 
And wilt thou no wauken and turn to me?

When he finally awakes – as if from the dead – and recognizes her, the spell is broken: he rejects the false bride and embraces the true one. It would obviously be impossible to ascribe a single meaning to a tale so old and so various. A story’s significance changes with each retelling.20 However, the remarkable stability of the tale-type over time and space allows us to risk a few generalizations. First of all, it is woman-centered; indeed, Swahn believes that ‘it developed almost exclusively in a female milieu’. It thus resembles the South and Southeast Asian ‘women-centered tales’ identified by A. K. Ramanujan: tales ‘told by older women about women and often to younger women’, in which ‘saving, rescuing, or reviving a man, often solving riddles on his behalf, becomes the life-task of the heroine (read: shero). In such tales females predominate .... The antagonists are usually women ... [and] her chief helpers also tend to be women.’ Ramanujan also notes that ‘marriage begins rather than ends the story; a separation ensues, and then a rescue of the male by the female’. The protagonists in these stories, Ramanujan continues, ‘are true cousins of the feisty heroines (read: sheroes) in Shakespeare’s comedies that owe their plots to Italian novellas, which in turn are related to tales in the 1001 Nights and the Kathaasaritsagara/Ocean of Story.’ Since it is a female-centered tale, we see things from the protagonist’s point of view. Thus her husband is both beast and god; monstrous and beautiful; frightening and desirable. The tale-type is also clearly about the sexual initiation of the female; the transforming power of erotic love; and the domestication of the male, the mysterious and foreign Other.

The AT 425 (Lost Husband) / AT 313 (Master Maid) protagonist typically pays for her ‘sin’ by the ordeal of the search that characterizes this tale-type. Her journey is thus like a pilgrimage – an act of atonement – and not surprisingly, in some versions she actually dresses as a pilgrim (she is outright called "la peregrina" across Spanish lost-husband tales, whether with beastly bridegrooms or master maids). Her search also has some of the features of an otherworldly journey: in Apuleius, Psyche must literally go to hell (ie Tartarus, in order to get mother-in-law Aphrodite a jar of Persephone's beauty cream); in an Arabic version, ‘The Camel Husband’, the heroine travels ‘into the land of the Djinn’, crossing ‘the boundary between the world above and the world beneath’. (Sub-type J, unique to the Irish-Gaelic tradition, is actually named ‘the maid who serves in hell’). This arduous search is also redemptive, since it finally allows the shero to break the spell on her husband, bringing him back from a metaphoric death, and restoring him to his true identity. The eponymous camel husband in the Islamic tale above tells his wife, ‘you have opened the way for my return. From today I can live not as a camel, but as a man.’ In most versions (and again, the ‘Beauty and the Beast’ sub-type presents an exception), the husband’s alienation from his true self is expressed in his betrothal to another woman, the rival whom the shero has to supplant. The happy re-marriage that concludes the plot is thus at once the shero’s triumphant achievement and the reward for her labours.

Like the protagonist in Basile’s ‘Pinto Smalto’ (AKA Laboulaye's Perlino, which masterfully weaves Snow Queen elements into his French retelling!), who makes her own ideal husband (husbando?) by hand, Giletta di Narbona refuses all her suitors. --The motif of the husband literally constructed by the female protagonist also appears in Calvino’s ‘The Handmade King’ (Il reuccio fatto a mano), Italian Folktales, 489–93. In a West Virginia variant, ‘The Dough Prince,’ the handmade husband (‘straight, tall, and very handsome’) leaves the heroine to campaign against some bandits ‘in some far-off land’, where he is captured by the ‘queen of the palace’; see Ruth Ann Musick, ed., Green Hills of Magic: West Virginia Folktales from Europe (Lexington, 1970), 149. See also ‘Master Semolina’, in Folktales of Greece, ed. Georgios Megas, trans. Helen Coloclides (Chicago, 1970), 60–5.-- She pays for her inordinate desire with the pain of Beltramo’s desertion (to fight in foreign wars, maybe against the Habsburgs? - Austria is mentioned as the enemy in Shakespeare's AWtEW) on their wedding day; and his subsequent written refusal to return to France from Italy. Like the typical AT 425/AT 313 shero, too, Giletta embarks on a search for her lost husband, and as a pilgrim, she presumably travels on foot, a constant feature of the traditional search. She also finds her husband sexually in thrall to another woman, and bargains for the opportunity to spend the night with him. Finally, she begs him to recognize her as his true wife on the basis of her labors, and the story ends with their happy remarriage.
In Shakespeare's adaptation AWtEW, in any case, Bertram figures in Helena’s ‘idolatrous fancy’ as this fairytale's bridegroom: he is both a young god and a savage beast. Like the ‘handsome youth’ Pintosmalto or Perlino made of sugar, almonds, gold (pure gold thread for literal golden hair) and precious jewels (literal emerald orbs, pearly whites, and ruby lips) in the Italian tale, Helena’s Bertram is a love-object fashioned by desire.
By presenting the heroine’s flight from the Roussillon as an act of genuine self-abnegation, rather than a conscious stratagem, Shakespeare sacrifices the logic of the source tale: as many critics have complained, it is difficult to reconcile Helena’s stated intentions in act 3 (self-immolation) with her opportunistic orchestration of the bed-trick in act. But Shakespeare gains a great deal: not only does he mitigate anxieties about his heroine’s display of agency, he heightens her resemblance to the immensely sympathetic and popular AT 425 and 313 shero, whose travel and travail are acts of atonement.

In the AT 425 and 313 tales the act of recognition itself is enough to free the husband from enchantment. At the end of ‘The Hoodie-Crow’, the husband declares, ‘That is my married wife ... and no one else will I have’, and at that very moment the spells fell off him, and never more would he be a hoodie’. The simplicity of this ending satisfies because it is generically appropriate: we accept it just as we accept the original premise of a corvid’s marriage to a human girl. Shakespeare, however, famously problematizes his folk-tale materials, arousing different, conflicting generic expectations.6 Most readers want more from Bertram than the few words Shakespeare allows him: as Susan Snyder observes, ‘the intractable baseness of its hero ... makes the happy ending feel not inherent but imposed by fiat.’ Or, as Carolyn Asp puts it succinctly, ‘The frog prince remains a frog until the end and the princess chooses to overlook his slimy skin and love him warts and all.’

Is Shakespeare's Helena/Gilletta self-denying as her soliloquy in 3.2 implies, or self-seeking as her actions in Florence may suggest? Some of these contradictions dissolve, I believe, if we acknowledge Helena as ‘the wife who searches for her lost husband’, a figure who is typically at once obsessive and saintly; indeed, the obsessiveness is an aspect of the saintliness. Crucially in this narrative tradition, the wife forfeits her husband through her own fault: she is responsible for his disappearance, as Helena insists that she is to blame for Bertram’s flight. Like Helena’s, the wife’s quest for the lost husband is at once a penitential pilgrimage and a rescue mission. She redeems him from the alienation of enchantment, symbolized in the person of the rival bride (Parisian noblemaiden Maud Lafeu in Shakespeare's AWtEW), not simply by her wit, but also through her suffering and with external aid. Both agent and patient, she embodies a powerful stereotype of female sheroism.







THE TOWER OF THE ROBBERS = HOTEL CALIFORNIA?

When the prince heard these encouraging words he felt much comforted, rose up, and ate, and then went away gladly with his friend.
On the way they met two men. These two men belonged to a family of robbers. There were eleven of them altogether. One, an elder sister, stayed at home and cooked the food, and the other ten--all her brothers--went out, two and two, and walked about the four different ways that ran through that part of the country, robbing those travellers who could not resist them, and inviting others, who were too powerful for two of, them to manage, to come and rest at their house, where the whole family attacked them and stole their goods. These thieves lived in a kind of tower, which had several strong-rooms in it, and under it was a great pit, or dungeon, wherein they threw the corpses of the poor unfortunates who chanced to fall into their power.
The two men came forward, and, politely accosting them, begged them to come and stay at their house for the night. "It is late," they said, "and there is not another village within several miles."
"Shall we accept this good man's invitation, brother?" asked the prince.
The vizier's son frowned slightly in token of disapproval; but the prince was tired, and thinking that it was only a whim of his friend's, he said to the men, " Very well. It is very kind of you to ask us."
So they all four went to the robbers' tower.
Seated in a room, with the door fastened on the outside, the two travellers bemoaned their fate.
"It is no good groaning," said the' vizier's son. "I will climb to the window, and see whether, there are any means of escape. Yes! yes!" he whispered, when he had reached the window-hole. "Below there is a ditch surrounded by a high wall. I will jump down and reconnoitre. You stay here and wait till I return."
Presently he came back and told the prince that he had seen a most ugly woman, whom he supposed was the robbers' housekeeper. She had agreed to release them on the promise of her marriage with the prince.
So this woman, the robber sister, led the way out of the enclosure by a secret door.
"But where are the horses and the goods?" the vizier's son inquired.
"You cannot bring them," the woman said. "To go out by any other way would be to thrust oneself into the grave."
"All right then; they also shall go out by this door. I have a charm, whereby I can make them thin or fat as I please." So the vizier's son fetched the horses without any person knowing it, and repeating the charm, he made them pass through the narrow doorway like pieces of cloth, and when they were all outside restored them to their former condition. He at once mounted his horse and laid hold of the halter of one of the other horses, and then beckoning to the prince to do likewise, he rode off. The prince saw his opportunity, and in a moment was riding after him, having the woman behind him.
Now the robbers heard the galloping of the horses, and ran out and shot their arrows at the prince and his two companions. And one of the arrows killed the woman, so they had to leave her behind.
On, on they rode, until they reached a village where they stayed the night. The following morning they were off again, and ...
(On the return trip, at the end of the quest)
In the midst of the way they passed the tower of the robbers, and with the help of the soldiers they razed it to the ground, slew all its inmates, and seized the treasure which they had been amassing there for several years.


(Subplot from a Sankrit fairy tale, 16th-17th century CE, oral tradition collected by Joseph Jacobs)


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On a dark desert highway, 
cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, 
rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, 
I saw a shimmering light
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim;
I had to stop for the night...
There she stood in the doorway;
I heard the mission bell
and I was thinking to myself:
'This could be heaven or this could be hell...'
Then she lit up a candle 
and she showed me the way
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them say

Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place (such a lovely place)
Such a lovely face...
Plenty of room at the Hotel California
Any time of year (any time of year) 
you can find it here...

Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, 
she's got the Mercedes Bends
She's got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, 
that she calls friends...
How they dance in the courtyard, 
sweet summer sweat
Some dance to remember, 
some dance to forget...
So I called up the Captain,
'Please bring me my wine'
He said, 'we haven't had that spirit here since 
1969.'
And still those voices are calling from 
fa-a-a-a-ar away,
they wake you up in the middle of the night
just to hear them say...

Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place (such a lovely place)
such a lovely face...
They're livin' it up at the Hotel California
What a nice surprise (what a nice surprise), 
bring your alibis...

Mirrors on the ceiling,
pink champagne on ice...
She said, 'we are all just prisoners here, 
of our own device'
In the master's chambers,
they gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives,
but they just can't kill the beast!
Last thing I remember, 
I was running for the door;
I had to find the passage back 
to the place I was before
'Relax' said the night man,
'We are programmed to receive.
You can check out any time you like, but...
you can never leave!'



(Hotel California - Glenn Frey/Eagles - 1976)


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Creeping up the blind side, shinning up the wall
stealing through the dark of night,
climbing through a window, stepping to the floor
checking to the left and the right...
Picking up the pieces, putting them away...
Something doesn't feel quite right!

Help me someone, let me out of here!!
Then out of the dark was suddenly heard
'Welcome to the Home by the Sea.'

Coming out the woodwork, through the open door
pushing from above and below,
shadows with no substance, in the shape of men...
Round and down and sideways they go
adrift without direction, eyes that hold despair...
then as one they sigh and they moan:

Help us someone, let us out of here!!
we're living here so long undisturbed
dreaming of the time we were free
So many years ago...
before the time when we first heard
'Welcome to the Home by the Sea.'

Sit down, sit down, sit dow-ow-own
as we relive our lives in what we tell you

Images of sorrow, pictures of delight
things that go to make up a life
Endless days of summer, longer nights of gloom
waiting for the morning light
Scenes of unimportance, photos in their frames;
things that go to make up a life

Help us someone, let us out of here!!
We're living here, so long undisturbed,
dreaming of the time we were free...
So many years ago...
before the time when we first heard
'Welcome to the Home by the Sea.'

Sit down, sit down, sit dow-ow-own
as we relive our lives in what we tell you!!
Let us relive our lives in what we tell you!!

Sit down, sit down, sit dow-ow-own!!
Cause you won't get away, for
with us you will stay
for the rest of your days, so sit down
as we relive our lives in what we tell you!!
Let us relive our lives in what we tell you!!



(First Home by the Sea - Phil Collins/Genesis - 1983)



Images of sorrow, pictures of delight
things that go to make up a life
endless days of summer, longer nights of gloom
waiting for the morning light
scenes of unimportance, photos in their frames;
things that go to make up a life...

As we relive our lives in what we tell you!!



(Second Home by the Sea - Phil Collins/Genesis - 1983)


Cokelore

Not all of these Coke myths are scientifically accurate. Take them in general with a grain of salt, unless my observations on the myths, in parentheses, say something about their accuracy.


  • The present-day Coke formula is kept by the Coca-Cola Company in a bank in Switzerland under highest security (accurate fact) for a good reason; the original recipe, dating from the Gilded Age US (turn of last century), contained cocaine and kola nuts (scientifically accurate AND hence the brand name)... but no one knows if the drink does so still.
  • Coke dissolves milk teeth if you put one in a glass of the dark nectar overnight or over several days (alas, poor tooth fairy).
  • Coke hurts raw meat if you put some in a glass of the dark nectar overnight or over several days (thus, the same would apply to exposed human flesh, muscle tissue as well).
  • Coke kills human sperm.
  • An Aspirin in a glass or small bottle of Coke makes a tried-and-true love potion and/or aphrodisiac.
  • A Mentos mint in a glass or bottle of Coke makes a chemical geyser (this is scientifically accurate, due to the reaction that ensues).
  • Human fingers and dead rodents have been found in Coke bottles (again, this is scientifically accurate, but it happened more commonly in the olden days, when industrial oversight and industrial accidents were far more common).



IN WHICH MADOKA KAGUYA MAKES HER OWN CROSS

Star*Twinkle Pretty Cure - Episode 41
My Own Review
IN WHICH MADOKA KAGUYA MAKES HER OWN CROSS

The forty-first episode of Star  Twinkle turns its attention to the Moon of Mihoshi Secondary School, Madoka Kaguya. Madoka’s future is a key point that is brought up in this episode.
Madoka steps down as student council president; she 'abdicates' in favour of her blond kismesis Sakurako in a grand secondary-school ceremony.
Madoka’s time as student council president has come to an end, and as such her father Fubuki wants her to focus on preparing to study abroad, in London town no less. Madoka isn’t so keen to pursue a future that her father has set out for her, though (all the while her mum remains neutral and keeping silence). After calling the old man out before the trophy cabinet, talking with Elena, and a clash with a sworn enemy, she will come to a decision.
Elena realises that something is bothering Madoka
The first half of this episode is pretty much spent on Madoka, as she struggles with what she wants to do with her future. It does lead to some lovely interactions between Elena and Madoka, especially when the latter discusses the '69 Moon landing (the Moon being essentially a ball of mirrors that reflects sunlight and gets trod on by astronauts vs. that 'giant leap for [hu]mankind' of the Eagle's crew) and decides that she is definitely fed up with following others (her elders, rules, society at large) and ready to take those first baby steps on her own two feet.
This follows on from an earlier episode when Elena told Madoka that she could rely on the others, and I am glad to see that that didn’t go forgotten. More Soluna stuff is certainly not going to go unappreciated by me.
Garuogre appears
The enemy for this episode is Garuogre, and just the big blue brute alone. Garuogre may have only fought the Cures on a couple of occasions, but they are certainly memorable. This time around is no exception to that rule.
For a start, this fight looks great.
Soleil and the others are wiped out at one fell swoop, leaving it all to a battered Selene.
Showing off his Erlang-style third eye (seen them on western ogres, but never on oni until now!!)
It may be treacherous, but Selene has no other choice than to shoot Garuogre in the back.
I really love that shot of Cure Selene ready to attack Garuogre from behind – perhaps because it invokes any shonen anime. Cure Star, Milkyway, Soleil, and Cosmos all get knocked out rather early into the fight, leaving it up to Selene (especially for Soleil's sake).
When the fight ends up being this level of quality, I kind of wish that we’d see more one-on-one cadre fights.
Selene responds to Garuogre’s attack; breaking that shield with an icy Aquarian shot she's definitely not throwing away (bonus for using my sign's star colour pen, and for Frozen 2 coming up soon!!)
I know that the PreCures’ finishing attack (Finishing Move or hissatsu) is a once-per-episode thing, but it really feels like padding this time around. I feel like there would have been a greater impact if Selene had defeated Garuogre on her own, but PrettyCure is gonna PrettyCure, I suppose.
This wonderful episode ends with Madoka figuring out what she wants to do, and a fair bit of focus on her bare feet. You know, just because. 
At the end of the day, she calls the old man out, before the trophy cabinet at the Kaguya estate, to turn down studying in the UK at least for the moment (maybe London University or Oxbridge when she is in her twenties?) A nice healthy argument ensues (any moment I worried Fuyuki might clutch his left arm, or the left side of his chest, and collapse like a ragdoll, breathing heavily, only for his wife or daughter to cradle him and loosen his clothes). Instead, that rant made Mr. Kaguya realise the error of his ways (before a heart condition, a stroke, or even before Madoka could snap and pull a Tyrion-on-Tywin on him?) while looking at his own reflection in the trophy cabinet, then at a family portrait (awwww, don't the three of them look adorable together?). Maybe having been the victim of last week also played a role in how Fuyuki's stern and stubborn demeanor was intensified at the start of this episode upon him deciding to send Madoka off to London so early on... like a mirror shard in The Snow Queen or Princess Tutu, or a hangover from a rea-ea-ea-eally altered state... and all it took was for her to call the old codger out, for the effect to wear off and for snapping out of it.
This is a small step for Madoka, but a leap of faith into the unknown for her friends and parents, and not only herself.
This episode was superb. Elena and Madoka bonding is always nice to see, the fight against Garuouga look great and PreCures have moved one step closer to achieving their goal.
These character-focused episodes which leads to each PreCure powering up have been fantastic. Yuni, Lala, and Madoka have had their turns, and I’m confident that Elena and Hikaru will do the same.
Talking of Elena, it is her turn to worry about her future in the next episode. She has smaller shoes to fill, but the lives of more people weighing down on her shoulders...


MY OWN HUMBLE OPINION:
Oui. As an only child of privilege with a beautiful mind, I can totally relate. Been there, done that. Graduate at the UJI, Master's at the UV, and now looking for a winter job. With an Education Papa who even looks like Fuyuki Kaguya hounding me in the Javert way.
Speaking of which: REAL TENSION between generations à propos that leaving for the UK. Mitsuka keeping silence and neutrality all the while, not wanting to upset either her husband or their daughter.
Of course the upper-class Cure has to deal with this kind of issues of leaving for foreign lands and/or following in her elders' footsteps during the climax of her arc (Minami Kaido's wish to be a marine vet tending to penguins in Antarctica; Yukari Kotozume's departure for the Ruritanian kingdom of Confetto; Saaya Yakushiji telling her stage mum that she wants to be a midwife instead of an actress).
One can also see Fuyuki is a bit of a control freak and a stick-in-the-mud and treats his family just like he treats his men-in-black underlings (Tywin vibes all over the place!). Everything must go according to plan... We just saw the calling-the-old-man-out moment take place before the Kaguyas' trophy cabinet for a good reason.
And the pluck she mustered... her afterthoughts on being the Moon who reflects sunlight and gets trod on by astronauts... and deciding that she is definitely fed up with this subordinate role... She does appreciate her parents and moirail for showing her the way, but now it's time for her to take the first steps on her own two feet! YOU GO, GIRL. MAKE YOUR OWN CROSS, DON'T SIT ON SOMEONE ELSE!!



PS. Upcoming Star*Twinkle AUs:
Tengu of the Opera: Soluna/Elenjou AU. Dark horse Elena gets to star in the latest production, which she didn't expect, due to her rival/senpai Sakurako losing her singing voice and a series of poison pen letters from the so-called Opera Tengu to the troupe's benefactor, Fuyuki Kaguya, whose only daughter is in ostensibly unrequited love with the new leading lady, to whom a raven-masked muse of inspiration appears in her dreams... Featuring Otokoyaku!Elena, Fuyuki having the heart condition I was thinking of throughout Madoka's rant in canon, a torture chamber, and my own Tenjou headcanons.
Rapunzel AU: Once upon a blue moon, a drop of blue moonlight fell to the ground... an ailing pregnant noblewoman had to drink it, but shortly after her newborn daughter was whisked away... Valjean-style Elena, AKA Nena, left orphaned, stole to survive and feed her younger siblings, and has spent a while institutionalised; she is on parole and a social outcast when she comes across a feudal-Japanese-castle-style tower and a lonely damsel with loooooong violet hair...

martes, 19 de noviembre de 2019

SOY ASÍ (this is me)

SOY ASÍ (this is me)
Un canto a la diversidad
traducido por Sandra Dermark


No me es extraña la oscuridad…
“Escóndete”, dijeron, “tus defectos mal caerán”…
Mis faltas me fueron a avergonzar…
“Echa a correr de una vez: como eres nadie te querrá”…

No dejaré que nos vuelvan a aplastar,
sé que para nosotros hay un lugar…
Nuestra es la gloria…

Si palabras duras me van a alcanzar,
enviaré un diluvio que las ahogará…
Con valor, con fervor,
soy quien soy y siempre fui;
¡SOY ASÍ!
¡Atención, que aquí vengo yo,
marchando al ritmo de mi corazón!
Con valor, sin temor,
sin perdones que pedir…
¡SOY ASÍ!

Otra descarga da contra mi piel:
¡abran fuego a indiscreción, que herirme no les dejaré!
Y, luchando en estas barricadas,
aspirando al sol,
¡SOMOS GUERREROS!
Todo convicción…

No dejaré que nos vuelvan a aplastar,
sé que para nosotros hay un lugar…
Nuestra es la gloria…

Si palabras duras me van a alcanzar,
enviaré un diluvio que las ahogará…
Con valor, con fervor,
soy quien soy y siempre fui;
¡SOY ASÍ!
¡Atención, que aquí vengo yo,
marchando al ritmo de mi corazón!
Con valor, sin temor,
sin perdones que pedir…
¡SOY ASÍ!

Sé que tengo derecho a vuestro amor…
pues no hay dignidad que nos merezca un no…

Si palabras duras me van a alcanzar,
enviaré un diluvio que las ahogará…
Es valor, es fervor,
ser quien soy y siempre fui;
¡SOY ASÍ!
¡Atención, que aquí vengo yo,
marchando al ritmo de mi corazón!
Es valor, sin temor,
sin perdones que pedir…
¡SOY ASÍ!

Si palabras duras me van a alcanzar,
enviaré un diluvio que las ahogará…
¡SOY ASÍ!



HOW TO ESCAPE A "CHIVALROUS" LIEUTENANT

A skinny brag in a long brown coat stood by himself at the bar, looking down at an untouched drink. He was one of the youngest men here. Aster was just about to approach him when another girl reached him first, leaning easy against the counter. 
Damn it. 
Aster turned away, searching desperately for someone else she could corner. Then, she spotted him: a man hovering alone by the piano, near enough the front door that Dex was sure to come running at her distraction. The brag wore the faded gray uniform of the Arkettan forces. Glory to the Reckoning, the words beneath his stripes said—the national motto. Like lawmen, armymen were offered a reduced price at welcome houses. They were always eager to find someone to listen to their stories about the dustblood rebels they’d helped capture. 
Aster started towards him, slicing through the crowd. 
“Looks like you could use some company,” she said, slipping in at his side and trailing her fingers along his arm. Aster was never usually this forward, and for the first time she found herself wishing she had Violet’s skill in effortless flirting. 
The armyman squared up, his eyes glassy and unfocused from too much drink. “And what’s your name, miss?” he asked thickly. 
“I’m called Aster. See?” she teased, turning to show off her favour. She managed a sweeping glance of the room as she did so, but there was still no sign of Violet. She swallowed around the knot in her throat. 
“Well, Lieutenant Carney, at your service, Aster,” the armyman introduced himself, clumsily tipping his slouch hat. He eyed her up and down slowly, a half grin spreading across his face. A daybreak girl passed by with a tray of bright cocktails. He swiped two. 
“Sweet drink for a sweet girl?” he asked. 
Aster thanked him demurely, taking the glass. She looked past him to the stairs. Where was Violet? 
And then Aster spotted her, swaggering down the steps with surprising confidence. Her long hair had been tucked away underneath the brag’s hat, her feminine figure hidden by his knee-length coat. She’d wrapped his silk dustkerchief around the bottom half of her face. But it wasn’t these things that made her look the part. It was the way she carried herself, the natural authority and obvious sense of entitlement. She showed none of the fear that she surely felt. 
Aster’s blood raced. She wet her lips. 
“Wander well,” Carney said to her cheerfully, raising his glass in a toast. 
She turned to the armyman, fighting to keep her calm. “Wander well,” she replied with a forced smile, and she drained her drink in three swallows. 
The alcohol lit a fire down her throat, sticky sweetness burning on her tongue. She coughed violently. Braced herself against Carney’s shoulder as her head spun. 
Carney rubbed her back, laughing. Her skin crawled at his touch. 
“Easy!” he said with disbelief. “You dustblood girls really are tough as drygrass.” 
“Well, we aim to impress, Lieutenant,” she replied airily. “Though I’ll confess I’m feeling a bit faint now.” She straightened up but let herself sway where she stood. 
“Nothing a chaser won’t fix,” Carney said with too much eagerness. 
Aster looked past him again. Violet had made it to the foyer. She was next in line to leave. 
Carney persisted. “Here, I’ll take you to the bar—” 
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Aster said quickly. “I just need to sit for a spell.” She took a few wobbly steps, let out a dramatic wail, and collapsed to the floor. The piano music cut off. A collective gasp went up around the room. 
Aster remained on the floor, eyes closed, as chaos erupted around her. A jumble of voices filled the air: girls calling her name, a man calling for help. The floor vibrated under her cheek with the thumps of footsteps as a crowd gathered. She could hear Mother Fleur pushing through them and apologizing for the disturbance. The smell of cigar smoke in the rug turned her stomach. 
“Keep back, she’s with me,” Carney ordered. 
Aster fluttered her eyes open. A tangle of legs stood between her and the front door, but she could just make out Violet, striding outside. Dex was lumbering towards the growing crowd, forcing calm upon the guests with his mental influence. Aster’s relief, however, was her own. 
Violet had made it out. 
Then a cold realization trickled down Aster’s spine, chilling her brief rush of triumph: What if Violet simply ran away? What if she didn’t wheel the cart around for the rest of them, just used the brag’s hand to make her escape and leave them for dead? Maybe she’d only wanted to use them, maybe that had been her plan all along. 
No choice now but to see this through. 
Aster looked up at Dex, whose lip curled to reveal yellowed teeth, and Mother Fleur, whose mouth smiled but whose eyes flashed with fury. Aster’s sloppy behavior would reflect poorly on the welcome house. Normally that would mean she’d spend tomorrow having her mind pulled apart by one of the raveners. 
But by this time tomorrow, Aster would either be free or dead. 
“Are you all right, Aster?” Mother Fleur asked, her voice dripping with false concern. 
Aster took Carney’s hand and stood up slowly. “I’m fine now, ma’am. Just got a little lightheaded. Sorry for causing a stir.” She didn’t have to fake the quaver in her voice. “I think I had better retire for the night, though, with your permission.” 
“Of course,” Mother Fleur replied. “And the lieutenant here would like to come along and make sure you’re okay, and spend a little time with you.” She turned towards the brag and smiled. “The Aster Room is at the end of the hall on the right.” 
Carney stepped in closer as the rest of the crowd began to dissipate. 
Aster’s panic doubled. “Actually, I’m not sure—” she began. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you,” he promised. He draped his arm around her and guided her towards the stairs. 
Aster’s heart thudded against her ribcage. This wasn’t part of the plan. She couldn’t bring him into her room. Clementine and the others were probably climbing out of the window right now. Or, if Violet had abandoned them, they were trapped there with no escape. 
She made herself stumble on the first step. 
“Careful, now,” Carney said. “Don’t want you taking another nasty tumble.” 
“Seems I’m too weak to go upstairs just yet,” Aster demurred. She’d hoped to stall for a moment, give everyone time to get out, but Carney simply scooped her up and started up the stairs. 
“No problem at all,” he said gallantly. 
Aster mouthed a curse. Of course acting helpless would only encourage him. 
He smiled down at her as he continued to talk, and Aster began to feel ill in earnest. And then there was the usual fear, too, the one that took hold of Aster every time she climbed these stairs with a brag. Bone-cold dread rose up to drown her. It didn’t matter that Carney seemed to think himself chivalrous. The end result was always the same. 
They reached the top of the stairs. Carney set her down. Aster made a slow gallows walk to the end of the hall. She drew in a tight breath as she wrapped her hand around the knob. 
Please, by the Veil, don’t let me find anyone behind this door. Let them have escaped. Please. 
She opened the door. 
And exhaled. The room was empty, the window open. She strolled over to it, pretending to simply close the curtains. She glanced down and saw the hay cart waiting below. 
Clementine had gotten out. They’d all gotten out. 
Then Carney closed the door behind him with a thud, dropping Aster’s heart. She couldn’t jump with him standing there right behind her. 
You’ll just have to fight him. Knock him out. 
A trained soldier? She didn’t like her chances. 
“Well, then, where should we start?” Carney asked, his words slurring slightly. He stepped in behind her and circled her waist with his meaty hands. 
Aster’s throat swelled. Her eyes burned. She could already feel herself sliding into that place of numb detachment where she went every night, her mind floating farther and farther away and leaving her body to fend for itself. Her breath was overloud in her ears, and her limbs grew so heavy she might as well have swallowed a whole week’s worth of Sweet Thistle. 
“I’m sure you’ve heard us all talk about Sweet Thistle before, Clementine,” Violet continued, “but words don’t really do justice to the feeling it gives you. It’s like letting your mind sink into a warm bath. Outside the welcome house there’re people clawing at each other for just a taste, but now that you’re a sundown girl you’ll get it every night. The cap is an eyedropper, see? One drop under the tongue will do. Mother Fleur will refill it for you every week.” 
Aster had only ever used her Sweet Thistle once, on her Lucky Night. She could understand why some girls liked it, but it left her limbs sluggish and her mind foggy in a way that had only made her feel more helpless, and the crushing hollowness it left the next morning had been worse than any natural hunger. Another dose would have sated it, but Aster knew that if she gave in, she’d be lost to Sweet Thistle for good. Even girls like Violet, who had only been taking it for a year, became fatigued and forgetful from its influence, and many of the older girls’ minds had melted away completely.
Sweet Thistle.
That’s it. 
“Let’s get you out of that dress. Help you breathe a little easier,” Carney said. She spun around to face him, still in his grasp. 
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to try for a while,” she murmured into his ear. “But I’m not sure you’re up for it.”
“Oh?” 
“Let me see if I can find it.” 
Aster disentangled herself and retreated to her vanity, where her small brown bottle of Sweet Thistle sat nestled among the jewelry and hairbrushes. 
She wet her lips, a flare of anger burning through the fog filling her mind. Every week, Mother Fleur had expected her to be grateful for this Sweet Thistle. Her parents had expected her to be grateful for this home. Lieutenant Carney probably expected her to be grateful for his restraint. As if any of those things changed what this place was, what it had almost done to Clementine. What it had already done to Aster and a thousand others. 
“You’re beautiful, you know,” Carney said idly. “Most of these dustblood girls . . .” He just shook his head. “But what else can a man expect from the Scab? Glad I found some good luck here after all.” 
I should crack a mirror over his head. 
Slit his throat with a shard of the glass. 
Let him bleed out like a pig.
But no, she couldn’t. She had to control her anger just as she controlled her fear. It was the only way she would make it out of here alive.
“What’ve you got there?” Carney continued. He had snuck up behind her, surprisingly light-footed. 
She swallowed and showed him the bottle of Sweet Thistle. “Just a little pick-me-up leftover from a former guest,” she said brightly. “Interested?” 
Carney raised an eyebrow. “What exactly does this pickme-up do?” 
“It’s an extract of a rare flower from the peaks of the mountains,” Aster lied. “Said to open your mind and senses and unlock your deepest potential for pleasure.” 
“That so?” 
She nodded. “Just a drop under your tongue. And the more you use, the stronger the effect. Not every man can handle it, though. Most can’t manage more than a dose or two. But an armyman such as yourself . . .” 
“Hand it over,” Carney said roughly. Aster obliged, watching, tensed, as he unscrewed the cap and ran the bottle under his nose. If he recognized the scent of Sweet Thistle, he would know Aster was playing him. But he just filled the dropper all the way to the top, opened his mouth, and emptied the liquid under his tongue. 
“See? No problem,” Carney said, his slur growing even more pronounced, the drug beginning to work its magic. “Now you just come over here and we can—we can—” 
He sat heavily on the bed, muttered a low curse, and fell back. Aster hurried to his side. His eyes were half open but unseeing, his words faint and incomprehensible. If he wasn’t already asleep, he would be soon. 
Aster moved quickly. 
She ran back to the window. The hay cart was still there, mercifully. And the sluggishness that had taken over her limbs just moments ago had lifted completely. Aster brimmed with energy, equal parts fear and anticipation. How many nights had she imagined an escape? It was finally happening. 
But not if she didn’t hurry. Every second she wasted was a second the other girls might be discovered in the stables. 
She lifted first one leg then the next out the window, the iron sill biting into her palms. She was certain that if she lingered even a moment, someone, something would come to stop her. A heartbeat later, she sat on the window ledge, legs dangling over open air. The distance between her feet and the hay cart seemed to yawn wider, now that the moment to jump was here. Go, she told herself. Jump
But instead Aster turned and looked over her shoulder— at the room that had been her prison for so long, at the man who would have used her like so many others already had. Nothing short of the death of a brag had given her this chance to escape, and she knew it was a chance that would come only this once. 
Aster made a decision right then. Even if it meant her life, she would never come back to this place or any place like it. 

Charlotte Nicole Davis 
(standalone girl-power-themed cattlepunk, just translated and released in Spain)

Lightweights in Love

Lightweights in Love

Work Text:


Caspar eyed the suspicious liquid in his metallic chalice nervously, swirling it around with his hand and frowning at the way the pale drink splashed at the sides of the goblet, threatening to spill onto his uniform.

It was late into the evening of a free day at Garreg Mach, and Caspar was sat crouched in the corner of the courtyard with none other than Claude and Sylvain, arguably, two of the more chaotic students at the Officer’s Academy.

“You’re acting like it’s some sort of poison!” Claude laughed, raising his own glass to his lips, “Go on, have a sip.”

Caspar had found the two laughing manically at something or the other, drinking from chalices obviously swiped from the dining hall, with their legs stretched out as they leaned against the wall. When he asked them what they were doing, they invited him over to have a drink with them, and being as proud as he was, Caspar couldn’t deny the offer. It wasn’t like he’d never had a drink before, right? Right.

He laughed awkwardly, raising the drink so he could sniff at it, scowling at the bitter scent. “Uh, yeah, I’ll take a sip now!” he declared, trying to convince himself more than anyone else. He slowly raised the goblet to his lips, eyes shifting up to see the amused glints dancing in the other boys’ eyes as he had a mouthful, swallowing dramatically. He felt a burning sensation tickle at his throat, and he desperately tried to cover up how his eyebrows were begging to furrow in distaste.

“Not so bad, right?” Sylvain smiled easily, downing his own drink and pouring himself another glassful from the tall bottle. It was some fancy alcohol from the Alliance, huh? Sure didn’t taste like it.

“Yeah, pretty good actually,” Caspar lied through his teeth, taking another chug to solidify his point.

“Yep, a lovely lady gifted it to me in town.” Sylvain nodded, letting his hands rest at the nape of his neck as he leaned his head back against the cold stone of the wall.

Claude snorted, “Yeah right.” Sylvain slapped him playfully on the shoulder and Caspar found himself laughing with the others, rocking back on his heels, cautiously taking another sip and deciding that the drink wasn’t as foul as it tasted before. Sure, it was still far from good, but at least it wasn’t awful anymore. He felt lighter than before, chuckling at the little jokes Claude and Sylvain made as they chatted and drank together.

“Hey little guy, are you sure you’re okay there?” Claude asked after a while, when the bottle was left with only droplets remaining, noticing the pink flush dusting Caspar’s cheeks and the way the shorter boy’s eyelids were drooping low.

“What? Yeah, I’m good, thank for askin’” he slurred slowly, wide grin encasing his face. “You got any more of this stuff?” he tipped the goblet back, frowning when nothing spilled out onto his tongue.

“Sorry man, we’re all out.” Sylvain had a pink flush dusting his own cheeks, but other than that, he showed no visible indication of being even slightly intoxicated.

“I think we should get you to bed now.” Claude said, and Sylvain nodded, standing up and dusting the dirt off his back.

“Mm, we leavin’ already?” Caspar tried to stand up, wobbling on his feet and almost falling back onto his ass, but luckily was caught by the other two, an arm supporting and helping him stand on each side. “Whoa, what was that?” he laughed, hearing Claude huff from beside him as they started walking slowly towards the dormitories.

“I don’t know why,” Sylvain began, noting the way Caspar frequently stumbled, standing on his or Claude’s foot, “but I feel like this might have been your first time drinking.” Claude snickered as Caspar’s cheeks grew even redder than they were before.

“What do you mean by that, huh? Of course I’ve had a drink before!” Caspar spoke almost shrilly.

“Hey, c’mon,” Claude laughed, shushing Caspar, “we don’t wanna let Teach or anyone else hear about this whole incident.” Caspar looked confused, so Claude elaborated, “You know, we’re kind of not old enough to be drinking.”

“At least not in front if the Professors. Otherwise, I’d say it’s part of the experience.” Sylvain commented with a dreamy smile. Perhaps he was more drunk than he previously let on.

“You’re both really bad influences.” Caspar grinned as they hobbled through the courtyard.

As they rounded the corner, Caspar felt his limbs drag behind him. “Caspar?” A familiar voice called, but to him it just looked like a blur of green and back. “What exactly are you doing?”

“Oh, hey Linhardt.” Claude greeted, getting a nod from the sleepy noble who glanced at the trio cautiously.

“Huh- Lin!” Caspar repeated excitedly, lifting the arm he had around Sylvain’s neck to wave at his friend.

“Yeah, we’ve kinda got an issue...” Sylvain chuckled as Caspar ambled to go stand beside his emerald haired friend.

“I can see that.” He commented, blue eyes scrutinising the drunk boy as he leaned his weight against him.

“We didn’t know he hadn’t had a drink before, and the next thing we knew, he ended up smashed!” the redhead laughed with mirth. “We were just taking him back to his dorm an-“

“I’ll take him.” Linhardt sighed, wrapping one arm around Caspar’s waist to support him better. “He can be an absolute pain to look after if you don’t know how to deal with him.”

“Hey! ‘M still here, y’know!” Caspar piped in, resting his head against Linhardt’s shoulder.
“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” Sylvain asked, ignoring Caspar entirely.

Claude’s eyes glinted mischievously as he watched the two interact before him, Caspar snuggling closer into Limhardt’s side “I think that Caspar would like it better if we left it as just the two of them.” He winked at Linhardt who narrowed his eyes slightly in confusion, and Claude turned to walk away with Sylvain “Thanks again!” he called, turning back around the corner and leaving the two alone in the torch lit corridor leading to the staircase.

“Let’s get this over with,” he drawled, dragging Caspar with him to the base of the stairs, “Come on, just because you’re a little tipsy it doesn’t mean I’m going to pull your weight until we get there.”

“I’m not tipsy!” Caspar lifted his head from the crook of Linhardt’s neck so he could shoot a weak glare at the other, who simply rolled his eyes as they slowly ascended the stairs.

“The blush on your face says otherwise,” Caspar lifted his hands to feel at his cheeks, “so, you’re definitely a little tipsy. Honestly,” a smile graced Linhardt’s lips, “how much alcohol do you think that little body of yours can take?”

“Asshole,” Caspar grumbled as they reached the top of the steps, “I can take plenty, thank you very much! More than you can, probably.”

“Probably.” Linhardt huffed as they reached Caspar’s dorm, his hand resting on the small of the other’s back to keep him steady as he fished through his pocket for his key. “Hurry up, I’m getting tired.” Linhardt yawned into his free hand.

“Alright! Give me a minut- got it!” Caspar reached forward, missing the keyhole once or twice before the door was unlocked, his whole weight pressed against it, stumbling as it swung open. Linhardt grabbed his hand, steadying him, and led him to sit on the bed.

“Sit here,” Caspar slumped against the wall and kicked his legs up and down much like an energetic child, “as tired as I am, I’m going to go get you a glass of water.”

Just as Linhardt was turning to leave, he felt a firm hold on his wrist, “Wait, don’t go.”

“You’re going to feel terrible in the morning if you don’t drink some water.” Linhardt replied plainly, trying to banish a blush rivalling Caspar’s own which threatened to explode on his cheeks for different reasons than the other boy.

“I’ll feel even terribler if you go.” Caspar spoke seriously, his words slurring at the end.

“Terribler isn’t even a word.” He sighed, and yet, he found himself going to sit beside him on the bed, palm resting over Caspar’s.

“Well now it is.” He felt a head rest on his shoulder again, blue hair tickling his chin.
“Are you going to fall asleep on my shoulder, Caspar? Because if you are, I find that terribly ironic, considering I’m the sleepy one here.”

“You can lean on my head.” Caspar murmured, his breaths evening out and slowing down as he snuggled further into Linhardt.

“Our necks are going to hurt when we wake up.” He bent his neck awkwardly to lean on Caspar’s head.

“Mm, probably.” Caspar huffed, pulling the sheets over himself and Linhardt. “’Night.”

“Goodnight, Caspar.”

The next day he woke up with an incredibly sore neck and a cranky Caspar to care for, but he found that he didn’t particularly mind.



“I heard someone spiked the drinks.” Ashe whispered to Caspar, avoiding the herd of drunken teenagers who threatened to bump into him. The Garreg Mach Ball was in full swing, and the reception hall had been cleared out and decorated grandiosely.

“Hold on, I gave Linhardt a drink earlier this evening-“Caspar looked incredulously at Ashe.

“That might explain the way he’s been acting then.” Ashe smiled sheepishly, before frowning across the room at Sylvain, who was quite obviously the culprit.

“What do you mean by that?” They both turned around to head towards the table they left Linhardt to ‘nap’ at, in a secluded corner of the room.

“Well, you’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

“Caspar!” Linhardt waved the other over enthusiastically, standing up from his seat at the table.

“Hey, Lin.” Caspar spoke hesitantly, noting the droop in Linhardt’s eyes and light flush on his cheeks. “You feeling okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he patted the seat beside him and Caspar sat, eyes searching Linhardt’s expression for any more signs of drunkenness.

“What are we doing?” Linhardt leaned in, mimicking Caspar and narrowing his eyes as he looked over the other’s face. Caspar could almost feel his breath on his face, and sprung backwards.

“N-Nothing!” he laughed nervously, “Well, actually-“

“If it’s about the spiked drinks, I don’t really care.” Linhardt let his head fall on Caspar’s.

“You knew, but you still drank it?”

“Hm, yes.” He snorted at Caspar’s flustered expression.

“Judging by the pink on your cheeks, I’m guessing you’ve had some too.” He lifted his head and poked at Caspar’s cheek to demonstrate his point.
Caspar groaned, “C’mon Lin, let’s get you back to your room before Seteth hears about any of this.”

Linhardt pouted, “But the ball’s only just begun, and I haven’t even been asked to dance yet.”

“You don’t like dancing, Lin.” Caspar replied, finding being the voice of reason more and more difficult with every moment that passed. He really wondered how Linhardt managed it.

“Yes,” he yawned loudly into his hand, “but it would be nice to be asked.”

“Okay then, would you like to dance?

Linhardt smiled widely at Caspar, who had one hand held out to the other, “Actually, yes I would.” He took Caspar’s hand, and they both stood, “I promise I’ll go back to my room after this one dance.”

Ashe shook his head with a smile as he watched the pair clumsily dance with each other, a dark blush blossoming across Caspar’s face.




Caspar scrunched his face up, feeling fresh waves of pain pulse throughout his entire body. He forced his eyelids open, adjusting to the darkness of the room lit only by dim candles which were dangerously close to burning out, and tried to push his body into a sitting position, hissing at the sharp stabbing feeling he felt in his chest. Flopping back down onto his cardboard like pillow, he squinted his eyes, establishing from the beds surrounding him that he was in the monastery infirmary. He found himself here more often than not after the war had begun, always charging ahead on the front lines, and therefore, always getting beaten damn near to death by the end of each battle, despite the on-site healing he received.

The wound on his front was particularly bad, spanning from the left shoulder to navel, and Caspar cautiously tried to poke at his bandaged stomach, immediately yelping in pain as soon as he made contact, “Damn it!”

Quiet...” he heard a muffled murmur from the bed beside him. He turned to look at the bed and was graced with the sight of a great big lump under the blankets with a head of green hair peeking out from the top, strands messily spread out across the pillow.

“Lin! What are you doing here?”

“Trying to sleep,” the other grumbled, shuffling under the sheets until he finally turned to face Caspar, “but I doubt that will be happening now you’re awake.” He was laying down wrapped tightly in his blanket with dull eyes scanning the wound at Caspar’s chest.

“Well, yeah! Don’t go back to sleep, I just woke up.” He ignored the sharp pain of his torso as he twisted to sit facing Linhardt, legs dangling off the side of the bed. The other didn’t reply, gaze still set firmly on Caspar’s bandaged front. “You okay there, buddy?” he asked after Linhardt remained silent for a few more moments.

His brows pinched as he spoke, “I should be asking you if you’re okay. If that gash were any deeper it would have killed you.”

Caspar flinched at his words, “But it didn’t, and that’s what counts, right?” He smiled sheepishly, trying to come across as unaffected by the harsh reality which Linhardt based his words on.

“I’m not joking, Caspar. You could have died.”

“Yeah, but you always patch me up, so what’s the problem?” Caspar’s raised his voice slightly.

“The problem is,” Linhardt began with a certain heat and intensity to his usually lax tone, sitting up to reveal similar bloodied bandages pulled taut against his skin, “I might not always be there. And then who will ‘patch you up'?”

“Lin, I-“

“You’re really too reckless, Caspar!” he shook his head, fingertips toying with the frayed hem of his blanket, “If you got hurt, and-and I wasn’t there to he-“

“I’m not going to die, Lin. Trust me.” Caspar spoke softly, wincing as he stood up to bridge the short gap between their two beds, sitting beside Linhardt now.

“You’re awfully confident about that.” The tension between the two was still palpable, the air feeling thick.

“Oh! Give me a minute, I’ve got an idea.” Linhardt felt the pressure on his bed shift again as Caspar got up to crouch behind the desk at the side of the room, shuffling through the drawers.

“What are you doing? Those are Manuela’s drawers, you know; you shouldn’t really be going through them.” Caspar paid no mind to Linhardt’s words and continued to dig deeper into one particular drawer, fingers brushing against stacks of paperwork until he procured a half empty bottle with a little noise of happiness. “Caspar...” Linhardt groaned.

“C’mon, Lin. this will help you lighten up a bit!” Caspar grinned as he stood up clutching his stomach with one hand and holding the bottle with the other, “Let’s have a little drink to ease the tension.”

“That’s ridiculous, this isn’t even our alcohol.”

“I’m sure Manuela won’t mind. Come on, scoot over.” Caspar nudged Linhardt’s wrist with the bottle, urging the other to lift the blanket to let him in. He sat beside Linhardt now, popping the cap off the bottle and smelling its contents before taking a long chug.

Linhardt looked at the other lethargically as he was offered the bottle, shaking his head before taking a sip. “This seems like a terrible way to ease the tension. Especially considering we’re both still healing.” He handed the bottle back to Caspar, who desperately tried to erase the thought of drinking from the same bottle as being an indirect kiss from Linhardt.

He laughed, “Probably. How strong do you think this stuff is anyway?”

“Strong enough, this is Manuela we’re talking about.” Even in the dim moonlight, which seeped in through a crack in the blinds, Caspar could see the faint dusting of pink across Linhardt’s cheeks.

“Hey, you’re blushing!” he pointed out, leaning in slightly to get a closer look “You can’t be drunk already!”

He averted his gaze from Caspar’s electric blue gaze, “I’m not drunk, I’ve had about two sips.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“I want to go to sleep now.”

“Sounds like something a drunk person would say.” Linhardt ignored Caspar, letting his head fall on the other’s shoulder, shutting his eyes and finding one of Caspar’s rough hands which he held between his bandaged palms.

“Don’t be so reckless next time. Then we won’t have to drink to forget about it.” He cracked one eyelid open, noting the pink blush dancing across Caspar’s skin, “It looks as if you’re the drunk one now.”

Caspar’s blush wasn’t due to the alcohol, but he wasn’t about to tell Linhardt that.




The cold air was biting against Linhardt’s pale skin as he trudged through the desolate campsite towards a familiar blue head of hair. The other was sat on a log beside the hastily put out campfire, ceramic bottle lying beside him. His usually bright blue eyes were glazed over as he stared at the burnt kindling. He didn’t look up as Linhardt sat beside him, or when he felt a comforting palm rest on his knee.

“It’s cold out.” Linhardt commented dully, noting that the bottle by his ankles was empty.

“Yeah.” Caspar’s voice cracked a little as he spoke. “You can go back to your tent if you want.”

“And leave you here?” Linhardt laughed dryly, hand searching for Caspar’s, weaving their fingers together tightly, “Don’t be so dim, Caspar. As much as I’d love to be wrapped up in a blanket, fast asleep, I think you need me more right now. You don’t really have the best coping mechanism.” He tried to joke, feeling Caspar’s hand loosen against his skin as he relaxed slightly. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“I know,” Caspar replied quietly, “it’s just-“

“He was your father. It’s okay for you to mourn his death.”

“It feels so wrong,” his voice trembled and Linhardt held his hand tighter, urging the other to continue, “to feel bad about an enemy general dying, but- he’s still my father!”

“There’s nothing wrong in it.” He spoke quietly.

Caspar let out a breath he was holding in, “..Yeah.” His eyes flickered upwards and he looked at Linhardt for the first time that night, “Could I have a-“

“A hug?” Linhardt finished easily as Caspar stumbled over his words. He nodded and let himself be pulled into a soft embrace, resting his chin on Linhardt’s shoulder.

Linhardt felt a dampness against his shoulder, and a warm breath stuttering against his neck. “I don’t know why I’m cryin’ now.” Caspar huffed, “It’s probably just the alcohol making me all emotional-“

“You should really stop drowning your sorrows like this, Caspar.” He spoke while drawing soothing circles against Caspar’s back with his fingertips. “I’m not sure that your liver will make it to the end of the war.”

“You’re probably right.” He laughed a little. “Thanks for being here, Lin. I mean it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.”

“I know now might not be the time for it, but when I can’t see your face like this, it’s a little easier for me,” Linhardt hummed, urging Caspar to continue, “I just think that I really, really love you.”

Linhardt froze up, his shoulders tensing and grip around Caspar growing slack. “What?

Caspar frowned as Linhardt pushed him back so he could face him, “I understand if you don’t feel the same way, but I had to say it. You don’t know if I could end up dying nex-“

“Caspar, shut up. Don’t talk about dying so easily.”

“So, you don’t feel the same way,” he laughed bitterly, “I should have known.”

“No,” Linhardt took his shaking hand, “I just want you to tell me this when you actually mean it.” He looked up at Caspar with sad eyes, “So if you truly feel that way, hold it in until after the war, maybe when you’re in the right state of mind to tell me.”

Lin, I really do mean it-“

“Come on,” he stood up, heading back towards the tents, “we should get some sleep. We’re marching out tomorrow.”

They walked back in silence, parting ways to enter their own tents. The next day, neither brought up what happened and Linhardt decided that he was correct in thinking that Caspar was not in the correct state of mind to be spouting anything even minutely factual. He had his hopes up for naught.




The monastery dining hall was lit brightly with candles lining every table and happy chatter filling the room. The war had finally come to an end, and the celebrations had begun.

“It’s finally over, I almost can’t believe it.” Dorothea smiled as she held Petra’s hand.

“It all does feel very surreal, doesn’t it?” Linhardt spoke from across the table, toying lazily with the food on his plate with his fork, pushing a potato across the plate listlessly. “I still feel a little uneasy allowing myself to nap.”

“That is very unlike you, Linhardt.” Petra laughed.

“I never thought I’d hea-“

“Say,” Linhardt interrupted Dorothea, paying no mind to the miffed expression gracing her face, “do you know where Caspar is?”

Dorothea immediately forgot her previous annoyance upon hearing the brawler’s name, smiling mischievously, “Well, I heard Claude mentioning him being out in the courtyard earlier today, so he might still be there.”

He crawled over the bench, brushing off the back of his robes, “I’ll talk to you both later.” He headed towards the door leading to the comparatively empty courtyard, leaving a smiling Dorothea and confused looking Petra behind.

“I do not have understanding, why are you laughing?”

“Young love, my dear Petra, young love.”

Linhardt squinted his eyes as he searched the empty courtyard for striking blue hair, eyes brightening as he spotted the other sitting against a wall, pulling at the grass nervously, muttering something to himself.
He moved to sit beside him, and Caspar jumped, “Where did you come from?”

“The dining hall.” Linhardt laughed, lips quirking upwards as a red blush spread across Caspar’s cheeks. “What are you doing out here alone? You usually love celebrations.”

“I was just thinking about something,”

“Oh?” he took Caspar’s hand.

“Something you said, actually.”

“I say a lot of things, you might have to elaborate.” Linhardt smiled, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the brick wall.

“You’re not making this very easy for me.” Caspar laughed, grabbing Linhardt’s free hand, and turning to face the other. “Open your eyes, I want to tell you something.”
Cracking open one eyelid, Linhardt was faced with Caspar, brows pinched tightly together and mouth pulled into a frown. If his heart wasn’t beating a million miles an hour, he probably would have found it funny.

“Linhardt,” he began awkwardly, cut off when a bubble of laughter escaped Linhardt’s lips. “Why are you laughing?” Okay, he did find it funny.

“I’m sorry!” he tried to keep a straight face, smiling more widely seeing the grin blooming on Caspar’s face, “You just looked really cute like that.”
He coughed, “Okay, I’m ready. Start again.”

“Right,” Caspar chuckled, face relaxing and eyes softening, “Linhardt,”

“Caspar.”

“I am in love with you. I have been since...forever, probably.” His face was completely pink now, and it turned even pinker when Linhardt closed the gap between them, encompassing all his emotions into a soft kiss against his lips. It was slow and languid, and reminded them both that neither would be going anywhere any time soon.

“I think that I’ve loved you since forever too.” Linhardt spoke when they broke away from the kiss, foreheads pressed together.

“You’re gonna make me cry.” Caspar joked, pulling Linhardt in for a second kiss. “Let’s stay together then, forever.”

“I’ll drink to that.”