Oh, what the heck
Jun. 14th, 2013 03:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
osprey_archerA meme, via ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
surexit:
Pick any passage of 500 words or less from any story I've written, and comment to this post with that selection. I will then give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what's going on in the character's heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic, lots of awful puns, and anything else that you’d expect to find on a DVD commentary track.
surexit: Pick any passage of 500 words or less from any story I've written, and comment to this post with that selection. I will then give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what's going on in the character's heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic, lots of awful puns, and anything else that you’d expect to find on a DVD commentary track.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-06-15 03:01 am (UTC)“Tell me if I hurt you.”
“Yes, domine,” said Esca, in the mock submissive voice he knew Marcus loathed. But he was angry, and he wanted Marcus to be angry: it was only fury that gave Esca the dignity to sit still, gripping the edge of the chill stone bench with sweaty hands, and not bate like a frightened hawk at the sound of the shears singing on the whetstone.
But Marcus only set aside the whetstone. “Truly,” he said. “If I hurt you, squawk.”
“I’m not a bird,” Esca snapped.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Marcus replied, and if his words were not an apology, his tone was. His leg dragged on the early fallen leaves as he came to stand behind Esca, tugging Esca’s left wing – his good wing – to see that it was fully open. Esca wished he would start with the right, because then at least the dreading would be over. But he forced himself to stretch his wings wide, so Marcus would not pull on them.
He hated this: sitting still, spreading his wings till the bad wing ached, and letting his masters cripple him. The good little slave. So obedient. Where now the chieftain’s son?
He had fought, the first time, until the soldiers threatened to pinion him. They held him down: they broke his right wing.
That badly healed wing grounded Esca as thoroughly as clipping could, but masters always insisted on clipping anyway. And Esca held still for it, though it was a degradation, because he was so afraid of pinioning. Coward.
Marcus smoothed Esca’s flight feathers. Esca dry-swallowed. The new-grown feathers were still tender: if Marcus cut them too short, they would bleed. “Have you ever clipped – ” Esca started, and stopped himself, because his voice was near to shaking.
“Yes,” Marcus replied. Esca hated the gentleness of his voice. He was going to clip Esca’s wings: he did not get to be kind about it.
The shears snicked. Esca clenched his eyes shut so he didn’t have to see his wingtips flutter onto the fallen leaves. “When?” he asked.
Snick. Another feather. Marcus did not reply, and Esca suddenly did not want to know: he did not want to learn that Marcus’s legion had defeated thus-and-such tribe, and clipped such of them as had wings, and sold them into slavery.
But at length Marcus said, “My uncle – my other uncle, who I lived with in Rome – had a winged slave.”
They were silent after that. The shears rasped through another feather. It brushed against Esca’s ankle as it fell. Esca gagged.
no subject
Date: 2013-06-15 04:40 pm (UTC)“Yes, domine,” said Esca, in the mock submissive voice he knew Marcus loathed. But he was angry, and he wanted Marcus to be angry: it was only fury that gave Esca the dignity to sit still, gripping the edge of the chill stone bench with sweaty hands, and not bate like a frightened hawk at the sound of the shears singing on the whetstone.
But Marcus only set aside the whetstone. “Truly,” he said. “If I hurt you, squawk.”
“I’m not a bird,” Esca snapped.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Marcus replied, and if his words were not an apology, his tone was.
The general Roman opinion is that the wingfolk aren’t quite human, and Marcus tends to echo that when he’s not thinking. But he knows Esca well enough – and perhaps also knew his uncle’s slave well enough – to know this isn’t true, so he’s embarrassed about it when Esca points out that he’s doing it.
His leg dragged on the early fallen leaves as he came to stand behind Esca, tugging Esca’s left wing – his good wing – to see that it was fully open. Esca wished he would start with the right, because then at least the dreading would be over. But he forced himself to stretch his wings wide, so Marcus would not pull on them.
It doesn’t occur to him to ask Marcus to start with the right wing – I suspect his earlier masters were the kind of people who would purposefully flout any requests from a slave, just to underscore his inferiority – but even if it did I don’t think he would. He doesn’t want to make it easier for himself; he doesn’t want to forget how violating this is.
He hated this: sitting still, spreading his wings till the bad wing ached, and letting his masters cripple him. The good little slave. So obedient. Where now the chieftain’s son?
Esca is not as openly defiant in this story as he is in the movie, because he knows he still does have something to lose.
He had fought, the first time, until the soldiers threatened to pinion him. They held him down: they broke his right wing.
In the early days of the conquest of Britain, the Romans pinioned winged slaves as a matter of course. They discontinued the practice because they realized how droll winged people could be in gladiatorial combat – with their wings properly clipped, of course.
That badly healed wing grounded Esca as thoroughly as clipping could, but masters always insisted on clipping anyway. And Esca held still for it, though it was a degradation, because he was so afraid of pinioning. Coward.
He has good reason to fear it, though. Though they no longer pinion as a matter of course, the Romans are still more likely to pinion their slaves than they would be to maim them in other ways. Having no wings themselves, they tend to see the wings as a deformation, and therefore don’t see cutting them off as a violation in the way that cutting off other appendages would be.
no subject
Date: 2013-06-15 04:41 pm (UTC)“Yes,” Marcus replied. Esca hated the gentleness of his voice. He was going to clip Esca’s wings: he did not get to be kind about it.
The shears snicked. Esca clenched his eyes shut so he didn’t have to see his wingtips flutter onto the fallen leaves. “When?” he asked.
Snick. Another feather. Marcus did not reply, and Esca suddenly did not want to know: he did not want to learn that Marcus’s legion had defeated thus-and-such tribe, and clipped such of them as had wings, and sold them into slavery.
Esca doesn’t want to like Marcus, but he’s so lonely that he also doesn’t want to hate him. That’s why he finds Marcus’s attempt to be gentle so hard to bear: he’s so lonely that it’s tempting to accept it as true kindness.
But at length Marcus said, “My uncle – my other uncle, who I lived with in Rome – had a winged slave.”
Marcus’s hesitation has nothing to do with Esca. He got caught up in a memory of his uncle’s house, and perhaps his mother and her death..
They were silent after that. The shears rasped through another feather. It brushed against Esca’s ankle as it fell. Esca gagged.
I’m glad you picked this fic for the commentary! I put an unusual amount of thought into both the symbolism of the wings and the worldbuilding..
no subject
Date: 2013-06-15 03:57 am (UTC)“The desires of Bithynia are the desires of Rome,” Caesar replied.
Nicomedes sipped his wine. Caesar angled his chin slightly upward, smiling. “Are they now?” Nicomedes asked, and held out the wineglass again.
Caesar leaned forward, raising his hand to tilt the wineglass toward him. His fingers pressed against Nicomedes, and Nicomedes found he was holding his breath. “Yes,” Caesar said, and licked wine off his lips.
“So that is what Rome wants,” Nicomedes said. “But I am interested in Caesar: what does Caesar want?”
“I am Rome,” said Caesar, all hauteur in his tone.
Nicomedes grabbed Caesar’s collar, pulling him forward to kiss him. The wineglass fell to the floor between them, and Nicomedes kicked it under the couch, dragging Caesar off the couch to his knees on the antique rug. Caesar’s windburned cheek was rough beneath Nicomedes’ hand, his chapped lips scratchy against Nicomedes’ mouth.
no subject
Date: 2013-06-15 05:33 pm (UTC)I messed up the action description here. Nicomedes is not waving his free hand at all, but rather the hand holding the wineglass: hence the swirling wine.
He finds Caesar’s recklessness – and his egotism – appealing because they remind him of his own younger self.
“The desires of Bithynia are the desires of Rome,” Caesar replied.
Nicomedes sipped his wine. Caesar angled his chin slightly upward, smiling. “Are they now?” Nicomedes asked, and held out the wineglass again.
Caesar leaned forward, raising his hand to tilt the wineglass toward him. His fingers pressed against Nicomedes’, and Nicomedes found he was holding his breath. “Yes,” Caesar said, and licked wine off his lips.
I still really like this interchange with the wineglass. Caesar is exceptionally full of himself, but he’s not at all concerned about preserving the appearance of dignity. If I ever write a sequel to this, I suspect it will involve Nicomedes feeding Caesar something. Grapes maybe.
“So that is what Rome wants,” Nicomedes said. “But I am interested in Caesar: what does Caesar want?”
“I am Rome,” said Caesar, all hauteur in his tone.
This kind of statement is the reason why the Roman Senate sent Caesar on a diplomatic mission, despite his ridiculous youth. I think they were hoping Nicomedes would get tired of him and dispose of him; it’s the sort of thing that happens on Bithynia X.
Nicomedes grabbed Caesar’s collar, pulling him forward to kiss him. The wineglass fell to the floor between them, and Nicomedes kicked it under the couch, dragging Caesar off the couch to his knees on the antique rug. Caesar’s windburned cheek was rough beneath Nicomedes’ hand, his chapped lips scratchy against Nicomedes’ mouth.
Nicomedes really likes seeing Caesar on his knees. And I think Caesar gets an adrenaline rush from being on his knees for someone who has the strength of will to match his own.
no subject
Date: 2013-06-16 08:51 pm (UTC)The mocking gaze of the Jiardasian ambassador, dashing in his short velvet cape, especially vexed Marco. The ambassador looked as self-satisfied as a cat, his white teeth flashing occasionally when he could not fight back his smile any longer. “Where is Captain Ratcliffe?” he asked, just loud enough that Marco could hear, and it took all Marco’s self-control to remain calm in his seat.
The Rat would be here soon, he told himself. He would be here at any moment, and then he would explain everything, and they would trust him again. They should never have doubted him, when he had helped bring the message across Europe to Samavia. But of course they did not know the Rat like Marco did.
And they could not forget that the Rat was British. “He is a foreigner,” General Sapt had said, his voice gruff, during the Cabinet meeting that had led to this gathering in the throne room.
“I’m a foreigner,” Marco pointed out with asperity.
The cabinet was so shocked that no one spoke. “Oh no, sir,” said old Tamboran, who was in charge of the exchequer. “A Loristan could never be a foreigner.”
And Marco had not pressed the matter, because he knew that he had to be Samavian for them, even if he still sometimes felt hopelessly confused by the customs of the country that he would one day rule.
Marco wished the Rat would arrive. Despite his resolve to sit still and dignified, he briefly touched his father’s signet ring. If only his father were here!
But Stefan Loristan was away, calming Kaiser Wilhelm from another one of his rages. Marco could not call him back from a mission that was of such importance to Europe. Certainly not for something as minor as this.
Minor.
But it was minor, Marco told himself fiercely. He and the Rat would laugh about it that evening, sitting in front of Marco’s fire.
The throne room, hitherto buzzing quietly, fell abruptly silent. The Rat had entered.
no subject
Date: 2013-06-17 04:18 am (UTC)It would not have befitted the honor of the House of Loristan or the nation of Samavia for Marco to pace back and forth on the throne dais in front of his entire court. Therefore Marco sat in his throne, a little below his father’s, as calm as if the eyes and the whispers of the court were not fixed on him.
Marco gets watched all the time, being the prince, so he’s used to it – though usually it’s not quite this acute. I suspect the Rat had more trouble adjusting – because of course he’d be under observation too, as the prince’s closest companion.
The mocking gaze of the Jiardasian ambassador, dashing in his short velvet cape, especially vexed Marco. The ambassador looked as self-satisfied as a cat, his white teeth flashing occasionally when he could not fight back his smile any longer. “Where is Captain Ratcliffe?” he asked, just loud enough that Marco could hear, and it took all Marco’s self-control to remain calm in his seat.
The Rat would be here soon, he told himself. He would be here at any moment, and then he would explain everything, and they would trust him again. They should never have doubted him, when he had helped bring the message across Europe to Samavia. But of course they did not know the Rat like Marco did.
And they could not forget that the Rat was British. “He is a foreigner,” General Sapt had said, his voice gruff, during the Cabinet meeting that had led to this gathering in the throne room.
General Sapt is named after Colonel Sapt from Anthony Hope’s Ruritania books. I thought there might be some fandom overlap, as Prisoner of Zenda is just like The Lost Prince except with actual swashbuckling (although no bestest best friend ever. There is an attractive villain, if you’re into that…), but not so far.
“I’m a foreigner,” Marco pointed out with asperity.
The cabinet was so shocked that no one spoke. “Oh no, sir,” said old Tamboran, who was in charge of the exchequer. “A Loristan could never be a foreigner.”
After five hundred years away, the Loristans are not particularly Samavian; the customs of the country, even its language, have surely evolved since they left. Maybe this wouldn’t be a problem at all; Queen Victoria was awfully German for a queen of England, for instance, and the Romanovs spoke French rather than Russian at home.
But The Lost Prince takes place during the time period where this sort of cosmopolitan royalty was becoming really at odds with nationalism…so maybe it would be an issue.
Even if it didn’t become a political issue, I suspect it’s something that causes Marco occasional discomfort. He worries that he won’t be Samavian enough to rule well.
And Marco had not pressed the matter, because he knew that he had to be Samavian for them, even if he still sometimes felt hopelessly confused by the customs of the country that he would one day rule.
Marco wished the Rat would arrive. Despite his resolve to sit still and dignified, he briefly touched his father’s signet ring. If only his father were here!
But Stefan Loristan was away, calming Kaiser Wilhelm from another one of his rages. Marco could not call him back from a mission that was of such importance to Europe. Certainly not for something as minor as this.
Stefan Loristan saves Europe from both World Wars! I am so curious what this alternate history would look like. Are the Romanovs still on the throne in 2013?
Minor.
But it was minor, Marco told himself fiercely. He and the Rat would laugh about it that evening, sitting in front of Marco’s fire.
The throne room, hitherto buzzing quietly, fell abruptly silent. The Rat had entered.
I like this line. So dramatic!
no subject
Date: 2013-06-23 09:10 pm (UTC)And yes, I am aaaaaall about the Loristans not quite being Samavian. They've been away for a long long time, and it must cause them angst!
no subject
Date: 2013-06-23 09:44 pm (UTC)He might do gentle sighs of regret when he comes up against yet another Samavian custom that he doesn't understand. (I wonder what odd customs Samavia has. Someday we should invent some. We've already got the alcoholic aphrodisiac from your story...)
no subject
Date: 2013-06-23 10:18 pm (UTC)(THERE MUST BE LOADS. Ummm, I thought they might have a weird calendar - that's why the Samavian new year's at the wrong time in the fic as well. And there should be songs! Songs that every Samavian knows! Not the stirring patriotic ones, I bet the Loristans know those, but, like, the equivalent of 'Show Me The Way To Go Home' which everyone sings when they're drunk in the UK.)
no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 06:16 pm (UTC)And I bet they do have a special Samavian drinking song. Probably also a special Samavian liquor (aside from the aphrodisiac.) Do they seem like a beer country or a distilled liquor country? The mountains might get in the way of wine-making.
no subject
Date: 2013-06-27 08:17 pm (UTC)I vote distilled liquor! Maybe made of some kind of mountain berry.
Also saw your comment about joint worldbuilding brainstorming! That would be so cool.
no subject
Date: 2013-06-28 02:23 am (UTC)(And speaking of the Samavian nobility, how do they feel about these interlopers coming back after five hundred years away? I bet at least some of them are bitter...)
Maybe the next TLP newsletter could have a joint world-building component! I am not quite sure how that would work. But it would be cool if it did!
The newsletter itself could be like The Samavian Times or something. Possibly the Samavian Lamp? Or just the Lamp. So many possibilities...
no subject
Date: 2013-07-01 09:03 pm (UTC)(I BET LOTS OF THE NOBLES HATE THEM.)
OMG, these are beautiful ideas.
no subject
Date: 2013-07-02 02:41 am (UTC)Like, maybe they're singing the drinking song that all Samavians know, and the Rat of course has no idea. OH THE ANGST.
no subject
Date: 2013-07-09 12:54 pm (UTC)