Oh, what the heck

[osprey_archer]

A meme, via 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.

Comments

[sineala.livejournal.com]

Oh oh! Tell me about the wingfic! :)

“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.

[osprey-archer.livejournal.com]

“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.

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.

[osprey-archer.livejournal.com]

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.

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..