Writing Meme
Oct. 10th, 2014 10:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
osprey_archerMeme! Pick any passage of 500 words or less from any fanfic I’ve written, and stick that selection in the comments. 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.
My fics on AO3.
My fics on AO3.
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Date: 2014-10-11 06:35 am (UTC)“I grew up poor!” Marco replied.
The Rat’s eyes widened, and his whole face tensed, the flesh pressing against the bone so he bore for a moment a strange awful resemblance to a skeleton. “Poor!” he said. “Marco, you were never poor, only compared to this palace were you ever poor. You always had a roof over your head, and a nice roof, not some grotty room with cockroaches and a leak in the corner, and there would always be food the next day even if it was only bread and water, and you were never sent out to beg for it, because people will give more money to a pathetic little cripple than an obvious drunkard!”
The Rat began to cough. His chains clanked as he raised a hand to his mouth, coughing and coughing, and Marco scrambled at his pockets for a handkerchief. He thrust it through the bars, and held it there, increasingly impatient, until he realized that of course the Rat could not come and get it. He could have scooted on his hands, but his chains wouldn’t stretch that far.
The gesture seemed to destroy the Rat’s self-control. “You’re so stupid,” he said, his face twisting in rage. “You’re so stupid, so stupid, you can never see anything but what’s right in front of you, what’s absolutely obvious!”
Marco felt cold. “You’ve always felt this way?”
“Yes!” the Rat cried, and he began to cough again. He lifted his hands to his mouth, as if he could thrust his weakness away or at least hide it.
“And you never told me,” Marco said.
“Obviously not,” said the Rat, with an attempt at a sneer, but he could not hold it because he was coughing so badly. He turned his face against his shoulder to muffle the sound.
“Why not?” Marco said, and his voice did not seem to come from him, but from somewhere far away and very cold. “We would have paid you, if that was all you wanted.”
The Rat shook his head, but he could not speak for coughing.
“It was cowardly,” Marco said. “Keeping secrets always is.”
The Rat’s coughing fit subsided. He leaned against the wall, his breath ragged and rasping in his throat. “I’m sorry,” the Rat said, and he - was he crying? “I’m so sorry. Marco...”
He was crying. Marco could hear the tears in the rustiness of the Rat’s voice, and he stood paralyzed, a tightness at the back of his own throat. The Rat seemed sincere; but then he had always seemed so sincere to Marco.
In any case, it didn’t matter. Marco’s duty to Samavia must come first. Marco might want to forgive the Rat, but a country could not lightly forgive treason.
“It doesn’t matter,” Marco said, almost gently.
“I know,” said the Rat. He rubbed spittle off his mouth with his filthy sleeve.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-11 02:32 pm (UTC)“I grew up poor!” Marco replied.
The Rat’s eyes widened, and his whole face tensed, the flesh pressing against the bone so he bore for a moment a strange awful resemblance to a skeleton. “Poor!” he said. “Marco, you were never poor, only compared to this palace were you ever poor. You always had a roof over your head, and a nice roof, not some grotty room with cockroaches and a leak in the corner, and there would always be food the next day even if it was only bread and water, and you were never sent out to beg for it, because people will give more money to a pathetic little cripple than an obvious drunkard!”
Of course the Rat is exaggerating for effect, just in case one of the guards is a Jiardasian spy, but his anger here is genuine. Partly it’s directed at his father, the one who made him feel like a pathetic little cripple, but part of it really is directed at Marco, who has been rather blind to the fact that the Rat’s childhood poverty was much more severe than his.
Mostly the Rat is used to Marco’s occasional obtuseness, even finds it kind of endearing, and sometimes he’s even glad about it, because it means Marco never pities him. But at the same time, it can be painful: he’s so sensitive to everything about Marco, and Marco just doesn’t have the same level of sensitivity to him.
The Rat began to cough. His chains clanked as he raised a hand to his mouth, coughing and coughing, and Marco scrambled at his pockets for a handkerchief. He thrust it through the bars, and held it there, increasingly impatient, until he realized that of course the Rat could not come and get it. He could have scooted on his hands, but his chains wouldn’t stretch that far.
The gesture seemed to destroy the Rat’s self-control. “You’re so stupid,” he said, his face twisting in rage. “You’re so stupid, so stupid, you can never see anything but what’s right in front of you, what’s absolutely obvious!”
The Jiardasians have also been encouraging him to dwell on his negative feelings about Marco. It’s never made the Rat plan to actually betray Marco, but it has brought those feelings to the surface, which makes it especially hard for the Rat to watch Marco react to his supposed betrayal in a way that magnifies all his flaws. He’s thinking, “Think outside the box for once in your life, Marco! I would never betray you!”
Of course, for his plan to work, Marco has to remain in the dark: he would never fool the Jiardasians into believing the Rat was really a spy if he knew. I don’t think the Rat really thought this part of the plan through. He’s a little cocky: he didn’t think he’d get caught.
Marco felt cold. “You’ve always felt this way?”
“Yes!” the Rat cried, and he began to cough again. He lifted his hands to his mouth, as if he could thrust his weakness away or at least hide it.
The Rat hates being visibly weak. It’s probably going to take him a long time to forgive Marco for letting him fall on his face in the throne room – and letting the guards drag him out after, instead of letting him walk under his own power.
“And you never told me,” Marco said.
“Obviously not,” said the Rat, with an attempt at a sneer, but he could not hold it because he was coughing so badly. He turned his face against his shoulder to muffle the sound.
“Why not?” Marco said, and his voice did not seem to come from him, but from somewhere far away and very cold. “We would have paid you, if that was all you wanted.”
Marco believes that paying your most loyal retainers is an insult to their loyalty. I suspect that the Rat finds his total dependency on the Samavian throne less charming. But of course after all this, it’s going to be impossible for him to ask for a salary…
Dear Lord, this fic leaves so many unresolved issues between them.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-11 02:33 pm (UTC)The Rat shook his head, but he could not speak for coughing.
“It was cowardly,” Marco said. “Keeping secrets always is.”
The Rat’s coughing fit subsided. He leaned against the wall, his breath ragged and rasping in his throat. “I’m sorry,” the Rat said, and he - was he crying? “I’m so sorry. Marco...”
Even though he’s angry, he does love Marco. It’s very painful to see Marco so angry with him, and just as painful to know how much he must have hurt Marco. Breaking down like this might throw his whole operation, but it hurts so much that he can’t help it.
He was crying. Marco could hear the tears in the rustiness of the Rat’s voice, and he stood paralyzed, a tightness at the back of his own throat. The Rat seemed sincere; but then he had always seemed so sincere to Marco.
In any case, it didn’t matter. Marco’s duty to Samavia must come first. Marco might want to forgive the Rat, but a country could not lightly forgive treason.
“It doesn’t matter,” Marco said, almost gently.
Marco finds the thought of his duty to Samavia very steadying. On a personal level, the Rat’s betrayal has completely ripped the rug out from under Marco’s level. But Samavia is still solid ground for Marco, and when he’s thinking about the Rat’s betrayal from the perspective of Marco-the-prince rather than Marco-the-man, it’s much easier to be merciful.
“I know,” said the Rat. He rubbed spittle off his mouth with his filthy sleeve.
And the Rat’s back in control of himself. After all, his duty to Samavia has to come first, too, and that means carrying through the operation to the end. Even if it is terrible for them both.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-11 07:09 pm (UTC)and i love the distinction you make, in marco's state, between personal treason and state treason, and how state treason is weirdly easier for marco to come to terms with, despite what he thinks on the surface.
and rat is a hero always ♥
no subject
Date: 2014-10-12 03:36 am (UTC)Maybe it would be better if Stefan Loristan suggested the salary. It would be way less awkward that way, as he wasn't there when all the "bathtubs of money" talk was gong down.
And Marco is totally trying to distance himself from his personal pain by convincing himself that he's outraged by the Rat's treason rather than his betrayal of their friendship. He'd rather feel self-righteously wrathful about the damage to his kingdom than just plain hurt by the betrayal of his friend. (But he knows also that self-righteous wrath is a dangerous thing, so he's fighting against the feeling, too.)
The Rat is really the best. I don't know why all my TLP fics come out in Marco's POV. Maybe the Rat's hero-worship just seems to painful to write.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-11 06:50 am (UTC)Nicomedes leaned back in his chair. “Not yet,” he said. Let the idiot wait a bit in the whistling sand. Nicomedes had waited two days, wondering if Caesar had gotten himself captured yet.
Nicomedes watched. Caesar waited, his bearing military: he hardly swayed, despite the wind whipping Bithynia’s famous fine sand in misty swirls around him. Most visitors to Bithynia found the blue-green planetshine from the gas giant Bithynia X orbited unnerving; even jaded smugglers shivered when the sand screeched, banshee-like, against the sheer glass cliffs, as it did today.
And most smugglers did not crash their ships three clicks distant from Nicomedes’ compound, as Caesar had on his return. Satellite footage of the wreck - Nicomedes glanced over at that screen - showed a Pontic harpoon in the fighter’s wing.
“I’m amazed he landed it,” Zara commented - blandly enough, but Nicomedes knew she was managing him: directing him to note the pilot’s skill because she knew he would admire it.
Zara was a good security officer because she had a knack for managing Nicomedes in the direction he wanted to go.
Even in the blue planetshine, Caesar was a handsome man: strong brows, stronger nose. Lips chapped from the trek. Despite his wind-burned face and crash-rumpled pilot whites, he wore the same arrogant calm as when he first arrived aboard diplomatic cruiser: his scraped chin lifted arrogantly, one hand draped on the droid beside him.
The droid’s dome slid open. Caesar took out a wine bottle, and lifted it as if he saw Nicomedes through the security camera, and was toasting him.
“Reckless idiot,” Nicomedes said again, anger tinctured with admiration. He hit the button shutting off the camera feed and swung his chair around, pressing his hands to his thighs. He took a deep breath, and swung to his feet. His robes swirled around him.
“Zara,” he said, and she clicked her polished boots. He had promoted her for those boots: anyone who could keep boots shiny in Bithynia’s sands must be competent in all things, he had thought, and so he had found her to be. “Show the emissary to the Incandescent Room.”
“Sir,” she said, and saluted, and left.
He would make Caesar wait a while before going to see him - not that it was likely to make any dent in that confidence.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-11 02:47 pm (UTC)Nicomedes expresses all his affection for Caesar by insulting him in a strangely admiring fashion. He, like others before him, wants to cut down Caesar’s enormous arrogance a bit.
Nicomedes watched. Caesar waited, his bearing military: he hardly swayed, despite the wind whipping Bithynia’s famous fine sand in misty swirls around him. Most visitors to Bithynia found the blue-green planetshine from the gas giant Bithynia X orbited unnerving; even jaded smugglers shivered when the sand screeched, banshee-like, against the sheer glass cliffs, as it did today.
I had a lot of fun inventing Bithynia X. The moon of a gas giant! WITH GLASS CLIFFS, Y’ALL.
I have very mixed feelings about AUs in general, but Rome in Space is one that I think works really well. Maybe it’s because space offers Rome as much room to spread out and conquer as the Mediterranean did back in the day.
And most smugglers did not crash their ships three clicks distant from Nicomedes’ compound, as Caesar had on his return. Satellite footage of the wreck - Nicomedes glanced over at that screen - showed a Pontic harpoon in the fighter’s wing.
“I’m amazed he landed it,” Zara commented - blandly enough, but Nicomedes knew she was managing him: directing him to note the pilot’s skill because she knew he would admire it.
Zara was a good security officer because she had a knack for managing Nicomedes in the direction he wanted to go.
I also enjoyed inventing Zara: it’s always fun to come up with an original side character in a fic.
Even in the blue planetshine, Caesar was a handsome man: strong brows, stronger nose. Lips chapped from the trek. Despite his wind-burned face and crash-rumpled pilot whites, he wore the same arrogant calm as when he first arrived aboard diplomatic cruiser: his scraped chin lifted arrogantly, one hand draped on the droid beside him.
The droid’s dome slid open. Caesar took out a wine bottle, and lifted it as if he saw Nicomedes through the security camera, and was toasting him.
“Reckless idiot,” Nicomedes said again, anger tinctured with admiration. He hit the button shutting off the camera feed and swung his chair around, pressing his hands to his thighs. He took a deep breath, and swung to his feet. His robes swirled around him.
Unlike most of the other people who want to cut Caesar down to size, Nicomedes would be very sorry indeed if he succeeded. Sure, the kid is annoying, but there’s something damn attractive about it. He has panache!
And Caesar totally knows about the security camera. He has probably noted the location of every security camera on Bithynia X.
“Zara,” he said, and she clicked her polished boots. He had promoted her for those boots: anyone who could keep boots shiny in Bithynia’s sands must be competent in all things, he had thought, and so he had found her to be. “Show the emissary to the Incandescent Room.”
“Sir,” she said, and saluted, and left.
He would make Caesar wait a while before going to see him - not that it was likely to make any dent in that confidence.
And Nicomedes wouldn’t have it any other way.
Also, I have gone ahead and friended you, because we share an interest in L. M. Montgomery and early 20th century women’s writing (Sara Jeannette Duncan! I keep meaning to read her book about her travels around the world) and all things ancient Rome.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-13 03:20 am (UTC)I have mixed feelings about AUs myself, but SPACE works pretty well here. And I am completely delighted to learn that there is Caesar / Nicomedes fic in the world. :D If all were as it should be, it would be one of the juggernaut ships of Western Civ.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-11 07:51 pm (UTC)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.
“Are you all right?”
“No!”
Marcus was still behind him. “I could finish later?”
Esca laughed hollowly. “Did you make the same offer during crucifixions?”
Marcus was silent. Wounded. It depressed Esca that he could read Marcus’s silences so well. The shears amputated another feathertip. “A wing-clipping doesn’t hurt if it’s done properly,” Marcus said. “Your earlier masters: they did not know how to clip?”
“You saw my wings in the arena,” Esca said tersely. Esca’s last master before the arena had clipped Esca’s wings unevenly because it made him laugh to see Esca careen wildly when he tried to fly. A good party trick, it had been for him, and a pretty pile of sesterces it had made him when the circus master, roaring with laughter, bought Esca for his show.
Marcus finished clipping Esca’s left wing, and moved over to Esca’s right. Esca’s heartbeat roared in his ears. The once-broken wing did not open as fully as it ought to for proper clipping, and Romans always tried to force it, and it hurt –
But Marcus’s hand hesitated, gingerly feeling the wing’s swollen joint. “This was broken?” he said, half-asking.
“Yes.” Surely Marcus had seen in the arena that Esca’s wing was crippled?
But he had not seen Esca try to fly since then: and Esca’s wing did not look broken when folded.
“All right,” said Marcus. “I’ll clip it like this, then.” He released Esca’s wing, and Esca almost gasped in relief that Marcus was not going to try to force it to open fully.
But of course Marcus would be gentle of someone else’s scars.
(Of course nothing. The master who had misclipped Esca’s wings had been lame, even as Marcus was.)
The second wing went slowly. The shears tugged the feathers as they snipped, but the pain was so much less than Esca has expected that he felt grateful.
Grateful, because Marcus was crippling him gently.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-12 03:22 am (UTC)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.
As much as Esca dislikes Marcus in this fic, he has already come to trust him: he’s not afraid that Marcus is going to get mad at him for asking a reasonable question.
“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.
I really like this image, the clipped feathers falling on the autumn leaves. It has some symbolic resonance: Esca’s old life is being cut away from him, the way that the old year is falling away from the trees…
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 hear about Marcus’s time in the legions because it would make it hard for him to see Marcus as anything as a soldier and an enemy. Which is actually something he should want, to bolster his resistance to Marcus’s overtures of friendship. But Esca has been so lonely for so long that his resistance is crumbling, and of course that makes him feel weak and powerless – he can’t even control his own wants anymore! – and he directs that anger at Marcus, who after all is the cause.
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.
“Are you all right?”
“No!”
Marcus was still behind him. “I could finish later?”
Esca laughed hollowly. “Did you make the same offer during crucifixions?”
And, again, as much as he wants to hate Marcus, Esca still has come to trust him. He’s not afraid that Marcus is going to be so angered by this fit of petulance that he would misuse the shears on purpose. He knows that if Marcus hurts him, it’s going to be out of ignorance, not ill intention.
Marcus was silent. Wounded. It depressed Esca that he could read Marcus’s silences so well. The shears amputated another feathertip. “A wing-clipping doesn’t hurt if it’s done properly,” Marcus said. “Your earlier masters: they did not know how to clip?”
Marcus finds Esca’s reaction to him tremendously puzzling. He thinks the problem between them is one of trust: that if he can bring Esca to trust that he’s a good, kind master, unlike Esca’s previous cruel masters, then everything will be fine. It would never, never occur to him that his kindness is the thing that makes Esca so furious with him.
“You saw my wings in the arena,” Esca said tersely. Esca’s last master before the arena had clipped Esca’s wings unevenly because it made him laugh to see Esca careen wildly when he tried to fly. A good party trick, it had been for him, and a pretty pile of sesterces it had made him when the circus master, roaring with laughter, bought Esca for his show.
Marcus finished clipping Esca’s left wing, and moved over to Esca’s right. Esca’s heartbeat roared in his ears. The once-broken wing did not open as fully as it ought to for proper clipping, and Romans always tried to force it, and it hurt –
Of course, it doesn’t matter all that much to Esca whether Marcus hurts him out of ill-intention or ignorance: it’s still going to be excruciating.
no subject
Date: 2014-10-12 03:23 am (UTC)“Yes.” Surely Marcus had seen in the arena that Esca’s wing was crippled?
But he had not seen Esca try to fly since then: and Esca’s wing did not look broken when folded.
Although movie!Marcus’s ability not to see things directly under his nose is stunning, in this case Esca’s being a little unfair. Marcus probably thought Esca’s weird flight patterns in the arena were caused by the terrible clipping job on his wings.
“All right,” said Marcus. “I’ll clip it like this, then.” He released Esca’s wing, and Esca almost gasped in relief that Marcus was not going to try to force it to open fully.
But of course Marcus would be gentle of someone else’s scars.
(Of course nothing. The master who had misclipped Esca’s wings had been lame, even as Marcus was.)
Esca would really prefer Marcus’s kindness to rise from anything other than genuine sympathy for him as a person.
The second wing went slowly. The shears tugged the feathers as they snipped, but the pain was so much less than Esca has expected that he felt grateful.
Grateful, because Marcus was crippling him gently.
And of course your excerpt ends on this line, which really sums up the whole fic, I think. Esca has finally met his nemesis: a kind master who is trying not to hurt him, and is therefore the only one who might be able to break his resistance.