Hi there! My name is Ann (or Contre Parry, for those who follow my Ao3 writings). My blog is a mess and has no cohesive theme, a criticism that applies to most of my life. Thank you for stopping by!
The most amazing thing to me about Jane Austen is that she staunchly refuses to leave any woman behind. It doesn't matter if a woman is an antagonist, a side character, or what, the reader is assured that they will be okay. This is so different from fiction at the time or even now.
Marianne Dashwood, living a plot perfect for a tragic death by illness to preserve the beauty of her first attachment and disappointment? Nope, she lives and loves with her whole heart again. Maria Rushworth, the fallen woman who cheated on her husband does not die for her crimes or even fall into poverty or prostitution, her father and Aunt Norris will provide for her. She is punished, but she's protected. Lydia Bennet? Her two sisters will provide for her for the rest of her life. Her husband's debt will not destroy her. Miss Bates? There is an entire community around her no matter what happens and her newly rich niece will provide. No woman is even left as a governess, Miss Taylor is Mrs. Weston, Jane Fairfax becomes Mrs. Churchill instead. Mrs. Smith is pulled out of her indigent state by Anne and Wentworth.
The only woman Jane Austen allows to suffer a terrible fate is off-page and dead long before the novel begins: Eliza Brandon. Eliza Williams, her mother's affair baby, is ruined by Willoughby. Colonel Brandon could easily have washed his hands of her and her affair child, but he doesn't. Eliza Williams is going to be okay. Her child will be okay.
Antagonist women never fall into poverty or die for their crimes, most of them are even in loving marriages. Fanny Dashwood is cruel to her mother and sisters-in-law, one could imagine her falling low in karmic retribution, but no, she's fine. Lady Susan, the delightful anti-heroine, marries a baronet at the end of her novel. No punishment looms on the horizon for her promiscuity and deception. Caroline Bingley has a loving family that will never turn her away and an independent fortune. Mary Crawford has a loving sister. Isabella Thorpe may have lost the big prize, but she has her mother. Never is a woman thrown to abuse or poverty, even when they have attacked other women. The only punishment would come from their own conscience or regret for the goodness they have thrown away.
Jane Austen somehow imagines a world where even the worst women are safe.
#jane austen#which definitely throws the very common 'caroline gets her comeuppance' trope in fanfic in high relief#the sheer volume of fics where caroline gets completely cut off and sent to live in exile is staggering#it's always struck me as unnecessary and excessive and i think this might be why#this just isn't how austen treats her characters so having it be SO prevalent in fanfic feels weird#all these fanfic authors out here saying that caroline should live in shame and exclusion and poverty forever#for being a little mean to lizzy#when ms austen simply would never (via @irasobrietate)
Yes! This is such a big thing for me I wrote a whole essay about it. Honestly, it's fics that destroy Caroline being so common that made me consider how unique Austen's treatment of women really is! That and the way she protects Miss Bates.
Happy DADWC :) How about “pushing a strand of hair behind their ear” from the touching prompts
Here's some pre-Fenders for @dadrunkwriting.
Anders made for a terrible patient, but this was no surprise to Fenris. He was a difficult man. Why would this change just because he was ill? Trekking through the Free Marches was a miserable experience. The summer storms flooded the plains, leading to them trudging through muddy wilderness for nearly a week before they found refuge in a safe house that belonged to a friend of Varric's. They resolved to wait out the latest storm before moving on and making for Rivain. That is, the plan was to reach Rivain. Fenris had some business to take care of first, and Anders was determined to accompany him rather than save his own skin. Fenris couldn't understand it, but he couldn't persuade Anders to do otherwise and reluctantly accepted that having a powerful mage and spirit healer at his side would make his travels through the Imperium easier.
But before they even got to future adventures, they had to wait for Anders to get better. The constant travel was getting to him. At least, Fenris hoped it was just exhaustion and whatever else caused illness. He hoped it wasn't anything more concerning.
But it never hurt to take precautions.
"It's barely a fever, Fenris," Anders complained as Fenris piled another blanket on top of him. "I'm not dying!" Fenris ignored him completely and crossed the small room to pull yet another blanket out of a battered wooden chest. Anders was burning up, his eyes glassy and skin pallid, greasy, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead and cheeks. Yet he was as mouthy as ever, protesting and struggling any time Fenris attempted to tend to him. And Fenris could not be said to have a compassionate bedside manner.
"If you can stand on your own and walk across the room, you may do so. But seeing as you cannot, you will sleep," Fenris retorted, and he tucked the next blanket around Anders' slim form. He brushed the back of his hand across Anders' sweaty brow and tucked a strand of damp hair behind the shell of his ear.
"You're a tyrant," Anders complained. He closed his eyes and sank into his bed, buried under blankets and head propped up on several thin, tattered pillows. He coughed weakly, the sound wet and rattling. It didn't sound good, and Fenris cursed himself for his uselessness. He kept his hand on Anders' brow and hoped it offered some comfort.
"We can spare the time for you to recover your strength," Fenris said. He'd find time for Anders to get better. He'd make time, if he must. But Anders would get better. He must. Anders' mouth twisted up into something like a pained smile, and his eyes fluttered open.
"That was almost considerate," he teased. "Who are you and what have you done with Fenris?"
"Hush. Rest now," Fenris ordered, and he brushed his fingers against Anders' thin, stubble-covered cheek. "Save your strength."
Happy Dragon Age Friday! Here's a prompt: The Star: What does hope in the aftermath look like for Rook and their love interest? When things feel hopeless, how do they act as each other’s light in the darkness?
Here's some Mourn Watch Rook and Lucanis for @dadrunkwriting!
Killing Zara should have been the end of it.
That was how it went in his line of work. You completed your contract. You wrapped up the loose ends. You cleaned yourself up and got some rest. You collected your pay and went on to the next. Zara was just a job. Just a job, just a contract, just another name on a page. Finish it up and on to the next.
But nothing was ever that simple. Not for him, not as he was now. Nothing would ever be simple again.
Lucanis didn't rest. Not anymore. He dozed. He slept in fits, starting awake at every creak and footstep, waking every time he felt Spite stir, wild and hungry under his skin. Even now he was awake, staring at the fire and flinching every time a log cracked and spat sparks. Here he was, carrion bird accustomed to shadow and death, and he was jumping at shadows! Ridiculous. But this was who he was now. What Zara made him. It should have been over. She was dead, and it should have been over.
It would never be over. Not for him. Nothing was that simple. Lucanis leaned the majority of his weight onto his forearm and stared into the flames. Hiss. Crackle. Pop. And underneath the sounds of the fire came the ever-present growl of Spite. Angry. Bitter. Hungry.
"You are awake. I thought you might be," someone said softly. Lucanis lifted his head and turned to find Elena behind him. She was not dressed in her armor, but in the plain every-day clothes of a member of the Mourn Watch, all soft greens and purples that clashed with her sandy skin and copper hair. Everything about her was a study of contrasts, a disharmonious mixture of subtlety and brashness. Yet there was something comforting about the strange, prickly way she settled beside him. The discomfort was a reminder that this was real.
"I usually am," Lucanis agreed. He lifted his hand and gestured towards an empty seat before the fire, an invitation for her to sit.
"Emmrich has her body. He will conduct an autopsy tomorrow," Elena said softly before she perched herself on the edge of the seat.
"I thought it would be over, once she was dead. That is how a contract works," Lucanis confessed. "And yet... " And yet Zara lingered. She was a stain that couldn't be scrubbed out.
"And yet," Elena repeated with a patience he did not expect to hear. "Death is not an end." She spoke as if she was reciting a lesson. Perhaps it was. Mortalitasi were a secretive lot, the Mourn Watch even more so.
"It usually is, in my line of work," Lucanis commented lightly.
"A vocation that is a thorn in most mortalitasi's sides," Elena said gravely. "But we have learned to... live with it." She almost smiled at that comment, a little twitch of her mouth before she turned her eyes up to him and stared at him. She had bright eyes, sharp and all-seeing. A hunter's eyes, like the hawks that nested in the towers of Treviso, the ones that hunted all the small birds below. The crows (the actual birds) liked to taunt those hawks, draw them into fights and chases, cawing their victories over the predators as they sailed into the clear blue skies. There was a part of him- a younger, more innocent, playful part- wondered what it would take to provoke this stern, prickly woman into a chase. The rest of him- wounded, tired, changed forever- would not dare to find out. Perhaps she was considering things along a similar line, for Elena abruptly launched herself from the chair and bowed her head in a sharp gesture.
"I am keeping you from your rest," she said suddenly. "Good night." She turned on her heel and fled the room, fled the dining room completely, and shut the door firmly behind her, leaving him alone to stare into the fire once more.
🌅 do you typically known the ending to something before you start writing it?
Most of the time I do have an ending for a story in mind when I start writing. It varies from a vague idea to a fully structured scene with a final paragraph, but I tend to have an ending in mind. But sometimes the story takes a turn, and the ending no longer fits what I planned!
🦉 give yourself a piece of writing advice
Just get it down on the page. It doesn't need to be perfect. It doesn't even need to be good. Get it out of your head, get it on the page, and you can fix it from there.
I can’t believe I’m having another emotional reaction to fucking Dungeon Crawler Carl, these books keep hitting me right in the gut when I least expect them to!
Happy Friday! From the Oh Hellos: "I want to spin something out of nothing." - Zephyrus
This seems like the perfect prompt for Varric for @dadrunkwriting!
It did not take much to spin a yarn. Varric could pull one out of thin air, whenever he wished to. He often did, especially as a lad. He'd tell great tales, lies so outrageous yet entertaining that the lie would be forgiven and forgotten. The better he got at storytelling, the more people forgot the truth, eager to hear whatever version Varric had to tell.
It was harder to spin something out of nothing. Impossible, really, if you wanted your story to stick. Stories needed a hook, something for listeners to sink their teeth into. Maybe it was a place, maybe it was a person, maybe it was an idea, but everyone needed something solid to build on. Stories were no different. Varric was just better at building a foundation out of something flimsy.
Hawke was anything but flimsy. They were the ideal hero, the scrappy underdog that people wanted to root for, that people wanted to believe in. Fearless, strong, cheerful, kind without being anyone's fool- Hawke was a natural charmer. They only wanted for a bit of polish, and Varric knew how to sell a story, how to build upon what was true and make it fantastical.
Perhaps someday he would tell a tale of complete fancy. Perhaps someday he would spin something out of nothing. But with inspiration so close at hand, that day would be far off.
Happy Friday! Sending you a ‘A kiss in the rain.’ For a pairing of your choice
Here's some Fenders from the Pacific Rim AU for @dadrunkwriting!
Summer rains in Kirkwall were a common occurence.
They were summer squalls. At least, that was what Isabela said. They occurred when the warm air of the sea met the cool air coming off the mountains- or was it the other way around? Fenris did not much care about weather patterns beyond the effects they had on battles against Darkspawn. Harder to fight during a storm than when the weather was calm, and the fights were tough enough as it was. Having a Gray Warden on site only gave them so much warning before an attack, and Darkspawn didn't care if the weather was good or not. They wanted out of the Deep Roads, and so they crawled out in search of... whatever it was they were in search of. Anders said there were intelligent Darkspawn, ones he had full conversations with, but Fenris never had the pleasure.
Whatever the case, it was raining, which meant they wouldn't be doing combat training in the jaegers today. "They" meant every other pilot on the base, because Fenris was on strict medical rest after his last skirmish on the Wounded Coast. Anders insisted on it, much to Fenris' frustration. He said that the lyrium in Fenris' scars was agitated and ordered Fenris to stay out of Azure Siren's pilot seat for the time being save for dire emergencies. If he had his way, Anders would have Fenris on strict bedrest while he monitored his health, but Fenris made his escape to the roof, regardless of the rain.
Fenris tipped his head forward and drew the hood of his jacket up over his head before he braced his arms on the railing and stared out over the fog-enshrouded city. The air was warm, but the rain was cold against his skin. Nothing stirred in the fog, which Fenris counted as a stroke of good luck. It was almost peaceful, which was a rare emotion to assign to Kirkwall herself. The city was restless, just like him, but in this moment, this singular moment... Fenris exhaled and dropped his head until he rested his forehead on his folded arms.
What was he doing here? He felt cooped up in the hanger, exhausted by his injuries and everyone's fussing and feeling horribly useless. He snapped, lashed out at those nearby, snapped at Sabrae and Sebastian and the Hawke twins- he even got snippy with Isabela. And after a bombastic row with Anders, Fenris retreated to his room. But the walls were so closed in, those four walls were close to suffocating him, and he needed out, he needed an escape, he needed-
Fenris was tired. He was so very tired, but he did not know how to rest. He didn't know what he was if he wasn't in a jaeger. He didn't remember how to be anything other than a pilot, a fighter, and no matter what he tried nothing ever felt right-
"Really, Fenris? Are you serious?" a familiar voice exclaimed, and a hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around before Fenris could brace himself. He found himself staring into Anders' thin, furious face, eyes bright and mouth curled into a scowl. Anders pulled at his shoulder, drawing him away from the railing as he ranted and raved, his free hand gesticulating wildly while he spoke.
"Are you really brooding out here in this weather? In your condition? Is this because I pulled you off patrol duty?! Fenris, you're sick! You need to be in bed, not moping about in the rain! C'mon, get inside, this can't be good for you. How long have you been out here? I told Hawke to keep an eye on you, why did they-"
"I don't need a minder, Anders," Fenris interrupted, his anger quick to rise and meet Anders' temper. He hated this, hated feeling useless, hated being watched, hated that he was angry because he knew that Kirkwall wasn't the Imperium and his colleagues here were nothing like the ones he left behind in Tevinter. He was a person here, not a cog in a well-oiled machine, and he shouldn't be angry that even ornery, vicious Anders cared about him. But he couldn't help but be angry: angry and restless and desperate for a distraction from his own misery. And at least he could trust that Anders would fight with him.
"I wouldn't have to mind you if you took my professional advice!" Anders retorted. Though he had the appearance of a drowned cat, at the moment, there was something strangely appealing about Anders in the rain. There was a raw beauty to him, Fenris thought distantly as he stared at Anders' sharp profile. Perhaps it was the light. The floodlights that surrounded the perimeter cast a luminous glow around Anders' head. He cast his eyes towards Fenris, irritation giving way to concern, his glower softening with sympathy.
Sympathy. It was a strange feeling to get used to, especially when it was aimed in his direction. Sometimes it raised Fenris' hackles. It was too close to pity, which he could never abide. But sympathy? Kindness? Peace? Fenris could live with those feelings. He could even learn to like them. And he could even like Anders, in this moment. Anders came to look for him, even after they fought. Anders was currently pushing and pulling him towards the stairwell and out of the rain, even as he rambled on about getting Fenris out of his wet clothes and checking for hypothermia. He was mouthy, wasn't he? Anders never knew when to appreciate silence, when to take in a moment, when to shut his mouth.
Someone ought to do that for him.
Fenris leaned forward, giving into this sudden impulse, this strange desire that ran through him. He leaned forward, stumbled slightly in his haste, and when Anders turned his head to look at him Fenris pressed his mouth against the thin, angry line of Anders' lips. He was cold, cold and damp and stiff as a plank of wood, but when Fenris pushed himself forward it was as if Anders melted in his grip, going soft and lax as he sighed and returned the kiss. He slipped his hand from Fenris' shoulder until he took hold of Fenris' hand and twined their fingers together. It was... soft. Pleasant. A strange contrast to the cold rain that had grown sharp against Fenris' skin. He did not think Anders could be soft. He did not think he could be sweet. They ought to have done this sooner.
All too soon it ended. Fenris pulled back. Anders stared at him, silent, wide-eyed, looking at Fenris as if he had never seen him before.
"Ah. It worked. You can be quiet," Fenris murmured, and the remark made Anders stir. His confused expression gave way to something akin to fury.
"Are you drunk? Maker's Balls, Fenris, alcohol is the last thing you need, I need to get you downstairs-"
"I am not drunk. The medicine you gave me reacts badly with alcohol," Fenris interrupted. "I do try to follow your medical advice. It is important."
"Then what was that for?!" Anders burst out, dropping Fenris' hand as if it burned. Fenris missed the touch immediately.
"I wanted to. I did not think you would be opposed," Fenris replied. "Were you?"
"No, but that's hardly what matters! I- we can't talk about this here," Anders declared, and he took hold of Fenris' shoulder once more. "Inside. We'll talk more inside, once you're dry and warm again."
Warm again. The promise was something like a weight that anchored the storm of feeling roiling through Fenris. Yes, he could wait for that long. He felt calmer now. Settled. No longer angry at himself and the world. He was tired and cold, but almost content. He could live with that. Fenris shrugged and let Anders guide him back inside.
All Things Return to the Sea (1381 words) by ContreParry
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Lothíriel (Tolkien)
Additional Tags: Dol Amroth (Tolkien), Mentioned Finduilas of Dol Amroth (Tolkien), Gondor (Tolkien), Hope, Introspection
Summary:
To Lothíriel, the swan-ships of Dol Amroth were the most wonderful ships in the world.
Lothíriel thinks of cycles, home, and hope.
In this glorious year, Rebb Ford the creative director of Warframe and notably unwell about Emet-Selch ported Emet-Selch into her game, and Yoshi-P the producer of FFXIV and self-described massive Evangelion fan ported fuckin' Evangelion into his. Don't ever tell yourself you can't live your dream
