#terez

[firstlawincorrectquotes]

Terez: My hobbies include being right, being gay, and being a hater.

[nocontextfirstlawtrilogy]

Jezal sat in a haze of awkwardness, in a dreamlike silence, startling from time to time like a sick rabbit as a powdered footman blindsided him with vegetables.

— Last Argument Of Kings, Joe Abercrombie

[xserpx]

☕️ Leo dan Brock's queerness and Abercrombie's handling of it, in terms of his queer writing development, given his prior queer characters?

I love how far Abercrombie has come from his representation of queer characters in the original trilogy. Having been a big fan of the Dresden Files and seeing Jim Butcher fail to deliver convincing queerness in his books and be scornful of the criticism, seeing Abercrombie make actual effort to get better with his representation of both female characters and queer characters* - and succeed - is wonderful.

To go from Terez & Shalere - described by Abercrombie as "ultra one-dimensional icy bitchy beautiful caricatures and also, looked at in hindsight, conforming to nasty lesbians put in their places stereotypes that I can hardly believe I didn’t notice at the time," to the woefully underdeveloped villain Ganmark, to the cringeworthy Shevedieh who can't stop thinking with her quim even in ridiculous circumstances and who is involved in one of the least satisfying endings to a romantic arc even by Abercrombie standards... to the Age of Madness, where suddenly all the queer characters (of which there are several!) are interesting and complex, with interiority and whose queerness is essential and meaningful, and shown in both good and bad light, who make me cry and laugh and shout at them, sometimes separately, sometimes all at once. He didn't get it right the first time, but he tried again, and again, and that effort has paid off!

I have only two qualms about Leo's representation. Firstly, the lack of gay sex scenes in TWOC when we had several kinda unnecessary scenes between heterosexual couples, all of which were deeply uncomfortable! I feel he could've rounded it out a little and given us Leo masturbating to Jurand or something.

Second, the fact that Leo's queerness might have been an afterthought? Though I'm not sure how much this matters per se, because the end result is so impressive, but it does make me wonder whether Abercrombie succeeded with Leo precisely because he wasn't specifically written to Be Queer (unlike Shev), and so he isn't written self-consciously, or whether Leo's queer arc would have been even better, had Abercrombie set out to do more with it from the start.

The important thing IMO that really makes Leo stand out and gives him the space to breathe and say his problematic little opinions is the fact that there are plenty of other gay characters in the story and he doesn't have to shoulder the burden alone. Jappo, Terez, Glaward, and Jurand are all comfortable in their sexualities, and their relationships are likewise good - and probably a deal healthier than the majority of heterosexual romances depicted. None of the other characters ever express confusion or disgust at the thought of homosexuality - indeed, Rikke encourages it, Orso & Savine are distinctly unbothered. It means that when Leo is homophobic, he's an exception to the rule, and that makes such a huge difference. His beliefs are obviously wrong, he's kinda dumb for being the only one who cares. If the world were shown as more homophobic, I think fans would claim that it makes sense for Leo to be homophobic, and the whole thing would have a more hostile vibe, whereas without that it's literally just him thinking his out-dated views and torturing himself. Anyone else in the trilogy could say "your bedroom, your business" and I would 100% believe them, but when Leo says it it's clear that he cares, and why does he care? Because he's queer and hates himself for it.

So yeah, amping up the background queerness was a great choice, and especially with AOM, which I think is full of pretty sophisticated modern characters who defy stereotypes and aren't as archetypal as guys like Logen and Jezal had to be, it works so very well.

One thing I just cannot get over is how Abercrombie has woven homosexuality into the war hero band of brothers theme, which is a move so fucking good I just want to shove this trilogy at everyone who's ever enjoyed that aspect of any war novel or movie. I hate, hate, hate how rare it is for writers to make the blood brothers canonically gay. Like fine, OK, normalise men being affectionate with male friends, hide behind your "historical accuracy" all you like, but y'know sometimes it's also good to see soldiers grapple with their romantic/sexual feelings for one another amidst that culture of deepest shame, to explore the hypocrisy, the misogyny, and the harm homophobia causes to absolutely everyone. I've never seen it done before, and certainly not this well, but it makes so much sense for Abercrombie, who has always been interested in those kind of questions about the problems of toxic masculinity. The fact that almost all of Leo's friends are queer, none of them are capable of expressing themselves, and despite all that closeness and fighting and dying beside one another, it's like they never really knew each other at all. It's fucking tragic, and so, so good.

And like, maybe you could level the argument that it's boring that the queer guy turns out to be the Worst, but a) Leo's homosexuality is the best part about him and the only thing keeping him in touch with his humanity, and b) the Worst is debateable, and c) he is motivated by the shame of internalised homophobia, a desire for glory that is rooted in the shame he felt as a child and the need for validation and love. His villain origin story isn't that he was overtly abused, it was pretty mundane: he pissed in a cupboard, and his father was embarrassed. It's a really pathetically inconsequential moment on which to base your entire identity, but that's how people are sometimes, and the humanity of that is heartbreaking.

And in terms of Abercrombie's development of his queer representation overall, I think Grown Up II is the key to that. It reads like an apology for what he put Terez & Shalere through. Terez's POV is one of my favourites, and I'm so glad that that part of her life has ended on a happy note. For some people that isn't enough to wash out the sour taste LAOK left them with, and for me what happiness Terez gleaned is wiped out by Orso's death, but I think it's far, far better to have given her that moment of sweetness than to pile on yet more suffering on someone so undeserving.

[reelingintheyears]

[allyscara]

AU-Crossover

[taylorswiftstyle]

Rep Room | Pittsburgh, PA | August 7, 2018

Thanks @wnderlxnd!

Terez ‘Slashed Shoulder Tee’ - $48.00

Tay has been loving black lately. Here, she goes monochrome, wearing the colour head to toe including this cold shoulder tee by Teres. 

Worn with: Ksubi shorts

Get the look:

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[salmaansarii]

تيجي نحلم بسما هادي وناس رايقين؟ تيجي نحلم بوضع عادي ورقصة لتنين؟

[elsewhereuniversity]

Iron Enough to Make a Ring.

On your first day at Elsewhere, you tell them to call you Sun, after the girls you love. It’s ill-fitting, and it burns the roof of your mouth when you form the syllable of it. You suppose that makes it safer, but you still don’t like it. When you set foot on campus for the first time, the stone at your neck and the iron band on your pinky finger warm and grow cold, respectively. You smile, teeth poking into your bottom lip. You can’t see from this angle, but the blood that wells up there is a tad greener than it ought to be.

In your first year, you dorm in Greenwood Hall, on the fourth floor. It is uneventful, except for your weekly meeting with the crows. You tell them jokes and call them “cousins,” let your eyes fade from shifting hazel to raven-black when you speak with them. When you register for your Gods & Monsters class, you get an error message in place of a room number. When you try to visit the English building, you see why, but it doesn’t stop you from entering. Something inhuman at the back of your mind drives you forward and down—the human part is bucking wildly, screaming for you to go. As you have done most of your life, you ignore it.

The Wyrm does not recognize you right away (you’ve never met it, not this you), and you’re saddened, inexplicably. But after a few minutes, its eyes snap open.

It calls you by a name you recognize in a language you’ve yet to learn to speak, and you startle. It isn’t one you’ve used in lifetimes. It asks what you are, now, and you tell it to call you Sun.

It says, Not that. Which of the twelve.

Your eyes widen, and the syllable of “Taur” forms on your lips before that inhuman nature corrects you. “Blood” is iron-heavy on your tongue, and it falls with a “clunk” onto the piles of gold. The Wyrm nods, smiles.

It tells you, Blood has too much iron for it to hold power. You don’t answer to Sun.

You know both things are true. The Wyrm’s eyes are warm and kind; it could be your grandmother with how alike it is to your mother—the fire, the gold-shine. You turn to leave.

The Wyrm calls out, You’ll change it again. There is much more to remember.

It says that name again, the one that’s somehow yours. You feel the weight and power of it as it hits the air. The Wyrm’s next words are a command: Be well. Be not afraid. Remember all that is forgotten. Find happiness.

The Wyrm smiles warmly at you, and your eyes are welling up with tears. You nod your head in wordless thanks, and scurry up the stairs.

Throughout your sophmore year, they call you Blood, or Sanguine. You smile when you hear it. You dorm in The Chinese House and you miss the crows dearly. You call out to them when you see them on campus. Your roommate is adorably human, and she goes by Beo. She wants to study the stars, and her eyes are deep blue.

You ask her on the first day if it’s short for anything.

She blushes, and says (a yes), I really liked English in grade school.

Her laughter joins up with yours as you pull your dog-eared copy of Grendel from your bag.

That year, you spend quite a bit of time in the woods. It’s there that you meet Thane, a theology major with too much time on their hands. They’re a junior, and just the right height for you to stand on your tiptoes and kiss them. You mostly wander around together, but some nights, as the full moon rises, you go alone, despite warnings. You touch the iron nail-ring around your finger and the tumbled-smooth emerald that rests between your collarbones.

One night in the woods, you find the Egg.

It’s bloodstone, Terez (your little friend group’s resident geology major/junior paleontologist), informs you.

You hold it in your hands during classes and feel something in your bones respond. None of the professors seem to notice your strange-eyed stare, the way you rarely blink.

One of the Gentry has taken to leaving flowers on your doorstep. Thane’s eyes widen and they frantically ask to read all the words you’ve written this year. You oblige them, and when they’re done reading they hug you.

I can’t do this, Thane says. How are you here? They ask. Why are your teeth sharp? How long has the real Blood been gone?

Affronted, you push Thane away, tell them, teeth bared, that you’ve always been real, that you’ve always been Blood, that no one has taken you, that your teeth just are, and, in their ear, last secret you’ll share, that Winter is your father and Summer your mother and Autumn is your Uncle and your cousin, Spring, is Royalty by honor if not by birth.

Thane doesn’t ask what that means, because you’ve told them about your gods before. But they do leave, and then all you have is the hyacinths on your doorstep.

In your junior year, you dorm in Brigadoon Hall. Your friends have always accused you of impeccable timing, after all. You don’t have a roommate, but there are spirits that you invite over often enough that it feels like you have several. When they ask what to call you, you wrack your brains for a witch, and what comes to mind is Sycorax. They recognize the name, and smile.

You’re kinder than she was, Quetzal says.

The others nod in agreement.

You smile at them all, feel the energy of the room, and notice the Other presence outside. You excuse yourself, and go to the door.

Hey changeling, the being at the door says. Want to go for a ride?

Your eyes take in the motorcycle helmet in its hands; the ripped jeans; the bomber jacket, hanging open, with nothing underneath. The lavender tint to its skin, the eyes filled in with lavender, slightly glowing; the bare feet; the wings.

From behind you, you hear a wolf-whistle. The being laughs, long hair tumbling over its shoulder. You feel a hand on your shoulder, heavy as a death-rattle. The fae blanches for a moment, then nods tersely, then shakes its head.

It says, in a faintly tremouring voice, Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.

Between that and the reassuring weight on your shoulder, it’s enough for you to nod. But still, you stop to ask it what it will want in return.

Your company is all, it tells you.

Your eyes narrow, and you clarify, your company now, or your company “later”?

Now, the fae says.

Your hand lets go of the doorframe. You call back to your friends and tell them to call your cousin if you don’t get back.

You say you’re Sycorax, but the fae laughs, says it’ll stick to “changeling”. Wild, sharp laughter from a mouth full of pointed teeth is the answer when you ask if it is Hyacinth.

For your senior year, you go by an initial. It’s your cousin’s idea, one She gives you as you’re painting Her nails on your last day at Brigadoon.

All of the spirits have gone to where they need to be, and you’re relaxing, enjoying the quiet before you have to leave. She doesn’t knock, just appears on the bed, stretching like a cat and complaining about something.

Do you have nail polish? She asks.

You glare at her and shake your head. She sighs, rolls Her eyes, and some appears in your lap. She sticks a hand in your face and looks at you expectantly. You let out a long-suffering sigh.

She talks mostly, but She does deign to ask how things have been going. She uses your Name, the one your father calls you. She knows better than to use it against you. You smile when She tells you about using an initial. You tell her you think you’d like that. She smiles, steps back, and closes her eyes. Light runs up from her feet into her hands and into her fingertips. The room is cold, now.

Your cousin leans down, places her hands on your cheeks, and presses a kiss to your forehead. Warmth, like spring sunrises, fills you.

Thank you, She whispers.

And then she is gone, and it’s time for you to go.

This year, you finally live in the North Dorm. The anchor-shape of it nearly makes you cry, and you think that this the closest you’ll get to home, here. The crows remember you, call out the Name you gave them in the corvid-tongue. It feels good to hear their voices again. They offer you a pomegranate from the tree, and you laugh, feel the earth beneath your feet.

Most people, reading the initial on your student card, call you “H.” You do not correct them, because it is not entirely wrong. Terez knows you well enough to call you “N.”. Thane does not speak to you. Beo now talks entirely in star-tongues, but you still understand her. Hyacinth does not get within 13 feet of the North Dorm, but you still see each other when you can.

No one asks what the initial, whichever one it is, stands for. Hemo, like Blood, you would tell them. Or Haides. Or, if they ask the right questions, if they feel like someone you knew before this body, you’ll say something close to true. It stands for No-body.

x