Twice now this has happened to me. Twice, I have fallen in love with characters, and seen their story unceremoniously torn to pieces. (The other one I'm talking about, by the way, is Downton, and it's making me rather sad to think I made an almost identical post just over four years ago.) In neither case could an argument be made that this was excellent storytelling; the right way to do it; an honest means of getting at some truth, some feeling that had yet escaped them. Let me give you an example of what I mean. I, like all of us, I'm sure, read Harry Potter as a kid. And I loved Fred and Remus and Tonks. I thought the twins were hilarious, were exactly the kind of people to stare danger and cruelty in the face and laugh at its absurd belief that it might win out. I thought Tonks was quirky and kind, and Remus was a man whose difficult life had made him, if pessimistic, also wiser and kinder. It hurt when they died. It made me sad. But I understood. Families cannot go untouched at a time like that. Laughter and joy fight but cannot always win. Sometimes, in order to create a better life for the next generation, that world ended up with an orphan, and made sure that this second little boy would have a better life than the first. My point is this. These losses meant something. They broke my heart, but they also made the story real enough that it could break my heart in the first place. But this. What was the point of this? I fell in love with these characters because I think I (and many women of my generation, or of my personality, prone to overthinking and anxiety and depression, but also to deep joy and the pleasure of drawing out our thoughts) felt there was something in them that understood me. That understood my anxiety that somehow, if someone looked really deep down within me, they'd uncover something (a black, hardened heart perhaps?) if not damaged by earlier "evils" exactly, then by my emotional scars, by the things I carry, and the difficulties that can come with seeing the world the way I do, and being so very sensitive to the ups and downs of my own little world. Something about these stories (I thought, at least) made the beautiful, if idealistic, argument that everyone is worth loving. That everyone deserves friendship and care and companionship, and there is someone out there who will dig deep and see every crack and crevice and accept all of it still. That for every person who looks down at their heart and sees something dark and weak and shriveled, there will be someone else who can look at the same heart and see its resilience, and veins of red. In my view, that is the story that any writer would have wished to tell and share, and in this case I think I can finally admit that it only lasted for about three or four scenes. I reject the notion that such stories are not as "exciting", or don't "sell" or whatever else talked them into the crazy shit they've pulled this year, of which this is only the last in a long, long line. I'm sorry that this is over, but I honestly think it was over long ago, and perhaps even before it began, because they've never managed to truly make this about the characters' hearts. Right now I feel that it's best to release my grip on these things, and let them go, at least for a while. Maybe in a month or two, maybe sooner or later than that, I might find that I have reclaimed the story enough to go back and finish writing a few things, for a proper goodbye. But in some ways I'm glad this story is now out of their reach. Stories belong to the people who love them. In the Darkness will always be what I really felt I wanted to say about this one, and for now I think that's where I want to leave them. Smiling softly and teasing each other in front of a crackling fire, with the boys upstairs and no threat in sight. This fandom got increasingly vitriolic over the past year, and while that was disheartening, and affected me much more than I realized until I took a much-needed break, I want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone I've interacted with through this story. Every interaction, and follow and favorite and especially review has meant a lot, and helped me to get through some tough transitions in my personal life. For all of the anger and bitterness that sometimes came out, I think there's also a lot of kindness and talent, and I'm grateful to have shared this journey with you. I will probably be absent from this site at least for a little while more, but I will still be checking inbox messages periodically, and I will always be happy to talk to anyone there who wishes to talk to me. Lots of love, Emily

Temporary Mostly-Hiatus

Hey guys,

So I’ve been thinking about this for a little while, and I’ve decided it’s time. There’s one long Music-verse thing that I’m hopefully going to post within the next couple of days. After that, I’m going to log out of tumblr. 

I will probably come by to check on things and answers messages about once a week, but I will otherwise be staying off for the rest of the time that the show is airing. If I do end up writing the whole Underworld piece, I think it’ll be this summer.

Essentially, I’m finding the stress, speculation, and following of breadcrumbs utterly exhausting and frustrating, and I refuse to give it the control over me it seems to have. I also have a personally busy couple of months coming up. It’s time to focus on other things for a little while. It’ll probably then be time to reassess whether I’m going to write/be active in this fandom anymore.

If you send me an ask, I have those on email alerts, so I’ll know and be able to come on to respond. Otherwise, everyone have a great ten weeks.

Emily

On Regina and the supposedly amazing scene with Henry Sr

Reasons I fucking hate Once Upon a Time sometimes most of the time:

I am soooo done watching the show (even if I’m not perhaps done writing) because all I do is spend a lot of energy hoping for FIVE SECONDS of a character scene rather than some purple magic cloud or some shitty line that nobody even tried to write realistically (it’s like trope-and-tv madlibs), and shitty plots like babygate and I’m-going-to-take-Henry-out-of-Storybrooke-of-course-you-aren’t-Emma-this-is-getting-old and awesome curse of Shattered Sight turned pathetic giggling toddlers and hey they’re kissing so I guess we can check off the romance box for this episode and look the word “honor” with no explanation or meaning behind it can totally stand in for character development, lines of dialogue, and presence in scenes!!!

But then they do shit like this and I know I’m going to have to watch that scene

And DAMNIT I just want to be FREE

oaihgi;oasdlfkjas;djf

This has been an incredibly angry late night post.

Apologies.

Posted in the last week or two...

Waltz (a ball and a dance during the missing year)

Early Mornings (domestic fluff...)

Ring (musings in Neverland)

Ink Parts 1   2   3   4  (tavern au of sorts, in which Robin signs his memories away)

Portraits (missing year, in the royal portrait gallery)

Rift (formerly untitled Underworld AU, first chapter hopefully to be up soon)

Recoil (musings on what makes Robin, Robin)

Early Mornings

@loveexpelrevolt prompted this forever ago...(sorry!)

Regina Mills has always thought of herself as a morning person.

It was a habit she learned early, back when her mother had a meticulous plan for nearly every minute of every day. She would rise early, wrapped a shawl around her nightgown, and wander to the balcony of her room to feel the breeze against her skin, smell the musk of winter or crispness of spring, the earthiness of fall or the humidity of summer.

They were a few, freeing minutes that Cora could not own.

Later, when she was feeling daring, she would dress before dawn and meet Daniel at the stables, excusing herself with the promise that she wished to be a better rider, and that she found it pleasant to ride across the grounds before it became too hot.

(Later still, she would walk onto her balcony in leathery, shimmering black and in weaker moments try to reclaim some of that old peace. It never came.)

Robin, as it turns out, is sometimes an earlier riser still.

Regina discovers this in what becomes a routine on days when they do not have the rush of getting everyone to school.

She wakes before the sun is fully out to his empty side of the bed, wrapping a robe around her pajamas and slipping her feet into flats on her way to the stairs, and the back patio.

When she opens the French doors, he is sitting on the edge of the porch table, a mug of steaming coffee in his hand as he contemplates the sunrise.

“There’s one for you,” he murmurs, shrugging back towards the table.

Regina looks down to find another steaming mug of coffee, the liquid a creamy brown from the milk and sugar he has added.

She picks it up without comment, dropping a kiss to his cheek in place of a thank you, and leans against the table beside him, turning to press another kiss to his shoulder.

And as this becomes routine, as she descends the stairs with a soft smile on her lips, reaching for her mug in its usual place, brushing the hair off his temples, and meeting his easy, affectionate smile, she realizes that she has found that feeling once more.

Waltz

Based on the prompts waltz, wine, apple, chocolate, and melody. Particularly apt, I feel, as Isham’s theme for them is a waltz. Imagine them dancing to that, if you wish. Missing year.

Snow and David have truly outdone themselves with the decorations.

Their ball is meant to mark the nearing end of winter. An excuse for revelry as much as anything else, Robin thinks privately, but as the leader of a group that often survived on very little, and had to face whatever rain, snow, ice, or otherwise unpleasant weather the forest produced this time of year, Robin’s no stranger to taking advantage of merriment to boost morale.

They have set up long banquet tables against the walls of two of the larger ballrooms in the West Wing, and a series of chairs around a large dance floor. There are satin red cloths and cream linens and freshly aired-out tapestries, lit in the dim glow of firelight. Candelabras glimmer every few feet, and fires crackle in each fireplace to ward off the damp chill of the quickly cooling night.

Robin has seen such parties before, but never as one of the honestly invited guests.

The richness of the food has already been noted by his men. Fragrant roast nuts, spicy mulled wine, crisp home-brewed ciders, sharp cheeses from the Northern lands, sticky-sweet apple tarts, delicate chocolate liquors, almond-cake logs, crisp grapes, steaming coffee, glossy brown rolls laden with dried fruit and molasses.

Guests have just begun to filter into the hall when Robin does, dressed himself in a set of cotton trousers in a rich dark green, a cream tunic, and a brown brocade vest, all of which were pushed into his hands this morning by a queen whose only comment on the matter was that she would not have men on her ballroom floor who looked as though they’d mistaken it for a common tavern.

Roland’s matching suit, a tunic and trousers of slightly brighter green without the vest, had delighted him. (And Robin, as well. He can barely get the boy to pause long enough to take a bath and comb his hair, let alone sit still while he fastened some dozen buttons on a vest and did up inches upon inches of leather ties.)

Roland bounces on the balls of his feet as they step fully into the room, and are able to appreciate its splendor.

With the darkened night at the edge of the cracked-open, freshly painted balcony doors of paned glass, the rustling curtains and candlelight, the effect is truly magical.

Robin is just scanning the room for dark hair and red lips when Roland tugs determinedly on his fingers, leading him towards the tables of food.

“Quite the party, eh, Robin?” John observes. He is beside the food, a fully laden plate in one of his large hands, as he munches on a wedge of creamy white cheese.

“Indeed,” Robin replies, lifting Roland onto his hip and taking one of the veneer wooden plates. He takes a portion of whatever Roland points to, although he does object to a plea for a second piece of cake.

John looks them over. “Where’d you get those?” he wonders. “They’re a mite finer than usual.”

“R’gina gave them to us!” Roland exclaims, apparently not too absorbed in munching on a candied walnut to clear up his uncle’s confusion.

John gives Robin a knowing grin. “Were you...relieved of other clothing by her hand, in order to prompt such a kind gift?”

Robin sends his friend a quelling glare, and receives a teasingly raised eyebrow for his trouble.

“She said the men at her party have to look like gentlemens!” Roland answers enthusiastically.

“Well,” John tells him, ruffling his hair, “you most certainly do.”

“Papa can I have that drink?” Roland asks, pointing at the bowl of mulled wine.

“No, my boy. I’m afraid not,” Robin replies, sighing at how appealing the red liquid must look, with cinnamon sticks, anise, and orange peels floating on its glossy surface. He looks up and down the table for something non-alcoholic.

“How about this?”

Robin spins his head around. She certainly could’ve been a thief, for the stealth with which she’s snuck up on them.

Continue on ffn.net or

These election results are fucking terrifying.

Ring

Regina spins her ring between her fingers as she rests against the tree, wishing, as she has a thousand times, that it was the ring that tied her to Daniel instead. That through its smooth surface she could imagine the feeling of his kind touch, of the gentleness that the girl she then was, deserved.

But it is futile. All that the cold metal ever serves to remind her of is his absence.

Tink’s words echo endlessly, Do you have any idea how selfish that is?

She has occasionally, in weaker moments, allowed herself to think of the man with the lion tattoo, to imagine what he might have been like, the color of his eyes, the shape of his mouth, whether he was quick to laugh, or reserved them for certain moments. 

Whether they would have been happy.

But it has never occurred to her, not once in the decades since she first learned of him, to think of him doing the same. It is a new ache, an added pain, and beneath it a tender revelation.

A second chance, at love, joy, trust—his love for her would have given her that.

And now, she thinks: her love might have given all of that to him.

She has just told Tinkerbell her heart is not worth loving, not as it once might have been.

Might it also, once, have been worth loving with, as well?

Would she have had the ability to make him grin, the power to make a wilderness like this one less threatening with her touch, like the Uncharmings, like Emma and the pirate? Would he have smiled when she put a hand on his jaw, laughed when she shoved his shoulders at a bad joke, held her close in his sleep?

She has a small, dark, shriveled heart. Everyone here knows it.

Once upon a time, though, it was large, bright, expansive; once it reached out and sought to hold all it could, the way it still does with Henry.

She feels an old throb of that feeling, an ache to give, not only to be cared for by someone else, but to care for someone else. To love someone, and know that it made them happy.

Regina looks down at her ring, and the green stone in the center, and takes a deep breath, scowling at her own sickening romanticism.

It’s only one more thing she has no right to miss.

Underworld fic chapter 1 has a draft.