FAVORITE SCENES FROM BECOMING ELIZABETH: 7/â
"This is not the woman I have come to know. Unlike everyone else, choosing their path based on what has the least risk and what has the most gain, you simply do what you believe is right. I have never known anything like it, anyone like that."
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FAVORITE SCENES FROM BECOMING ELIZABETH: 6/â
After all that you have been through, all that I have seen and admired, you chose that? At least I chose him, rather than be chosen. I will call that victory in this life. And weak or foolish or judged as I am by you, I will continue on and be happy. No matter the cost, in spite of others' misery. I thought a great many things of you but negligence was never one of them. You thought many things? I respected you. And then I loved you. And then I hated you. And I came here hating you still. But now... now I pity you.
FAVORITE SCENES FROM BECOMING ELIZABETH: 4/â
"You look beautiful. Show me. Oh, ready for this party and ready before me. Beauty really is wasted on the young. You don't use it or believe it, and then just when you start to, it disappears. But it leaves the vanity behind, for the sake of irony, probably."
Wellllll. Usually I do the bulk of my writing during lunch break at work. But ah. This chapter. Iâm gonna need to be in the privacy of my own home for this one. In case I cry.
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Astarion has followed simple plans and thornier commands for two-hundred years. His life, as he remembers it, is entirely horrors and games of seduction and more horrors, with little variation. So it cannot be his fault that oddities and catastrophes keep happening (not that âhis faultâ or the lack thereof has ever saved him) far outside his usual scope of banal terrors, and he doesnât have a line or a gesture at the ready to deal with them.
People weep. That can be an in for some marks. A sympathetic noise and another drink, a light touch here or there and it stops and he can worm his way into a suggestion of finding a better place to drown their sorrows.
His brothers and sisters weep on occasion. Thatâs usually at a distanceâdown the hall and behind an enchanted doorway, at the tender mercy of Godey or each other. Rarer still would come the pathetic sniffling sobs from the recesses of a bunk in the dormitories. They all pretended not to hear and not to see; an unspoken code rarely broken amongst them because while Cazador had his favorites, he did remember the others.
Astarion can joke about weeping. Can belittle it. Can scrape it off the bottom of his shoe like stepping in something foul.
Not this time. Not when Eleanor is doing it and breaking apart so utterly.
The days since the crash have been nothing if not a parade of novelties, most of them hilarious or boring or, occasionally, horrifying.
He has no script for this. No pretty words or memorized gestures. Can only sit on his knees as his first and only friend sobs against him.
His hands are on her shoulders. She curls tight into herself even as she leans against him, her hands fisted, tucked up close beneath her chin. She hesitates to touch him. Tries not to breathe on him, even after a kiss, when heâs had his fingers inside her.
Heâs brushed against that in her mind, but canât untangle the knot of reasons: shame, guilt, fear, longing. Heâs not sure she could suss it out herself.
Even now, as she trembles, as her lungs hitch and stutter and her mouth gapes in silent agony, she does her best to contain herself from him. Part of herâŚwants contact. Wants comfort, he thinks. Though she wonât admit it.
Their dearest tiefling gave what he thought had been apocryphal advice. But perhapsâŚ
Astarion shifts his grip. Slides his hands down and around. Heâs held lovers closer than this. Much more intimately. Yet this is different, somehow. Stranger.
A great deal more awkward. Heâs not used to being sobbed on. Well, heâs not used to be sobbed on and giving a damn. Yet her misery is a visceral thing. ItâŚhurts him. Though heâs done nothing, heâs uninjured and tired and always starving, but the sounds she makes, the way she holds herself.
It hurts.
He pulls her to him. Gently. Gives her room to break away, but she doesnât. Time to reconsider, but she doesnât. The complicated knot work that keeps her physically distant from the others crumbles and she folds into him. Lets him tuck her against him, cradles her face into his neck, allows him to rest his chin upon her head.
He just, holds her.
She sobs, and Astarion holds her. No one mocks him. No one beats him. No one is going to take her away or chide him for being pathetic, a soft, foolish idiot. Theyâre alone up here (he keeps an ear out and a watchful gaze on the entrance), on the top of a blood-soaked tower as his friend, his Eleanor, seems intent on literally sobbing her physical heart out.
She was at the ledge. She was looking down. She would haveâŚ
He tightens his hold.
It takes time for her breathing to ease to gasping. For her mouth to close between those gaspsâthough her nose sounds completely stopped up, he hasnât stashed a handkerchief somewhere, has he? Her wails quiet to hiccups and sniffles.
She doesnât pull away. He finds heâs running his hand up and down her spine.
âThere now,â he says. âThatâs better, hmm?â
He read that in a copper novel somewhere, he thinks.
She doesnât respond.
She didnât below, either, and he had to make a mad dash through floor after floor. Found her up here literally on the edge and a new fear drove deep into his chest.
âItâs alright, darling,â he says. That seems the correct thing to say? Most people would that, yes?
âItâs not,â she says, nose plugged atrociously it sounds painful. So does her voice, usually warm even when quiet, but now comes out strangled and small and wretched. âS not okay. Ainât gonna be okay.â
Hmm. This is probably guilt. She doesnât enjoy killing the same way he does (or half of their group, to be honest). Even when itâs deserved. Sheâll do it, of course, but then she ends up vomiting in some bushes after.
âIt was battle, my sweet. People die. Thatâs how it is.â
Her lungs stutter again as she tries to draw in air. âI. I made it worse. So much worse.â
WellâŚtechnically yes. But. âNot on purpose.â
âBut it was,â she says. And finally pulls away.
He finds himself trying to follow, keep her close, before he catches himself and lets his arms fall to his sides.
âI knew what I was doing. All of it. I split us up, moreân once. I told that fucker about the inn. Attacking it after we left, that came from me. And IâŚâ
Sheâs looking at his chest. At the missing section of armor and the hole in his under tunic. The skin beneath is closed. He doesnât scar unless someone makes a very special commitment to the deed.
Her lips stretch in a grimace and more tears well up. No, she doesnât cry prettily, but sheâs her, and it hurts, godsdamnit.
Astarion should be angry with her for staking him. He is, a little. But he hates this more.
He takes her hand, brings it up to press her fingers to the small gap in his armor. To his unblemished skin. âItâs healed. Nothing to fret about.â
She only shakes her head. Pulls her hand away. âDoesnât matter. I did that. I knew itâd hurt you and thatâs why I did it. I shot Laeâzel. I, ShadowheartâŚâ
The torment comes over her again. Her fingers dig into her hair, hook into claws. He canât have that.
He reaches for her again. Has to fold himself over her, this time. She doesnât resist. He focuses intently, watching for any sign she wants loose.
âThat beast took you,â he says. âYou couldnât have fought him any more than a kitten in the jaws of a tarrasque.â
âI didnât even try!â
Ah. That. That digs deeply, doesnât it. How strange, to hear that from someone else. To feel rancid shame crawling in his chest.
âYou were enslaved,â he says.
âI shouldâa done something. Anything. If I wasnât such a weak piece of shitâŚâ
The shame crawls upwards. Lodges in his own throat.
âYâall donât need me,â she says. âYâall donât need nobody who can just, just be turned on or off like that.â
Thereâs an innuendo there. He notes it automatically, but places it aside.
âWeâre in a merry band of murderers and freaks in case you hadnât noticed,â he says.
âAnd in all that ainât none of you slit anybodyâs throat.â
âThe cleric tried, donât you remember? To our delightful gith that one evening? I thought weâd at least get a show out of it.â
âShe didnât actually go through with itââ
âYou stopped her,â he says. A touch more harshly than he meant to. Sheâs his friend, and sheâs wounded, but self-pity was always more likely to extend Godeyâs accommodations, and he cannot help the snap to anger and disgust.
Far gentler, âYou stopped her. And I stopped you. And she did stab me down there. But sheâs all better now. A touch sour, but you know how she can be.â
Gods, he has no idea if he can pull Eleanor out of this. It never mattered, before. A blubbering mark delivered was still a mark delivered. And should any of his darling siblings behave this way (should he), well. Cazador had no patience for weakness.
She glances behind him. To the ledge. To the fall she was contemplating.
âYou were not yourself,â he says. âYou wouldnât have done any of that on your own. And youâd be telling any of us the same were our positions reversed.â
Finally, an expression that isnât misery flickers over her features. Itâs something brittle. Amused, but in a way that borders breaking.
âI was, though,â she says. She wonât look at him. Stares down at her hands lying in her lap. âI was me. ThoseâŚthose were all my ideas. He didnât put them in thereââ
âDarlingââ
âHe didnât. Made me want to help Pawpaw, but the rest of it? Fucking with yâall? Hurting the others? Hurting you, any way I could?â
Iloveyou.
Her smile is too thin to be properly named as such. Then she lifts her gaze and sheâs hurting.
âThat was all me. My own initiative. Anything to get what I wanted.â
Astarionâs first years are lost in a haze of torture and humiliation. He must have been taught certain skills. And not willingly. But a spawn has no will of their own. And soon enough, he was released from the palace halls to put his body to use,
He knewâinstinctively or taught, heâs not sureâwhat kind of marks to bring back, and which would draw too much attention. He does remember learning his masterâs type. Which prey would earn him a rat, and which would earn him the kennels.
The rest. The rest, he taught himself. Where to go, what to say. How to drape himself. How to read potential and respond accordingly. How to fashion himself into the perfect bait for whoever he was luring.
Cazador never gave him lines. Never explicitly told him to get down on his knees in an alley stinking of low tide and piss. He never had to. Astarion knew what was expected and did what he had to.
âDo you think I, out of everyone in this miserable tower, donât know what thatâs like?â he says. Too harsh, too sharp, he must not spook the mark. But he doesnât soften, this time. Canât, perhaps. âI know exactly what it is to be commanded. For my body to belong to someone else.â
She pales, face going slack in shock.
âI understand more intimately than you or anyone else could possibly grasp. So believe me, darling, when I say it wasnât your fault.â
She did what she had to.
He did what he had to.
âPeopleâre dead,â she says.
âOh please, a dozen or so.â Her gaze snaps to him, offense building on her brow. âYouâve gotten a few people killed today. Iâve lured in thousands. And Cazador killed them all. Shall I throw myself off with you? Would you ask that of me?â
He holds her stare. She wouldnât, he knows. And he does know (how strange). Let her say something now. Let her try to disparage herself against the sum of all his wrongs. They can compare tally sheets until sheâs blue in the face, and heâll trounce her every time.
She blinks at him. Slowly.
âYouâre really an asshole,â she says.
Does he detect the faintest tremor in her voice? Not of weeping, but of relief?
He does his best to preen. âOne with the best hair in camp.â
She lets out a long, shuddering sigh. Slumps. Wipes at her face and he really does need to make sure she collects a handkerchief of her own.
âSorry,â she says.
He starts to reach for her again. Instinctively stops. But then, then he does. Slides his palm over her cheek so she looks at him.
His friend. Eleanor. Thatâs her back in her eyes. Tired and hurting, but still her. Still here with him.
She turns her head to find the potato he dropped upon seeing her standing at the ledge.
âYou gonna yell at me if I donât feel like eating?â she says.
âI did carry it all this way for you. It seems a touch rude to waste it, donât you think?â
She huffs so quietly at first he mistakes it for another settling sob. But her gaze, well, it isnât bright by any means. But itâs less bleak. And that is a win, as far as heâs concerned.
âRude, yeah,â she says. Sighs again. âWe canât have that, huh?â
He lets her ease herself into a more comfortable position for her poor, beleaguered knee while he retrieves the fallen supplies. That and he doesnât quite trust her to stand just yet. Not up here, on the top of the tower.
He is, once again, the very epitome of kindness and brushes the bits of stone and grime off the skin of the potato. She doesnât give him a silly bow when she takes it, but the corner of her mouth tries to hitch up.
FAVORITE SCENES FROM BECOMING ELIZABETH: 3/â
"You will come with me to court and we'll show the lies for what they are. No more hiding out here in the middle of the country as though in disgrace. Whose idea was it for you to come here, of all places? It was not mine. So whose? I don't know. I don't know who decided it or when, or whether I'm even allowed to leave. Is Sir Anthony my host or my jailor? What was he told? What does he know? What on Earth are you talking about? What on Earth could he know?"
Coming in somewhere around 196 THOUSAND GODDAMN WORDS, and 104 GODDAMN CHAPTERS, Fingers Sifting Black Earth has been completely drafted. Holy fucking SHIT, yâall. Iâve been waiting to use that gif for so long.
I still need to type up the final ten chapters, and get to work on putting together a rough outline for the fourth one. But I will be taking a motherfucking break from first-draft writing, holy fucking shit.
Iâm gonna go eat some costco beignets and check on the crockpot chicken Iâve got going on. Oof!