#hamartia

So I learned a new literary word this past week, and I love learning new words! So you get an info dump and thoughts on it: Hamartia. A word derived from Greek 'hamartanein', meaning to "miss the mark". Aristotle used the word in his work 'Poetics', where it became associated with character flaws OR errors in judgement that result in a character pushing the narrative to a cathartic, tragic end. Either for themselves, many, or the world. Greek tragedy is all about Fate, Pride, and divine intervention. Hm, yes, Pride. In Christian theology it is associated with the fall of man. Hm, the fall of man. Yes.

If hamartia doesn't sum up Solas's story from beginning to end perfectly... a tragic flaw (oh he's got a few!!), a tragic mistake (definitely made some of those, and one big one that made his people fall!). His whole life is a series of tragic circumstances, some self inflicted and others unintentional. They are balanced out somewhat by his good intentions. He cares about the suffering of others. He fights selflessly against slavery, tyranny, oppression. The little things that matter a lot to people personally matter to him (returning a ring, a phylactery, spreading ashes, genuine thought and connection). At his core he is a kind man. Even marred as he is by mental scars that result in prejudice and violence. He denies himself everything to pursue what he believes is right.

And yet his unwavering duty (Pride) to fix his tragic mistake is a tragic flaw. He is the downfall of his people and he will forever be tied to the potential destruction of the world. If he should falter to maintain the Veil with his life after VG, everything will come crashing down. His personal downfall and subsequent binding is the price to pay to try and prevent it for everyone else. And he only narrowly got there because our lovely RPG protags Rook and Inky and team were there to intervene (notexactlydivine intervention and fate). YES. There they are, all the Greek tragedy themes of hamartia. Fate, Pride, Intervention.

Ahh scrumptious literaly analysis ~

No, I doubt inaction is the best word to describe where he went wrong. The play does leave it a little ambiguous, which is why we have hundreds of years of debates about all this, but personally, I believe Hamlet’s true fatal flaw is pride.

Which is impressive, given how much he seems to loathe himself at points. But Hamlet spends the entire play acting like he’s the smartest person in the room, looking down on and discrediting the people around him, and no matter how much reason they may give him to do so, this is ultimately what I think sends him down the wrong path.

It’s made clear with Polonius, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern especially, given that it’s this pride explicitly that gets the three of them killed. Hamlet is shown to consider himself multiple times their intellectual superior, running circles of wit around them in acts 2 and 3, in both of their second scenes, even mocking R&G to their faces for their attempt to play him. And this sense of superiority seems to be his path of reasoning when it comes to distancing himself from and justifying their murders- when Hamlet discovers he’s killed Polonius, his first instinct is to call him a fool, and as he drags the body out of the room, his final words on the matter are to again reinforce the idea that Polonius was a ‘foolish prating knave’ and that his death was divine punishment. With R&G, he kills them without remorse, remarking to Horatio after their deaths that they are ‘not near (my) conscience’, and that their deaths were their own fault for meddling where they shouldn’t have. Even when Horatio rightly points out that killing them was of no benefit to him and actually worsened his situation as there was now a time limit on Hamlet’s plans to enact vengeance imposed by the news of their death returning and Claudius taking more drastic action, Hamlet shrugs him off. Hamlet justifies their deaths at the time by bringing up the letter meant to kill him, but before he’d even found out about the letter or been sent off at all, in the same scene as Polonius’ death Hamlet tells his mother of how he wishes and expects to see the pair ‘hoist by their own petard’, suggesting a level of premeditation. All in all, Hamlet’s intellectual pride is a large part of why these three die, and in the ways they do.

With Ophelia, Hamlet’s pride wounds her as he refuses to let her even respond as he accuses her of cheating on him, and as it stops him from considering any options aside from him being correct, ever. He doesn’t listen to her, doesn’t let her explain, and doesn’t follow up with her besides sexually harassing her publicly and in front of her conservative father and then murdering said father. When he finds out about her death, and hears her brother mourning, his first instinct is to try and ONE-UP HIM, to claim that he loved her more and that he’s more saddened by her passing (after being the entire reason for her death). I’m not even kidding, he starts listing things he’d do that he thinks Laertes wouldn’t or couldn’r to try and ‘beat him’ at his girlfriend’s funeral. And Hamlet never considers in the moment that he might have played a part in her death, or might not have been a great boyfriend. He just wants to be better.

And it’s literally Hamlet’s pride that leads him to the fencing duel where he dies in the first place. It’s explicitly and obviously stated by Claudius and Laertes that they want to play on his jealousy of the attention Laertes has been receiving over his fencing skills and the pride he has in his own to offer him a challenge he can’t (and doesn’t!) refuse. It works, without a single hitch, because Hamlet cannot turn down an opportunity to prove he is better than someone at something. Horatio even tries to get him to turn it down, as they both instinctually know it’s a trap, but Hamlet is too prideful to leave.

Hamlet never considers himself to be wrong about the decisions he makes. It’s either deserved, unfortunate but ultimately deserved, or not his fault. Things happen, and everyone else knows less than he does. He readjusts his moral compass to align with whatever justifications he needs to be ‘right’, and he doesn’t look back. The closest he gets is feeling remorse for putting Laertes in the same situation he’s in, but his apology shifts the blame from himself entirely, even going so far as to victimise himself as well. He is too prideful to leave Claudius to God’s judgement, opting not to kill him in the church which is the turning point for everything going wrong.

And he never sees the consequences as the results of his actions. As he dies, he begs Horatio to live, to tell his story, as he believes it’ll save his reputation. Because it looks bad, sure, but if you just see it from his perspective, it’ll all make sense!

CHARACTER ARC (n): the transformation of a character over the course of a story, sometimes enriched with hamartia to explore the complexities of human nature and endow a sense of authenticity as a character's flaw leads to their ultimate downfall.

LMFHAHAHA okay fine i'll give you a tumblr exclusive preview of chapter 25: The Encore

"A salt lamp. Orange and slowly dying. It sits on your dresser and casts the entire room into a mess of this nighttime sunset feeling, this nectarine-like glow which turns your dress into embers and ash. They don’t have much time to look though, as if they’d want to spend these precious seconds doing anything else but this; kissing your lips in such frantic ways they forget to breathe. They forget to think and they forget to care as your hands, all clammed and sweating, push their blazer from their shoulders, letting the fabric fall onto the carpeted floor with the faintest thud. But this precious time isn’t so precious to you. They realize this as you slow, as your lips once hazardous against their mouth ease with one, long lasting and baited purse - breath exhaling as they inhale the lingering champagne inside you. 

It isn’t enough to cloud you - nothing is clouded now. The fog lifts just the same as their hand folding tightly against your cheek. 

Time is languid again. As if God has raised her hand and slowed the clock down just for the two of you. They struggle because it’s never happened like this before - they’ve never not known desperation. They’ve never not felt the clawing hands of need rushing for clothes to be gone and pleasure to be found. And although you tug on them in this pulpy, sick way, your lips stay frozen on theirs, your hips melting into them with an arm snaking its way around their neck, because there’s nothing desperate about this anymore. 

This isn’t child's play. This isn’t a stolen, drunken affair. It’s intentional, pulling their brows into a firm downturn because nothing else has ever felt this way before. Nothing else has ever made their heart beat the way you do, the same way yours does. Hange takes either of their hands to your waist, holding you with tight fists and bruising finger tips without even realizing - but neither do you. You don’t hiss at the sting of their touch because you can’t feel it, you can’t feel anything but the vibration in their lungs as they muffle what sounds like a groan into your mouth, pulling your own, heightened grate against their lips. 

Instantly you cease. Instantly, you pull away because something happens in your chest. It feels like you’re free falling with no net to catch you, clenching up your chest and your stomach in this way that feels terrifying - as if you could die at any moment and truly, there’d be nothing worse now. You’ve never cared for it before, your death and what it would mean. But now, in the way Hange opens their eye to look at you, you see it all in the ghost-like reflection of their lenses. This death you never feared before eats at you because nothing else has ever mattered to them like you, like them to you. 

Your eyes, simmering beneath your upturned brows, flow like water down their long face. You watch them with lungs filling wide and hardly exhaling as your arm slips from their neck to the front of their buttoned up chest. Your stomach is pressed against their belt, almost painful if it weren’t for how they hold you. Both of their hands are taut at your hips, forcing you away, creating a fragile attempt at distance. 

Here, in your room, in their apartment, in this glow, Hange leans their forehead to yours with a sniffle of their nose as their lips part and eye drops to the way their thumbs dip into you. The black fabric seems to sparkle where they dig too deep, but you care very little for stupid things like that. You only care for the way your hands return to their face, soaking into their hair and fisting up at the back of their head. Their roots are dampened, as you’re sure yours are too. 

They sniffle again. “I can, uh…” they trail, brows dipping down in contemplative thought. They lick their lips, savoring that chalky taste of the lipstick you wear. “I mean, if you want me to, I can sleep with you tonight?” they don’t dare to look your way. They don’t dare to meet your eyes which watch them so carefully. Your lashes nearly touch your brows as a quick flash of a smile graces your mouth. 

Your hands tighten at the back of their head, then untighten. You tug on them in this way which needs no words yet you speak anyway - because you know them. You know their intricacies now and what it means to love someone like them; someone who isn’t like you, isn’t like anyone you’ve met before. Someone dangerously sensitive and overwhelmingly cautious. “Yeah,” you’re soft-toned, “I want you to stay with me after we’re done.”

Hange is this sensitive thing. They feel their chest ball up into a fist at your gentle words and push down a nervous laugh, hardly. “Really?” they grin, fighting something toothy and wide. 

The same as you. “Yeah.”

“Done with…what?” they breathe another tight, awkward laugh. Their throat bobs as they swallow and it stings the whole way down. 

Now truly, this answer needs no words. Your hands slip from their hair tediously, painfully. They slip down the front of their chest until you find their biceps, clasping them in both hands until you fall as well. Down their elbows, down to their wrists still taut on your hips. Meanwhile, you can’t look away. Not from their eye which reluctantly watches your honey-thick movements with lips parted. Taking the backs of their hands in each of yours, you only look up at how their brows begin to nest on their temple as you guide their stubborn grip upwards. 

Their palms skip on you - this is how tense they are. Even against silk, they’re jagged and rough. On your left, you keep their hands on your side, edging them towards your back and keeping them there, locking them in place. On your right, you guide their bony fingers up your body in a road map way. Pit stopping at your ribs, at the side of your breast only for a second before taking them all the way to your shoulder; to the thin strap of your dress. 

It needs no diction. Hange lifts themself from you, fighting nerves with that same, nesting, downturned expression which can only arise from this - resistance muddled with anticipation. Hesitancy mixed with want. You study them like they’re an animal through glass; watching every way their jaw clenches as your fingers leave them and there’s nothing left for them to do but what they desire. A years worth of craving pours from their fingertips as they take that strap between two and delicately pull. 

Your skin is warmer under this light. Though they’d like to believe it’s always been this way, they’ve just never noticed before. They’ve never seen this close up. Hange exhales deeply as they drag the strap down your arm, letting it fall at your side and never once do you look away from them. Never once do you bother for anything but them. 

“Hange,” you’re pleading. Not asking, not demanding. You could get on your knees right now and beg if you had to. 

They look, stopping their movements instantly, sure of a scold to some degree but they know you better than that now. They know you like the back of their hand - this sunset-like somebody. This thing that doesn’t know when to shine or when to darken. Their gaze is an answer to your call so you tread, your hand moving to dangle from their wrist. 

“I want you to take my dress off,” it isn’t an order. It doesn’t feel like you’re asking, it feels like you’re falling into place. "

a few songs for this chapter:

for sure, ethel cain amber waves, ethel cain no choir, florence + the machine poor madeline, daffo st. patrick, pvris empty room session

For those unfamiliar with the word, it means: "a fatal flaw or crucial error that leads to the downfall of a tragic hero/heroine."

Honestly, fatal flaws are one of my favorite things to fixate on when I'm building characters or plotting stories. I absolutely adore tragic characters--an example of one being William Shakespeare's character, Macbeth, a man whose ambition spirals out of control until it leads him to his inevitable downfall.

I don't exactly know what it is about tragic characters that are so fascinating to me. Maybe it's the lessons learned from their stories, or their emotional story in general. Who knows?!

Anyway, just like I love reading about tragic characters (even though they make me feel very depressed and whatnot), I love writing them.

Even when I'm planning/writing my own characters and their tragedies, I can't help but be like "SCREEEE I wish I could save you all from this demise T-T" but at the same time, I'm like, "but what would this story be without your tragedy of a character arc happening in the first place???"

And, lemme tell you, Starshine & Jesters have no shortage of these characters--but I can't go into depth because, y'know, MAJOR SPOILERS. But I can't wait them for to be introduced at the same time.