someone ask if she read meta analysis.
"A queen must make sacrifices for the common good,” Relius said.
“And if what she sacrifices is her heart? Giving it up a piece at a time until there is nothing left? What do you have then, Relius, but a heartless ruler? And what becomes of the common good then?”
“The queen could never be heartless.”
“No,” said the king. “She would die herself, Relius, or lose her mind first and then her heart. Could you not see it happening? Or is your faith in her strength really so blind? Everyone has a breaking point. Yet you never stop demanding more of her.”
The King of Attolia, Megan Whalen Turner
beynotce replied to your post “beynotce replied to your post:[[MO isaidquirky replied to your post…”
NOTHING GOOD WILL COME OF THIS
I AM LETTING YOU KNOW
S3b AU. Emma doesn’t regain her memories prior to returning to Storybrooke
“Emma, now!” Regina shouts, and Emma could swear that David & Snow are right, that she’s a Queen who’s commanded armies. Regina’s voice brooks no dissent, and so Emma concentrates, focuses her emotions love for protection and a little anger to ignite the spell, and tries to remember what it feels like to draw magical energy from her surroundings and shape it to her will.
It falters. It falters but her hand glows blue. She flicks her eyes to Regina and sees the thick purple energy coiling around her hand, sees it flicking out toward the green skinned Wicked Witch. Improbable as it seems, Emma has already seen evidence of magic being real in this world. They’ve told her, all of them, that she can use magic too, and their safety depends on her joining magic with Regina. She tries, she concentrates, but it isn’t coming.
Regina looks at her, eyes shining with magic and intensity and concentration. In front of them, the Wicked Witch cackles and sends another wave of flying monkeys at them. Neal and Hook and David fight valiantly, but swords are poor defense against an aerial attack and they are beaten steadily back. Snow has a bow, but is heavily pregnant and cannot move quickly enough to react to the assault. They are losing. They are losing and Emma cannot stop it.
"Emma! Focus!" It’s Regina’s voice, demanding, unrelenting, and Emma tries to focus but there is so much between her and knowing how to bend magical energy. She is frantic, she knows she must come through, knows there is no margin for error.
Reflexively, she grabs Regina’s hand. The vague buzzing under her skin that she’s come to associate with magic leaps into vibrancy. It courses through her, through their linked hands and back again. The blue energy flares to life around Emma’s hand and surges toward their foe.
"That’s it! That’s it, Emma!"
The energies are merging in front of them, forming an energy field encapsulating the Witch and her minions. Emma can feel Regina’s magic, can sense what it wants to do, and allows her magic to follow. Behind the force field, a vortex whips the enemies defenseless. Emma feels their shared magical connection nudge her, and sends a burst of energy into the air above the Witch. A nudge, a suggestion, and the air coalesces into a thunder cloud, loosing a heavy rain.
The Wicked Witch screams as she dies, and a thick cloud of greenish smoke rises where her body drops, sublimating.
Emma feels a kick back through her magical connection with Regina. It floods her nerves, makes her eyes roll back in her head. She drops to one knee. Her nerve endings feel like they’re on fire and there’s a pounding at her temples and she almost falls over. She hears two voices call her name; one is Regina’s and it is a command, it is a directive to stand up, stand guard, finish the battle. The other is …Snow.
She looks up, sees the concerned face. Sees the chin, same as Henry, same as hers. Sees the wrinkle beneath the left eye, knows it as well as her own face. It’s fuzzy, things don’t quite make sense but…
Snow smiles so broad it threatens to split her face. “Emma!” She grasps Emma tight, presses their cheeks tight together. Snow’s skin is soft soft soft, with a hint of peach fuzz and Emma struggles to place the sensation. “You remember!”
And it’s hazy, it’s fuzzy, and Emma thinks she should have other childhood memories but she doesn’t. It’s still about being in the system, it’s about her foster parents. But she’s remembering, she remembers meeting her real parents, as adults.
"Snow!" It can’t be anyone but Charming, not by his voice, not by the way he sweeps them both up. It’s David, who is Charming, who is her father. His arms circle them possessively, and his hand cradles the back of Emma’s head. It’s strange, and it’s familiar, and Emma is so confused as she remembers, she’s remembering.
Emma is trying to reconcile her memories with the people in front of her. Everything about her parents says hero, says she should be happy, should be grateful. But Emma is remembering seventeen years in the system, and Mary Margaret and David Nolan before the curse — the original curse, dammit this is so confusing! She is remembering. She remembers being told the story of her birth. She remembers Snow’s dewy eyes as she said your best chance.
"You did it! We’ve won!" Snow and Charming, her parents, are exultant. Emma’s head is throbbing, the images are falling into place like rain drops, like water on what’s left of the Wicked Witch, and she’s trying to make sense of everything she’s remembering. A sob rises in Emma’s throat, but she holds it back, she won’t let it out.
They won. Of course they won, because Emma remembers that Snow White is cunning and Prince Charming is relentless and the two of them may lose battles but by god they will win the war. They will do what it takes. They will send their daughter away. They will bring her back from her happy ending. They will do anything. Of course they won.
Oh god, she’s remembering.
"Mom!" She turns at the sound of Henry’s voice, and he’s running, he’s flying toward them. But he isn’t running to her. He’s throwing himself in Regina’s arms, and she, she is holding onto him like he’s the only good and pure thing in any of the realms. She is smoothing his hair, kissing his forehead and saying "I love you, oh I love you so much" like it’s a novena.
Emma is remembering. She is remembering.
She remembers Boston. She remembers a knock at the door and a long car ride and you’re his birth mother?
But wait. How did —-?
She pulls away from Snow and Charming, takes one step then another toward her son. Regina is holding him, right hand curled around his shoulder, left arm thrown across his chest, everything in her posture screaming possession, saying he’s mine.
She’s remembering. She remembers the mine shaft and bring him to me and he’s my son.
She remembers a small body in a hospital bed, she remembers a dragon and thinking all hope was lost. Right now, in the present, where she’s trying to make sense of everything in her head, Emma reaches out to Henry, touches his cheek. She remembers saying I love you and meaning it, with all her heart, for the first time.
She remembers a flash of light, and hearing I love you, too.
She’s remembering. She’s remembering and it makes her sway on her feet.
Regina touches her elbow, lightly, trying to steady her but the residual magic from the spell is still buzzing under their skin. It leaps at the contact, it comes singing back to life.They gasp in unison and Regina snatches her hand away, but the memories are coming back too fast too fast and Emma needs something to hold onto. She grabs a fistful of Regina’s wool coat, holds on for dear life, and buries her face in Henry’s hair.
He smells like the woods, like pine and autumn wind; even as a baby he carried the scent of the outdoors but she can’t know that because she’s remembering, she’s remembering.
Oh god. Oh god. Her boy, her world!
She didn’t hold him. She didn’t even look at him.
The sob that’s been lodged in her throat for so long breaks free and the tears roll fat and hot down her cheeks. She feels a hand, Regina’s hand, settle flat and careful between her shoulder blades and she tries to stay present, stay here, even as the memories come flickering back into her consciousness. Eleven years, eleven years of loneliness; she’s remembering, she’s remembering it all and it’s too much, too much.
"Ma?" Henry cranes his head up to look at her. "Ma, it’s okay. You did it. You and Mom saved everyone, just like always."
She looks at him, and sees impossible love in his eyes; love and trust and that tiny bit of childish awe that puberty hasn’t shaken out of him yet. Just like always.
She remembers. She remembers the mines, and Neverland. She remembers our son, and we’re coming to save you, and we love you.
She can’t fathom it, can’t fathom his boundless belief in her, in them, but she knows it’s warranted. She remembers being on Hook’s ship and holding her breath until Henry finally drew his, she remembers holding him and holding him, and looking at Regina, who somehow knew what to do. She remembers and is so so relieved.
She laughs. “Yeah kid, I guess we did.” She kisses the top of his head, closes her eyes and breathes. She doesn’t dare look at Regina.
Regina’s voice is at her ear, barely more than a whisper. “Welcome back.”
I D E K bro, feelings are confusing. anyway NICE TRY passing the buck to the marketing department of general mills (LOLLL) but i still BLAME YOU for all this confusing stuff that’s happening to me.
OH MY GOD
David & the Kid totally hold court at one of the outside tables after his first segment and accept congratulations. Snow has to sit next to the Kid and play supportive. Regina offers to take pictures. ”Snow, scoot in a little closer. There’s no wide angle lens on iPhones, you know.”
"Did she just call me fat?"
"Of course not, dear, why would I ever do that? No, closer. Why don’t you just put your arm around the Kid?"
*Kid starts eating the edge of Snow’s scarf*
"This fucking GOAT!"
"That’s perfect, hold it!" *Regina snaps the picture, instantly sends it to Sydney for the front page of the Mirror the next morning.*
Let me tell you about the sheer brilliance that is Meryl Streep and her creation of Miranda Priestly.
Ask any young woman what her favourite film of Meryl’s would be, and I’m quite certain that The Devil Wears Prada would come up in conversation, favourite or not. And it may seem like a generic answer: oh, a film about fashion, so obviously women would identify with it. No, that’s not it. This film isn’t about fashion. This film, as Meryl says, “is a story about a woman at the head of a corporate ladder who’s misunderstood, who’s motives and pressures on her are intense and who doesn’t have time to play certain nice games.”
And though screentime and first bill casting can indicate that Andrea Sachs is the main character, who are you really left thinking about at the end of the film?
Miranda Priestly — the woman who was written as a fictional equivalent to Anna Wintour from the novelist Lauren Weisberger’s experience as her assistant — in the novel was a raging, two-dimensional boss from Hell written only to antagonize and complicate the lives of her employees with impossible standards and even more impossible demands. She was expected to resemble Vogue’s editor-in-chief (Miranda’s office in the film a near replica of Anna’s), so imagine everyone’s fucking surprise the first day Meryl showed up on set wearing an untested wig white as snow, with a voice that never raised, where the most deadly delivery was a whisper.
But this scene on the right, this scene that hadn’t existed until Meryl went and thought, “wait a minute, there’s an imbalance of character here…” so she brought it to light and this was written. Sparingly, as it was said, yet one of the very few scenes to be altered in the entire film. This is how it went: Meryl showed up to the scene without any make-up. She walked in, didn’t talk to anybody, sat down and did it, got up and left, went downstairs and waited. She did this scene once.
And the thing is, this wasn’t meant for you to suddenly cheer for Miranda; it was to show you that she was human and that her success came with a costly price that hurt her the most. She thawed the Snow Queen, extinguished the flames of the fiery boss from Hell and gave her what she never had on paper: substance.
If completely reinventing a character from a subpar novel by giving her actual character and successfully distinguishing her from the woman she was based on isn’t considered pure talent, then I don’t know what is.