Rise Up, Oh Heart, For There is Another Battle to Win

Anonymous asked: Anything about the line 'sext: people died for you. i bet you liked it.' from How to Make Love to the God of War for Leia Organa pretty please, your writing is so gorgeous and it would fit Ashe Vernon's poetry so beautifully. ILY thank you so much I hope this promptathon is fun for you.

notbecauseofvictories:

War—what is it good for?

….well, you.

Mostly you.

Almost exclusively you.

(This is not an apology. It is maybe an explanation.)

.

Something you don’t realize until you’re standing in the control room, watching the battle for the Death Star: there’s very little screaming. 

You’re intel, not military; the only experience you have of a warfront is battle sims and holos. The stories you’ve read have all been infantry battles—sentients dodging blaster fire and scattering their blood on the earth, calling for a meddroid even as the concussive missile shakes the air. The sound of AT-ATs, all creaking joints and thunder; clone troopers calling out commands. Droids, screaming. War was loud, full of mud and blood, you knew.

But here, from the control room on Yavin, there’s just the quiet whir of the servers, orders given and received. You can’t hear the chatter of the squadrons—they’re talking to the controllers, who are bent over consoles furiously reading out data. Sometimes one of the sensors beeps—but quietly, as if it’s worried about making a fuss in the huge, heavy silence. Blue Squadron goes down in a rain of fire, their ships immolated against the vast shell of the Death Star, but all you know of it is Lieutenant Rula’s announcement in a cool, flat voice. 

It’s all very civilized.

Somehow, even in victory, you feel a little—cheated.

.

(This is not true. It is not all battle sims and holos; you remember war.

You are eight when you dream of your father on the battlefield. He is holding a sword of fire, and he breathes too loudly, harsh in your ears—you are scared, and so you reach for him, seeking comfort. He turns on you, and he is shadow and death and that awful sword of fire, not your father at all.

He says in a breath of smoke, who—?

You wake up to your father’s arms, real and warm, cradling you to his chest. It was only a nightmare, Bail says, as you cry wracking sobs. Shh, it wasn’t real.

You can still taste it on the inside of your mouth sometimes, ash and fear. Later—after you kiss your brother and find blood in your teeth; after you watch Darth Vader’s corpse burn from the safety of the treeline—you will learn this is your inheritance.)

Keep reading

Anonymous asked: Where does Leia see death?

notbecauseofvictories:

She set out two cups—Alderaanian silver, a gift from those few, miserable and scattered few, who were elsewhere when their world dissolved in fire. Leia’s hands shook badly as she poured out a share of wine into each, and for a moment she was afraid it might spill.

But it didn’t, and the game board stayed immaculately white, pristine as when she had last put it back in its box. Leia set the decanter down, and lowered herself into the chair with a sigh. The games board was not hers either, a gift from Mon Mothma back when they were all holed up on Hoth at close quarters, the abrupt loss of momentum resulting in flashpoint tempers and a restlessness that threatened to drive them all mad. Leia hadn’t touched it in—Force, it would be—

The sound of a chair scraping on the floor startled her out of her reverie.

He was still the same as he had been all those years ago, a young cadet in Imperial grey, handsome and rosy-cheeked. Only his eyes gave him away, the same unholy green as the beam of the Death Star. 

There was blood in his teeth when he smiled. “General,” he said, and his voice was the same awful metallic scrape that made Leia shudder. “It’s been some time since you invited me in for a game.”

“It’s been a while since there was something I wanted to wager for.”

“Your brother?” he asked idly, running a long white finger along the rim of the cup nearest him.

“We already played that game,” Leia reminded him coolly, and he grinned.

“Yes, we did. Best of five, if I remember correctly—one for distal, one for phlanages, one for proximal, for metacarpals and carpals. For your brother’s hand.”

Leia swallowed. She only vaguely remembered that strange and dreamlike night on Endor, the board balanced on her knees because there was nowhere else—Shall we keep playing? had asked with her heart in her throat, because if he said, One more round, that meant Luke was all right and the Emperor hadn’t…that meant her brother was alive. (Alderaan had an old tale like that, a woman who told a story, and the story kept her from dying—Leia had always hated it, wanted that long-ago princess to pick up a blaster and fight, but she was older now. She knew that sometimes, all you could do was sit in the dark, and tell a story that will keep you alive.)

He’s watching her. “Han Solo, then. We are almost at the end of our contract with him, I suppose—”

“You said it would protect him as long as my love lasted!” Leia said, her heart suddenly in her throat. There was no question she loved Han, even now—the width of the galaxy between them and an ocean of bad blood (hers, of course, because when had Darth Vader’s blood not been a curse?) but a broken heart was still a heart, and hers was Han’s. There was no question.

“Your affection, General,” he said quietly, and if those sickly green eyes could hold pity, she suspected they would have, then. “We wagered on your affection for Han Solo. And where your love is steadfast…that has cooled.”

Leia exhaled shakily. “I meant love. You know I did. I was—” The white rooms of Cloud City, the sun bright and high and the sky painful-blue to look at; knowing—knowing—what this feeling was, but unwilling to admit it, even to herself. Not ready to use the word that would make it real.

“That was not strictly the agreement,” he said. His nail scraped across the silver cup, his gaze lingering there. “Does that change your wager?”

“I—no,” Leia said. She had summoned him for a reason, she had to stay faithful to her battle plan.

The awful green eyes flick up, and to her. “Your son, then.”

Leia swallowed. The wine looked tempting, just to steady her nerves, but she could not drink it yet. “Yes. He—left us. I want him back.”

“That is not within my power to grant.”

Leia shot him a withering look. “I want him to be alive long enough to get him back, then.”

“Hm. What terms?”

“You can’t come for him until he is as old as I am.”

“A son will never be as old as his mother, General. I am too wise to fall for word tricks.”

“You can’t come for him until he is returned to the Light.”

“I will not come for him until you hold him in your arms again.”

“No,” Leia snapped, choked with sudden awful fury. She was wiser than these games too; she could easily picture her son bleeding out in her arms, the terms of the contract fulfilled. “I refuse. That’s not enough, I want—”

“I cannot offer more, not without more consideration.”

“Then come for me first.”

He threw his head back and laughed, blood trickling out of the corners of his mouth as he shook. (His laughter was a howl, was the sound of wet flesh and metal, and awful—Leia made a soft noise, resisting the urge to clap her hands to her ears like a child frightened of thunder.) 

“Oh, General,” he finally wheezed. “Thank you for that.”

“I am serious,” Leia said, in the voice she had used mostly to frighten senators and lower-ranked officers. “Those are my terms—you have to come for me before you come for Ben.”

His eyes flashed dangerously. When he spoke, his voice was soft too, almost gentle. “You know I will not come for you until you ask me, Princess. We played that game too.”

Leia knew. No board or pieces then, just her in that narrow Imperial cell,   shaking, almost delirious from the torture droid. A handsome young cadet with eyes of green fire crouching down beside her. Stroking her hair, and saying, come with me, I can take you away from this place. 

He had reached out to grab her wrists and Leia had fought him, clawing at his terrible eyes and snarling, kicking. You get that from your father! he had laughed delightedly, cradling her against him even as she struggled, close enough that Leia had been able to smell the stink on his breath.

I will make you a deal, the cadet had finally said, and Leia’s skin had crawled at the fondness in his voice. I will not come for you until you ask. Say yes?

Please let me go, Leia had whispered, half-sobbing, tired and—Please.

Death had kissed her, and his mouth was cold. Deal.

Leia looked at the Imperial cadet, youthful and bloody-mouthed with his eyes like the fire of the Death Star. “Then let him decide.”

“What?”

“You have to come for me before you come for Ben, but Ben can decide when that is. I give the deal over to him. I give—him that choice.”

The green eyes flickered. “You would let your son kill you?”

That didn’t deserve an answer. “Do we have a wager?” Leia asked coolly, picking up her silver cup and holding it out in a silent toast. The wine sloshed, looking like blood.

“If I go to him, there is no telling what games we we will play,” Death said. “There is a reason we had that game so long ago, where you played to keep me hidden from him.”

“I lost that round,” Leia gritted out. “Do we have a deal?”

He looked at her, then picked up the other silver goblet. They drank, and Leia exhaled. She set down her goblet again, letting the tartness of the wine linger on her tongue. “I assume I am the black and you the white?” Death asked, tapping one of the pieces scattered across the board..

“As we always have been,” Leia said, and Death smiled.

ifeelbetterer:

words-writ-in-starlight replied to your post: leupagus replied to your post: …

Wait, what the FUCK was that movie?

OK STORY TIME

So my mom hated all Bobby Darin/Sandra Dee films on like a bedrock second-wave feminism principle. She hated the color pink, she hated barbies, she hated anything that was too “girly.” But she ESPECIALLY hated Sandra Dee movies based, I think, on the abundance of frills and pink.

So NO ONE believed her about this “imaginary” movie she was SO SURE existed where Sandra Dee uses a dog training manual to make Bobby Darin into the best husband. She could never remember much about the film beyond that and a vivid description of the final scene in which Sandra Dee comes home and finds Bobby Darrin literally down on all fours with his leash in his mouth, coming out of the doghouse he has built in their apartment.

WE LAUGHED AT HER EVERY TIME IT CAME UP. WE. LAUGHED.

But then my sister went through this old films phase where she, like, learned all these ways of hunting down copies of films no one else could get. (I have never questioned this power and y’all don’t really get how magical it was back in the day before youtube and streaming and itunes and whatnot, but she had CONNECTIONS. I think she had an In at TCM?)

But yeah so for a birthday present, my sister tries to hunt down this film based only on the dog training thing.

BOOM. IT EXISTS. 

This is the movie.

It turns out the dog training manual is only one of the plotlines? If I remember correctly, there’s also a question of whether Sandra Dee’s Italian or Boston ancestry is dominant and that they switch? And there’s like a music cue and she goes, “BOSTON COLD” and then like cold shoulders Bobby Darin until he pleases her in some way? And she does indeed get a dog training manual and she does indeed use it on him? And he is unaware and I think it turns out that it makes their marriage, like, the envy of all around them. Only then he finds the manual and is butthurt that she would use a dog training manual on him and they almost split, but then he realizes he is the subbiest sub ever that he really loves her or whatever and does the final scene where she comes back to apologize but he has the dog leash and is willing to be her pet forever and ever amen.

That is my summary and my mom gloated FOR YEARS.

smollestfox:

ah yes they call me “No Queue” Jones because I post everything I reblog at once with no breaks in between and then vanish into the night for extended periods of inactivity

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vintar:

there’s a lot of people pushing back against “write what you know” as advice for aspiring authors and i would like to speak up in its defence for a moment because i just finished reading a mystery book where the murder weapon was a vicious fighting dog, and in the scene where it was finally revealed we found out that a) the person who had stolen it and was using it to kill people it had been keeping it secret from the police by locking it in his car boot, b) it was an irish wolfhound, c) once freed, it attacked the hardboiled detective across the yard instead of the gormless idiot who had been repeatedly stuffing it in a car boot, and d) its way of attacking the detective in this very dramatic finale was via mighty swipes of its sharp claws, which slashed through his skin like knives

i don’t think this author has seen a dog in his life. i think he might have confused them with lions? write what you know: if you’re writing an animal, be fairly confident that you could point to one in a small child’s pop-up book

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