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i_read_whatFantasy and science fiction can contain a lot of acts that really have no real world equivalent. Back when I reviewed Lifeblood, the second book in the Vampire Files series, I ended up reviewing a chapter that contained a scene where the main character is forced to turn another into a vampire. This was portrayed as a terrible violation, using language and imagery that was very reminiscent, to me, of a sexual assault. Even though obviously, no literal rape took place.
Because of the disturbing nature of the scene, I devised a special warning tag: "content warning: rape (symbolic)". This tag is primarily meant for the kind of magical or supernatural or otherwise impossible in the real world acts that evoke similar feelings as a rape scene would.
I bring this up, because for the second time ever in this blog, I am using that tag. Brace yourself.
It's three weeks later. Donal is only just now riding through the gates of Homana-Mujhar with his children in hand. And I find myself wondering why Homana needs a fucking Mujhar at all. And did the Homanans win the fucking war?
Donal doesn't really give a shit, I think.
Donal was weary unto death. He had refused Tarn’s offer of an escort with a woman to care for the children; in some strange, possessive way he felt it better he should tend to the children his meijha had borne him. And so he had ridden alone with his children and his lir and knew somehow it was best.
...dude. Isolde's a year old. How are you FEEDING her?
Anyway, lads come flying out of the stables, all loudly greeting Donal. Donal doesn't answer at all. I realize I should be more sympathetic to his grief, but I'm still wrapped up in the idea of who is running his goddamn country.
Donal and Ian share a moment:
“Jehan—” It was Ian, moving closer to Donal’s side. “This is Homana-Mujhar?”
“Aye.” The tone was flat, lifeless; he was too weary to summon another. “Come up, Ian—there will be time later for you to gape.”
I realize that you're grieving, Donal, but so is your son. And he's fucking four years old. So...stop being a dick?
Donal is greeted by Bronwyn. She asks if it's true that Sorcha is dead. And yet again, Donal cannot be a decent human being when it comes to his sister's grief:
Black hair tangled on her shoulders. Donal thought she looked genuinely shocked. Well, she would be; she and Sorcha had been close. But looking at her, he remembered Strahan. He remembered how closely their blood was linked.
a) Were they close, Ms. Roberson? Because all I remember about them is that Donal inexplicably told his mistress that Bronwyn is Tynstar's daughter, and Sorcha wouldn't let her alone with the children.
b) Even IF Bronwyn's father is evil, that doesn't mean she can't be grieving, you fucking dick. It really would have served everyone right if Bronwyn decided to side with the Ihlini.
Anyway, he asks her to take the children and see that they're fed and given rest. He tells his lir to go to his chambers and wait. Then he asks where Aislinn is, ignoring all of Bronwyn's reasonable questions. She tries to tell him that Aislinn is resting, with the birth of her baby only a month away. She'd heard that Donal was kept prisoner and tries to talk to him, but he "forcibly set her aside".
Donal greets Aislinn:
He said nothing as he entered her chambers. He made no sound. He shut the door. Aislinn looked up and saw him, and terror was in her eyes.
“Donal! Donal—” She pushed herself more upright in the bed, scrabbling in satin pillows. “Donal—wait you—”
Still he said nothing. He crossed the room to the bed and stood there, staring down upon her. She looked so young, so defenseless—
—and so perfectly willing to drive Sorcha to her death.
That's a fucking big assumption, Donal. Even if Aislinn exiled your mistress, which she arguably had a right to do given that she's queen and you were very possibly dead, that doesn't mean Aislinn had any idea that Sorcha was suicidal. It certainly doesn't mean that she willingly drove her to it.
So what's Aislinn's side of things:
She shook. Her lips were colorless. “I knew—I knew—when the messenger came, I knew what you would think—”
“You sent her there. You banished her from her home.” He saw how her taut belly pushed against the linens of her nightshift. “Did you think it would mean nothing to her to lose her home as well as me?”
“Donal—I did not send her! She went of her own accord.”
“Do you say you did not meet with her?”
“We met. We met—I called her to the palace. But I never sent her away. I merely warned her—”
“Warned her about what?”
“That I would never give you up.” Tears ran freely down Aislinn’s face. “Oh gods, all I did was say I would fight her for you. I never sent her away. Donal—I swear—”
He bent over her and pressed her shoulders against the pillows. “—swear nothing! Let me see for myself instead.”
And here we go. Brace yourselves:
Her mouth shaped his name in a cry of terror, but by then he was in her mind.
He felt the shock of the contact reverberate through her body. Her head pressed back against the satin, but her eyes were not closed. They stared at the timbers of the roof beams; blind, senseless eyes, filled with emptiness.
Faintly, very faintly, he heard the protests from his distant lir, who knew very well what he did. And he deliberately ignored them.
—barriers—
Weak. Hardly enough to justify the name. There was no defense as there had been before; no effort to gainsay his entrance. He pushed against her barriers and felt them go down, collapsing, like a castle made of sand.
—fear—
That he could deal with easily. For the first time in his life he did not try to soothe her. He did not try to banish the fear from her mind. Instead, he intensified it, letting her see what he could do.
Aislinn moaned.
It gets worse:
He allowed his awareness to seek out her own, impinging itself upon her will, until she turned and ran from him. In his arms, limp and twitching, she was helpless; in her mind, chased by his will, she was even more so.
Aislinn moaned. She spasmed once, and was still.
Yeeeah.
So, what does he find, you may ask?
Nothing.
For a moment, he retreated. Then he touched her awareness again, probing it tentatively. He recalled how he had made contact with something before, something that had caused him to withdraw as quickly as he could. But this time, there was nothing. No shadow of a link. No trace of any meddling. Aislinn was simply Aislinn.
—and nothing but innocence—
He touched her emotions then. Fear was uppermost. But he caught also the last fading traces of love and trust, as though she knew, even as he forced her, he would never hurt her.
Congratulations, dude. It wasn't enough that you raped her before. And then she raped you. And now you rape her again, basically. Fantastic.
He does at least realize that:
Donal withdrew at once. He fell out of her mind and into his own, aware he had stolen will and wits from her. It was worse, far worse than what Finn had done in his testing. This time it had been much more.
“Aislinn!” His hands still clasped her shoulders. She hung limply in his arms. But her eyes were open. And blank. “Aislinn—come back—” He shook her. Oh gods—what have I done to her—?
It gets worse. Remember how she was resting, because she's one month away from giving birth?
Apparently mind-raping your pregnant seventeen year old wife into catatonia is a great way to induce labor.
Bronwyn and "several others" are now in the doorway, horrified. He runs away into the Great Hall, to be dramatic, because of course there won't be any consequences for this bullshit.
He stands in front of the throne for some Meaningful Symbolism:
It was empty. Sunlight slanted through the stained glass casements and cast their shapes upon the floor, all tales of Homanan lore. That, and Cheysuli history. But Donal hardly saw them.
Instead, he saw the Lion. It crouched upon the dais as if it stalked him, hunching in long grass. But there was no grass, only the cold heart of rose-red stone and the ivory, gold-veined marble dais. The Lion was brown and gilt and gold; its shape was static, trapped in aging wood. But Donal could almost see it beckon.
Slowly, he walked the length of the hall. He was surrounded by ornaments of the past, relics other men kept to remind themselves of what they once had been. Tapestries worked by their women to show their feats of strength and glory. Weapons hung up upon the stone, stained dark with forgotten blood. Banners, some faded to dreary monotones; keepsakes of ancient wars. But even without them, even without the banners, weapons and tapestries, and the glowing, brilliant casements, there was yet another monument to the men who had lived before.
And its name is Homana-Mujhar.
And to think, it only took mind-raping your child bride to realize it.
Anyway, he waits in guilt-stricken angst for someone to come in and tell him he's murdered his wife. But instead, Evan appears. Because Evan is an actually decent dude, he asks if there's anything he can do. He also has news that should be relevant, but seems pretty anticlimactic now:
Evan sighed. For the briefest moment their shared silence was almost companionable, lacking the tension of knowledge. “I arrived a week ago. There was no need for me to stay—the war with Atvia is over.” He shifted his seat upon the stone. “When you slew Osric, you took the heart from them. Two days after you left, the Atvians sent an envoy to our camp, offering their surrender.”
Yay. Anyway, Evan thinks Alaric, Osric's brother, will offer fealty. Rowan's gone to Solinde to finish up with the rebellion. Donal notes that they want freedom of Homana. He might have considered it but he doesn't feel like he can give up something Carillon captured and keep Homanan loyalty.
That..actually makes sense for once.
Donal, rather understandably, is wrapped up in having possibly killed his wife. And Evan is far more sensitive about it than he deserves:
He shut his eyes. “You know what I have done.”
“I know what you have done.”
“And will you curse me for it? I know the others will. The Homanans—” He broke off. “Gods—they have every right. I nearly slew the Queen. And if I am exceedingly fortunate, this will not begin a war.”
“Aye,” Evan agreed. Then, gently, “How could you think it of her, Donal? Aislinn is not the enemy.”
“Not the enemy, no; the victim. Sorcha’s victim, as much as Sorcha was victim herself.” He buried his head in his hands, pressing his forehead. “Oh, gods—how can I believe it? Sorcha—gone…and making Aislinn look so guilty!”
“She must have been very unhappy. To love you so much and yet hate you so much—”
So now we have it. Roberson found an option possibly even MORE misogynistic than having Sorcha's death be because Aislinn sent her away.
Nope, Sorcha SET AISLINN UP to look guilty for her own death. All to punish her and Donal.
Evan explains it all:
Evan shook his head. “I never knew her. I cannot explain much about her, except to say that there are women—and men—whose affection becomes obsession.”
“She said I would turn away from the clans. Turn away from our customs. Seek instead the Homanan way of living.”
“And you did.” Evan put up a silencing hand. “No, I know you did not—but it probably appeared so to her. You were gone for months on end. You wed Aislinn, then went away to war. Returned long enough to get a child on your Homanan wife, then got captured by the Ihlini. Sorcha met with Aislinn, as Rowan said, and undoubtedly the discussion was—heated. Aislinn has a powerful pride. No doubt Sorcha thought she had lost you for good, and to the Homanans. And so she went away, intending to take her own life, but intending also to make it look as if Aislinn had driven her to it.”
I appreciate how Evan is the only character in this stupid book to regularly show empathy for other people. But this is still utter bullshit.
Anyway, Meghan appears, with news: Donal has a healthy son. He'd been so wrapped up in his angst that he forgot about that part. Aislinn, however, is very weak and Meghan recommends he go to her.
--
So how is she?
When at last he looked upon his wife, he saw a child in the bed; a child whose glorious hair spread across the pillows in rich red disarray. Her fair skin was whiter still with the waxy look of the ill. Gold-tipped lashes lay against the dark circles beneath her eyes. The bedclothes were pulled up under her chin, but one arm lay across the coverlet, blue-veined against the fairness of her flesh.
Oh gods, what have I done to her? How could you let me do it? But he knew, even as he asked it, the question was unfair. He had only himself to blame.
Donal sat down on the edge of her bed. He was alone with her, having dismissed her women, and now all he wanted was to see her looking at him from her great gray, shining eyes.
Electra’s eyes— Abruptly he shook his head. No, her own. I am done laying Electra’s machinations at the feet of her innocent daughter.
I mean, I feel like this beat would work better if you didn't have her rape him at one point, Ms. Roberson. But I do appreciate Donal feeling guilty.
He gives her a speech:
“Aislinn,” he said. “She was all I ever wanted. A Cheysuli warrior may take as many women as he chooses, providing the women are willing, but for me—for me it was always Sorcha. Ever since we were young.” He looked down on her pale, still face. “You yourself are so young—you cannot know what it is to love someone from childhood—” He broke it off. By all the gods!—I wrong her again, as I have wronged her all along. I pride myself on knowing I have loved Sorcha all these years—and all the while I was no younger than Aislinn is now when I knew what Sorcha meant to me. She bore me a child when she was not so much younger than Aislinn is now. Gods—I have been such a selfish brute—
Well, I mean, at least you realize that. It would have been nice if you realized that at some point before the third chapter from the end of the book.
Anyway, he calls the earth magic to heal Aislinn. Yay.
So she wakes up. He's kind of disoriented. She, rather understandably freaks out. He claims he sought only to know the truth.
Aislinn gets her own chance to monologue a little as she tells him that she's loved him all her life, but he'd already had Sorcha. She admits she wanted Sorcha gone, but insists that she didn't send her away.
Donal knows that now.
It's hard, because I really want to excerpt all of this. But I'll make do. She asks what he did to her. If he healed her only to send her away. Donal breaks down, with all of his suppressed grief and trauma, and admits he has no one left except her.
Well, and Rowan. And Evan. And Bronwyn. And his children. And Meghan.
You know who ACTUALLY has no one in her corner? Aislinn. Donal thought, for a time, that he may have actually murdered her, but did he fear any kind of retribution? Of course not. He felt guilty, which is good, but it's not like he'd have gone to prison or exile.
She asks if he expects forgiveness. No. So what does he want from her:
“I want you to live,” he told her plainly. “I ask for nothing from you save that.”
“Why? So you may hurt me again?” Her hand shook as she touched her breast. “So you may hurt my heart again?”
Her broken, vulnerable tone broke the final barriers against emotion. “What promises can I make you?” he asked in desperation. “What words would you have me say? After all I have done to you, do you expect me to change with a wave of a hand?” He felt bitterness in his mouth. “Would you wish to have me beg? I will do it.”
“Beg me?” She stared.
He shut his eyes. “Tell me what you want.”
She swallowed heavily. “Once—I wanted your love. But that was too much to ask…you had given it to her.” Tears ran down her face. One shaking hand tried to hide the quivering of her mouth. “I only—I only wanted a chance—a chance to know what it was—”
Poor Aislinn. Not to excuse what she did, but I do feel like it's relevant that she's still all of seventeen years old. A child. And this is the mess she ended up in.
So...what resolution can we possibly have here. With this mess of a relationship between these two, and their mess of emotions, neglect, mutual rape, and so on...
“You do not love me.” The intonation was precise, as if she wished to make it clear.
He looked at her sharply, fearing she sickened again. But he saw high color in her face and a startled recognition in her eyes. “You do not love me,” she repeated, with wonder in her voice, “but you need me. You need me.”
The breath slipped out of his throat. “I need you,” he admitted. “By all the gods, I do.”
Aislinn stared at him a long moment, all manner of emotion in her face. He saw anger and pain and grief and regret, but he also saw something else. Something akin to possessiveness.
“Well,” she said with intense, peculiar triumph, “perhaps that will be enough.”
...
It probably says something about me that this resolution kind of works for me.
It's wrong. It's dark. It's twisted. For all that Donal has acquitted Aislinn of being like Electra in his own mind, this is the most like Electra that Aislinn has ever sounded.
She's trapped, tied forever to a man that's hurt her, that she's hurt in turn. But now, she's found some kind of power in it.
Maybe that's enough.
But fuck if it's not really depressing that THIS is the romantic resolution of this book. Of course, if we consider Shapechangers and Song of Homana...maybe it's true to form.
Who knows. All I know is that the chapter is finished. Thank god.
Because of the disturbing nature of the scene, I devised a special warning tag: "content warning: rape (symbolic)". This tag is primarily meant for the kind of magical or supernatural or otherwise impossible in the real world acts that evoke similar feelings as a rape scene would.
I bring this up, because for the second time ever in this blog, I am using that tag. Brace yourself.
It's three weeks later. Donal is only just now riding through the gates of Homana-Mujhar with his children in hand. And I find myself wondering why Homana needs a fucking Mujhar at all. And did the Homanans win the fucking war?
Donal doesn't really give a shit, I think.
Donal was weary unto death. He had refused Tarn’s offer of an escort with a woman to care for the children; in some strange, possessive way he felt it better he should tend to the children his meijha had borne him. And so he had ridden alone with his children and his lir and knew somehow it was best.
...dude. Isolde's a year old. How are you FEEDING her?
Anyway, lads come flying out of the stables, all loudly greeting Donal. Donal doesn't answer at all. I realize I should be more sympathetic to his grief, but I'm still wrapped up in the idea of who is running his goddamn country.
Donal and Ian share a moment:
“Jehan—” It was Ian, moving closer to Donal’s side. “This is Homana-Mujhar?”
“Aye.” The tone was flat, lifeless; he was too weary to summon another. “Come up, Ian—there will be time later for you to gape.”
I realize that you're grieving, Donal, but so is your son. And he's fucking four years old. So...stop being a dick?
Donal is greeted by Bronwyn. She asks if it's true that Sorcha is dead. And yet again, Donal cannot be a decent human being when it comes to his sister's grief:
Black hair tangled on her shoulders. Donal thought she looked genuinely shocked. Well, she would be; she and Sorcha had been close. But looking at her, he remembered Strahan. He remembered how closely their blood was linked.
a) Were they close, Ms. Roberson? Because all I remember about them is that Donal inexplicably told his mistress that Bronwyn is Tynstar's daughter, and Sorcha wouldn't let her alone with the children.
b) Even IF Bronwyn's father is evil, that doesn't mean she can't be grieving, you fucking dick. It really would have served everyone right if Bronwyn decided to side with the Ihlini.
Anyway, he asks her to take the children and see that they're fed and given rest. He tells his lir to go to his chambers and wait. Then he asks where Aislinn is, ignoring all of Bronwyn's reasonable questions. She tries to tell him that Aislinn is resting, with the birth of her baby only a month away. She'd heard that Donal was kept prisoner and tries to talk to him, but he "forcibly set her aside".
Donal greets Aislinn:
He said nothing as he entered her chambers. He made no sound. He shut the door. Aislinn looked up and saw him, and terror was in her eyes.
“Donal! Donal—” She pushed herself more upright in the bed, scrabbling in satin pillows. “Donal—wait you—”
Still he said nothing. He crossed the room to the bed and stood there, staring down upon her. She looked so young, so defenseless—
—and so perfectly willing to drive Sorcha to her death.
That's a fucking big assumption, Donal. Even if Aislinn exiled your mistress, which she arguably had a right to do given that she's queen and you were very possibly dead, that doesn't mean Aislinn had any idea that Sorcha was suicidal. It certainly doesn't mean that she willingly drove her to it.
So what's Aislinn's side of things:
She shook. Her lips were colorless. “I knew—I knew—when the messenger came, I knew what you would think—”
“You sent her there. You banished her from her home.” He saw how her taut belly pushed against the linens of her nightshift. “Did you think it would mean nothing to her to lose her home as well as me?”
“Donal—I did not send her! She went of her own accord.”
“Do you say you did not meet with her?”
“We met. We met—I called her to the palace. But I never sent her away. I merely warned her—”
“Warned her about what?”
“That I would never give you up.” Tears ran freely down Aislinn’s face. “Oh gods, all I did was say I would fight her for you. I never sent her away. Donal—I swear—”
He bent over her and pressed her shoulders against the pillows. “—swear nothing! Let me see for myself instead.”
And here we go. Brace yourselves:
Her mouth shaped his name in a cry of terror, but by then he was in her mind.
He felt the shock of the contact reverberate through her body. Her head pressed back against the satin, but her eyes were not closed. They stared at the timbers of the roof beams; blind, senseless eyes, filled with emptiness.
Faintly, very faintly, he heard the protests from his distant lir, who knew very well what he did. And he deliberately ignored them.
—barriers—
Weak. Hardly enough to justify the name. There was no defense as there had been before; no effort to gainsay his entrance. He pushed against her barriers and felt them go down, collapsing, like a castle made of sand.
—fear—
That he could deal with easily. For the first time in his life he did not try to soothe her. He did not try to banish the fear from her mind. Instead, he intensified it, letting her see what he could do.
Aislinn moaned.
It gets worse:
He allowed his awareness to seek out her own, impinging itself upon her will, until she turned and ran from him. In his arms, limp and twitching, she was helpless; in her mind, chased by his will, she was even more so.
Aislinn moaned. She spasmed once, and was still.
Yeeeah.
So, what does he find, you may ask?
Nothing.
For a moment, he retreated. Then he touched her awareness again, probing it tentatively. He recalled how he had made contact with something before, something that had caused him to withdraw as quickly as he could. But this time, there was nothing. No shadow of a link. No trace of any meddling. Aislinn was simply Aislinn.
—and nothing but innocence—
He touched her emotions then. Fear was uppermost. But he caught also the last fading traces of love and trust, as though she knew, even as he forced her, he would never hurt her.
Congratulations, dude. It wasn't enough that you raped her before. And then she raped you. And now you rape her again, basically. Fantastic.
He does at least realize that:
Donal withdrew at once. He fell out of her mind and into his own, aware he had stolen will and wits from her. It was worse, far worse than what Finn had done in his testing. This time it had been much more.
“Aislinn!” His hands still clasped her shoulders. She hung limply in his arms. But her eyes were open. And blank. “Aislinn—come back—” He shook her. Oh gods—what have I done to her—?
It gets worse. Remember how she was resting, because she's one month away from giving birth?
Apparently mind-raping your pregnant seventeen year old wife into catatonia is a great way to induce labor.
Bronwyn and "several others" are now in the doorway, horrified. He runs away into the Great Hall, to be dramatic, because of course there won't be any consequences for this bullshit.
He stands in front of the throne for some Meaningful Symbolism:
It was empty. Sunlight slanted through the stained glass casements and cast their shapes upon the floor, all tales of Homanan lore. That, and Cheysuli history. But Donal hardly saw them.
Instead, he saw the Lion. It crouched upon the dais as if it stalked him, hunching in long grass. But there was no grass, only the cold heart of rose-red stone and the ivory, gold-veined marble dais. The Lion was brown and gilt and gold; its shape was static, trapped in aging wood. But Donal could almost see it beckon.
Slowly, he walked the length of the hall. He was surrounded by ornaments of the past, relics other men kept to remind themselves of what they once had been. Tapestries worked by their women to show their feats of strength and glory. Weapons hung up upon the stone, stained dark with forgotten blood. Banners, some faded to dreary monotones; keepsakes of ancient wars. But even without them, even without the banners, weapons and tapestries, and the glowing, brilliant casements, there was yet another monument to the men who had lived before.
And its name is Homana-Mujhar.
And to think, it only took mind-raping your child bride to realize it.
Anyway, he waits in guilt-stricken angst for someone to come in and tell him he's murdered his wife. But instead, Evan appears. Because Evan is an actually decent dude, he asks if there's anything he can do. He also has news that should be relevant, but seems pretty anticlimactic now:
Evan sighed. For the briefest moment their shared silence was almost companionable, lacking the tension of knowledge. “I arrived a week ago. There was no need for me to stay—the war with Atvia is over.” He shifted his seat upon the stone. “When you slew Osric, you took the heart from them. Two days after you left, the Atvians sent an envoy to our camp, offering their surrender.”
Yay. Anyway, Evan thinks Alaric, Osric's brother, will offer fealty. Rowan's gone to Solinde to finish up with the rebellion. Donal notes that they want freedom of Homana. He might have considered it but he doesn't feel like he can give up something Carillon captured and keep Homanan loyalty.
That..actually makes sense for once.
Donal, rather understandably, is wrapped up in having possibly killed his wife. And Evan is far more sensitive about it than he deserves:
He shut his eyes. “You know what I have done.”
“I know what you have done.”
“And will you curse me for it? I know the others will. The Homanans—” He broke off. “Gods—they have every right. I nearly slew the Queen. And if I am exceedingly fortunate, this will not begin a war.”
“Aye,” Evan agreed. Then, gently, “How could you think it of her, Donal? Aislinn is not the enemy.”
“Not the enemy, no; the victim. Sorcha’s victim, as much as Sorcha was victim herself.” He buried his head in his hands, pressing his forehead. “Oh, gods—how can I believe it? Sorcha—gone…and making Aislinn look so guilty!”
“She must have been very unhappy. To love you so much and yet hate you so much—”
So now we have it. Roberson found an option possibly even MORE misogynistic than having Sorcha's death be because Aislinn sent her away.
Nope, Sorcha SET AISLINN UP to look guilty for her own death. All to punish her and Donal.
Evan explains it all:
Evan shook his head. “I never knew her. I cannot explain much about her, except to say that there are women—and men—whose affection becomes obsession.”
“She said I would turn away from the clans. Turn away from our customs. Seek instead the Homanan way of living.”
“And you did.” Evan put up a silencing hand. “No, I know you did not—but it probably appeared so to her. You were gone for months on end. You wed Aislinn, then went away to war. Returned long enough to get a child on your Homanan wife, then got captured by the Ihlini. Sorcha met with Aislinn, as Rowan said, and undoubtedly the discussion was—heated. Aislinn has a powerful pride. No doubt Sorcha thought she had lost you for good, and to the Homanans. And so she went away, intending to take her own life, but intending also to make it look as if Aislinn had driven her to it.”
I appreciate how Evan is the only character in this stupid book to regularly show empathy for other people. But this is still utter bullshit.
Anyway, Meghan appears, with news: Donal has a healthy son. He'd been so wrapped up in his angst that he forgot about that part. Aislinn, however, is very weak and Meghan recommends he go to her.
--
So how is she?
When at last he looked upon his wife, he saw a child in the bed; a child whose glorious hair spread across the pillows in rich red disarray. Her fair skin was whiter still with the waxy look of the ill. Gold-tipped lashes lay against the dark circles beneath her eyes. The bedclothes were pulled up under her chin, but one arm lay across the coverlet, blue-veined against the fairness of her flesh.
Oh gods, what have I done to her? How could you let me do it? But he knew, even as he asked it, the question was unfair. He had only himself to blame.
Donal sat down on the edge of her bed. He was alone with her, having dismissed her women, and now all he wanted was to see her looking at him from her great gray, shining eyes.
Electra’s eyes— Abruptly he shook his head. No, her own. I am done laying Electra’s machinations at the feet of her innocent daughter.
I mean, I feel like this beat would work better if you didn't have her rape him at one point, Ms. Roberson. But I do appreciate Donal feeling guilty.
He gives her a speech:
“Aislinn,” he said. “She was all I ever wanted. A Cheysuli warrior may take as many women as he chooses, providing the women are willing, but for me—for me it was always Sorcha. Ever since we were young.” He looked down on her pale, still face. “You yourself are so young—you cannot know what it is to love someone from childhood—” He broke it off. By all the gods!—I wrong her again, as I have wronged her all along. I pride myself on knowing I have loved Sorcha all these years—and all the while I was no younger than Aislinn is now when I knew what Sorcha meant to me. She bore me a child when she was not so much younger than Aislinn is now. Gods—I have been such a selfish brute—
Well, I mean, at least you realize that. It would have been nice if you realized that at some point before the third chapter from the end of the book.
Anyway, he calls the earth magic to heal Aislinn. Yay.
So she wakes up. He's kind of disoriented. She, rather understandably freaks out. He claims he sought only to know the truth.
Aislinn gets her own chance to monologue a little as she tells him that she's loved him all her life, but he'd already had Sorcha. She admits she wanted Sorcha gone, but insists that she didn't send her away.
Donal knows that now.
It's hard, because I really want to excerpt all of this. But I'll make do. She asks what he did to her. If he healed her only to send her away. Donal breaks down, with all of his suppressed grief and trauma, and admits he has no one left except her.
Well, and Rowan. And Evan. And Bronwyn. And his children. And Meghan.
You know who ACTUALLY has no one in her corner? Aislinn. Donal thought, for a time, that he may have actually murdered her, but did he fear any kind of retribution? Of course not. He felt guilty, which is good, but it's not like he'd have gone to prison or exile.
She asks if he expects forgiveness. No. So what does he want from her:
“I want you to live,” he told her plainly. “I ask for nothing from you save that.”
“Why? So you may hurt me again?” Her hand shook as she touched her breast. “So you may hurt my heart again?”
Her broken, vulnerable tone broke the final barriers against emotion. “What promises can I make you?” he asked in desperation. “What words would you have me say? After all I have done to you, do you expect me to change with a wave of a hand?” He felt bitterness in his mouth. “Would you wish to have me beg? I will do it.”
“Beg me?” She stared.
He shut his eyes. “Tell me what you want.”
She swallowed heavily. “Once—I wanted your love. But that was too much to ask…you had given it to her.” Tears ran down her face. One shaking hand tried to hide the quivering of her mouth. “I only—I only wanted a chance—a chance to know what it was—”
Poor Aislinn. Not to excuse what she did, but I do feel like it's relevant that she's still all of seventeen years old. A child. And this is the mess she ended up in.
So...what resolution can we possibly have here. With this mess of a relationship between these two, and their mess of emotions, neglect, mutual rape, and so on...
“You do not love me.” The intonation was precise, as if she wished to make it clear.
He looked at her sharply, fearing she sickened again. But he saw high color in her face and a startled recognition in her eyes. “You do not love me,” she repeated, with wonder in her voice, “but you need me. You need me.”
The breath slipped out of his throat. “I need you,” he admitted. “By all the gods, I do.”
Aislinn stared at him a long moment, all manner of emotion in her face. He saw anger and pain and grief and regret, but he also saw something else. Something akin to possessiveness.
“Well,” she said with intense, peculiar triumph, “perhaps that will be enough.”
...
It probably says something about me that this resolution kind of works for me.
It's wrong. It's dark. It's twisted. For all that Donal has acquitted Aislinn of being like Electra in his own mind, this is the most like Electra that Aislinn has ever sounded.
She's trapped, tied forever to a man that's hurt her, that she's hurt in turn. But now, she's found some kind of power in it.
Maybe that's enough.
But fuck if it's not really depressing that THIS is the romantic resolution of this book. Of course, if we consider Shapechangers and Song of Homana...maybe it's true to form.
Who knows. All I know is that the chapter is finished. Thank god.
Alix wants to say some things...
Date: 2021-10-27 09:02 am (UTC)It's three weeks later. Donal is only just now riding through the gates of Homana-Mujhar with his children in hand. And I find myself wondering why Homana needs a fucking Mujhar at all. And did the Homanans win the fucking war?
Donal doesn't really give a shit, I think.
Pan: Good question! We saw that killing the leader in this series does NOT end a faction, so...
Alix: So, we are sporking what would happen if Stormwolf never found me? I think I will be really grateful.
He said nothing as he entered her chambers. He made no sound. He shut the door. Aislinn looked up and saw him, and terror was in her eyes.
“Donal! Donal—” She pushed herself more upright in the bed, scrabbling in satin pillows. “Donal—wait you—”
Still he said nothing. He crossed the room to the bed and stood there, staring down upon her. She looked so young, so defenseless—
—and so perfectly willing to drive Sorcha to her death.
Alix: I know we HAVE met such people, but they are the exception.
But seriously, you look like you are going to beat up your wife! That's wrong on so many levels!
Pan: I think he is supposed to be your son.
Alix: What? Please no.
“We met. We met—I called her to the palace. But I never sent her away. I merely warned her—”
“Warned her about what?”
“That I would never give you up.” Tears ran freely down Aislinn’s face. “Oh gods, all I did was say I would fight her for you. I never sent her away. Donal—I swear—”
He bent over her and pressed her shoulders against the pillows. “—swear nothing! Let me see for myself instead.”
Pan: If she tells the truth, she is misunderstood.
Her mouth shaped his name in a cry of terror, but by then he was in her mind.
He felt the shock of the contact reverberate through her body. Her head pressed back against the satin, but her eyes were not closed. They stared at the timbers of the roof beams; blind, senseless eyes, filled with emptiness.
Faintly, very faintly, he heard the protests from his distant lir, who knew very well what he did. And he deliberately ignored them.
Alix: Ok, this is not my son for sure. The Dark One mind rapes, not a hero.
This can't be excused!
—barriers—
Weak. Hardly enough to justify the name. There was no defense as there had been before; no effort to gainsay his entrance. He pushed against her barriers and felt them go down, collapsing, like a castle made of sand.
—fear—
That he could deal with easily. For the first time in his life he did not try to soothe her. He did not try to banish the fear from her mind. Instead, he intensified it, letting her see what he could do.
Aislinn moaned.
It gets worse:
He allowed his awareness to seek out her own, impinging itself upon her will, until she turned and ran from him. In his arms, limp and twitching, she was helpless; in her mind, chased by his will, she was even more so.
Aislinn moaned. She spasmed once, and was still.
Pan and Alix: AAAAAAARGH!
Pan: This is literal mind rape. Congratulations, Donal! You are now in the lead with 2-1 in being an absolute scumbag! Oh, by the way, this is similar to how Kylo Ren invades minds.
Alix: Kylo Ren... as the one the Dark One forced on Rey?
Pan: Precisely.
He touched her emotions then. Fear was uppermost. But he caught also the last fading traces of love and trust, as though she knew, even as he forced her, he would never hurt her.
Alix: T... This is sickening! Even the Yokai I fought, while man-eating brutes, were not like this!
Oh gods, what have I done to her? How could you let me do it? But he knew, even as he asked it, the question was unfair. He had only himself to blame.
Pan: Well, at least he is not a sociopath.
“Not the enemy, no; the victim. Sorcha’s victim, as much as Sorcha was victim herself.” He buried his head in his hands, pressing his forehead. “Oh, gods—how can I believe it? Sorcha—gone…and making Aislinn look so guilty!”
“She must have been very unhappy. To love you so much and yet hate you so much—”
So now we have it. Roberson found an option possibly even MORE misogynistic than having Sorcha's death be because Aislinn sent her away.
Nope, Sorcha SET AISLINN UP to look guilty for her own death. All to punish her and Donal.
Pan: Aaand my sympathy for Sorcha dropped to zero, while Aislinn is now more likable for me. How do you make a woman's death worse than fridging, well, make her like a spiteful idiot with Yandere tendencies.
“I want you to live,” he told her plainly. “I ask for nothing from you save that.”
“Why? So you may hurt me again?” Her hand shook as she touched her breast. “So you may hurt my heart again?”
Pan: I am firmly on Aislinn's side.
Gods—I have been such a selfish brute—
Alix: Understatement. I have seen my comrades beat themselves over for far less.
Pan: You know, this reminds me of Harrymort, from Partially Kissed Hero. He threw up after he made three people eat each other forever and one moment of feeling bad automatically abolished him of his evils.
Alix: Overall, I believe this ending is very dark, and this relationship is very dysfunctional. Aislinn is right, this is not true love, this is needing someone.
Re: Alix wants to say some things...
Date: 2021-10-27 08:30 pm (UTC)Re: Alix wants to say some things...
Date: 2021-10-27 08:41 pm (UTC)Re: Alix wants to say some things...
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