I just reread Chapter 6 and laughed myself silly so I think Fred & Co. is due for some more satirical attention.

Recap: Fred rejected the idea of reuniting with his older brother, walked into a noisy tavern and almost passed out, got trash talked by his older brother and Andre, and made friends with a Dirty Suspicious Innkeeper.

Also, it snowed. A cunning setup for Chapter 7, in which we find Fred and his siblings trekking laboriously across a seemingly endless frozen wasteland...

***

Fred halted, removed his threadbare gloves, and breathed into them. Once, twice, three times, a fourth. Reluctantly he pulled them on, feeling the warmth against his stiff fingers and knowing it would be only seconds before they were as cold as before.

Yooooo welcome to Michigan

He glanced over his shoulder. Marjorie's head was bent as she walked on; the crumbled snow showed white on the dark folds of her dress. Sandy's unwanted, uneven braid tumbled over her shoulder, accentuating her reddened cheeks and nose. Red was better than white... There had been a dreadful argument over the braid. Marjorie had said Sandy should braid her hair, because of the wind outside.

Sandy said no.

Marjorie had gently repeated yes.

He had taken Marjorie's side; Sandy was furious.

Sandy said, what about the wind before Egbert's Prison? She hadn't braided her hair then.

Yes, Marjorie said, but that wind had always been in their faces, never changing direction. This wind was constantly changing, constantly whipping in different directions, and since Sandy hardly ever brushed her hair, it would soon come to the point where they would have to cut most of it off.

Sandy had gasped; her hands had flown to her head in the first feminine gesture he had ever seen her make.

Only about 45% convinced by the argument. In all seriousness, even an unvarying wind *would* have tangled Sandy's hair on the way to EHFC, and that's not even taking into account the fact that humans RATHER frequently change direction relative to the wind. Just,,, really not feeling the "that potato was SO much different from this potato" line of reasoning.

Honestly this seems like an elaborate ploy on Marjorie's part to impose good grooming habits on her sister.

He had been surprised; about as surprised as he was relieved. He would have never guessed that Sandy cared a whit about her hair.

But here they were; and Sandy absolutely, point-blank refused to let Marjorie do it... so Marjorie, with misgivings, had stepped aside and allowed Sandy to try herself.

The result was a messy, uneven, Sandy-ish braid; but it was neat enough that Marjorie did not interfere. And so Sandy did it regularly – every morning before they set out. After all, it was either that or brush it twice a day.

Reinforcing the whole "Marjorie invented this so that Sandy would actually get a morning routine" theory.

Also I can't believe I just read an entire page about Sandy's hair.

I'm exercising my authorly prerogative to redact the next 7 paragraphs about Powhatan because they're so cringe (not to mention extraneous) that if I have to type them out I might pull a Victorian-heroine Fred and pass out.

Again, he looked ahead, straining to see something that would make him feel like they were getting somewhere. For days it had been a never-ending snowy plain of whiteness, only the mountains to the northwest getting fainter and farther away. Days... five days, to be exact. One week since they had left the Boar and the town about it. And – what! What was that on the horizon?

It was something, anyway – something they were like to reach around evening – something to break the monotony of snow fields. Something, hopefully, to satisfy the gnawing worry inside him; that what-if-they-were-lost.

A part of Fred relaxed, and he quickened his pace.

By dusk they were upon it – a huge, ominous forest, dark and brooding, stretching in an unbroken line from north and west to south and east.

First sight of Edivernel in the first draft: looms up out of the wilderness, "dark and brooding", hints at menace within and bad things for our travelers, totally not suspicious at all

First sight of Edivernel in the final draft: The most important thing is that this place is heckin' gorgeous

Fred peered in, brows drawn together in doubt. The outside did not look promising.

But under the eaves, he found, the canopy above was so thick that all snow was held out and the air was warm and dry. He waved the others on in.

convENient

Powhatan proclaimed him a fool. The woods might be the abode of evil spirits. But he came in anyway, to guard them.

What place was this... Fred wondered drowsily as he lay warmly wrapped with the firelight dancing and crackling in front of him. Barring the dimness, it promised to be a pleasant place to travel in...

Raising himself up on one elbow, he reached inside his coat and spread out the map. He smoothed out the creases, bending down to see in the flickering light.

I have a few salty thoughts about him not referencing the map until they'd been in this forest for, like, six hours. I mean, for someone who was stressed about being lost...

The sound of a snapping stick caused his head to jerk up sharply. He saw in a brief flash the dark, handsome features of Lancelot Thorn illuminated in the firelight, before something hard and heavy crashed down on the back of his head, and the darkness claimed him.

~

The blackness was slow to lift. And when it did begin to he wished it would not. There was too much pain.

okay, say what you want about the quality of this draft (and I have and will), but the above line slaps

It throbbed and burned, centralizing at the back of his head and shooting outwards. For a long time he did not move or think at all, only steeled himself against the pain, for how long he did not know. It must have been hours.

By degrees he became aware that it was lessening... and cautiously, very cautiously, he opened his eyes.

He discovered that he was lying on his back; above him the stone ceiling was shrouded in dimness, and for a moment he was confused, thinking back to the other dim stone ceiling of Andrew Wilson. (oh right... that was a thing lol) Then memory returned and he shut his eyes with a shudder. (memory of what?? You don't even know what happened, let alone connect it to anything specifically worthy of a shudder)

But why? And who? And where was he?

REFER TO MY PREVIOUS POINT

A voice cut into his muddled conjectures. Lancelot...? For it sounded like Lancelot – lazy, pensive, callous. [love that he has this mental file for his long-estranged brother's voice after hearing it exactly once] But there was something else too... what? ... And with his intense concentration on the voice itself, he did not heed in the slightest the words which were spoken.

"... No, don't try that on me. I saw your eyes open not two minutes ago. Come now, look up like a good boy."

Amusement – Fred suddenly knew – no, more than that. Laughter. Ignoring a protesting throb, he turned his head in the direction of the speaker and opened his eyes a second time.

"That's more like it," said the voice approvingly.

A lean, narrow, cleanshaven face framed by long dark hair; hard, calculating black eyes; a fine, thin, straight nose; highly expressive brows... Lancelot. Naturally it was Lancelot. Yet there was something... something struggling to surface...

And it burst suddenly into Fred's mind, crying dissent. No! That was not Lancelot's mouth!

why is this so melodramatic I'm crying

Wide, yes... thin-lipped, yes... but the derisive, lilting twist – and the smile?! Yes, Lancelot smiled – a thin, hardly humorous smile – but a broad, mocking grin? No – no – and again, no!

someone sedate me

newsflash my friend! most people are physically capable of smiling at different widths!

This would be a lot more effective if we as the reader had spent more time with Lancelot, or were watching through the eyes of someone who had known him a long time. Instead it just reads like Fred making more dumb assumptions about his brother's personality, a brother whom he has done nothing but make assumptions about since he met him 1.5 chapters ago.

"Head hurting?" asked the young man with that queer, ever-present laughter in his tone.

A cruel laughter... thought Fred. Genuine but cruel...

He did not answer.

I had a lot of good seeds in here that I was able to salvage and repurpose in the 2016 rewrite. But oh how Fred vibes Victorian fainting woman right now.

"Mute?" the young man man questioned amiably. "That's always rather handy for the captured person, you know; hard to ask him questions."

if that doesn't read like 14-year-old whump villain dialogue I don't know what does

"No."

"Ah... honest. That's wise, you know... if you hadn't admitted it, we would have to test – to see if you were telling us the truth. And our methods are not precisely painless..."

what the heck my friends can we get a break from the ellipses

It was an effort to speak. "Who – are you?"

"Who am I? Your question, I think, was what am I. I am the guard on duty down here from eight to eleven in the mornings."

nice shift, bro

Fred stared at him confusedly. Slowly he shook his head. "Who are you?"

Aww poor Fred, all groggy from his latest concussion

The other eyed him, head cocked slightly to one side. "Interesting indeed... that you should care so much for my identity – my name... Who are you then? Now, now, fair's fair – you give me yours (we'll find it out in any case) and I'll tell mine. A bargain, is it?"

See, it would have been so much better if we had started out this conversation with Fred assuming the guard was Lancelot and the realization gradually dawning that stuff didn't add up. Instead?? we got clairvoyant Fred who can instantly discern the essence of a person from one single face-to-face interaction and then spends a lot of time dissecting it for the reader's debatable benefit. My son get out of your own head and spend some time dealing in the real world.

He was maddeningly right. Fred for a moment considered just shutting his eyes and forgetting about the whole business...

He nodded in resignation. "My name is Fred Thorn."

this man will roll over for anybody

The air was very still. The young man stood without moving, an odd gleam in the eyes fixed on Fred. He looked, strangely enough, more than ever before like he was laughing.

At last he spoke. His voice, without losing its laughter, was at the same time thoughtful and reminiscent. "I have a reasonably good memory, and can recall much of my younger years in high detail... I seem to remember in particular a certain instance in which a boy some years older than me rebuked me for a trifling wrong. Offensive, it was. Highly offensive. Though I can't remember what it was now, I don't believe I ever forgave you for it..."

That was so good and then we had to make it weird and anticlamactic with that incredibly opaque ramble on Hunter's part.

published version was way better (which kinda goes without saying)

He stopped, regarding Fred with a quizzical look, and extended a lean, long-fingered hand through the opening in the door. "Name's Hunter Thorn; I do believe we've met before?"

Also, the fact that we already know he looks like Lancelot, and we know Lancelot is related to Fred, utterly robs this reveal of any meaningful surprise. It worked so much better to merge the look-alikes into one older brother and let this moment be a real shocker for Fred AND the audience.

Of all the things Fred could have said, what he did surprised him more than Hunter. "But – you're only fifteen..."

gjob remembering every single one of your eleven siblings' ages on command, two-thirds of whom are missing and not a part of your life

Hunter did laugh at this – he tilted his head back and laughed quietly. "Only fifteen, he says." [Yes, you were begging to be made 23] Yes, you're not the first person startled at my age... around here they all take me for nineteen or twenty. In many ways, I rather think I am."

With a final cool glance at Fred, he turned his back and left, his footsteps echoing through the hall.

All Fred was able to think was, It can hardly get worse than this...

bro that's how it gets worse, don't doom your narrative like that :\

His head ached; his world was shattering around him; he could not piece together any of these past hours' events.

some sleep might help with that. just a passing suggestion. and pain meds and maybe some ice on that head.

Lancelot's face last night – for it had been Lancelot, he was certain. [I'M GOING TO SCREAM. WHY DOES HE DO THIS.] What had he been doing here? And where was he now? Had Andre also been with him? [ohhh plot twist this isn't even about the minute difference between Lancelot and Hunter's appearance, it's about Fred's paranoid obsession with Andre]

The others – where were they? Were they injured? Were they, too, lying with wounded heads in dreary, forbidding cells?

And it all fused together into one question: Why? Why were they taken prisoner?...

There might be a few vague plot reasons which stopped being relevant in draft 1.5. But mostly just bc the author is mean.

A creaking noise made him start. The door opened and a tall, grim-faced man stepped in.

Wordlessly he bent and gripped Fred's arm, dragging him to his feet. Fred swayed, and the hand tightened. Without loosening his iron grasp, the man strode out of the cell. Fred was mercilessly pulled along behind.

After some time, they halted before a pair of large, heavy doors. The man raised the hand that was not holding Fred [please please just say "his free hand] and smote the wood with a resounding blow. After the echoes died away Fred heard a voice:

"Enter."

The doors swung open noiselessly.

Fred saw first a high, shadowed dais on which was sitting a spare, sharp-featured man with thinning, greying dark hair and hard eyes... his eyes swept keenly over Fred and around the room. A circlet of silver with gold markings rested upon his head.

The king spoke. "These are all?"

love how we know he's a king

The figure standing silent beside the throne came forward. "All, my lord."

The amusement in Hunter's voice was not even subdued in the presence of a monarch.

^ a rare killer line that I would have loved to see in TJ's final form if only it had worked to keep it there.

"Then we shall proceed."

Fred dared for a moment to turn his head. He found, to his astonishment, that he was standing beside Andre.

oh noooooo the parasite is back for absolutely no logical or narrative reason

The king did not halt his speech. "All you strangers gathered before me have trespassed on our land, the land of which is written 'only those whose forefathers' roots are in Casimir the High Ruler may tread its ground'."

Fred cast a startled glance at Hunter. Hunter gazed back at him innocently.

"Your punishment shall be according to your crime. After a period of five days in the harsh confinement of the dungeons, you shall be executed at the stroke of midnight on the sixth day." His tone never changed its smooth, even pitch and cadence.

"And now your names, for the book of records. We will begin at the left."

My right, Fred realized as beyond Andre Lancelot said in the most careless voice imaginable, "John Smith."

You know, he was such a rake and a scoundrel and a bit salty about most things, and he wasn't nice (or intended to be)... but he was funny. The loose fuse, likes to mess with people randomly, doesn't play well with others kind of funny: that was Lancelot. The way I wrote Fred's perception of him missed all the fun that we had with him when we first were telling the story. Please give Lancelot Thorn a Nick Blood English accent and put him on a TJ satire play so we can hear him saying to Andre, "Sure. I know what really happened. You came up behind Bacchus and knifed him good, put his body in a boat, and pushed him over Rauros Falls."

-- okay but now I have to stick him in the joke TJ musical I'm writing off and on, and he's gonna be the only character who doesn't do musical numbers he's just gonna appear and provide incongruous comedy helppppp I need this like I need air to breathe

Gravely the secretary standing beside Hunter wrote it down.

Andre spat his name out. Fred could not remember before now seeing him angry.

again with the... the,,, clairvoyant hubris,,, "I've seen this person two times in my life and now they're coming out with an emotional variation on the behavior I've noticed before - how shocking!! i go through life expecting everyone I meet to be cardboard!"

Fred could feel Hunter's mocking eyes on him as he said, "Fred Thorne." He was in too much pain, weariness, and shock to pay great attention to the startled gasp coming from Lancelot.

Oh lol yeah somehow Lancelot was in the dark about them? because even though he's tight with Andre and knew *about* Fred, his siblings' names NEVER came up in conversation?

On the other side of him he heard Marjorie, then Sandy, and then Powhatan. Then the hand was tightening around his arm again, pulling him down a blur of hallways and steps, and thrusting him into his cell where he fell to the floor and slept.

~

When Fred awoke he felt at first light and rested. The ache in his head was nearly gone, and so was his drowsiness. But no sooner did he sit up than a wave of lightheadedness sickened him, and his stomach twisted with the reminder that he had forgotten food for quite some time now. He let himself fall back, breathing hard.

"Hungry?"

It was Hunter, of course.

Fred did not speak – only stared up at him.

the puppy eyes will avail you nothing

"But certainly you are. That's actually why I'm here, waiting at your door... and other reasons too, but that's beside the point. Here."

Carelessly he tossed what looked like bread and limp lettuce in. "You get water in the evenings – though they might give it to you at noon if you start showing signs of severe dehydration," he called over his shoulder as he left.

LIMP LETTUCE

WHAT KIND OF A PRISON DIET IS THIS

GREENS ARE ONE OF THE MOST OBJECTIVELY INCONVENIENT/PERISHABLE OPTIONS YOU COULD KEEP ON HAND TO FEED YOUR CRIMINALS WITH

"Good morning, Lancelot," Fred heard him saying from not too far away.

Lancelot sounded vexed, even angered. "You. Who are you and what is your business? And how, may I ask, do you presume to know my name."

"Your – our – sister told me. And it wasn't easy to get out of her, either." [I love how we know from this addendum that it was Sandy, not Marjorie, which also means that Hunter chose to grill Sandy until he got what he wanted instead of asking the way more compliant sister and getting a quick answer] Now, why ever are you so upset?"

"And I'd like to know," said Lancelot rather sullenly, "what you mean by my sister. All my sisters are far away. They probably wouldn't know me if they did see me. So if my name was Lancelot – which it isn't – then you wouldn't even have the right last name."

I think I know what you were trying to argue but that line of reasoning was really confusing

"You are a fine bluffer – may I even say brazen-faced liar," murmured Hunter gently. "But you must know you are fighting a losing battle. You knew very well those four names last night, even if Powhatan did not give his full one. I believe that I was born shortly after he turned 'Indian'. Come, Lancelot. We even look so much alike – you cannot fail to acknowledge the inevitable."

"I do not know you," replied Lancelot stubbornly. "I do not know who you are. I recall clearly all of my sisters and brothers born when I ran away, and you were not one of them."

"No, I think I was born..."

"No!" Lancelot argued his voice rising. "You are too old--"

"I think not... I am but fifteen and seven months."

A sharp gasp – then silence. Palpably angry silence.

the meta narrative was really trying to tell me something lolol

Hunter be like: "Age me up... *please* age me up."

Also, re: the "we're totally related" convo that just happened, Lancelot's reactions to Hunter are exactly those of an older sibling losing an argument with the younger one. Soooo yeah, proving the point.

"Fully intending not to talk anymore, I see. Well, I'll go have a little chat with your... acquaintance... he's amusing."

Hunter making the rounds to talk to all the main characters like: "my three-hour guard duty shift is sapping my soul dry... i must ensure adequate stimulation..."

Fred was given his water at noon. He asked before Hunter could leave, "Why are you here?"

Hunter looked at him, cool and questioning.

Hunter, looking into the documentary camera: "My brother is interested in my life... imagine that."

Culty Edivernel-minion camera-man: "Yeah, seems sketchy."

Hunter: "Invasive."

"I mean – why – why were you too not executed? Why were you spared? How is it that you now seem to be a favorite with the king?"

Hunter laughed. "I wondered how long it would be before you asked me that." He sighed.

"They aren't always so strict about that as they make out. Once in a while they want something 'taboo', so to speak, and so they find ways of getting around the rules.

Fred: "cool can I get some of this non-strictness"

Hunter: "unfortunately it's called charisma and you possess exactly none"

"In my particular case I seemed quite witty and highly intelligent, and somehow or other they decided it wouldn't hurt to let me live – as long as I was kept strictly under control. They thought I would be helpful. I went, you might say, from rags to riches, and with the stupidity of most of these people it didn't take long, either."

He smiled. "And that, I think, answers your question..."

~

All right, guys, are you prepared for Fred the Melancholy? because we're about to face his most annoying inner monologue to date. This was the first point in draft 1 when I began to battle feelings of real dislike for his character.

Fred stared dully at the torchlight flickering on the wall. How many days? Three? Four? It seemed so hard to keep track...

And what use was it? Sooner or later the time would come for them all to be dragged off to a secluded place – to be – executed.

He was angry with himself all of a sudden – for giving up, for plunging into a pit of hopeless despair, for not doing anything – even anything at all.

No, his other side said wearily. No. There is simply nothing to do; nothing that would not be foolhardy. You know – so you have done nothing. It hurts – but...

But if there was something! A hidden passage...

There is probably no such thing.

Probably – yes! But had he proven it? Had he searched? No! And he, Fred, was a coward – a selfish young man – he did not care about his sisters and brother–

No! That is not true. You know it is not.

If he did care about them he could have proved it, by trying to find a way to rescue them...

What time would there have been in a bare five days?

That was not the point! The point–

Yes, it is! Either way accomplishes nothing, except that your plan heightens the chance of the execution being moved to an earlier date, perhaps...

What difference did it make when they were executed if he was not going to do anything about it anyway?

Stop! Stop! I don't want to listen anymore...

^ This final sentence should absolutely be read as a hint of author intrusion.

This monologue/war of perspectives is incredibly annoying. Fred spends paragraph after paragraph of valuable narrative space carrying on an argument that accomplishes nothing in the short or long term except to let us know things we already know. He's indecisive, doubts himself, is passive, and only contemplates taking radical action when pressured to do so by his fear of failure.

It commits one of the worst faux pas in writing: giving us what feels like a pivotal character moment, only for the character to neither move forward, NOR regress, but stay in exactly the same place. Unfortunately, this is far from last time we're going to see Fred's unresolved internal battles treated like their own grand climax.

I could go on to talk about how the lack of subtext, Fred's incredibly overstated, cut-and-dry knowledge of his own emotional world, makes it that much less interesting to read about, and how real narrative tension and empathy is created when the reader is allowed to wonder and form conclusions of their own, but I shall here curtail myself.

Footsteps sounded – more than just one person. At this late in the evening...? Curious, and frantic to get away from his own thoughts, Fred rose and gazed out the opening in his door.

"He what? Locked himself in the cell?! And took the key with him??!" The voice was angry – and disbelieving.

"And swallowed the key..." whispered a second man miserably.

that... is going to cause some problems down the line.

"I always said he was mad," said a third with a complacent air.

"I still don't understand why we couldn't just leave him there to rot..." muttered a fourth person. "He sure deserves it."

"But we can't..." moaned the second man despairingly. "The king wished to speak with him – tomorrow morning..."

The first speaker was taking charge. "Then we are going to get him out of there. First one to come up with a good idea gets off-duty tomorrow."

There was silence while everyone diligently thought.

At last someone laid forth a plan that technically worked. Putting it into practice, however, was a different matter...

It went on like this for quite some time, etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam.

...

The original foursome decided that they had earned some rest, and gathered four of the stupidest guards to continue while they slept. (The reason for stupid guards was so that it would still be them, the first four, who got the credit of the rescue.)

This is the kind of evil henchmen insanity that only belongs in twelve-year-old sibling games, which is exactly where this anecdote originated.

By the time the replacement guards had exhausted several already-tried plans and one or two impossible brainwaves of their own, Fred decided it was time to go to sleep.

Cult henchmen stupidity: better than counting sheep for mental relaxation

But as he began to sink into a quiet oblivion, through a sleepy haze he heard a voice raised in eager excitement.

"We could try dynamite."

Fred's eyes flew open.

A brief, stunned silence.

Then loud applause, cheers, and the sound of slaps on the back.

"You've got it!" one exclaimed. "I'll go get the powder and a torch."

"Maybe..." suggested another with slight misgivings in his tone, "maybe we shouldn't use very much..."

"Oh, we won't. Of course we won't," the others assured him. "Don't worry."

Fred was on his feet, staring out into the corridor as the fuse began to sputter and crackle. There were footsteps; someone was coming down the hall from the opposite direction.

Hunter turned slowly from the scene in front of him. His narrow, laughing dark eyes met Fred's.

They seemed to say, Didn't I tell you these people were stupid?

If this is Hunter's life on the daily/weekly in this cult establishment no wonder he's so calm and collected. he's seen it all. his nerves have been fried and dismembered and utterly desensitized to all horrors. he probably has 18 years' worth of premature trauma to unpack with a therapist.

Then the flame met the powder.

Such a momentous ending for such an unhinged scene premise.

So yeah. Instead of an earthquake, you get a bomb. Who's ready for Chapter 8 (in which Powhatan continues to be irrelevant, Marjorie is undeservedly sidelined, and Fred is pressured by questionable sales tactics into buying a shiny thing with sharp edges)?