who is ariel

Let’s talk about an Ariel who walks away—limping, mouthing inaudible sailors’ curses, a sea-brine knife in her belt.

Ariel traded her voice for a chance to walk on land. That was the deal: every time she steps, it will feel like being stabbed by knives. She must win the hand of her one true love, or she will die at his wedding day, turn to sea foam, forgotten. The helpful steward tells her to dance for the prince, even though her feet scream each time she steps. Love is pain, the sea witch promised. Devotion calls for blood.

But how about this? When the prince marries another, nothing happens. When Ariel stands over the prince and his fiance the night before their wedding, her sisters’ hard-won knife in hand, she doesn’t decide his happiness is more important than her life. She decides that his happiness is irrelevant. Her curse does not turn on the whims of this boy’s heart. 

She does not throw away the knife and throw herself into the sea. She does not bury it in the prince and break her curse—it would not have broken. She leaves them sleeping in what will be their marriage bed and limps into a quiet night, her knife clean in her belt, her heart caught in her throat. Her feet scream, but they ache, too, for the places she has yet to see. 

Ariel will not be sea foam or a queen. There is life beyond love. There is love in just living. Her true love will not be married on the morn—the prince will be married then, in glorious splendor, but he had never been why she was here.

Ariel traded her voice for legs to stand on, a chance at another life. When she poked her head above the waves, it wasn’t the handsome biped that she fell for. It was the way the hills rolled, golden in the sun. It was the clouds chasing each other across blue sky, like sea foam you could never reach.

(She does reach it, one day, bouncing around in the back of a blacksmith’s cart, signing jokes to him in between helping to tune his guitar. They crest up a high mountain pass and into the belly of a cloud. Her breath whistles out, swirls water droplets, and she reaches out a hand to touch the sky. Her feet will scream all her life, but after that morning they ache just a little bit less). 

I want an Ariel who is in love with a world, not a prince. I don’t want her to be a moral for little girls about what love is supposed to hurt like, about how it is supposed to kill you. Ariel will be one more wandering soul, forgotten. Her voice will live in everything she does. She uses her sisters’ knife to turn a reed into a pipe. She cannot speak, but she still has lungs. 

Love is pain, says the old man, when Ariel smiles too wide at sunrises. It’s pain, says the innkeeper, with pity, as Ariel hobbles to a seat, pipe in hand. At least you are beautiful, soothes the country healer who looks over her undamaged feet. The helpful steward had thought she was shy. Dance for the prince even though your feet feel stuck with a hundred knives.

Her feet feel like knives but she goes out dancing in the grass at midnight anyway. She’s never seen stars before. Moonlight reaches down through the depths, but starlight fractures on the surface. Ariel dances for herself.

She goes down to caves and rocky shores. Sometimes she meets with her sisters there. Mouths filled with water cannot speak above the sea, so she drops into the waves and they sing to her, old songs, and she steals breaths of air between the stanzas. She can drown now. She holds her breath. She opens her eyes to the salt and brine. 

Ariel uses canes and takes rides on wagons filled with hay, chickens, tomatoes—never fish. She earns coins and paper scraps of money with a conch shell her youngest sister swam up from the depths for her, with her reed pipe, with a lyre from her eldest sister which sounds eerie and high out of the water. The shadow plays she makes on the walls of taverns waver and wriggle like on the sea caves of her childhood, but not because of water’s lap and current. It is the firelight that flickers over her hands. 

When she has limped and hitched rides so far that no one knows the name of her prince’s kingdom, she meets a travelling blacksmith on the road with an extra seat in his cart and an ear for music. He never asks her to dance for him and she never does. She drops messages in bottles to her sisters, at every river and coastline they come to, and sometimes she finds bottles washed up the shore just for her. 

They travel on. When she breathes, these days, her lungs fill with air.

Some nights she wakes, gasping, coughing up black water that never comes. There is something lying heavy on her chest and there always will be.

Somewhere in the ocean, a sea witch thinks she has won. When Ariel walks, she hobbles. Her voice was the sunken treasure of the king’s loveliest daughter, and so when they tell Ariel’s story they say she has been robbed. They say she has been stolen. 

She has many instruments because she has many voices—all of them, hers; made by her hands, or gifted from her sisters’ dripping ones. Ariel will sing until the day she dies with every instrument but her vocal cords. 

She cannot win it back, the high sweet voice of a merchild who had never blistered her shoulders red with sun, who had never made a barroom rise to its feet to sing along to her strumming fingers. She cannot ever again sing like a girl who has not held a dagger over two sleeping lovers and then decided to spare them. She decided not to wither. She decided to walk on knives for the rest of her life. She cannot win it back, but even if she could, she knows she would not sound the same. 

They call her story a tragedy and she rests her aching feet beside the warming hearth. With every new ridge climbed, new river forded, new night sky met, her feet ache a little less. They call her a tragedy, but the blacksmith’s donkey is warm and contrary on cold mornings. The blacksmith’s shoulder is warm under her cheek.

Her feet will always hurt. She has cut out so many parts of her self, traded them up, won twisted promises back and then twisted them herself. She lives with so many curses under her skin, but she lives. They call her story a moral, and maybe it is.

When she breathes, her lungs fill. When she walks, the earth holds her up. There is sun and there is light and she can catch it in her hands. This is love. 

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Have you ever seen professional swimmers? With the broad shoulders and lean muscles?? Why are mermaids pretty much never built like that?! D: 

EDIT: Apparently some people think it would be completely illogical to have a strong upper body when you have a fin to swim with. Sure. Right. Gotcha. Much sense. I’ll tell that to King Triton. :P

EDIT 2 (Because people keep giving me biology lessons): I am not in any way trying to say that this is the only way to design a mermaid. Never did, never will. Simply challenging the status qou of mermaid character designs with one other alternative. 

(PS: Give me a movie with super chubby mermaids now!! (*o*))

panzyparkinson  asked:

If the five main trc characters were Disney princesses which ones would they be?

Dear panzyparkinson,

I’m a little surprised that you would ask this question, as the answers seem too obvious to require inquiry. Still, I press on. 

Gansey is clearly Ariel. Ariel is a heroine defined by her cultural dysphoria; all day, every day is Human-Time. Although she possesses absolutely no reason to believe that she’ll get her wish nor any peers who share her desire, Ariel wants nothing more than to be a human. And although she’s given a lot of crap for being naive, the truth is that Ariel is kind of the foremost human expert under the sea. Maybe there is something the matter with me, she wonders, as Tumblr often does in the tags, even as she longs to be part of a different world. And when she does get a shot at being something more than mermaid, she fumbles benevolently. She fails at being human because she has studied rather than practiced, and her every misstep is characterized by her admiration and love for the culture. Gansey, you noble land mermaid.

Adam Parrish is obviously both Belle and the Beast. I want much more than this provincial world, he sings in a piercing number that takes place in the carport behind his parents’ trailer. Belle wants something out of this world, and moreover, she’s got the tools and logic to make it happen. She’s well-read and self-assured; she’s curious and brave. As Belle, Adam could really do anything, if he didn’t spend at least six hundred pages of the series cock-blocking himself by being the Beast. She’ll never see me as anything more than a monster, he thinks sadly, while throwing a table against a wall.

Ronan Lynch is Pocahontas. For starters, she’s the only princess who even begins to play compellingly with magical realism, and she’s the only one with a talking tree buddy. Pocahontas also faces what seems to be an impossible either-or choice: responsibility or the desires of her heart. Does she attend Aglionby/ marry Kocoum, even though both of them are pretty square? Or does she see what’s just around the river bend? Throw in the fact that she also has a host of animal friends and falls in love with a white guy, and it’s pretty obvious to me that Pocahontas = Ronan.

Blue Sargent is not a Disney princess and she rejects your gd gender expectations. She is Mike Wazowski. Mike is unlike any of the other monsters/ psychics around him: he is not scary/ psychic. Deprived of this essential monster trait, Mike is forced to find a different way to become successful in a world that prizes something that he can never be. It turns him resourceful, hard-working, bitter, wryly funny, judgmental. He makes friends with Sully, who embodies everything Mike can’t be, because the other option is to hate him. Ultimately, Mike finds a way to succeed that no one else has, all while being a lot shorter than everyone else in every scene. Really the only difference is that he has one eye and Blue has two as of the time of me writing this blog post.

I couldn’t think of any dead Disney princesses to be Noah. Mufasa? They both died from blunt trauma. Do any of the puppies die in 101 Dalmatians? He could be one of those.

urs,

Stiefvater

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The Little Mermaid Photoshoot (1)


all photos are taken by Gerry Juans

Ariel CN nina (me) | Eric CN Haris 

Costume : credit to Kaze who made Eric costume | Ariel pink dress are by myself. I also accepting commission. Send me email to oruntia@yahoo.com if you interested :)

What if Maui was the one who helped Moana meet Ariel? Ariel’s father Triton is a Greek sea god, and Maui is a demigod of the wind and sea, so what if they knew each other? Maui’s been around for thousands of years, he can fly and swim anywhere he wants with his shape shifting powers, he’s got to have connections everywhere.

So maybe Maui visits Moana while she’s out voyaging with her people and he tells her about Triton’s kingdom and how he has seven daughters, and the youngest is her age and he offers to introduce her. And Moana is interested but she needs to be responsible as the leader or the voyage and doesn’t want to go so far off course.

So Maui’s solution is to bring Ariel to Moana.

That’s as far as I got.

I haven’t thought of the context in this picture but I so you can think up your own scenario. I think that Hans and his ship was fighting an enemy ship, but lost and got captured. But Ariel, who was caught in the crossfire, got pissed and attacked the first person to fall in the water.

The Signs As • Disney Princess

Aries: Merida

Taurus: Pocahontas

Gemini: Anna

Cancer: Cinderella

Leo: Jasmine

Virgo: Elsa

Libra: Belle

Scorpio: Kida

Sagittarius: Rapunzel

Capricorn: Tiana

Aquarius: Mulan (she’s not a princess but who cares)

Pisces: Ariel