alexander-of-sandringham

[alexander-of-sandringham]

dinah-stmaur​:

♣ ♣ ♣

Dinah was wearing one of her new dresses she had brought with Valentin after they had made their silly, silly bet. She had not forgotten about it, nor had she managed to win it as her attempts to talk to her family about her feelings for Ira B. Vaisman had all been to no avail. Cowardice had come in her way. It was hard to put the idea that His Royal Highness, Prince Alexander, was actually going to propose to her—an idea that Valentine was sure was not imaginary as Dinah had often tried to pass it off—to rest once and for all, especially as the whole castle seemed to be in a frenzy as they got everything ready for his arrival.

Her father had even looked more cheery at the prospect, and that was a rare sight these days as his health seemed to be still under the weather despite the fresh sea air and the comforts of his house and the care of his daughters and Lady Conway.

And now that Alexander was here, Dinah could hardly risk of making a scene with her family. She was not ashamed of loving Ira, but she knew they would not take the news all too well and while she had been bold in her speech to Valentine, Dinah did care for her family and did not want to see them ruined because of her. Her only hope was that everyone was mistaken into thinking Alexander would ask her to marry him, and he only regarded her as a dear friend.

It was thus as a friend that she greeted him as he was finally here, with a big and bright smile full of happiness and mirth.

“Alexander!” she exclaimed, forgetting proper etiquette to her sister’s horror, but she could not help it—she was glad to see him, and for a chance to cultivate their friendship. “I hope the trip was not too uncomfortable,” she rushed to inquire, her hand reaching for his, “and welcome! Welcome to St Maur!”

Alexander did not forget etiquette fully. By Princely standards, he was entirely forgetting himself. “My dearest Dinah,” he sighed, when, at last, she arrived.  But to him, it still had to be considered sheer restraint as, if he had truly had the choice, he would have picked her up and kissed her cheeks in admiration and joy. The fact that he did not do that was, to him, the greatest obedience to etiquette he’d ever brought up. “Thank you. I’ve been reading your poems as we drove through these county’s fields, and they have made every sight so unspeakably beautiful. I am enamoured already.” Enamoured indeed. His eyes were barely leaving Dinah’s, not even as the Lady of the House asked him to come inside. 

“I wish to see it all again but you shall read them to me in your own voice,” he said as they followed inside, “I do not care if we see every field three times while I am here, I doubt I will ever grow tired of it.”

At the offer of going to his rooms and coming back down when he had rested, Alexander declined. He was not one to always be aware of all the little hands helping to make his life easier, but he was fond of his valets, and liked him to not be busy the moment they arrived a place. “We will give the staff some time to settle and introduce themselves to each other first. Unless, of course,” it was a question for the Lady of the House but he was still only gazing at Dinah, “you mind me in my simply and dusty travelling robes.” Those simply and dusty travelling robe could’ve fed a family of four for a year. 

“Oh! And I have brought gifts, of course!” He looked around. “Boy?” The St Maur footman, who had been standing by a corner, peering curiously, stood straight at once. “Once everyone has settled, tell Mr Kesei to bring the gifts for the very kind St Maurs.” Then he had a pleasant conversation with the Earl -- Alexander’s eyes jumping back and back and back again to Dinah in between his words -- before the old man gracefully excused himself and went to go back to his apartment. (It was unorthodox, to leave a Prince unattended, but Alexander liked to think that even if the St Maurs had been an orthodox family, he would not have been surprised. The Earl was a kind and wise man, but he was not in his best years, and Alexander thought it very grand of him that he had come to welcome him at all.) His youngest daughter followed soon not soon after, but it became clear that no matter how much Alexander was mooning, the oldest daughter was not going to leave any time soon. When she said it was time for tea, Alexander looked at Dinah. “Do you generally have afternoon tea?” 

[alexander-of-sandringham]

soleil-timide​:

.

His offer gave her pause. A happy marriage was a notion she’d never entertained. It seemed so unlikely, and such a dangerous hope. “Perhaps, if you are amenable,” Florence started slowly. “Do you think there are a great many happy marriages?” The question is borne more from curiosity than anything. Even if a happy marriage was possible, ought she hope and dream of one? It would be nice, to dream of more than be able to visit her friends in St. Maur.

“Oh but isn’t it lovely!” Florence exclaimed, quite unable to help herself. “Oh well, I suppose if one desires, but it would take so terribly long to climb a large tree at such a size,” she pointed out, all to happy to continue the farce. “Personally, I quite like to climb them. And some trees have branches perfect for reading in. I rather like to think that those trees like to read,” Florence informed her friend conspiratorially.

“Well, my mother always says that in our class, there is no such thing as an unhappy marriage,” he mused. It was a saying typically employed to tell married people to hide their marital issues and put a smile up whenever in society -- but Alexander was not quite versed enough in the world of idioms, metaphors and conversational art to be aware of that. He thought happy marriages were simply the norm. “Surely one would be rather silly to marry someone who will not bring happiness, yes?” 

The idea of this dream-forest creature to climb trees did not surprise Alexander much. But he did find himself amused at the thought of a lady doing so. “And what does one read in those trees?” 

[alexander-of-sandringham]

dinah-stmaur​:

♣ ♣ ♣

“That, too, of course,” Dinah said, with a nod and a little shy smile. Indeed, she had always being terribly eager for the next issue and the one after and so on and so forth. Yet, the wait was part of the charm, in a way. Her smile brightened. It was so marvellous to have made another friend who enjoyed her ramblings about fiction, and even better who would ask for the same level of passion for poetry. “I won’t. I have very strong opinion about poetry, too,” she said, with a note of laughter in her voice.

“Are they calling you over?” she asked, as she saw from the corner of her eye a man waiving in their direction.

Alexander smiled, almost proud of himself for having solved that mystery. That he was missing some components didn’t even come to his mind. He was no Sherlock Holmes after all. “We’ll have a marvellous August then.” 

At her prompting, he looked up and around to find who she was referring to. And indeed. A group of men were looking at him, one of them waving. “Ah, with bleeding heart I must agree, you might be right.” He sighed, turning back to her. “My dearest Dinah, I shall go now but I will be back later. Perhaps tomorrow I will make a call, if it pleases you?” The idea of not seeing her tomorrow pained him terribly. 

[alexander-of-sandringham]

dinah-stmaur​:

♣ ♣ ♣

“I will! I promise I will,” Dinah was ready to reassure him. It was an easy made promise, as she wished for nothing more in this very moment than to show all of St Maur’s beauty—be it in its geography as in its people—to dear Alexander. And for a moment she wondered if Lord Weston would also accept her offer.

Something flickered in her gaze, as if a cloud had moved across the sun. Her smile wavered and it withdrew a little. Yet, there was strength behind it, as she put all of herself into it as a shield against Alexander’s note. Dinah couldn’t help disliking his choice of words—true aristocracy—yet what she hated even more was not being able to come with a rebuttal to them. “I believe the novel format suits the story better, though,” she said, having warned him that she would not be stopped from discussing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s work. “It surely makes it less jarring to go from Sherlock and Holmes in London, to Jefferson Hope in Utah as it explains to us the murder’s motive.” Her smile turned shy, almost apologetic. “Still believe it is not a flaw?”

The cloud seemed to have gone away, and the sun was shining brighter than before. “Thank you,” she said, grateful for his friendship, as she did not doubt he would keep his word. It would be the first time a friend came all the way to St Maur for her instead of for one of her siblings. “August can’t arrive soon enough!”

Sweet Lady Dinah. In this moment, Alexander wanted nothing more than to hold her tight to his chest and call her his own already. As it were, he bowed, deep, with a smile to his lips. 

“Because you do not have to wait a whole week to read the next issue?” he tentatively tried to give her arguments for her point. And then he laughed, gently -- in all senses of that word. It was a soft laugh and at the same time grand, like the laugh of someone who knew he had no reason not to be cheerful, for there were no real worries in his life causing him to frown; like a gentleman, that is. “Not in the least. As long as you will not neglect to speak to me about poetry as well, and in the same manner.” 

[alexander-of-sandringham]

Spring of Love Holiday

Time: 1st of August Place: St Maur Status: Open

Prince Alexander of Sandringham had never quite understood the meaning of living in the country, for him it had always held its greatest worth in picturesque poetry and was thus to be admired best black on white. Yet, when he drove the carriage -- he had been proud to choose one like any other mere nobleman would have, at the Norrington Train Station -- into St Maur County, he had found that the depth of the real thing was almost more enticing than the two-dimensional visuals he’d get from a book. 

Still, he hoped that he would not be too constrained by the watchful eyes of the country people. Only one who knew the city life intimately also knew that there was anonymity in a crowd. But the wide open hills of the country made you vulnerable, like a deer dashing across a freshly shorn wheat field. There was nothing more he longed for than intimate togetherness with his -- hopefully -- future bride Lady Dinah St Maur, and feared that a mere walk with her might cause something the more morally conservative would consider a scandal already. 

What good fortune then, that he knew enough people in St Maur now to at least be instilled with some trust in his month-long stay.

He was well aware that everyone was informed of his visit. The entirety of July he had spent preparing the journey and stay, finishing open business and breaking the news to his family that he wouldn’t come to Denmark with them. It had felt like cutting off a metaphorical umbilical chord -- at the age of thirty-two, late, yes, but still painful. So when he was pulling up the driveway, he could not wait to knot new ties with his soon-to-be new family. 

There was no need to announce him any further. The mere fact that the driver hasted to open the door for him, and Alexander’s stately statue, dressed in the finest of fabrics, dismounted the carriage, was enough for a good dozen pairs of eyes to peer out windows and doors at once. “At last!” 

[alexander-of-sandringham]

dinah-stmaur​:

♣ ♣ ♣

Dinah’s little giggle was one of joy, of looking forward to spend more time with a friend who liked poetry as much as she did and who would not judge her for all her romanticism. Her expression once again brightened when he mentioned a visit in St Maur. “Of course, it does!” she said, without hesitation. Her dark brown eyes brightening as they looked at him with clear enthusiasm at the news. “I would love for you to come and see St Maur. I can show you all the places I have mentioned to you so far, and all those have yet to speak of.” It was easy to picture their time together, as she acted as a guide for Alexander. “And I can make sure to introduce you to my friends there, as I don’t know how many you might have been acquainted here, during the season. And it is always a little less formal in the country, is it not?” she was now almost rambling, but it was due to happiness. She realised in this moment that she had friends. Those flesh and blood friends she had longed for, and she could soon have them all in her dearest places.

“Not silly at all,” Dinah said, shaking her head. “It was first published in a magazine but then reworked into a novel,” she explained, unable to contain herself from sharing her Sherlockian knowledge. Still blushing, she went to explain herself better on the matter of flaws. “It is not my love of stories, but the simple fact that once I start talking about them I can be unstoppable. To the point that I often fail to notice if my companion is truly interested or bored to death.” It was the idea of being a bother, even by just speaking about her passions. “You make even your flaws sound charming,” she said, with a smile and small laugh. “But it is duly noted for you’ll be with us in St Maur. I shall make sure to be your white rabbit, always checking the time, and make sure we are not too late to anything.”

She responded to the suggestion with such enthusiasm that he could but help feel as though she had brought forth the invitation first. “Oh, happiness!” he said in an indeed very happy sigh. “I certainly hope you will! I have burnt to see those sights ever since you mentioned them, if I had to wait any longer, I’d be but a pile of ashes.” Even when she mentioned her many friends and the words of Mister Gupta the valet resonated loudly within him, he could not feel anything but excited. “It is. We shall enjoy ourselves greatly.”

He chuckled. “I do know that much,” he said in a tone that could hardly be read as scolding. “But a knighted factory worker will never be true aristocracy, will he?” Meaning that a story published in a newspaper would not suddenly become great literature because it was republished in a leather-bound book later. “As I said,” he replied with a fond smile, “your love for stories could never be a flaw. No matter how it expresses itself.” 

“Wonderful. I shall let everyone know as soon as the day is over, then. The month of August belongs to you, my dearest coastal flower.” 

[alexander-of-sandringham]

soleil-timide​:

.

“Yes,” Florence agreed with a nod. His question had her tilting her head. “Yes and no,” she answered honestly. “I do not have the luxury of remaining unmarried, though I have seen the hurt that comes from such an arrangement,” the youngest Talbot explained. “I wish I could spend my days in the garden. The flowers and birds make for such fine company, you see,” Florence explained cheerfully. “Are you able to spend afternoons in a garden? Perhaps even a tree?” Her curiosity got the better of her, she knew, but surely it was a very fairy-like question to ask. And it might dispell any unease from her thoughts on marriage.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear,” Alexander said with a hand to his heart. “There’s nothing more potent to deter one from a marriage than having witnessed a fouled one.” Too many people were victims of foul marriages, both as actors as well as audience. While marriage was supposed to be so beautiful, so magical! "Maybe I should tell you about my parents, and how grandiously poetic their marriage is?” he asked. “A fairy tale, really, it will make you want to fall in love at once!”

“I am!” he delighted to have found another kindred spirit. “And I understand you well. There’s is beauty to a garden in the afternoon. However,” he gave her a curious look, “I have yet to spend one in a tree.” A playful smile danced around his lips. “Tell me, does one have to turn into a woodlice for it first?” 

[alexander-of-sandringham]

zahir-qureshi​:

♣ ♣ ♣

If Zahir had been able to speak, he would attempted a thank you, but as he was if he had tried to speak it would probably come out like a nauseated sound. The man, Lysander, was too cheesy for Zahir’s taste, and so he simply bowed as his way of thanking him.

It was also easy to not say anything, as Lysander seemed well versed into filling the silence and even taking the lead. Soon, his companion had decided they should find two more dancers and do a Quad Dance. It was all the same to Zahir, as he hoped it would grant even less of a chance to have to hear him spout even more sweet, honeyed words.

Princesses. Luckily, he did not snort at the notion. Fine. He could also play at being awfully cheesy. “I believe our affection can crown any woman, no matter how low or high-born, princess of our hearts. Don’t you?” he asked, keeping his gaze on the two women Lysander had selected. “They look lovely. Shall we?” he added, ready to ask for the ladies to dance with them.

“We shall,” Prince Alexander nodded, feeling utterly cured from his previous ailments, and strode ahead.

[alexander-of-sandringham]

bernie-talbot​:

-

“I think that depends on the rebirth, and the life being led before it. Perhaps we cannot judge whether the mythical death is worth experiencing until we are well and truly on the other side. Some may love to split their year in three as Adonis did, between the Goddess of love, the Goddess of spring, and himself. Others may find such a life rather… restrictive. But I feel it is likely still a risk worth taking.” 

She did not look back as she road away from him, even as she became aware that he may not be besides her. That was not her way. She powered on at her own pace, certain that a worthy rider would work to catch up to her, refusing to show the insecurity of having to look behind for the presence of an other. 

Besides, she was rather enjoying riding off, allowing Kipling’s words to float away into the wind. 

She smiled slightly at his compliment, not sure many others would describe her as one having beauty and depth in her heart. “I have always known poetry, but I think I have only learned how to feel it very recently. my graduation from realist to tentative romantic perhaps? I think… to feel poetry you need to begin to understand yourself. To craft it you must begin to understand others. Do you feel poetry, Sir, or craft it?” 

He asked her if she deserved wrath, and she wondered if he knew less of Alistair than she thought. Unbiddenly an image of her father came to mind. What would he say, she wondered, had he seen her now, riding and apparently getting along with the Prince? He would have loved it, would have seen nothing more than a pile of money riding besides her.

“I think society is rather talented at taring anyone of its members apart, deserving or no. You however, have only seen me on my best behaviour. My worst side is perhaps more than deserving of the Ton’s cruelty.” 

“I think you have rather perfectly captured the core of a relationship. All those things must align for a marriage. And hopes to. If you do not have the same ambitions for the future, or cannot live up to the ambitions of the other, then what hope is there for a unions?” It is what she had told herself before, that their differences would inevitably lead to resentment. “Surely no amount of love can overcome a difference in desired situation?”

“Is any endeavour ever truly risky if you do not know the outcome for sure?” he asked, not to disagree, but to play off of the notion she presented. Because he did agree, especially with the serene poetry her words were infused with. “Then pray tell, Lady Bernadette, if we undo the beauty of this metaphor and return to the material world: Would you go through your family’s Scandal a second time, if you had the chance to stop before it happened this time around?”

He chuckled. “How do you define a realist mindset, Lady Bernadette?” he asked, genuinely interested in what she had to say. He was far from knowing her well, but the little he had gotten to know of her, also promised him an interesting answer. “I do feel poetry, yes, and I occasionally craft it -- badly. But I hope to better myself. Perhaps, indeed, I must first begin to understand others though. I have mainly focused on understanding myself and the world around me. I have yet to grasp the actions, minds and hearts of the people who walk the same earth.” He paused. “Is that very foolish of me?”

Any other -- better -- man, might’ve hasted to disagree. Alexander, however, found himself curious. “What is your worst side?” 

He nodded. “And yet, I wonder, and please forgive my musings: The day we marry, are we already who we will be forever? The spouse we found to say Yes to, will they not change with each passing year? Must we remain stagnant out of fear to deviate from our original promise? Does marriage not allow to people to grow together, hand in hand, away from the ideals they had when they first kissed?” 

[alexander-of-sandringham]

soleil-timide​:

.

“I am,” Florence answered gravely, deciding to play further into this man’s game and allow herself to be honest. “I am a fairy who has long grown tired of trickery and evil men. I wish only for happiness, my own and others’.” A soft smile curved her lips. If only she could be as frank about her own future, and expectations thereof. Florence accepted the cup with a nod of thanks. “It is kind of you to say so,” she murmured before taking a sip.

“I think..by allowing myself some freedom. Such a thing is a bit overdue, I think,” she admitted. Alastair’s call for confidence rang through her mind. If not now, when she could have the mystery of a mask to hide behind, then when? “A fairy must spread their wings every now and again and soar to new heights, wouldn’t you agree?”

“So you wish to be free,” Alexander hummed. “I do, I do agree.” But he looked pensive for a little longer. “Now, you said you have grown tired of the trickery of evil men, and you oppose it to said happiness. Does that mean that your freedom lies far away from the arms of a man?” 

[alexander-of-sandringham]

bernie-talbot​:

His question made her pause once more, taking a moment pick up the pace of her horse, hoping the speed, the sensation of wind on her cheeks, might help her think. “Rebirth? I hope so. Although if the Greeks have taught us anything it is that you will never come back the same as you were before. To hope for that is fruitless. We must instead hope that the new version of ourselves will thrive in changed conditions.” 

She considered his choice, scolding herself from looking into it too deeply, just because her own myth has reflected her situation, or at least her perception of it, did not mean his would do the same. “I don’t know, it sounds rather poetic to me. Is that not the brilliance of poetry? It is perhaps the only narrative form that does not need to adhere to structure. In a novel the characters must grow, they must learn something. Poems however can capture a single moment in time, a single truth. Even if that truth is the tragedy of how society treats those they cannot understand.” 

“ If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   If you can meet with triumph and disaster   And treat those two impostors just the same; “ 

“Nothing changes in the reality of Kipling’s prose. It simply is.”

He spoke of Alastair’s engagement and once more Bernie felt guilty of how little she knew about it. She had focused so much of her attention on her own grief this season she had not taken the time to understand the lives of her siblings. “Again, I suspect you will know more on the subject than I”

He complimented her on her poetry, and she could only laugh slightly bitterly. “Do not admire it Sir, I have very little talent for it myself, no originality. I simply co-opt the words of others, stealing snippets of their sentiments to elevate my own message. They have written their truth, and I analyse and repeat it.” 

Again his words required contemplation. “Perhaps that is what makes marriage work? Their differences making each individual stronger, better. It is certainly something I have not appreciated in the past.” Had that been her parents problem? They were not different enough? Could not temper each others worst habits? 

No. Her father was simply a bastard. 

 “Well,”  Alexander hummed, “what would be the point in death if not to change as we try anew.” As though death could be a wilful thing. A subject to rule with a sceptre as well. On the mind of a prince, it sometimes felt like it. “Does that make this mythical death not something worth experiencing?”

“Very much so,” he agreed. “A blink of an eye feels fleeting as time rushes us by and we age without even capable of understanding the progression of ourselves. Yet, poetry extends that moment, this blink of an eye, allows us to still time, to look around, to feel wholly.” 

And then the most miraculous thing happened. Lady Bernadette Talbot, sister of Alastair, daughter of scandal, holder of beauty, began to recite poetry. Without doing so quite on purpose, he halted his horse and watched her ride away on the musicality of her voice. He blinked, and indeed, just like the long moments of silence before had felt short, the moment of this one bat of his eye felt long. Eternal. 

“With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,” he exhaled, then pushed his heels into the horse’s side to catch up with Lady Bernadette, not once losing her sight, “yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it.” He shook his head. “Don’t call yourself incapable of poetry. One cannot analyse the poetry of others without understanding it first. A realist will only see words, a cynic will see nothing at all. Only someone with beauty and depth in their heart can see the beauty and depth intended in verses.”

He was still looking at her as he thought about the implications of ‘Even if that truth is the tragedy of how society treats those they cannot understand.’ “Pardon me, Lady Bernadette, but surely there is no way that someone as distinguished as you would not know the wrath of society? Or rephrased, what could society not understand about you, except perhaps how such lovely being can walk amongst us?” 

Pursing his lips, he thought about her words. “What makes you say that?” he eventually asked. “I realise that Alastair was abroad for many years, but so are my sisters, and I still feel very close to them.”

“It is not an uncommon belief to seek your opposite. A dreamer needs a realist, a muse needs an artist, a joker needs sense. But I wonder if all this is about personality, not virtue or conviction. Virtue and conviction, morals, ideals, all these, I believe must align when you seek a spouse. What do you think?” 

[alexander-of-sandringham]

bernie-talbot​:

It was perhaps one of Bernie’s favourite things about riding. The ability to fluctuate between conversation and movement. It allowed her to carefully consider her responses, not risking saying something she might regret. “Not a single myth, perhaps, but the tales of Adonis certainly, a man shunned for the sins of his parents, valued for beauty rather than substance and killed by his own pride. Perhaps the most compelling part of his story, however, is the rebirth. There is something comforting about the notion that one may recover, become greater than they were before.”

It was a luxury of riding side saddle, that turning to face a companion aligned her body more then it restricted. “What about you? Is there a favourite myth? A God or hero you feel particularly connected to?”

She heard him speak of Alistair, and she was struck by the walls that had always been between the Talbot siblings growing up. Yes, she knew her siblings well, had played with them and grown with them, but she knew little of those intimacies Alexander described. “You are perhaps revealing that you know more of my brother than I do, at least in some ways. I am not sure love would be enough to dissuade him from practicality, from duty, but there is a romantic sway to the idea that certainly makes me wish it were true. Do you have reason to believe it true?”

As for the relationship between Florence and herself… “We are different. In many ways equal parts of a single entity. A bit like magnets, our differences are what draws us together. Positive and negative forces.” She did not comment on which one of them was positive, that seemed rather obvious. “But perhaps both necessary to balance the other.”

“I am sorry, that probably makes no sense!”

“Adonis!” Alexander exclaimed, surprised and delighted at the same time. Now this was an answer he rarely heard. Nor had he ever heard his story retold the way she did. It was certainly not a skewed retelling, but it brought a perspective to it he had most likely never thought about. “Do you think it’s true? That this can happen? In real life?” 

He thought about it. He did love many, many of those stories, it was nearly impossible to pick just one. Once again, silence rose between them as his gaze roamed through the nature all around them. Eventually, he decided to go with the one that had come to his mind first. “The Minotaur, I believe. The father, punished for his kind heart, the mother robbed of a first son. Bulls are not cruel, blood-thirsty creatures by default, are they? It’s only the way people treat them, in their games and enclosures, that they must defend themselves. And still, the son is banished. Still, the son is killed, and the man who ends his life comes home a hero. It feels unfair, doesn’t it? The lack of poetry in it all? The injustice towards a boy who did nothing wrong?”  After another moment, he then added: “I don’t feel connected to any of them, however. Or, maybe, it is how little I feel connected to any of these people that connects me to them. To understand all the human emotions that dared to lead to such a tragedy...”

He hummed. “Is Alastair not currently engaged to a Lady who will lose everything if she says ‘Yes’ at the altar?” 

“Once again, dear Lady Bernadette, your poetry instils admiration in me.” Alexander smiled, looking at her with indeed gentle admiration in his eyes. It broke -- smile and gaze -- when she apologised. Instead he laughed: “It makes perfect sense! The content and the way your words laid it out.” He thought about his own family, if he knew what she meant. He had to, and yet he also knew he did not feel the same about any of his siblings. “My mother, perhaps,” he mused, “I think she is so close to my father because of their differences.” 

[alexander-of-sandringham]

zahir-qureshi​:

♣ ♣ ♣

It was funny to think that maybe Lysander was not that far off, has Zahir had all the intention to keep him away from Hermia. Or at least, his Lady dressed as Hermia. “Hide? I offer you both adventure!” he rebutted, almost in a scolding tone. “The thrill of the chase. And a test of true love.” He did not even know himself what idiocy he was speaking, it just felt these were the right things to keep the man ‘happy’ and getting on his bed side for he surely was a Lord on not a kitchen boy.

What Zahir wanted to do was escape. Now more than ever he felt the desire for a cigarette. “Now, we…” two times a lady had approached him for a dance, he might as well start to turn the favour, “dance.” And with his hand he gently motioned to the dance floor.

“Fine,” Alexander sighed after a moment of consideration. “I shall not think of you as my enemy, but my brother in arms, helping me to sweeten our love.”

Alexander had grown up with a brother who had had an appreciation for the male form, just as he still had a loving sister who not rarely discussed her appreciation for the female form. All the same, when the Forest asked him to dance, he did not think it was an invitation. “Wonderful. I do enjoy dancing. We should find sisters to dance with in a Quad Dance, so we can assess each other’s gracefulness.” 

He let his gaze roam through the hall, then nodded when he found two women of the same frame and height standing by the walls. “How about them? I believe they might be princesses.” A look back to the Forest. “You do hope to find a princess too, I assume?” Who didn’t?

[alexander-of-sandringham]

zachariahforester​:

~

For some reason when the golden man had said he’d been brought back from the brink of death, he hadn’t pictured a doctor having a hand in it. It had been a heavenly miracle in his mind, with rays of sunshine and heralding trumpets. Strange that his thoughts had taken him there and not to the steady rational profession he had spent his adult life practising. But of course, the golden man was right, though it sounded somewhat rehearsed. “Thank God for good doctors then,” he said and raised his glass in a small toast.

Zachariah’s eyes lit up in relief as they seemed to hit upon some solution, at least one that was good enough for his new friend. “You are the most welcome.” He chuckled, amused, bemused, but quite content in the absurdity of it all. He didn’t think his last suggestion had been any more reasonable than the others, though he could barely remember what they were now. If golden boy was happy, he was happy. “It sounds like you don’t have a minute to lose, all of them being precious and whatnot. And if you must live for your loved ones, it would be ideal if you could locate them! Unfortunately, by the nature of the solution, I think I will be no more use to you, so instead I wish you the best of luck.”

“How very well put. To good doctors,” Alexanders replied, raising his glass as well before taking a sip. 

“Thank you, dear friend. Since neither name nor face is known to me, I shall remember your mask and hold it close to my heart forever.” Alexander bowed goodbye.

[alexander-of-sandringham]

dinah-stmaur​:

♣ ♣ ♣

Beauty. Oh, Dinah did not think herself ugly, but because felt a noun more apt for Cynthia or Bernie and Florence Talbot than for herself. Yet what made her blush deepened was the mention of caresses. She remembered the few times when their skin had touched—why, they were touching right now!—and she knew it was not an unpleasant or an unwanted feeling. But it also never lingered within her the way other touches had. “Your words are no less poetry than mine,” she said, with a soft voice, as her eyes evaded his but looked at their hands together.

Her gaze followed her hand as it was brought to his lips. Very beautiful lips, and yet…

“Oh!” She brightened at once. Her enthusiasm bloomed much like a flower at the warm touch of the sun. She was now looking at him—gone was her shyness—and her dark brown, doe eyes meet his regal blue hue. “What have you to confess now?” she quoted, “It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together.” A breath caught between her lungs, until released into two simple words, “Sherlock Holmes.” She smiled. Dinah could only speak Holmes’ name smiling. “To Doctor John Watson.” Now, her smile did turn a little shy, a little apologetic. “Ah, I think you have found one of mine. I can never shut up about Sherlock Holmes once I start,” she admitted. “It would only fair you reveal one of yours.”

“Together we shall write epics of rhymes, love and heroism,” he replied, and quite suddenly realised that he had not even asked her for her hand yet. Well. He had asked her for her hand. But not … asked her for her hand. He was already living in this beautiful dream where they were married, that he could not even imagine that it was not yet reality. For a moment he considered following the Earl’s advice right here and now. Was it not a good moment? A right moment? Instead, he said: “I would like to visit you in St Maur, this August. If the thought pleases you.”

“Yes, that!” he delighted when she understood at once and with great ease the book passage he’d been referring to. And then he was rather amused when he found out where it was from. “Not a novel then,” he corrected himself. “How silly of me.” Silly was too the idea that he could compare how he felt about Lady Dinah the way Holmes would’ve felt about Watson. Surely. Her words puzzled him. “You would classify your love for stories a flaw? My dearest Lady Dinah, if that is the worst of you, you should be raised to sainthood tomorrow!” But he did think, then. “Well, I believe one terrible flaw of mine is my memory. There is no doubt that it will drive you mad if ever you try to organise a month of togetherness with me. Every day, every hour, you will have to remind me of your next step, lest I wander off and return too late for whatever beautiful thing you had planned.”

[alexander-of-sandringham]

bernie-talbot​:

-

Once again Bernie was faced with a question that had puzzled her often. Did she enjoy ancient mythology, or had it simply been a part of her education. Another inaccessible piece of knowledge she had used to feel superior. It was likely strange, how long it took her to answer this question. 

Even stranger was the uncertainty in her voice once she did answer. “I… I am I think. The lasting relevance of those stories, the combination of fantasy and history. They pique my interest in a rather unique way. May I assume you feel the same?” 

Another strange reminder of her faults, she had taken so little interest in her sibling’s lives, their interests. “He has not!” 

“You may trust that my sister will always make the best of any situation. Although I was not there for her Coming Out, I have never known her to be anything other than elegant and beautiful. I am yet to meet a person who does not like her.” The same could not be said of Bernie, but there was no bitterness in her town, only pride, wonder at her sister’s pleasantness. Her sister was the only woman who’s difference to her had never seemed to Bernie a weakness, had ever been respected, even envied. 

Time passed, but it did not feel long to Alexander, as he drew pleasure from the ride, from the small forests opening before them, enveloping them all around, the quiet contrapoint to the business in London. Yes. He was certain, yes, he would enjoy St Maur County. When she did answer, Alexander’s eyes begun to shine as though no time had passed at all. “You may!” he delighted. “Though you encapsulate the reason to love them so well already, I’d like to add one more aspect, if you permit: The fact that every time we retell them, we put a piece of our modern minds into them. The way they change, reflect the world of the speaker, it is a looking glass into two worlds. It magical, really. Do you have a favourite myth?”

He laughed, good-naturedly. “We were trained in the military together, oh, many years ago. We shared a cabin in Italy for almost a year. You learn a lot about a man when you witness his eating habits and sleeping-sounds.” He cast her a playful grin. “He stayed, however, when I had to leave. I had asked to take him with us, have him lead a regiment in the East, but he wished to stay in Italy, though he never said why. What do you think, am I foolish for thinking that it might have been for love?”

“She is.” Alexander could agree with that notion easily. Lady Florence was perfectly loveable. Sweet and mild-mannered. Witty without falling into the dangers humour could have. “But certainly you will not take this as a reason to think negatively of yourself, I hope? Or hope that I shall do it for you?”

[alexander-of-sandringham]