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[idreesinet]

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[phpscriptsmall]

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[chalametdarling]

T.C. fluff:  Being Timothée’s co-star in an upcoming romantic drama, and having a long weekend off together to explore the coastal European city you’re filming in

“Wow, this is beautiful.” You hugged your rolled-up towel close to your chest, the view of a crowded beach, sparkling crystal blue water and colourful umbrellas lining the sand awaiting you. 

“Oui, c’est très beau,” Timothee agreed, playfully nudging your shoulder, guiding you to follow him down onto the sand. You slipped off your shoes and the two of you began meandering through the endless sea of warm sand and towels, eventually finding vacant real estate between a young family and a group of women bathing in the sun. It was Timothee’s idea to explore the French town you were filming in together while you had a few days off, and as you laid down your towel, and Timothee retrieved containers of strawberries and savoury biscuits from his backpack, you couldn’t believe you’d thought of spending your Friday any other way. 

You talked and ate and waded into the water, splashing each other and jumping over waves. And when you weren’t doing that, you alternated between reading your script and a novel while Timothee laid on his stomach, headphones on, head resting on his arms.   You couldn’t quite tell behind his sunglasses, but judging by how you’d finished reading an entire chapter and he hadn’t moved a muscle, you assumed he’d fallen asleep. Under the sun block and daylight, his pale skin seemed to glow. His hair a perfectly messy mop, grains of sand nestled into the ends of his curls. Timothee really did have perfect features. You could objectively see that now that you were really looking at him. Bold eyebrows poking over the tops of his sunglasses, strong nose, angelic lips- “You staring at me?” You quickly looked out towards the water, resting your chin onto your knees and hugging your legs. “No, just checking if you were awake.” He rolled over, stretching out. “I am now.” Checking the time on his watch, he added, “Shit. We’ve been here for hours.” He reached out and picked up one of the few remaining uneaten strawberries by its stalk while you packed away your books into your bag. “Do you feel like getting dinner?” he asked, tossing the leafy remains into the pile you’d made as you ate.   “Yes,” you eagerly nodded your head. Laying out on the sand all day really worked up your appetite. Already feeling drowsy from the fresh air and too much sun, you followed Timothee’s lead from the shore to the row of bars and cafes lining the beach. He led you inside the doors of a quaint pub; one hand holding the door open, the other on the small of your back. A live band was set up on the raised stage towards the back, playing acoustic French music for those enjoying meals and post-work drinks. You found a seat at the bar, sharing bread and wine, your heart swelling the more time you spent learning the workings of Timothee’s mind. You could’ve sat all night with your chin in the palm of your hand, listening to him rattle on about his favourite directors and film theories and character studies, then abruptly stop himself with an embarrassed laugh, running his palms down his thighs. “Anyway,” he laughed, shaking his head. He finished his drink, then tuned into the DJ who’d since replaced the initial band. “Wanna dance?” Several drinks in and hours of dancing later, you were still on the dance floor with a drink in hand.  As the night went on, every time your head spin subsided, Timothee was either dragging you through the crammed bodies back over to the bar or replacing empty glasses in your hand with overflowing cups of alcohol. After the fourth glass exchange, you put an arm around his neck to pull his ear down to be level with your lips. While your thoughts were still somewhat coherent, your words were a little slurred. “Timmy, maybe you should slow down a bit.” As you were speaking, the ABBA remix playing faded into Kid Cudi, and you watched as your words fell onto deaf ears. Timothee’s face lit up and he shouted, “FUCK YEAH!” raising his free arm above his head. Your eyes followed his movements as he sang along to every word, big grin on his face, never stopping to breath; only pausing for a sip of his drink.   Before you knew what was happening, your back was against the wall and Timothee’s lips on yours. But just as quickly as he had kissed you, he was pulling back, flicking his hair back and shouting the next lyric through a tipsy grin. As the chorus started for a second time, he caught sight of you watching him, wide eyed and in a daze, and set his empty glass down as you reached to grab his waist. He stepped in to kiss you again; this time harder, longer and deeper.   The remainder of the night became hazier and hazier; only blurred visions of licking salt off the back of your hand and clinking shot glasses, jumping and spinning around the dance floor, and your fingers getting caught in Timothee’s salty curls remained. * An instant ache shot through the middle of your forehead as you blinked your eyes open, and you groaned. Sheer confusion washed over you, your mind unable to piece together where you were or what day it was, until you spotted a familiar black backpack against the wall and a bottle of cologne on the dresser. Ah, Timothee’s place. Timothee’s bed, to be specific. Slowly rolling over and rubbing your eyes to look behind you, you discovered you had the bed to yourself. The other side was practically untouched, blankets still tucked under the mattress. A door creaked open, and Timothee emerged from the adjoining bathroom, dragging his feet behind him. Seeing you were awake, he changed course and climbed onto the intact side of the bed, mumbling out, ‘Morning’ in a deep, soft voice. He sat with his back to you, and the one hand cradled to your chest itched to reach forward and trace down his spine. You weren’t sure where the urge came from. Maybe because of the way his hooded eyes, drunk on tequila and European air, remained locked on yours for hours last night. How his strawberry lips sponged kisses on your cheek and neck as you waited at the bar. How his hands had so delicately clasped around your cheeks when he kissed you for real over and over and over again. It would’ve been so easy to push back the covers, walk your fingers across the mattress; to drag them up and down his back or affectionately twist the ends of his hair. But Timothee was leaning back against his pillows to lie down beside you before you could muster up the courage to do so. With interlaced fingers resting on his bare chest, he looked over to you. “How did we get home last night?” You yawned, nestling further down into the pillows. “We walked, remember?” “Oh, shit.” Timothee nodded, pursing his lips with a hum. “I feel like shit.” “You drank a lot last night,” you said softly. He licked his lips, covering his face with his hands. “Fuck.” He stayed like that for a few moments, rubbing his face, and you wondered if he’d forgotten anything else from the previous night.   “I should probably go back to mine.” He dropped his hands back to his chest, looking over again, voice gentle as he spoke. “You can stay if you want.” “No, I should go and have a shower,” you told him, rolling onto your back and stretching your arms out. Timothee’s fingertips ghosted over your neck with a small smile, and you instinctively moved your head back from under his sudden touch. “What?” He shook his head, bringing his hand back to its resting place on his chest, eyes still lazily drooped as he enquired about your plans for the rest of the evening. You pushed yourself up to sit against the headboard, your hand subconsciously hovering over the spot Timothee’s had just been. “You know we have work on Monday, right? I’d like to read my lines at least once before then.” After pointing out you brought your script out with you the previous say, he added, “You have all of Sunday for that.”   You pursed your lips with a sigh. He rolled over, holding his head up with his hand. “Come on, y/n.” You evidently didn’t need much convincing, because a few hours later, you were meeting Timothee for ice cream. Desserts in hand, you found a small table outside the ice cream parlour, shaded from the orange glow of late afternoon sun by an umbrella. The two of you sat looking out at the streets, sunglasses hiding both of your dark, hungover eyes, observing the strangers passing by. And when you had the chance, you stole glances at the boy sitting across from you. When you met him out the front of the hotel, his formerly dry, sandy hair was now shiny, the ends still a little damp. He smelled fresh when you hugged him, and his jumper was soft on your cheek. He’d complimented your turtle neck top, which reminded you… “By the way,” you said, pulling Timothee’s attention from the open roads to you, “I’m not too happy with you, Timothee.” He frowned, taking another lick of his ice cream. “What the fuck did I do?” You teasingly held his stare. “Oh, I don’t know,” you said, pulling down the high neck of your top to reveal your purple stained skin. A shy smile overtook Timothee’s face and he shrugged, laughing awkwardly. “Oh, yeah. Sorry?” “Funny is it?” you mused, sliding your sunglasses down your nose to look over the frames at him. Timothee licked his melting ice cream, then said, “No, but now that you mention it, y/n, I’m mad at you too.” You slid your glasses all the way off, placing them down on the table. “Really? Why’s that?” Timothee, with a cocky smile, tugged down the chunky collar of his sweater, revealing a light bruise at the very base of his neck. You instinctively lowered your face and hid your eyes behind your free hand. “Oh my god.” Through the cracks between your fingers, you saw him smiling, bringing his cone back up to his mouth. “Forgot about that, did you?”   Dropping your hands with a laugh, you reached forward, using your thumb to push back his collar again and run your thumb over the mark you left on his pale skin. “Sorry,” you mumbled with a little pout. With an exaggerated sigh, looking up to make eye contact with Timothee, you added, “What is wrong with us?” He laughed, putting his hand on your wrist and running his thumb over your skin. “It’s alright. I forgive you.” You shook your head in mock disapproval, but there was a buzzing in your chest as you felt his lingering eyes and warm skin on yours.   You strolled back to the hotel in comfortable silence. Despite being a bundle of nerves, it was nice being with him. He made you think, and he made you feel. A man adorned in a billowing linen shirt sat on the side of the street, guitar in hand, singing a sombre tune. You slowed down along with the few other strangers who had paused to listen to the man’s song, Timothee a few paces behind you, taking his sunglasses off as he slowed. A few moments passed, and Timothee leaned down from his place behind you so that he could speak softly in your ear. “He’s singing about his lover.” Timothee paused to listen to the next line. “He doesn’t want to live without them… he feels empty… and sick… he- he’s waiting for her but… he knows she’s gone for good.” Turning over your shoulder, you pouted up at Timothee, who reciprocated the expression. “That’s so sad.” Timothee nodded. His hair flopped over his cheek, and you noticed his eyes sparkling in the golden cast of evening light. Over his shoulder, a couple held each other, longingly looking into each other’s eyes, tenderly touching each other’s cheeks. As a loaded weight settled on your chest, you looked back up at Timothee. The space between his eyebrows slightly creased and he smiled. “What?” Clicking your tongue against your teeth, and shaking your head, you answered, “Nothing.” You both knew it wasn’t nothing. With a sigh, you snuck your hand between his arm and body, grabbing onto his forearm to lead him away. “Alright, I only agreed to ice cream. Let’s go.” It was quiet when you got to your floor of the hotel, so you tried to be as silent as possible climbing the stairs, so other guests weren’t disturbed. You and Timothee were work colleagues, and friends, and his room was only ten steps further down the hall, and you were almost positive that you’d definitely be seeing him again the next day; but as he lingered by your door as you rummaged in your bag for your key, you couldn’t help but feel a little sad you were saying goodbye. Once you retrieved your key, you looked up at him with a smile. “Alright,” you said softly. “This is where I leave you.” Timothee stood by your door, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes stuck on your face. He wasn’t budging, and you weren’t game enough to break first. His messy curls flopped over his eyes again, and you pushed them back behind his ears. He held onto your wrist, slowly lowering it down to your sides. Relationships with colleagues could get messy. Everybody knew that. What does this mean for us? The words were caught in your throat. You wanted to ask; to say it out loud. But you couldn’t bring yourself to form them. Why couldn’t you just be okay with enjoying the moment? Timothee inched his head closer to yours slowly, almost unsure if it was okay. You kept your eyes lowered. “Timothee,” you whispered. “Yes,” he whispered back, resting his forehead on yours. You slowly shook your head. “I can’t.” “Why?” You didn’t respond right away, eyes still focused towards the ground, and he nudged the side of your nose with his, then pulled back from you. “Hmm?” You sighed, closing your eyes and lifting your face to his. Very slowly, he took the sides of your face into his hands. Static in the air charged your movements as his lips grazed against yours. Somehow, you simultaneously had both a million things to say, yet nothing at all. You settled on hugging him, chin resting over his shoulder. It was nice hugging him; to have him holding you close. “Good night, Timmy,” you muttered, eventually breaking free. “Good night,” he said in reply, hands sliding out from around your waist. With tingling lips, you stood up on your toes for a second to place a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth once more. You unlocked your door, and while slipping inside your room, you looked over one last time at Timothee smiling. “Good night.”

[nicolewrites]

this house is full of ghosts (and they all look like you)

just some thoughts from last night...

Rating: T+ Genre: Angst  Characters: [Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Sylvain Jose Gautier], the Blue Lions Words: 2,532

Ingrid returns home after the war.

AO3

The ride from Enbarr back to Galatea territory is long and lonely. Ingrid doesn’t want to stretch it out any longer than it already is, so she pushes herself and her pegasus to the brink of exhaustion every day that she rides until the rich soil turns to rocky dust beneath her and she flies lower to the ground, breathing in the familiar, cold Faerghus air.

She touches down at the edge of the property that belongs to her family and she stares at the Galatea manor: big and empty at the top of the hill.

Ingrid pulls out the hunting dagger she was gifted when she was twelve and slashes the reins and bridle and tack on her pegasus until it falls free into strips of leather on the ground. The child in her is angry with both her treatment of expensive material and tack that carries so many memories for her. The Ingrid she is today wants to burn all of it.

She pushes away her pegasus by the nose and then the flank, urging him to fly away. He whinnies at her, but Ingrid doesn’t let up, shooing him away until he flaps his wings and jumps, moving away from her with a sad noise.

There is no more war so there is no more need for her to ride.

-

The manor is closed and locked up tightly and Ingrid doesn’t have a key. She smashes a window on the front door and picks her way through the broken glass she leaves in the entryway. She unlocks the door, to ease her comings and goings later, and then looks around her childhood home.

Dust clings to every surface and there are cobwebs strung between bannisters and rails on the chandelier above the front hall. The floors are scratched as they have always been and the rugs that cover them are matted and tattered. From the front entrance, she can just barely glimpse the portrait gallery at the top of the stairs of her entire family. She leans Luín against the wall by the door and moves closer to the stairs, staring up at the paintings.

Morbid curiosity drives her to climb the stairs slowly, her boots clicking on the wooded stairs as they creak beneath her. She stops in front of the first portrait: her father. He died defending Galatea from Empire excursions on the Alliance side four months ago. Her mother’s portrait, smiling and radiant, is gathering dust on her father’s right. Her mother has been gone for a long time.

On her father’s left is a patch of barren wall and Ingrid’s stomach twisted. Six years ago, there had been a portrait of her that had hung there. She’s not surprised that he took it down.

Her brothers are memorialized here as well, staring straight with small smiles or flat expressions. Their paintings are as lifeless as her brothers are now.

Ingrid walks back downstairs.

-

There are two broken windows in the parlour and half of the decorations in the room are knocked over and smashed or missing, leaving the empty shelves and tables to gather dust. There had never been much in the way of decoration anyway, thanks to the barren lands of Galatea, but they had still been nobles.

Ingrid approaches the mantle slowly, staring at the chipped and dusty bricks. Whatever was in the fireplace had long since burned to ashes, leaving a fine grey layer of soot along the base of the pit. She knows what used to sit on top of the mantle and she’s a little upset to see it gone.

The ceremonial sword had been a gift from House Fraldarius to House Galatea as a symbol of Glenn and Ingrid’s engagement. It had been the centrepiece on the mantle for as long as Ingrid can remember, but she also knows that the sword is worth a fair bit of money and that of all the things that have been stolen from her house in the last five years, the sword is something that she should have expected to be gone.

She traces the Crest of Fraldarius into the dust pattern atop the mantle and thinks of Felix.

She didn’t kill him herself, but she might as well have. She knows that he had been watching her when the Empire stormed Arianrhod. He had watched her to see if she would really cut down Kingdom soldiers, some of whom originated in Galatea.

Ingrid had made a request to Edelgard that Felix be buried with his father in the grounds outside the Silver Maiden. He had deserved an honourable burial for having died an honourable death in service to his King and country.

Nobody will be around to bury Ingrid. She doesn’t deserve their grief anyway. Maybe no one will even know when she dies. That seems like the easiest situation to pursue.

She writes Felix and Glenn’s names in the dust on either side of the Crest of Fraldarius. They can stay here with her, she supposes.

-

The kitchen is probably one of the dustier places in the manor. It’s too large for what was actually used by her family since it was built to accommodate a staff that her family had not been able to afford to employ.

There’s an abandoned rolling pin wedged halfway under the counter that’s filled with splinters. Ingrid picks it up and places it atop the counter, flicking it with her finger and watching it roll, lop-sided, across the top of the counter.

The Galatea manor kitchen had once been a beautiful kitchen, but the hardships of her house combined with the utter lack of care that has gone into this place since Ingrid left, have put it in quite the sorry state.

She pulls down the tattered, moth-eaten drapes and throws them in a pile. She wipes off the table and opens a window to let some air into the place. The next step would be to find a few simple wildflowers from her garden to set in the middle of the table and then she would feel almost like it was the kind of place she might have shared a meal with Dedue.

If he hadn’t been holding a grudge against her for both her treatment of him and then her siding with the Empire over her own King.

She hasn’t really been able to taste her food since the war began and she had raised arms against the Kingdom. She figures that’s only fair.

-

Mercedes is everywhere in her mother’s old study. She’s in the pianoforte at one end of the room and in the shattered china that litters the floor. Ingrid digs up a towel from the linen cabinet and wipes away the dust from the keys of the piano.

She sits on the rickety bench as it creaks beneath her weight and rests her fingers on yellowed keys. The piano doesn’t play properly since half the strings are broken or worn, but the D closest to the middle C makes a light chiming noise that reminds Ingrid of Mercedes’s laugh.

Mercedes had thought it funny that Ingrid could play the piano of all things, but Ingrid knows that she has never been any good at it. It had been purely for the noble appearance of it all.

She manages to find a broom back in the kitchen and she quickly sweeps up the remains of shattered china and trampled tea leaves. A few of the pieces of the tea set, ones that were in the cabinet for safekeeping, have survived over the years, but they just remind Ingrid of her mother as well so she leaves the study as abruptly as she had entered it.

-

Next to her mother’s study, is her father’s office. The room that, at times, doubled as a war room when Galatea still held an advantageous position in the war. Ingrid can only ever remember standing in the doorway of the room as a child, waiting to be granted permission to enter, despite never having received it.

Her father’s study is where she had been told that she would marry Glenn and it’s where she had been told that Glenn was dead. Her father’s study is where she had taken Luín and told her father that she would not serve the Kingdom, that she had made her choice.

She dusts the edges of the bookshelves in this room. It’s mostly battle tactics and farming techniques that have never born fruit, but there are the occasional magic tomes tucked in between as well. One of her brothers had had an aptitude for magic, even without a Crest, but Ingrid has never shared that blessing.

Annette had tried to teach her a simple Reason spell once, but Ingrid had only succeeded in giving herself frostbite on her fingertips before the spell fizzled and Annette had laughed, warming her hands up with a perfectly controlled fire spell.

Annette probably would have liked her father’s study with its leather armchair that is perfect for sitting with a good book and his sturdy oak desk that’s both a statement piece of furniture and also the perfect size and height for getting a lot of work done.

Ingrid writes Annette’s name in the dust atop her father’s desk before she searches the drawers. Surprisingly, she finds a spare key to the manor in the bottom right drawer hidden under a bunch of paper records and letters.

She hesitantly takes out one of the letters and stares at the familiar, curling script on the page. It’s Annette’s handwriting and it’s dated four years ago as her friend asks her father about Ingrid’s whereabouts and the situation in Galatea on behalf of House Dominic.

She leaves the letter on the top of the desk when she leaves the study.

-

Ingrid’s own bedroom is the next place she dares to venture. The stairs and floorboards creak under her feet and she feels weary from days of heavy travel and fighting and horrible sleep, but she can’t stop now.

At least the manor is empty.

Her room is exactly how she left it years ago: a bed tucked on the right side with sheets pulled up neatly, like a soldier. There’s a vanity across from the bed, next to a dresser, and then there are three bookshelves, all packed full of books that Ingrid had collected as a child.

The large window in her room isn’t broken, but the latch is stuck when she tries to open it, so she doesn’t force it.

Ingrid studies the titles on her bookshelves. Most of them are knight’s tales and fairytales with knightly and chivalrous characters who would die and lay down their lives for their loves and for their rulers. There are a few Faerghan history books as well.

Ingrid had always meant to bring Ashe home just to see her collection. She had wanted to share with him a new story that he hadn’t heard yet, since he managed to find her the Moon Knight, that wonderful story about the female knight.

She has a few books that she can pick out, even after all this time that she knows Ashe would have been incredibly interested in reading. She picks books off her shelves until her arms are so full that she can’t carry any more and she dumps them into her fireplace. She doesn’t have a match on her right now, but she’ll light them up later.

She’s got no use for books on knighthood and chivalry now.

She brushes her hands off and moves to sit on her bed. Like everything else, there is a fine coat of dust over her sheets, but she doesn’t acknowledge it, sitting on the mattress that was always just a little too firm for her taste as a child. It hasn’t aged well and it sags beneath her weight.

Ingrid leans back, falling onto her back on the bed, ignoring the puff of dust that flares in the air around her. She rolls onto her side, towards the far wall that her bed is pressed against and she presses her fingers into the wooden wall. She doesn’t have to search hard for what she’s looking for.

Her fingers clear the dust from the carved crevices and then she’s staring at the carved letters: D, A, and B.

It had been a silly childhood fantasy of hers to serve Dimitri as both a knight and also something more. Her crush had faded quickly once she had become engaged to Glenn.

For the first time since she had set foot in her old home, Ingrid’s eyes grow warm and wet.

Dimitri had fallen in the rain on the Tailtean Plains and Edelgard had taken his head clean off with one swipe of her axe and Ingrid remembers that she had screamed. She hadn’t cried on the battlefield when Felix had died, but she had fallen asleep clutching the old Fraldarius Crest ring that Glenn had given her, dreaming of his brother.

Felix’s death, at least, had been quick. Dimitri had watched his army crumble and his close ally, Dedue, mutate himself into one of the monstrous Crest-beasts.

And then he had lost his head.

Ingrid rolls onto her back and stares up blankly at the ceiling. The last time she had come to Galatea, before she had delivered her ultimatum, she hadn’t been alone in this room.

She had told him to leave, but the only person she had ever known who was stubborn enough to ignore her stayed instead. They had lain side-by-side on her too-small bed, Ingrid’s head resting against his shoulder while his arm wrapped around her. It had been nice.

She wishes that that had been her last memory of Sylvain.

She wishes she could just think of how warm he had been next to her on the bed and how it had felt when he had asked that night in the candlelight if he could kiss her. She wishes she could say that it had been enough for her to hold Sylvain for one night, that she returned to Fhirdiad or to Fraldarius or to Gautier with him to fight on behalf of the Kingdom.

Instead, she lives with the memory of driving Luín through the plates of his armour as she cried on the battlefield at the Tailtean Plains.

Do it yourself, he had said to her. Make it worth it.

She had grounded herself after that, keeping her feet anchored in the sucking mud of the field as she had screamed and cut down anyone, friend or foe, who had tried to get close to her.

Ingrid had buried Sylvain herself and stuck the Lance of Ruin into the earth like a cursed gravemarker.

Lying on her bed, alone, Ingrid imagines Sylvain’s lips on hers and how cold he had felt when she had kissed him then, rain and blood-soaked. Her tears roll down her cheeks and she closes her eyes, listening for the wind as it blows into her home through the windows she had opened on the main floor.

Galatea manor is full of ghosts. Ingrid feels like becoming one of them.

[iturbide]

A Gift that No One Else Can Give

Happy holidays, everyone!  Apologies for the late offering (getting sick threw a wrench into my plans), but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to write a warm happy holiday piece.

Even after the better part of a year, the constantly changing beauty of Ylisse still left Robin in awe.  Arriving with the first thaw of winter’s end, he’d seen brown fields turn verdant as grass and flowers sprang forth, the bare branches beyond transformed into a lush canopy stretching as far as the eye could see.  Summer shifted the lands away from the gilt green of new leaves to something deeper, cooler, and the shadows in the gardens offered relief from the clinging heat and shelter from the frequent rains by equal measure.  The advent of autumn left the landscape awash in fresh color, golden farmlands ripe for harvest shimmering beyond forests ablaze in red and orange, and fallen leaves crackled like flame beneath travelers’ steps.  But though winter had since regained its hold and stolen the halidom’s vibrant palette, Ylisstol’s citizens seemed intent on fighting back the dreary greys and browns within their city by any means possible.

It had taken him entirely by surprise when he came downstairs and found the dining room festooned in green and red garlands.  Over breakfast, Lissa had explained that it was all part of the winter festival, a time-honored tradition where the people of Ylisse decorated their homes inside and out and exchanged gifts with loved ones to liven up the bleak midwinter.  And Robin had to admit that the results were quite effective: just walking out onto the snow-dusted streets, he could not help but smile at the renewed color in the city, banners breaking up plain grey stonework and candles burning bright in every window.  The people, too, seemed renewed by the change, and the city square rang with talk and laughter as citizens milled and shopped, smiling and greeting everyone they passed on their ways.

Guest or not, it had been impossible for Robin not to get swept up in the festive mood, and Lissa had heartily encouraged him to take part.  So with her guidance, the Plegian had set about finding small tokens for each of his friends from within and beyond the halidom, adorning each with a tiny red bow in lieu of wrapping (which he attempted once and failed quite spectacularly at, much to the princess’ obvious amusement).  Some were easy to shop for: exotic ingredients for Stahl’s apothecary pursuits, a new set of leather satchels for Henry’s hexing materials, a silver bangle studded with rose quartz for Olivia’s performances.  Others were much more difficult: he settled on a stamina concoction for Sully’s seemingly endless training endeavors, a silver blade wrought in Ylissean style for Lon’qu’s weapons mastery, and a decorative wall hanging for Maribelle’s tea parlour (on Lissa’s advice, since he’d never seen the room she swore the tapestry would look perfect in).

But there was one person who, try as he might, he could not think of a suitable gift for.  After all, what could he possibly give the man who already had everything?

It gnawed at him as he made his way through the palace halls, worrying at the ribbon tied around the plain ebony box in his palm.  Was it perhaps too little, something so small?  Inappropriate for someone in his position?  Too much for someone in Chrom’s?  Gods, why did the prince have to be so difficult—

A muffled oath caught his attention.  Looking around, Robin saw only a few closed doors along the hallway, most of which were sitting rooms if he remembered the palace tour correctly…but the sound came again, and he could swear he recognized the voice now that he paid attention.  Frowning, he moved toward the nearest door and knocked lightly.  “Is everything alright?”

The cursing came again, significantly more frantic, and now he was certain he recognized it.  “E-everything’s fine!  No trouble!”  

“Chrom, what’s going on?” Robin sighed.

“Nothing!  Like I said, everything’s fine, nothing to worry about – oh gods damn, why won’t it stay--”

“It doesn’t sound like everything’s fine.”

“W-well, it is, I promise, nothing to worry abooh no no no don’t—”

“…can I come in?”

There was a long moment of silence…followed by a long-suffering sigh.  “I guess.”

Much to his surprise, Robin heard the bar on the door shift, and hurriedly hid his hands behind his back before it opened to reveal a harried-looking prince with scraps of green cloth sticking to his tunic and silver shavings glittering in his hair.  “My, you look festive,” Robin chuckled as Chrom stepped aside.

“Ha ha,” the prince deadpanned, retreating to the table near the center of the room.

Robin closed the door and followed cheerfully after him, enjoying the warmth from the crackling hearth after his latest journey through the chilly streets.  “So what have you been up to?  Besides decorating – g-good gods, what is that?” he asked, stopping in his tracks as he finally caught a glimpse of the desk.

“I’ve been trying to wrap gifts for the winter festival,” Chrom mumbled.  If Robin had thought his own attempts were failures, they were arguable successes compared to the nightmare of ribbon scraps and torn covering scattered haphazardly across the table in the wake of the prince’s efforts.  

“Well…I certainly can’t guess what you’ve wrapped, so perhaps you can call it a success?” he volunteered.

Chrom groaned, moving a fresh sheet of red-dyed parchment to reveal the shape of something underneath.  “I haven’t managed to wrap it at all.  Thanks for trying, though.”

Well, it had been worth the effort.  “You could just tie a ribbon around it?” Robin suggested, thinking of the gift concealed behind his own back.

“That takes all the fun out of it, though.  You don’t really have to guess what it is if you can see it.  Although,” the prince mused, lifting the parcel and folding the wrapping around it, “I suppose there’s not much guesswork involved either way, is there?”

Peering over his shoulder, Robin had to admit that the outline looked very much like a book, with the rounding of one long edge seeming indicative of a spine.  Quite a thick tome, too, judging by the size; perhaps he’d found a new book for Sumia?  “It’s the thought more than the mystery that’s important for the festival, isn’t it?  You’re clearly thinking of them, so I doubt anyone will mind not puzzling over their gift.”

“You think?”  As Chrom turned a pleading look on him, Robin smiled…and after another moment, the prince relented, offering the clumsily covered present to him.  “It’s a little early, but…this is for you.”

“For me?” Robin repeated, hastily shoving the tiny box into his coat pocket before taking the bundle.  Holding it in his hands, he had no doubt that it was a book – and quite an impressive one, at that, nearly as wide as his palm and heavy enough to pose a threat if dropped.  Perhaps there was something to be said for the mystery, after all: a curious sense of excitement fluttered through his mind as he pondered just what sort of book it could be, and it took all his self-control not to discard the paper then and there.  “May I open it?”

The prince smiled, leaning against the edge of the table.  “I don’t see why not.  The festival lasts the whole week, and usually there’s a big party on the last day for feasting and exchanging gifts, but…well, lots of times friends will trade presents early, since the parties tend to be family things.  W-which isn’t to say you’re not invited to our party here, because you are!  I-I just meant that…uh… … …”

Robin grinned, running the tips of his fingers over the edge of a cover.  “Would you like it if I opened it now?” he ventured.  Chrom rubbed the back of his neck, meeting the young man’s eye almost shyly as he nodded.  “Well, if anyone asks where your festival gift to me is, I’ll be sure to bring this along.”  Humming to himself, he unwrapped the slightly crumpled parchment, casting it aside…

…and for a moment, he could find no words at all for the beautiful tome left resting in his hands.  The leather covers alone were masterworks, with painstaking texturing and gold inlay accompanying the light and dark staining; but the gilt pages, too, were cut and aligned in perfect form, with tiny indents and markers drawing his fingertips as he ran them along the outside edge.  Opening it to one of the sections, he saw a tiny script ‘Y’ written on the tab – and on the page itself, a delicate illustration of Ylisstol Castle as seen from the city square greeted him; flipping through, the next few pages included a brief treatise on the halidom itself, from its climate and religion to its major exports, followed by blank parchment covered in neat guidelines waiting to be filled.  Moving to the next marker, inscribed with a ‘P,’ he found a drawing of Plegia Castle waiting, the great six-eyed skull at the foot of the mesa looking nearly as grand in ink as it did in his memories – and as with the section before, a handful of prescient details preceded blank pages.  Curious, he flipped to the very end to find thickly bundled sheaves of parchment bound to the spine…which, as he tested them, unfolded to reveal maps of the Archanean continent and their Valmese neighbors, along with more detailed charts for the individual nations within each.

The prince’s voice broke the silence as Robin spread a map of Plegia out across the cluttered table.  “I was…having some trouble figuring out what to get you.  So…I started thinking about…how you always go into the council meetings with that armload of parchment and quills and ink, and how much of a hassle it must be to keep it all straight.  I was hoping this might be a little easier to manage.  You can take all your notes in this – about council meetings here, diplomatic negotiations with Ferox, things going on back home – and it’s even got some helpful stuff like a list of Ylisse’s noble families in the back.”  As Robin eagerly re-folded the maps and turned back to explore the aristocratic lineages, he heard Chrom draw another breath…and paused, looking up at the man standing beside him.  “Do you like it?” the prince asked, his voice almost pleading to the Plegian’s ear.

“It’s incredible,” Robin replied without hesitation.  “I’ve never seen anything like this!  I’ve certainly seen section markers in this style before, but the inclusion of the maps is ingenious…”

“I…w-well, I can’t take all the credit there,” Chrom admitted.  “I got a lot of help.  Gregor helped find the maps, and Miriel figured out how to fold them up like that so they could be bound in with the rest.  And Maribelle pulled together the part about the nobility, since she’s sort of an expert.  Oh, and I got Henry’s help hexing the quill, too.”

“Quill?” Robin repeated.

The prince cursed under his breath, tossing aside crumpled parchment and bits of ribbon until he uncovered a raven feather hidden in the colorful chaos.  “You don’t have to keep refilling it – it stores ink, I guess?  And then it turns white as you use it, but when you dip it in an ink well it’ll refill and turn black again.”

Robin took the plume as Chrom held it out to him, running his thumb along the soft edge.  “This is all wonderful!  I’ll miss less with a quill that can keep up with my thoughts, and the book is beautiful, and contains so much – not just room for writing, but details that can help in treaty discussions and diplomatic endeavors and…gods, this section on the nobility alone might ease our way through some of the reforms we’ve been struggling with in the council…”

“I guess I was…kind of worried you might get the wrong impression from it,” Chrom confessed.  “I don’t want you to think that I only want you here for your advice and your help.  Not that I don’t appreciate it!  Because I do!  This past year with me filling in for Emm, all the changes we’ve worked out – I couldn’t have done any of that without you.  But…but it’s not just your counsel I value.  It’s…it’s you.”

Robin felt a touch of warmth creep into his cheeks.  Glancing over, he could swear he saw a trace of color in the prince’s own face as he reached out to close the tome and open the front cover, revealing a handwritten inscription within:

This book belongs to Robin The man whose mind steers me safely through storms and trouble And whose heart is a beacon guiding me toward calm and peace

He feared for a moment that his heart might leap from his chest, and pressed a hand against it to keep it contained.  The script was unique among the various writing styles he’d seen elsewhere in the book, and after all the messages they had exchanged in coordinating the Plegian campaign, he recognized it as Chrom’s own.  The precise composition and painstaking lettering spoke of several practice iterations before attempting the final product within the book…and he wondered just how long the prince had spent agonizing over the message and its implications.

“It’s perfect,” Robin breathed, looking up just in time to see the smile break across Chrom’s face (and he was relieved that he’d not let his hand fall yet, since his heart pounded once more against his ribs and left them aching beneath his palm).

“I’m really glad,” the prince laughed, rubbing his neck again.  “I was worried it might be too much.  Lissa says I can be a little…sappy, sometimes.”

Robin beamed, shaking his head as he re-read the inscription.  “Not at all.”  If those words were true – if he wasn’t reading too deeply into them – then perhaps…  “A-actually…I have something for you, too.”

Chrom’s expression brightened as Robin reached into his pocket, and he did a poor job of hiding his excitement as the beribboned box came into view.  “Do I get to open it?” he asked eagerly.

“I’d have it no other way,” Robin chuckled, passing the gift into the prince’s hands.

Forcing himself to breathe, he watched as Chrom untied the bow and let it fall, lifting the lid…to reveal a brooch, the deep red stone at its center framed by gold feathers echoing the pattern of Grima’s Mark.  The prince lifted it carefully, holding it up to the light and filling the garnet with a warm glow.  “It’s beautiful…but it looks more like something for you than me,” he teased.

Steeling his nerves, Robin adopted the most confident smile he could muster.  “That was intentional.  In Plegia, the first new moon after Grima’s Night marks the start of our new year – and as luck would have it, that happens to be tonight.  The eve of the new year is a time of reflection, where we look back on the times we have fallen short and where we’ve excelled, consider the things we regret and those we take pride in, and strive to make amends with those we have wronged or strengthen our bonds with friends and family we’ve grown apart from.  It’s…also a time of change, though, where we look ahead to the coming year and how we might better ourselves.  And there’s a saying that…the best time to give your heart away is at the turn of the new year: if you face rejection, you have the year ahead to mend; and if you find acceptance, you have the year ahead to bond.”

“Give your heart away…?” the prince repeated.

Robin nodded, realizing as he did that he was rubbing his Brand and forcing his hands to be still.  “That brooch is called a heartstone.  The setting is meant to call the giver to mind, because it represents their heart, so…’wherever you go, so long as you wear this, my heart will always be with you.’”

Silence met those familiar words.  Swallowing back the fear in his throat, Robin looked up to find Chrom staring at him.  “Does that mean…?”  The prince’s voice trailed off as he looked between the brooch and the man beside him.

The first stirring of panic frayed his nerves.  “You’ve no obligation to accept, I know it’s very sudden and I’m sure you have other—”

“No – Robin.”  He stopped as Chrom lay a hand on his shoulder, his grip gentle and sure.  “I need you to tell me exactly what this means.”

Staring into the prince’s eyes, blue as the sky before dawn, Robin felt his resolve falter.  But before it could abandon him completely, he folded his hands before him and offered up a shy smile.  “It means I love you, Chrom.”

It was perhaps for the best that he’d had nothing more prepared: the prince’s embrace would have prevented him from getting any further even if he’d tried.  Before he could collect himself, Chrom lifted Robin off the floor, his laughter muffled in the soft fabric of Robin’s hood as he spun them in place...and even when the prince finally stopped, he did not let go, simply holding the young man close.  “Are…are you alright?” Robin asked.

“I never thought I’d hear you say that,” Chrom breathed.  “I figured that…maybe if I said it first, you might, but even then…”

So he hadn’t mistaken the intent of that inscription.  But even still, his heart leapt into his throat, and it took a moment before he could find the voice to speak again.  “Will you accept my heart, then?” he murmured.

“Gladly,” Chrom agreed, stepping just far enough back to pin the brooch neatly to his chest, just over his own heart.  “Would it be too much to ask if…you might accept mine, as well?”

“Haven’t you given me enough already?” Robin teased, feeling his face flush with warmth as the prince removed the signet ring from his finger.

Chrom grinned in reply.  “Never.  And besides: this is something only I can give, just like your gift to me.”  Taking gentle hold of Robin’s hand, the prince carefully slipped the silver and lapis token onto his finger…though they both fought back laughter at the poor fit.  “It might need to be resized.  But it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“Of course,” Robin beamed, brushing a kiss across Chrom’s cheek (and feeling his own burn brighter at the blush that such a small gesture left in its wake).  “Happy winter festival, Chrom.”

“And happy new year, Robin” the prince replied, pulling the young man close once more – and the kiss he touched to Robin’s lips as he laced their fingers left him certain that the year to come would be joyous, indeed.  

Creatively, this has been an amazing year, but I owe a lot to all the amazing content creators out there, whose headcanons, writing, and artwork have helped inspire me and keep me writing, drawing, planning, and creating in general.  Thank you to @2goldensnitches ​, @21stcenturyhero , @acloudylight ​, @amazingartistyellow, @anankos , @chynandri , @citadelity , @cepherine , @cloudobo , @fractalinferno ​, @grimastiddies , @gunhorse ​, @hihkoo , @kofutofuu , @la-picchio , @levin-swort , @lllaurora , @lucid-spike , @p3ach-salt , @squiddlybopbop , @tecchiiiiii , @vikonohero and so many others for everything you’ve done through this year: you inspire me every day to create, and I hope this piece can show in some small way how grateful I am to you all for what you do. <3

Happy Holidays!

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[aeon-wolf]

Of Flower Shops and Tattoo Parlours

Based on prompt: 

Person A works in a flower shop. Person B works in the tattoo shop next door and does all of Person A’s tattoos. (Bonus if person B has 0 tattoos and is a cinnamon roll type character)

Read it here on AO3

I.

The bell rang above the door and Lena looked up from her flowers. She smiled as she saw Kara Danvers, the tattoo artist from next door. “Kara!” Lena said happily. “What are you doing here?” Kara just shrugged.

“Just wanted to see my favorite customer,” Kara said brightly. Lena blushed a little bit, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. “You haven’t been in for a while.” Kara casually mentioned. Lena sighed.

“I’m still working on my next tattoo. When I get the art finished, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.” Lena said to the artist. Kara tilted her head to the side.

“Is there anything I can help with?” The blonde asked. Lena swallowed. It wasn’t that she didn’t want Kara’s help, but Lena had the biggest crush on the sweet tattoo artist and honestly, it was becoming a problem. But the look on Kara’s face looked so cute that Lena couldn’t help herself.

“I… maybe. I’ve been wanting to get a tattoo on my wrist that says ‘purity.’ I just haven’t been able to come up with the right script.” Lena admitted. Kara nodded, looking around the shop.

“Business seems kind of slow today, want to take a break and come next door? I can try to help.” Kara offered. Lena knew she shouldn’t, but the offer to spend more time with Kara Danvers was far too enticing.

“Sure.” Lena heard herself saying, cursing her inability to say no to Kara. But instead, she went to put the ‘Out for lunch, be back soon.’ sign in the window before following Kara out the door, locking up the shop behind her.

The pair walked next door to the tattoo parlour where Kara worked. Lena had been getting all her tattoos at the shop ever since she opened her own flower business next door. Lena had been pleasantly surprised with the quality of the artists, though she really only had personal experience with one of them.

Kara Danvers.

She was the last person Lena would have pegged to be a tattoo artist. The girl’s skin was bare of any ink, she only had a modest single pair of ear lobe piercings and was the sweetest human in the world. Nothing like the stereotypical muscular man with full tattoo sleeves or edgy women with brightly colored hair and piercings in unconventional places.

But Kara’s talent in art and with the needle was astounding. She had done Lena’s first tattoo at the parlour and ever since she kept going back to Kara, insisting that the blonde do all of her tattoos in the future. So far, Kara had tattooed a silhouette flock of birds on her shoulder blade, her birthday in roman numerals on the inside of her forearm and a quite colorful and striking space scene on her side.

Lena followed Kara to the back, sitting next to the artist behind her desk. Kara pulled out a book and a piece of paper. “So, you said you just needed to find the right font?” Kara asked her friend. Lena nodded as Kara opened the book, which on closer inspection was a book full of different fonts. “Did you want a script type font or something a little more traditional?”

Lena shrugged. “I kind of had the idea of someone’s handwriting.” Kara nodded.

“Anyone in particular.”

You. Lena thought to herself but held her tongue. Instead, Lena shook her head.

“I mean, I kind of wanted it handwritten for more of an organic feeling. I don’t really have a preference on whose it is.” Lena replied. Kara nodded slowly.

“Would you… I mean..” Kara started awkwardly before taking a breath and fixing her glasses. Lena’s breath hitched a little bit. She had no idea why her body made those kinds of responses when Kara played with her glasses. She just looked so cute. “Let me try that again.” She said shyly. “Since I’m assuming I’ll probably be doing your tattoo, would you care if it was my handwriting? Not that it has to be. I just thought it might be easier, seeing as you said you don’t really have a preference. And that way I won’t have to replicate someone else. I can just do it on my own. Feel free to say no, though. It might be awkward, having my handwriting on your wrist after all.” Kara rambled on. Lena was tempted to let her keep going, but the poor girl was blushing furiously, so she cut her off.

“Kara, slow down and breathe. I would be honored if you would do it.” Lena said reassuringly. “We are friends after all.” Kara’s eyes flicked up to meet Lena’s gaze before smiling brightly.

“Right! Of course. So I’ll get started drawing out a design and swing by your shop when I’m finished? It shouldn’t take long since it’s my own handwriting after all.” Kara said. Lena grinned at Kara’s enthusiasm and nodded.

“That would be great Kara. Thank you so much.” Lena looked at the clock. “I probably should be getting back.” Kara nodded, standing up to walk with her friend to the front door. Before Lena knew what was happening, Kara threw her arms around the dark-haired shop owner and hugged her tightly. Lena was caught slightly off guard but wrapped her arms around Kara after she came to her senses.

“I promise I’ll make your tattoo look amazing!” Kara said as the two separated. Lena chuckled.

“I’m sure you will Kara.”

II.

The bell rang above the door the next morning. Lena looked up to see Maggie Sawyer walking into her shop. Lena nodded to the detective as she approached the counter. “So what’s this I hear about you allowing Kara to tattoo her handwriting on your wrist?” Maggie asked with a knowing smirk. Lena just groaned.

Lena and Maggie had been friends since their college days together. Maggie had quickly realized that the college life wasn’t for her and instead had enrolled in the police academy. But she had never forgotten the nerdy, shy outcast in her English 101 class. Maggie also happened to be dating Kara Danvers’ sister, Alex.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lena tried to deny.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Little Luthor.” Lena snorted at the nickname. She once hated that Maggie called her that. Her family’s legacy was not something she wanted to be a part of, even if she had been adopted into the family. She abhorred being called a Luthor. But Maggie was different. She used the nickname as a term of endearment. And after some time, Lena came to associate it with Maggie and a trademark of their friendship. “Little Danvers couldn’t stop gushing about you agreeing to it last night. She came bursting into her sister’s apartment, having a little meltdown.” Maggie said, amused.

Lena frowned. She had no idea why Kara would freak out that much about doing a little tattoo on Lena. It wasn’t like it was the first one she had done. “I swear Little Luthor, you are so dense for someone so smart sometimes.” Lena’s eyes narrowed at the playful insult, picking up some cut stems from some flowers she had been tending to earlier and throwing them at the detective. “Hey! Uncalled for.”

Lena just shrugged. “I’m not dense.” She said simply. Maggie laughed.

“Anyone with eyes can see you have the biggest crush on Little Danvers. I don’t know why you haven’t used these flowers you have and asked her out on a date yet.” Lena just scoffed.

“Kara and I are friends. Besides, why would she want to get involved with a Luthor?” Lena questioned. Maggie’s eyes softened a little bit, placing her hands on the counter.

“Because she doesn’t see you as a Luthor. She sees you as Lena. And trust me, she never stops talking about you.” Lena raised an eyebrow.

“Really?” Maggie nodded.

“You should hear her. She’s over at Alex’s at least once a week talking about you.” Maggie said. “Alex, did you know Lena likes space? I did a tattoo on her side of a really beautiful space scene.” Maggie imitated Kara. “Alex, did you know Lena’s favorite flowers are plumerias? She had some in stock today. They’re really beautiful. Just like her.” Maggie continued. “Maggie, do you know if Lena is single? You’re her friend right?”

Lena was a little shocked. “What?” She said dumbly. Maggie just rolled her eyes.

“C’mon Little Luthor. Kara has a thing for you, she’s just scared that you’re too cool for her and out of her league.” Lena scoffed. “It’s true! I’m serious. If you just asked her out, she would say yes.” Lena hesitated. Was Maggie right? She hadn’t known the detective to ever lie to her.

“I’ll think about it, Maggie.” Her friend snorted.

“Just admit it Little Luthor. You’ve got a huge ass crush on Kara. You’re just debating what flowers to give her.” Lena blushed a light shade of pink. “That’s what I thought. Anyways, I need to get back to HQ. Just thought I would give you a little push in the right direction. Catch you later. Call me!” Maggie said, smiling at her friend.

“Oh, and Kara’s favorite flowers are red orchids,” Maggie called over her shoulder, leaving her friend with her thoughts. Lena furrowed her brow.

Red orchids. Representing passion and desire. But even more so, strength and courage. Lena could see why Kara liked those. Lena glanced at a bunch of red orchids she had just gotten in.

III.

The bell rang above the door. Later that afternoon, Kara Danvers waltzed into the flower shop, a manilla envelope in her hand and a wide smile on her face. Lena couldn’t help but get lost in Kara’s blue eyes. “Lena!” Kara greeted her friend. Lena just waved. “I finished the design. I just wanted to get your thoughts on it.” Lena nodded, gesturing for her to sit down. Kara took a seat on a stool, pulling out her drawing and handing it to the raven haired woman.

Lena accepted the paper, her eyes pouring over it. Her heart soared a little bit. Kara had written the word purity in her scrawling handwriting, but she had added more to it. There were vines and flowers wrapped around the text with stars and planets adorning the space above the word. Below it was full of green, stems of grass and other touches of nature. Lena looked up.

“Kara, this is amazing. I love it.” She said honestly, not that she’d lie to the artist, but the bright smile that lit up Kara’s face was definitely worth the compliment.  

“Really?” Kara said with a hint of hopefulness in her voice. Lena nodded furiously.

“Of course. When do you have some free time to do it for me?” Kara blinked before tilting her head to the side, a cute tick she had when she was thinking.

“I think I have a free slot tomorrow, it would have to be kind of late, though.” Lena nodded in response.

“Sure. Uh, text me when you’re finished?” Lena asked. Kara nodded.

“Will do! I’ll see you tomorrow Lena. I’ve got a client coming in five.” Lena smiled, handing the drawing back to Kara who accepted it and put it back in the folder before heading out. Lena sighed. Thinking back to Maggie’s words from earlier. Was she willing to take a risk and put herself out there again?

Lena sat in the chair next to Kara as the blonde set out her inks. “So, how’s the flower business going?” Kara asked casually. Lena chuckled.

“It’s going. It’s a good thing Mother’s Day is coming up. I could probably use the additional sales. Everyone always seems to want to get flowers. Though you would not believe the amount of panicking teenagers I get on the day of.” Lena and Kara both laughed.

“I can only imagine,” Kara said. “Ready?” Lena nodded as the whirl of the needle could be heard and as Kara pressed the needle into Lena’s skin, the young Luthor flinched a little bit out of anticipation and habit, but eventually fell into easy conversation with her friend.

“There we go! You know the drill, keep the bandage on for a couple of hours, keep the area clean, keep it hydrated, blah blah blah. I know you know.” Kara said, clearing up her supplies. Lena nodded. The Luthor took a deep breath.

“Do you have time to come next door for a second?” Kara turned around to look at her friend, tilting her head to the side.

“Yeah, sure!” She replied eagerly. “Let me finish cleaning up here and locking up for the night.” Lena nodded. As Kara finished up, Lena inspected some of the artwork on the wall. Some of the tattoos that the artists had done over the years. Lena had to admit, all of them employed there were extremely talented. “Okay, done!” Kara said brightly a few minutes later.

Lena follower Kara out the door and waited for the blonde to lock the door before heading next door to Lena’s flower shop. Lena stepped in first and went to the counter, Kara on her heels. “So, what did you need Lena?” Kara asked curiously. Lena took a breath, reaching under the counter and grabbing a red orchid that she had placed there earlier.

“I… I may have heard that your favorite flowers are red orchids.” Lena gently offered the flower to Kara, who gasped and slowly took it from Lena’s hand.

“How?” Kara asked quietly.

“Uhm... Maggie was in here yesterday…” Lena trailed off. “But what I meant to ask is if… I don’t know… if you have the time, would you... Would you want to get dinner with me sometime?” Lena asked nervously, stumbling over her words. Uncharacteristic of a Luthor, but very characteristic of Lena.

Kara’s eyes shot up to meet Lena’s. “Really?” Kara whispered so softly that Lena almost missed it, but the young Luthor nodded.

“I… I really like you, Kara,” Lena admitted quietly, aware of the vulnerable position she was putting herself in. Lena’s eyes flicked to the floor. Though Kara must have, very quietly, made her way around the counter and next to Lena because the next thing she knew, Kara was lifting her face and grabbing one of her hands, the flower laying on the counter next to them.

“I’d love to,” Kara said with a smile. Lena grinned, a warm feeling bubbling up in her stomach. She said yes!

[sunshinemiranda]

First Impressions - Lin-Manuel Miranda x Reader (Chapter V: FINALE)

Summary: Your homecoming is wonderful, but Jasmine still hasn’t gotten over her own heartbreak. An unlikely hero helps along both her happiness, and yours. Mr. Miranda is the perfect gentleman and the love of your life. Happy endings become possible.

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 3,496 (the longest piece I’ve ever posted!)

A/N: We have finally reached the end of this series, and I wanted to post this on the day of Lin’s birthday to celebrate happy endings and contentment! Happy birthday, Lin. This is for you, and every single person who has supported this deliciously crazy idea. 

askbox | masterlist

The rest of your trip in London was fading into a blur, and fast. Each day was bleeding into the next and the hours you spent simply thinking about that same dark pair of eyes that had pierced you from the very start. To think that this misunderstanding was entirely due to your own prejudice and refusal to believe a good thing about the man made your thoughts whirl down a spiral of shame. Jasmine had been right. There is good in everybody.

By the time your week in the city had come to an end, your aunt had noticed your odd behaviour but had been kind enough not to point it out. As you stood by the door, pulling your uncle into a goodbye hug, she smiled on.

“Safe travels, my love, and don’t forget to write!” She reminded.

“Of course.” You managed a faint smile. “I cannot thank you enough for letting me stay.”

“Anytime you’re in London, my dear, come here! Our pleasure.” Your uncle grinned, and with a wave, retreated into the parlour. Your aunt stayed.

“Come, sweetheart, let’s get your bags onto the carriage.” She picked up your case and handed it to a servant as she took your hand and led the way out to where the horses pawed impatiently at the ground.

“Tell my sister to send a letter. She doesn’t write often enough.” She chuckled, and you nodded a response.

“And do not give up, dear niece. There is hope.” As she said this, she gave your hand a squeeze.

Brow furrowing in confusion, you turned to her, confused. “I don’t understand.”

She raised a mischievous brow and propped a hand on her hip. “You mean to tell me that you haven’t the slightest warm feeling for this lovely Mr. Miranda?”

So there was the relation to your mother; both Gardiner girls were unafraid to speak their minds. You coloured horribly and found yourself at a loss. Denial couldn’t work and accepting the statement would simply embarrass you more.

She gave a laugh. “As I said, dear niece, there is hope. Indeed, so much hope that I could barely believe we escaped Pemberly without a marriage proposal.”

You gasped in shock, a smile tugging at your lips. Her brazen speech never failed to delight you. She only grinned back.

“In fact, Mrs. King has told me that he plans to visit Netherfield very soon. Very soon, meaning, he leaves today.” She looked you right in the eye, tightening her grip on your hand. “Take advantage of that, sweetheart. There is no way a man of that intelligence could be ignorant enough to turn my beautiful niece down.”

As you stood there, utterly taken aback, she took the chance to usher you into the carriage, tuck your cloak around you, close the door and signal the footmen in what seemed like a second. You shook yourself out of your stupor and leaned from the carriage window. Truthfully, you would miss that extraordinary woman.

“Thank you!”

“Anytime, my dear!” She was smiling as you pulled away.

It would be a long journey, with Longbourn in the distance, and thoughts, as ever, consumed by Lin-Manuel.

Coming home was everything you had wished for. The entire house was ablaze with a thousand questions at the same time; it seemed even the chickens were stirred into a frenzy. You welcomed every bit of it with wide arms. Your family was not a calm one, but you loved them dearly, unashamedly and happily.

The moment Jasmine’s head of familiar curly hair appeared, you ran toward her and leaped, hands encircling her waist in a hug you had needed from the moment you two had parted.

“I’ve missed you!” She laughed, and you were glad to hear her sounding so much happier.

“Stealing my lines now, are we?” You grinned at her and she only laughed again.

Lexi and Sasha were trailing behind, tugging at your dress, asking again and again if you had had a scandalous romance with an officer who was too poor for you to marry, but one you had completely fallen in love with.

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yes, of course. No trip to London could be complete without such a story.”

Lexi pouted. “(Y/N), you’re no fun! Tell us, did you see anyone of importance?”

You paused at that. “Well…yes. I dined at Pemberly Hall with the Miranda siblings. Phillipa is a wonderful girl.”

Sasha’s mouth dropped open. “What? You dined at their mansion?”

“Don’t be silly, Sasha! It’s not a mansion.” You chided, but a grin came into place soon after. “It’s a castle.”

Had there been a settee for Lexi to swoon onto, you were sure she would not have wasted a moment.

“Oh, my Lord! You are so unbearably lucky. It is unfortunate you had to share the experience with that horrible man.” She wrinkled her nose disgustingly.

Stopping in the hallway, you froze, and then turned slowly. “Be careful, Lexi. Our family knows nothing about him. We are in no place to judge the man.”

As you climbed the stairs to unpack, Sasha turned to Lexi who had stopped short in shock. Jasmine frowned, curiosity tingling at her fingertips.

“Something’s changed.” And by God, was Jas right.

After luncheon had come and gone, with your mother going on and on to describe, in scintillating detail, the gossip of the town in your absence, for the duration of the meal, you had sat down to catch up with Jasmine as she took care of some needlework she was stitching. You had picked up a book. Indeed, it was a play, rather. Much Ado About Nothing, a work of Shakespeare that had become incredibly special to you.

“I’m so glad you enjoyed your time away, but it is so much better to have you back. I thought I’d go mad without someone to talk to.” Jasmine giggled, pulling a stitch through the embroidered pink roses.

“I’ve felt the same way.” You smiled at her from above your book, and then paused, setting the script down. “Yet, I can’t help but ask: are you feeling better?”

She knew immediately what you were referring to. Her heartache couldn’t have simply disappeared, but perhaps the hurt had dissipated slightly.

“Of course,” she dismissed you, but there was fault to be found in her small smile.

“Jas, really, are you-“

“I’m quite over him, (Y/N).” She interrupted, looking up quickly. “Honestly. My trip was so diverting, I could hardly think of anything else.”

You had no choice but to accept that answer. Jasmine was a sweet girl but very stubborn in showing emotion. She refrained from doing so for the purpose of causing less worry from family members, so incredibly selfless that she made sacrifices that affected her deeply.

“Any news from the Gardiners?” She asked, voice softer than before. It was her peace offering.

“They miss our mother’s letters, though I can’t imagine why.” You shot her a grin. “She manages to send an entire novel every time she writes.”

She laughed, the tension dissolving from the room. “Our mother is easily carried away. But come now, you cannot avoid telling me of this change in your opinion for Mr. Miranda!” Her eyes gleamed and she leaned forward conspiratorially.

A breath escaped your lungs then. What could you say? That your family had been completely responsible in ruining his opinion of you? That he had considered a proposal to you? That your sister’s hurt could be led to burden your shoulders?

“I-I don’t know.” You murmured truthfully. “I’ve been so blind, Jasmine. This man…he…he’s so different from what I assumed. I’ve been so proud; I couldn’t see anything past my own selfish want, it’s-“

“Mr. Ramos!” Lexi’s voice shook the walls with its decibel level. Jasmine and you looked up immediately.

“He’s here! He’s here, he’s here, he’s here!” Lexi all but sprinted into the room, Sasha hot on her heels as she looked around wildly for Jasmine. She ran to her immediately, taking her hands and pulling her up from her seat.

“What do you think he wants?” Sasha squealed, face pressed up against the window.

Woodenly, you force your stiff limbs to push yourself up and look outside. There you saw a familiar face, accompanied by a dark head of long hair. Lexi had been wrong. It wasn’t just Mr. Ramos. It was Mr. Miranda too.

Jasmine had paled as Lexi’s endless words washed over her. Firmly, you pulled Lexi’s hands away and led your elder sister to sit on the love seat, directing Lexi and Sasha to sit down and find something to do. Your mother’s arrival was twice as loud.

“Act natural! We must simply act natural. Sasha, the ribbons. Mandy, take up a book, please, no piano while we have company. Oh my Lord, whatever could he want?” She was beyond wild.

“A Mr. Ramos and a Mr. Miranda, ma’am,” called the maid and by the time the two men walked in, the Bennet girls had all found something candid-looking to do.

Jasmine looked up, eyes meeting Anthony’s and you knew in a second what he had come here to do. Your own gaze was drawn to Mr. Miranda’s and your eyes met, ultimately charged and you had to rip yourself away, for fear of him seeing the colour of your cheeks.

“Oh, Mr. Ramos! How lovely it is to see you again.” Your mother gushed.

“Yes, thank you for receiving me on such short notice.” He swallowed nervously, hands fiddling with the hat he had taken off as he entered the house.

“Mr. Miranda,” you blurted and winced at the way your voice shook. “Hello again.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he bowed, all manners. “Ms. Bennet, a pleasure. We keep meeting.”

Lexi looked as if she would burst without mentioning something you were sure would ruin both yours and Jasmine’s prospects of marriage in one sentence, and as she opened her mouth to speak, you quickly cut in.

“Will you be here long?”

His gaze moved from the wooden floors to your own eyes. “I’m afraid not. We leave the day after tomorrow.”

“So soon.” You murmured, and his eyes softened. Just as he took a breath to say something else, your mother interrupted.

“Alas, Mr. Ramos, I am so sorry we do not have a meal prepared for your arrival. Is there anything at all you need from this visit?” At this, she very obviously, nodded toward Jas and Anthony coloured badly.

“Ye-Yes, I’d like to speak with Ms. Bennet, please.” His voice was softened and nervous. “Alone.”

The entire room went silent and for what seemed like an entire lifetime, all eyes were on Anthony. His blush only worsened.

“Everyone out.” Your mother murmured, practically breathless with excitement. “Except you, Jasmine dear.”

She bustled the group of you out and just as your mother went to close the door, you turned to meet eyes with Jas. You gave her your best reassuring nod, and then moved away from the doorway where Lexi, Sasha, and your mother had their ears pressed to the door. Mr. Miranda mumbled something about waiting outside but you were too embarrassed from your earlier outbursts to attempt conversation with him.

Time dripped slowly, like molasses. The entire house was holding its breath. Footsteps were heard walking toward the door and your sisters and mother jumped away from the door so as not to be caught.

Jasmine stepped out, smile lighting her face like sunlight. She had entered that room heartbroken, and emerged both happy and engaged.

It was official. In three months time, Jasmine Bennet became Jasmine Ramos, and though you were incredibly happy for your dear sister, it was hard to pretend that seeing Mr. Miranda again hadn’t worsened your feelings. It was past the point of being sick for him. Now, you were mad about the man. And you had a feeling that that wouldn’t change any time soon.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way in my life before. It’s like walking on air!” Jas gushed, traipsing around the room in her white nightgown.

You laughed, sitting down on the bed to braid your hair, a nightly ritual to keep tangles to a minimum. “Really Jasmine, I hate to say it but…I told you so.”

She stuck her tongue out, grabbing a pillow to smack you with it playfully as you let out a squeal. “Oh, you would never hate to be right, my dear sister. Besides, I know now that this whole time it’s been that horrid sister of his that tried to convince him of my being indifferent.”

It was the first time you had ever heard Jasmine speak badly about anyone. Wide-eyed, you stood up and gave a round of dramatic applause.

“Oh, well done Jazzy! It’s about time you told the truth about that woman.” You shot her a grin, which she returned.

“Throughout my happiness, (Y/N), I only wish there was someone in the world who made you feel such a way.” She breathed a sigh, sitting next to you to take your hand.

Biting your lip, you squeezed her palm appreciatively. A flash of dark hair and brown eyes appeared as you closed your eyes momentarily. There was no escaping that man.

“I-I…I think not.” Pulling up your best fake smile, you pretended to tease. “I’m a lost cause, Jas. Spinner in the making.”

She giggled at that, and it made the lie worth it. You could never drag your sister down with your own troublesome feelings for someone leagues above your status. She deserved to be happy right now. That’s all that mattered, and you would say and do anything to keep it that way.

You fell asleep feeling unsatisfied. 

Dawn had just broken when you awoke. Sleep wasn’t an option. You were too unhappy and muddled to clear your mind for slumber. So you walked; left the house with a quiet click of a door, coat tucked around you, and stepped over the dew-dropped grass in the dark of a morning that hadn’t gotten a touch of sun yet. The quiet of the world put you at peace, let your mind recover from the awful cluster that had been stuck in place for days. Every feature of someone you had tried to despise had been seemingly hammered into your eyelids, so that every time you closed them, you saw his face. And what an infuriatingly beautiful man he was.

You knew that, sooner or later, Jasmine would realize that something was really quite wrong but you intended to delay that conversation at least to her wedding. Letting her know how unhappy you were would simply provide another thing for your dear sister to worry about, bless her heart. Then again, keeping this mess tucked away in a corner of your brain would drive you mad if you couldn’t discuss it with someone. Your light corner of Longbourn had turned dark, and all because your heart had gone and betrayed you in wanting someone you simply couldn’t have.

Movement caught your peripheral and your head turned abruptly to identify the smudge of brown you had glanced. A figure was walking, eyes trained on the ground ahead, toward you with a steady, purposeful pace. It was a rhythm you knew, a step you had become familiar with and it all led to a flutter in your heart and stomach that you had become very accustomed with.

When Lin-Manuel had left his Netherfield house early that morning, it was as if another force had took hold of his direction and pointed, with the tenacity of his younger sister, right in the direction of the Bennet household. He had no choice but to comply with, what seemed like, the universe’s wishes.

In the space of three days he had fallen completely in love with the second eldest of the Bennet girls and there was no denying it now. He hadn’t been able to sleep, no, not for a while, due to his hours spent lying in bed, painting the details of your person onto the dark ceiling in his head. Every second he spent sitting in silence seemed to encourage the roar of his mind, go, it said, and so he did, without complaint. Surely none of the household would be out before the sun had risen. He wasn’t sure whether he was happy to be wrong, or incredibly horrified.

He stopped short, close enough to see that you had only grown more beautiful in his time away, but far enough that he could control the desire he had to take your hand.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He mumbles.

You, standing there, with the sun casting a golden glow around the fields, had remained speechless until now. Saying he was beautiful could not possibly do the real vision justice.

“Nor I.” You reply.

He is looking at you, no frown this time, eyes lightened with the same happiness you had recognized in his features at Pemberly. It was a sad sort of joy, as if dampened somehow. You could not have that.

“Mr. Miranda, I-“

“Call me Lin. Please. I cannot bear the thought of you thinking yourself beneath me.” It came out in a rush.

“Yes.” You breathed, gaze landing on your hands and staying. “Yes, of course. Lin.”

The effect of saying his name threw a thousand butterflies into your stomach and from the way his eyes softened, he had felt it too.

“Please, allow me to thank you. For what you have done for Jasmine. I cannot believe I was so blinded by my own prejudice to think that yo-“

“It was a pleasure, Ms. Bennet, believe m-“

“(Y/N). Please.”

“Yes. Yes of course. (Y/N). I have realized that the only fault to exist is my burden. Your sister…she has turned Anthony into the happiest I have ever seen him. I apologize profusely for thinking such horrible things.”

Shaking your head, you stepped closer, still dizzy from the breathless way he had said your name. “No. No more apologies. You and I have many misunderstandings but it’s about time we stop spending all our time in regret.”

A tired look of relief washed over his face, and he breathed out, tension leaking from his shoulders. 

“Thank you.”

Swallowing, you paused. Gathering your thoughts and courage took time. “Lin, I…you…you told me once that you had come to ask for my hand. May I ask…why you felt compelled to do so?”

His hands dropped to his sides, curling into fists and relaxing repetitively, a nervous tick you had noticed. “My words may sound indelicate, for I seem to have forgotten the speech I prepared at home.” At this, he summoned a sad smile, glancing at you.

“But as you deserve the honesty, I will not delay that. My mission in visiting Longbourn with the notion of proposing can only be summed up in our first meeting. It was horrible. I was horrible, and I spend so much time wishing I could have a second chance to redeem myself to you. You see, Ms. Bennet,” he steps forward.

“(Y/N).” It is phrased in a breath. “You have enchanted me, body and soul. Every part of you has bewitched my mind and I can think of nothing else than the beautiful girl who must, by now, simply despise me. And if I may announce feelings that must disgust you…I love, I love,” his voice shakes. “I love you.”

The sun was climbing the hills by now, illuminating his face and the dark circles under his eyes with the sweetest warm glow. He looked angelic. You closed the distance between the two of you, reaching for his hand and revelling in the feeling. Leaning down, your lips brushed against his knuckles and a breath fell from his lips.

“Then I can only say that I must be the luckiest woman in the world.” Your voice is barely louder than a whisper as you look up at the man who had consumed your heart in one motion. “And that you must know…surely, you must know that I have all but gone mad for you.”

His eyes close for a moment, something you see as a pause to recollect his thoughts but when he opens them, his gaze has turned warmer than molten lava. That was not to recollect his thoughts. It was to show them, unfettered, truthfully, to you. He leans down, so close that your lips brush but no pressure is added. As he speaks, you feel the slight movement of his mouth.

“Marry me.”

The inches of distance are thrown away as you press your mouth to his in a loving hurry, making up for all the lost time. It is all you have craved since the moment you met him and that is clear now. There is only one thing left to do.

“Yes.”

LA FIN

[chriskarrtravelblog]

A tour of Jane Austen’s Hampshire

A new adaptation of Emma was released in February 2020. We visited the novelist’s home village and discovered her much-loved local haunts

A lofty lime tree marks the spot where Steventon Rectory once stood – the place where the country’s favourite author, second only to Shakespeare, spent the first 25 years of her life. Jane Austen’s roots run deep in this pretty part of the world, known for its traditional thatched cottages, gently rolling hills and chalk streams. It was in Chawton, a small, picturesque village in east Hampshire, that Jane was happiest, and most prolific. She was proud to call herself “a Hampshire-born Austen”, and the county shares its pride in its literary daughter with a host of sights, attractions and trails.

Of course, Jane Austen’s six novels (seven, if you count the unfinished Sanditon) are cherished the world over, and each new film or TV adaptation introduces her work to a fresh audience. Recently, Emma has enjoyed another silver-screen outing for Emma, directed by Autumn de Wilde and scripted by Man Booker Prize-winning author Eleanor Catton. Filming did not actually take place in Hampshire, but Chavenage House in nearby Gloucestershire was used as a location (Poldark fans may recognise the Elizabethan country pile). In fact, dear as the county was to Jane’s heart, actual Hampshire place names rarely crop up in her novels; Portsmouth features in Mansfield Park but Emma is set in the fictional Highbury.

The 2017 bicentenary of Austen’s death heralded a wave of new events, exhibitions and publications, but dedicated fans from every corner of the globe have long been making the pilgrimage to Jane Austen’s House Museum in Chawton.

Chawton House referred to as the ‘Great House’ Credit: Graham Prentice/ Alamy

It was in this modest, rust-red brick cottage that Jane lived with her sister Cassandra, their mother, and family friend Martha Lloyd, from 1809 to 1817. The move was made possible by Jane’s brother, Edward, who had become heir of the wealthy Knight family and inherited nearby Chawton House and estate. For Jane it was a welcome return to countryside life after her father’s retirement, and later death, had prompted moves first to Bath, then to Southampton. While these livelier environs may have provided ample material for her work, Jane was only able to pick up her quill in earnest again once she had settled at Chawton.

The museum celebrated its 70th year in 2019 – its collection was launched in 1949 with an appeal in local newspapers for Austen-related items – and provides a charming insight into daily life for the Austen household. If you’re lucky, your visit may coincide with volunteer guide Jeremy Knight, Jane’s great-great-great-great nephew, being on duty. Either way, it’s a delight to wander round the house and garden, admiring treasures such as the bookcase that once belonged to the Reverend George Austen, the topaz crosses given to Jane and Cassandra by their brother Charles, and the small, twelve-sided walnut table on which Jane wrote Emma, Mansfield Park and Persuasion.

The famous writing table is positioned at the dining parlour window, where Jane preferred to work. While she may have benefited from the daylight (as well as the opportunity for people watching), the present-day country road was at that time the main Winchester to London thoroughfare, with carriages noisily rattling past. For a change of scenery, Jane could stroll up to the ‘Great House’, her brother’s residence, only a short walk from the cottage but representing an entirely different way of life.

Jane Austen’s writing table.

While the Austen women dwelled in genteel yet straitened circumstances, Edward had joined the ranks of the Regency rich. Chawton House is a Grade II-listed Elizabethan manor with gardens featuring formal terraces, a cultivated ‘wilderness’ and shrubbery. The contrast between the two homes is clear – and no doubt provided a rich seam of material for Jane’s novels. As you make your way from the museum, past diminutive thatched cottages and lush green meadows, before turning left to glimpse the sweeping drive and handsome 16th-century facade of Chawton House, it’s hard not to think of Elizabeth Bennett catching sight of Pemberley for the first time.

The house has been developed over the centuries, with additions such as wood panelling for enhanced Tudor appeal, but still exudes the warmth and comfort of a family home. Indeed, it was lived in until the late 20th century (the aforementioned Jeremy Knight remembers Edward’s silk suit, now on display, being in the dressing-up box). Family lore has it that Jane liked to sit in the Oak Room – the cosy alcove with a view over the drive certainly looks inviting.

Today the house throws open its doors to ‘Janeites’ and academics alike – its library is dedicated to women’s writing. It seems fitting that Jane’s books now sit on the shelves of her brother’s house, alongside other female writers including Aphra Behn, Frances Burney and Mary Shelley, as well as less well-known names. After a ramble around the house, you can continue to soak up the atmosphere over tea and cake in the Old Kitchen Tearoom before visiting St Nicholas Church, where Jane’s mother and sister are buried.

Bluebell wood at Hinton Ampner. Credit: Paul Heinrich/Alamy

The nearby market town of Alton – now location for the Jane Austen Regency Week every June – would have been a regular shopping haunt for the Austen sisters. Nowadays, Alresford (pronounced Allsford) is a more popular shopping destination – pastel-coloured buildings along Broad Street house independent boutiques and watering holes – as well as being the UK’s capital of watercress farming. The best way to cover the ten miles southwest from Alton is by steam train, aboard the heritage Watercress Line. This patch of Hampshire has no shortage of stately homes and attractive landscapes, descriptions of which could be lifted from the pages of Austen’s novels.

In springtime, don’t miss the beautiful bluebell wood at the National Trust’s Hinton Ampner, near Alresford. Elsewhere, the beech woods and flower meadows of Selborne Common provided inspiration for Gilbert White (1720–1793), the pioneering naturalist who lived in the village of Selborne, south of Chawton. His record of the local landscape and wildlife, The Natural History of Selborne, published in 1789, has never been out of print. But to faithfully continue in Jane’s footsteps, head a little further north to The Vyne, another National Trust property, near Basingstoke. Many illustrious visitors have called at this impressive Tudor manor, one of the most grand and least altered in the county: King Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, Catherine of Aragon, Horace Walpole, and Jane Austen. Growing up in nearby Steventon, Jane was acquainted with The Vyne’s owners, the Chute family, and she attended dances here.

Jane was working on her seventh novel, Sanditon, when her deteriorating health demanded a move away from her beloved Chawton to Winchester, to be closer to her doctor. A blue plaque at 8 College Street marks the place where she took her final breaths in July 1817, aged only 41, but the house itself is not open to the public. Jane was buried in nearby Winchester Cathedral; her tombstone makes no mention of her writing – the books released during her lifetime were all published anonymously – but the later additions of a brass plaque and commemorative stained-glass window make some amends.

The Saloon at The Vyne. Credit: National Trust Images/Andreas von Einsiedel

Needless to say, other figures loom large in Winchester, from Alfred the Great to King Arthur. After admiring the soaring Gothic lines of the cathedral, and the Antony Gormley sculpture in its crypt, wander through the evocative ruins of Wolvesey Castle before heading for the Great Hall. The sole surviving remnant of Winchester Castle, it is here where King Arthur’s legendary Round Table has hung for centuries. You’d think a 1,200kg medieval tabletop might outshine the small wooden occasional table given pride of place at Jane Austen’s House Museum, but legions of Janeites would surely disagree.

www.visit-hampshire.co.uk

Due to the coronavirus pandmic, Emma was released early and has already been made available to view from home. More details can be found here: www.focusfeatures.com/emma 

The post A tour of Jane Austen’s Hampshire appeared first on Britain Magazine | The official magazine of Visit Britain | Best of British History, Royal Family,Travel and Culture.

Britain Magazine | The official magazine of Visit Britain | Best of British History, Royal Family,Travel and Culture https://www.britain-magazine.com/features/a-tour-of-jane-austens-hampshire/

source https://coragemonik.wordpress.com/2020/04/16/a-tour-of-jane-austens-hampshire/

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It Wouldn’t Go Away

(Reprinted from Shades of Style magazine)

By Sharon DeMarko

The boy became a man and then a father.

The girl became a woman and then a mother.

Both shied from revealing tortures endured as Residential School inmates on reservation exile, at different times and in different places.

All this man and woman had in common was the school/the reservation … Until their children grew up and devoted their lives to cultivating what colonization tried to brainwash.

Native Designer DeMontigny Defines Chic

           Angela DeMontigny’s reputation as an Aboriginal Fashionista celebrated worldwide peacefully avenges, in part, her father’s unchosen role in Canada’s darkest colonial hour.

           “My dad was a survivor of a Residential School. We didn’t know about it until later on. He was reluctant to talk about it (when we were growing up). I grew up in suburbia in Vancouver.”

           During two decades devoted to studying her Cree/ Métis heritage, clothing design, art creation, and intensive advocacy, Angela laid a highway connecting the Indigenous cultures that Residential Schools strove to eradicate, to today’s audience hungry for authentic, innate beauty with power and purpose. She describes her growth as natural evolution, rather than a deliberate plan to achieve some definable goal.

           “I’ve always been kind of a bridge … I try to teach true artistry, show people things that are different, the spirit of the person that went into a garment … Art is very spiritual, mystical …”

           DeMontigny, the name, reflects an ancestral link to France where today’s President Emmanuel Macron emphasizes politically what Angela conveys artistically – designs/ideas that tap into the human spirit’s potential through the patterns of history, shaping and reshaping belief systems, as well as wardrobes and room décor.

           She describes DeMontigny Boutique Gallery, seductively titled “Native Canadian Chic” on her elegant website, as “a collection of items that tell a story”. Here, a shopper for one-of-kind clothing, in rich sensual textures and blazing colours sculpted to the body, becomes a student of this nation’s  first peoples and their customs. As well as acclaiming her direct lineage, Angela draws inspiration from Canada’s other two official groups, First Nations and Inuit, in all, hundreds of societies offering inspiration.

           In this Hamilton emporium of Indigenous Luxury, a day can be spent without seeing it all. A man might fancy the hand-painted Eagle Moto Jacket; a woman desire the Summer Wolf Raw Pendant; a child grasp the card identifying the 7 Grandfather Teachings from Anishinaabe and Aboriginal Peoples: truth, respect, love, courage, honesty, wisdom, humility.

           Angela’s generous with gallery space, showing family-wrought flatwork by Loretta Gould, a Mi’kmag painter/weaver from Waycobah First Nation and her husband Eliot. Polished primitive images symbolize visceral moments – Dance With Buffalo, First Love, Creator Protect Me – in colourations common to Native Chic’s eclectic collection.

           Colour has traveled a long road since first made 60,000-80,000 years ago from ochre and iron clay, but Nature still sets the palette. From the sky, blues of turquoise, ultramarine, fire opal… The sun sets in scarlets and rises in pinks and corals. Yellow springs from bumblebees and butterflies. Parents of purples, chief colouration this summer, range from lilac to plum.

           Boutique inventory represents Angela’s old-as-the-ancients practice of cooperation over competition. The gallery partners with photographer Annette Paiement, Hamilton Arts Council Executive Director, to create limited edition postcards which helps buy supplies for the Water Protectors movement.

           This fashion powerhouse combines touchable leathers and stroke-me suedes with gold, silver, other metallics, and details like fringe, lace and embroidery cutworks, appliques and hand beading. Leathers acquire such malleability, they form evening dresses, even customized wedding gowns, engagement rings and IT bags. Men, women and children wear her designs, often uniquely created for and with the individual wearer, as well as readily wearable on shelves and racks.

           Diverse media have followed her career, ranging from Women’s Wear Daily to Outdoor Life Magazine. Accolades sweep from CTV's Success Stories to the National Aboriginal Achievement Awards, and the Calgary Stampede Royalty. Documentaries and music videos unveil her talents. It seems the only person unimpressed with her achievements is Angela herself. She loves people and wants the best for all, welcoming and making time for new acquaintences as if they’re fast friends.

           Angela honours her peers, producing such showcases as FashioNation - L'Oreal Fashion Week; Fire & Fashion - Planet IndigenUs; and the inaugural Aboriginal Fashion Week during the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver.

She never stops. Her next new Capsule Collection launches during South Africa Fashion Week, Oct. 23-27 for men, women and trade stagings; Luxury Design PopUp Nov. 1-3.

It’s Cool to Warm Yourself in the Blanket of Understanding

              Slide into the Blanket Exercise to put on the weight of loss carried by Canada’s Indigenous Peoples.

              Created in 1995-96, the year Residential Schools at last closed, this poignant take on parlour gaming has been played by thousands of Indigenous and nonIndigenous men, women and children in spaces as small as dorm rooms, large as St. Catharines’ Farmer Market.

              Inviting, as opposed to threatening, participatory enlightenment avoids the risk of ordinary protests. You are acting out, not arguing. Besides, blankets are prettier and friendlier than placards.

              Spread enough blankets to accommodate all players across the floor. Invite your guests to pick standing spots on the coverings. As facts are read from provided scripts, gradually fold the blankets toward centre until players huddle with no place to go. (Complete instructions are online at kairoscanada.com)

                Inventors named the activity Exercise because it is neither gametime nor playtime. It is a compassionate, emotional and intellectual lesson about the games government played with the lives of its original citizens. Incremental blanket shrinkage represents lands and rights denied as colonization dehumanized First Nations, Inuit and Métis peoples.

              Blanket Exercise takes about two hours, one for recititation in retreat, followed by Talking Circle, when participants share insights gleaned during seizures of symbolic properties.

           The Venerable Canon Valerie Kerr, recently retired rector of St. John the Evangelist at Stamford, expertly conducts the ritual as part of her role as Archdeacon for Truth, Reconciliation and Indigenous Ministry. When Anglican hierarchy created this ambitious position, it was Val they first picked to help heal relationships with Aboriginal Peoples, her people. Then Vice Rector for St. George’s at St. Catharines, Val was appointed two years ago, but has directed the shrinking blanket/landgrab ceremony for two decades, long before it became fashionable.

           She’s adamant that “the church needs to be accountable,” in a compassionate way – “We’re all God’s children.” That’s backed up by St. John’s motto: “The Church Where Children are Seen AND Heard.”  Children immediately come to mind in talking about her mission. “We still have a lot of work to do … a lot of our youth are really angry … People say ‘Youth are our future’. Youth are our now!”

           Velvet-brown, big round eyes comically rolled up, long blondish hair fashionably tip-curled, Val leans back in her lounge chair for a pensive moment. We’re in a spacious reception area, off her office overflowing with books, papers and Val doesn’t seem to have lived an angry youth. “I know the church did a lot of damage to a lot of people, but in it I, found a safe place.”

           She finds anger a repressed fear.

           Like Angela DeMontigny with her father, Val had to coach her mother into talking about mandatory deculturalization. Unlike Angela, Valerie grew up on a reserve.

           “When we moved to the city, Mother was very concerned about what people would think. There was also denial until, eventually, there was reconciliation and we could talk about the past.”

           Angela DeMontigny. Valerie Kerr. Two daughters in diverse fashion unite in the common cause of both reconciling and restoring the past in the present.

 Complete blanket instructions are online at kairoscanada.com

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David’s top ten book list (great for boys aged 10 to 15)

David is the 11-year-old son of my friend Kim. Kim, Courtney and I met when our babies (David, Easton and Sara) were around 6 months old, when we would take them to French class in Swiss Cottage (London). Right now, I’m thinking — why on earth did we feel it was important to take our tiny babies to French class? But at that moment in time, we believed baby French class was absolutely crucial for their development. Oh well, I’m thankful for the fact that we had such fun-filled days (and we got to meet such a dear friend).

Kim recently moved to Amsterdam with her family, and when I was paying her a visit the other day, and we were chatting about everything and nothing, she told me about David being such a fond reader. Pim and Sara are really into reading as well (Pim being quite new to the magic of the written word — it took a while for him to get drawn into books but now he’s hooked), so I was really interested in what David had read and loved. Kim kept recommending books to me that all sounded so awesome, I couldn’t even keep track. So I asked her if perhaps David would want to share his favourite books with us, which he was so happy (and proud) to do! Here’s what Kim says:

I have to say that David is a very good reader for an 11 year old and has a good comprehension of the English language for his age. Some books might not appeal immediately, title wise, to parents, but all were checked beforehand by us and also often recommended by his fabulous school librarian who always encourages the school (boys) to read even if that means finding books that excite them and get them drawn into the magical world of reading. This has put some weird and wonderful books on David’s reading path over the years and all these books below have been thoroughly enjoyed by him.

Here we go, not in any particular order, as David loved reading them all!

1. Death or Ice Cream?  by Gareth Jones

Larkin Mills is a town with secrets and mysteries, a place with an exquisite ice-cream parlour and an awful lot of death. A dark, but also funny and brilliantly strange novel. A breakaway from the normal children’s series is this well written and according to David compelling, but also funny alternative read.

2. The Letter for the King  and its sequel The Secrets of the Wild Wood (Letter for the King 2)  by Tonke Dragt (translated into English from Dutch)

First published in the Netherlands in 1962, this tale of the knightly quest of a 16 year old squire named Tuiri, who answers a desperate call for help and finds himself on a perilous mission to delivery a secret letter to the King who lives across the Great Mountains. A letter upon which the future of the entire realm depends. A captivating beautiful written tale of faith and chivalry.

3. Laura Marlin Mysteries  by Lauren St John

A well told book series full of excitement and adventure about the 11 year old detective Laura Marlin, which was awarded the Blue Peter Book Award in 2011. Currently there are 4 books in the series: 1. Dead Man’s Cove , 2. Kidnap in the Caribbean , 3. Kentucky Thriller  and 4. Rendezvous in Russia .

4. The Double Axe  by Phillip Womack

The first instalment in Philip Womack’s Blood and Fire series, which cleverly reworks classical myths. It is a thrilling tale of adventure in which young readers will learn more about classical mythology. David can’t wait for the next instalment!

5. Urban Outlaws series by Peter Jay Black

Page turning thrillers about 5 extraordinary kids, The Urban Outlaws, who are living in a bunker hidden deep beneath London and outsmart (with lots of gadgets) London crime gangs and hand out their dirty money through Random Acts of Kindness. Currently there are 5 books in the series: 1. Urban Outlaws , 2. Blackout , 3. Lockdown , 4. Counterstrike , and the newest, 5. Shockwave . Shockwave David received as Christmas present and as it was the final book of the series, he read it in one day curled up in front of our fire! He said it was awesome, but was sad this was the end of a great series he thoroughly enjoyed reading.

6. The Hobbit  by JRR Tolkien

This well known classic in children’s literature. The unforgettable story of Bilbo, a peace loving Hobbit, who embarks on a strange and magical adventure. David cannot wait to be old enough to read The Lord of The Rings and has read over the last year The Hobbit twice! We have a beautiful illustrated edition by Harper Collins, which is sadly out of print (but here‘s a beautiful looking one too).

7. The Everest Files  and North Face (The Everest Files)  both by Matt Dickinson

Both books follow eighteen-year-old Ryan Hart on a thrilling journey to the dark side of Mount Everest, while on a gap year for a charity in Nepal. Beautifully written book, which emerges you into the lives of the local Sherpa’s and the mountaineers at their gruelling attempts to climb Everest. The writer Matt Dickinson is an experienced climber himself.

8. House of Secrets  Trilogy by Chris Columbus and Ned Vizzini

A trilogy about three siblings, who’s family is forced to move into a mysterious new house in San Francisco and end up embarking on a journey to retrieve a dark book of untold power, which enrols them into a roller coaster of an adventure. The trilogy exists of 1. House of Secrets , 2. Battle of the Beasts  and final instalment of the trilogy 3. Clash of the Worlds .

9. Dragon Shield Trilogy by Charlie Fletcher

A thrilling action packed trilogy in which Will and Jo are suddenly plunged into a world where statues come to life and dragons and heroes battles. The trilogy consists of : 1. Dragon Shield , 2. The London Pride , 3. The City of Beasts .

10. Harry Potter and The Cursed Child  by JK Rowling, Jack Thorne and John Tiffany

This in our house much anticipated official script book of the original West End Production and the eighth story of Harry Potter, set in time nineteen years after Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. A bit of a different read as it is in script form, but still full of all the magic of the Harry Potter series. It is crucial to have read all the books in the series of Harry Potter before starting this book script. David re-read in a period of 2 month all the Harry Potter series before reading the script. I am sure this will not be the last time he will read the magical gripping Harry Potter series.

I hope this is helpful. David and I really enjoyed putting together his top 10 reads of the past months!

Kim xxx

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