dewasa757

[theladyproteststoomuch]

[ace-of-spaders]

A 10x22 AU, in which Red briefly reunites with Liz, Agnes and baby Samantha – whom he placed into comfortable hiding after faking Liz's death at the end of S8 – in Spain before taking the infamous walk through the fields.

[dance-in-the-morning-glow]

As someone who is very much into (indie and niche) fragrance and Pirates of the Caribbean, here are my scent picks for some characters absolutely nobody asked for:

Elizabeth Swann: Juliette Has A Gun - Vanilla Vibes (Sea salt, natural vanilla absolute, orchid absolute, absolute brown musk, bezoin absolute, sandalwood, tonka bean)

This is basically just a salty vanilla perfume and I’m all here for it; it’s beachy, light and totally pre-Pirate King Elizabeth.

For more of an indie choice, I’d pick Death & Floral’s “I could never stay long enough on the shore” (sand, salty air, smoke, cold coastline). It’s been a while since I’ve smelled this one but it feels fitting. But tbh, any white floral scent would also fit CotBP Elizabeth - so maybe something like Cloon Keen’s Lá Bealtaine.

Pirate King Elizabeth would absolutely rock something challenging like Beaufort’s Terror & Magnificence (birch tar, black pepper, saffron, incense, tobacco, papyrus, haitian vetiver, myrrh, labdanum, benzoin and pebbles).

Will Turner: Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab - Asleep in the Deep (black plum, sea salt, opium tar accord, labdanum, and indigo benzoin)

Basically the dark and heavy counterpart to Elizabeth’s Vanilla Vibes, truly smells like you’re on the Dutchman in between realms.

Jack Sparrow: For Jack, I feel like anything remotely boozy with rum notes works, but if I had to name one scent, I’d pick Stranger Perfumery’s Cigar Rum (raisin, dried fruits (prune and cherry), rum absolute, mandarin, amber, tobacco, oakwood, vetiver, resins, labdanum absolute, seaweed absolute). Maybe layer that with a dirt single note or Fantôme - Bune (damp subterranean air, nagarmotha, smooth cave walls, davana, a cold marble altar, & glittering green dragon scales) for authenticity lol.

Hector Barbossa: Solstice Scents - Headmaster (Apple, bourbon, oak, cedar, pipe tobacco, applewood, amber, spices)

I just felt like I needed to pick a spicy, woody scent with apple notes in it. But any dark aquatic works too.

James Norrington: I associate James with any light aquatic or clean scents (at least when he’s not in his Scruffington Era), so I’d choose something like Solstice Scent’s Gulf Breeze (Saltwater, sand, seashells, sea oats, rain, ambergris (vegan accord).

Cutler Beckett: Histoires de Parfums - 1740 (bergamot, mugwort, patchouli, coriander, cardamom, cedar, birch, labdanum, leather, vanilla, elemi, helichrysum)

Idk, this is just giving off Cutler Beckett energy. It’s boozy, it’s rich, it’s dramatic.

And somehow The House on Widow’s Hill (brandy, old oak paneling, dusty thick carpets, a thread of incense & a roaring fire in the hearth) by Pulp Fragrance also fits. That one’s basically brandy, smoke and dusty carpets in a bottle. On second thought, that might also work for Papa Swann.

I also feel like a tea scent would suit Beckett, but only if it’s a bit heavier, so maybe something like Gris Charnel by bdk (fig, black tea, cardamom essence, iris absolute, bourbon vetiver, indian sandalwood, tonka bean absolute). …But I haven’t smelled that one in a while too.

Davy Jones: Zoologist - Squid (Pink Pepper, Solar Salicylate, Incense, Black Ink Accord, Salty Accord, Opoponax, Ambergris, Benzoin, Musk)

Pretty self-explanatory. On my skin, it’s very musk-forward though.

Ian Mercer: Beaufort - Tonnerre (smoke, gunpowder, blood, brandy, sea spray and citrus)

…Yeah, I guess that one’s also pretty self-explanatory.

Yup, that’s it. Make of that what you will.

[melanodis]

🐰👨‍👩‍👧‍👧 :]

🐰👨‍👩‍👧‍👧 (the Afton Family; what were they like?)

They were as close as you could get to the nuclear family stereotype. William arrived from overseas to attend college in the States, where he would become well acquainted with Henry and Adelaide. He had a rather dreary home life on the English countryside, living in practically a ghost town by all accounts; so getting to leave to a more lively place was a rather welcome change in pace. He had an interest in creating music, though had no prior knowledge of music theory or what have you, instead preferring to play things by ear and self teaching. While he prefers the guitar, he has some skill in playing piano. This would lead him to connect with Henry, who wanted to scrabble together a small band comprised of himself and Adelaide, the two who were practically conjoined at the hip. He has a habit of taking facets of others and absorbing them into himself, leading to his interest in the mechanical. He found himself in some sort of strange relationship between them both. He did love them both, equally. But ultimately ended up choosing to marry Adelaide after they found themselves with their first: Michael. William was truly a loving father at some point in his life, but after the first springlock incident and Evan's death, things started to simply go downhill. Fast.

Adelaide herself was an only child that was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Not that she abuses this power by any means, but others would in her early life under the guise of “friendship.” A relatively good relationship with her parents, though there were a few disagreements about her choice in career. They wanted her to be a doctor, but Adelaide found much more joy in the performing arts, most particularly dance. I don’t really have them characterized as I don’t like to delve too deep into stuff like that. Hauty, disdainful of the people she chooses to surround herself with, (“a hick and a brit? you’re better than that.”) and completely disagree with her choice in… husband. But… whatever makes her happy, they surmise. She certainly played favorites with Evan with him being the youngest, but none did she love unequally. She kind of favored them all for particular reasons. Elizabeth was the only one with her rusty ginger hair, but Michael was their first, and also had her curly locks even if he was still a brunette like his father. I won’t lie, she became standoffish with Michael after the whole Bite of 83, but came around eventually. Holding them even closer after Charlotte died. Elizabeth enjoyed doing makeup and hair, Michael actually took an interest in her ballet teaching, and Evan really wanted to help with cooking, more particularly playing around with ingredients and dough.

It was when Elizabeth, too, died to another one of William’s damned death machines that she held onto Michael like a lifeline, her eldest and only remaining child. Michael... well, Michael was an attention seeking child from the very beginning. While Adelaide typically stayed at home to care for him while William worked, all he wanted was to have his father's attention, too. He wasn't necessarily a trouble maker by any means, but once he had two more siblings he felt as if he was invisible to them. Oldest sibling syndrome. He loved them, too, he helped care for them, but there's no doubt that in the back of his mind he felt uncared for at points. This would be what led him to take on a more aggressive out look, bullying their youngest out of jealousy. Elizabeth tried as she might to diffuse it, but she could only do so much as their parents were constantly too busy trying to keep things held together to keep a keen eye on them all. "I was kind of an asshole as a kid."

Elizabeth, however, wasn't completely innocent herself. She was very clearly William's favorite, and she reveled in this every moment she could. One could consider her a carbon copy of him in every aspect save for appearance. And also a brat. But not necessarily in the traditional way. She knew she was the "golden child", and often used this to her advantage just to one up Michael. She could practically do whatever she wanted with zero consequence, but she didn't really use this for bad things. However, she did enjoy using it in order to help Charlie, usually just urging William to get her gifts and the occasional toy that Henry wouldn't have otherwise. Many of her crayon drawings served to become inspiration for many of William's machines. Even in her death, she continues wanting nothing more than to impress him, finding safety in refusing to understand that their father had long stopped caring for them all. While Evan didn't really get to grow up enough for a more distinctive personality to shine through, he enjoyed more hands on arts and crafts. Think macaroni and glue, play-doh, even making things out of clay that Adelaide would cook to concrete them. Mugs, little trinkets, all things that she continued to hold onto after his death. I imagine he would've loved to get into pottery or even woodworking when he got older.

[justforbooks]

Anwar Hussein

Photographer whose work helped to transform the public image of the royal family

The photographer Anwar Hussein, who has died aged 85, was integral to transforming the public image of the British royal family: from the aloof and unknowable to something more human. His photographs will also forever be synonymous with the brief life of Diana, Princess of Wales, but his work was much more than that.

Hussein hailed from what is now Tanzania, but his career began in earnest in the UK in the late 1960s, and his talent led to commissions for portraits of the pop and rock gods of the 70s: Marc Bolan, Elton John, David Bowie, Mick Jagger and Freddie Mercury. Soon Hussein realised he needed a fresh challenge. He wanted to record something more historic, more lasting, and he set his sights on the most exclusive family in the world: the House of Windsor.

As an African-born Muslim, Hussein faced many institutional and cultural obstacles. Back then, the go-to look of a royal photographer was clean-shaven, short back-and-sides and a blazer. Hussein was bearded, wore his hair long and favoured a leather jacket and cowboy boots. The fact that the royal entourage were sceptical, and often told him he stood no chance, made him all the more determined. He needed to break into the clique and bring the counterculture to the establishment.

He studied official photographs and found them too posed and contrived, knowing that if he combined the photojournalism techniques he had honed in Africa and on the streets of swinging 60s London with his experience engaging with the divas of film and music, he could show the Windsors in a new light.

When covering royal events for news outlets, he used a longer lens so as not to be obtrusive, which allowed his subjects to relax. The resulting candid, naturalistic images captured moments in between poses, such as Queen Elizabeth II corralling her corgis at Aberdeen airport in 1974. They also brought him to the attention of a Buckingham Palace that was keen to show the royal family in a more modern, relatable way.

By the end of 1976 Hussein had earned the trust of the Queen and Prince Charles, and he was invited to travel the world documenting royal tours of Africa, Canada, and New Zealand.

The greater Hussein’s access, the more intimate the pictures, and the greater the public’s interest became. Then Lady Diana Spencer burst on to the scene and royal mania took hold. Hussein had photographed her before at social events, but following her engagement to Prince Charles in 1981 the symbiotic relationship between the princess and the photographer began.

Hussein’s sensitive work helped propel Diana to become the most photographed woman in the world, and he captured some of the most memorable and important photographs of the “people’s princess”. He was there when she shook hands with an Aids patient in London in 1987, a landmark moment in the fight against the disease. He photographed her cradling a terminally ill child at a cancer hospital in Lahore in 1996, an image of palpable compassion, and Diana’s favourite photograph, though she was upset to learn the child died shortly afterwards.

As her marriage disintegrated, Diana used the power of photography to signify her unhappiness and isolation. This was epitomised by Hussein’s memorable 1992 shot of Diana sitting alone in front of the Taj Mahal, a building that symbolises enduring love.

“She showed her moods in the way she dressed,” Hussein said – and never more so than when she wore her “revenge” dress to a Vanity Fair party at the Serpentine Gallery in 1994. It was the same day that an ITV documentary disclosed that her estranged husband had admitted to committing adultery. She had bought the Christina Stambolian dress three years earlier, but had initially deemed it too risque for a woman in her position. That evening Hussein was there to capture her “looking like a million dollars”.

Hussein was devastated by the death of Diana. They had become friends, and she often confided in him. On a private plane, at a time when she was dating the surgeon Hasnat Khan, Diana asked the photographer about his interfaith marriage (in 1978 Hussein had married Caroline Morgan, who worked in publishing), and about Islam.

Hussein wrote and contributed to many books on the Windsors, and in 2021 his hugely successful exhibition of photographs, Princess Diana: Accredited Access (which included work by his two sons, Samir and Zakir, who both followed in his footsteps), was launched in Los Angeles and toured the world, closing in London in 2024.

Hussein was born in Chunya in what was then the British colony of Tanganyika, the fourth of the five children of Mohamed Hussein and Sardar (nee Begum). The family moved to Mwanza on the shore of Lake Victoria, where his father worked as a civil servant for the British government. There Hussein attended the local Indian public school, but education was not for him, and he left at 16. Instead his passion was for the camera he had borrowed from his elder brother, Akhtar, who owned a small photo shop in the town. Hussein taught himself on trips to the Serengeti plains, where he photographed the wildlife.

Aiming to earn a living as a photographer, he began to tout for work, and in his early 20s the United Nations commissioned him to document the humanitarian crisis in the Republic of the Congo, where conflict raged following its independence from Belgium. The work there cemented his love for photojournalism, and he decided to move to the UK to pursue his dream.

Arriving in 1963, Hussein initially struggled to find work and accommodation. From a tiny flat in Notting Hill, he lived hand-to-mouth until his breakthrough in 1968. He was documenting an anti-Vietnam war protest outside the American embassy in London when he photographed a police officer being dragged from his horse. He knew he had a great shot and hurried to the Daily Mail, where he persuaded them to develop the film. The result appeared on page one the following day.

He was then hired to cover news events and music festivals, and he began to take celebrity portraits. Hussein wanted his work to be published in magazines, where the display and pay were better than newspapers, so he switched to colour film.

He worked as a stills photographer for movie companies and photographed Sean Connery and Roger Moore on the sets of Diamonds Are Forever and Live and Let Die. Hussein knew how to hustle too. In 1970 he went uninvited to the set of Steve McQueen’s film Le Mans. He quickly built a rapport with McQueen and was given a small role as himself in the film. The star then invited Hussein to work on his next film, Papillon.

In recent years Hussein had begun to wind down, and the coronation of King Charles III in 2023 was his last job. He documented the lives of the royal family for more than five decades and, despite the initial naysayers, he was the longest serving royal photographer. As a child in Tanganyika he had only ever seen the British monarchs on postage stamps and, many years later, it was his photographs that would adorn the Royal Mail’s stamps.

He is survived by his wife, his two sons, four grandchildren and his sister Tasnim.

🔔 Anwar Hussein, photographer, born 3 November 1938; died 23 September 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[marythequeen]

let's start with my first issue here. "mary kept her distance or treated outright HORRIBLY."

did she though? or is that just what you want to believe?

how exactly did mary treat elizabeth horribly? before her reign, she invited elizabeth to her home (probably she was aware of the situation in the seymour household) and elizabeth refused it. she may have had reasons that we don't quite know. (i'm not victim blaming here. just trying to brainstorm) maybe she was too afraid of thomas seymour or catherine parr? maybe she suffered from a stockholm syndrome? or maybe she feared mary more than she did them? the last one is highly unlikely considering nothing happened between two sisters that could lead to such a thing. (if you think otherwise, let's discuss it) but someone who is interested in elizabeth more than i am could answer the first two questions a lot better than i can.

we know mary spent her time taking care of her half-sister even after she was no longer her maid. after anne boleyn's death, not even boleyn's remaining close relatives bothered to look after elizabeth.

except for her older half sister mary who actually was there for her when henry put her aside.

"She was, though, keen to remind her father that he had another child: ‘My sister Elizabeth is well and such a child toward as I doubt not but your highness shall have cause to rejoice of in time coming.' It was a sweet tribute to a little girl whose precedence she had resented but who was now as abandoned as she herself had once been. Mary felt sorry for her and may have hoped to jolt Henry’s conscience about Elizabeth’s treatment." says linda porter in her biography book on mary.

and even when mary took her throne back she didn't turn her back on her half sister that wasn't bothered to help her in times of need. elizabeth didn't speak behalf of mary when she was usurped nor she spoke to her until it was sure that mary was the victor.

and let's not even talk about wyatt's rebellion. elizabeth's imprisonment (whether it was deserved or not) was in much better condition than mary's time in hatfield. elizabeth wasn't abused or physically punished because of her supposed crimes against the crown.

my second issue

why would mary legitimatize elizabeth? i'm genuinely asking this. why would mary do this when legitimating elizabeth meant that mary herself was a bastard? also elizabeth herself never legitimized her parents's marriage anyway.

but of course, this is also mary's fault.

both mary and elizabeth played the game very well but one is not like the other after all. and the main difference is tolerance. wouldn't elizabeth, if she were in mary's shoes, imprison mary or even execute her as soon as she took the throne? i think we all know the answer of this question considering the grey sisters and mary stuart.

[book--brackets]

Valdemar: Mage Wars by Mercedes Lackey (1994-1996)

It is an age when Valdemar is yet unfounded, its organization of Heralds yet unformed, and magic is still a wild and uncontrolled force.

Skandranon Rashkae is perhaps the finest specimen of his race, with gleaming ebony feathers, majestic wingspan, keen magesight and sharp intelligence. Courageous, bold, and crafty, Skan is everything a gryphon should be. He is the fulfillment of everything that the Mage of Silence, the human sorcerer called Urtho, intended to achieve when he created these magical beings to be his champions, the defenders of his realm--a verdant plain long coveted by the evil mage Maar.

Now Maar is once again advancing on Urtho's Keep, this time with a huge force spearheaded by magical constructs of his own--cruel birds of prey ready to perform any evil their creator may demand of them. And when one of Urtho's Seers wakes from a horrifying vision in which she sees a devastating magical weapon being placed in the hands of Maar's common soldiers, Skandrannon is sent to spy across enemy lines, cloaked in the protective of Urtho's powerful Spell of Silence.

Sorcerer Royal by Zen Cho (2015-2019)

At his wit’s end, Zacharias Wythe, freed slave, eminently proficient magician, and Sorcerer Royal of the Unnatural Philosophers—one of the most respected organizations throughout all of Britain—ventures to the border of Fairyland to discover why England’s magical stocks are drying up.

But when his adventure brings him in contact with a most unusual comrade, a woman with immense power and an unfathomable gift, he sets on a path which will alter the nature of sorcery in all of Britain—and the world at large…

Valdemar: Vows and Honor by Mercedes Lackey (1988-1998)

She was Tarma. Born to the Clan of the Hawk of the nomadic Shin'a'in people, she saw her entire clan slain by brigands. Vowing blood revenge upon the murderers, she became one of the sword-sworn, the most elite of all warriors. And trained in all the forms of death-dealing combat, she took to the road in search of her enemies.

She was Kethry. Born to a noble house, sold into a hateful "marriage", she fled life's harshness for the sanctuary of the White Winds, a powerful school of sorcery. Becoming an adept, she pledged to use her talents for the greatest good. Yet unlike other sorcerers, Kethry could use worldly weapons as well as magical skills. And when she became the bearer of a uniquely magical sword that drew her to those in need, Kethry was led to a fateful meeting with Tarma.

United by sword-spell and the will of the Goddess, Tarma and Kethry swore a blood oath to carry on their mutual fight against evil. And together, swordsmaster and sorceress set forth to fulfill their destiny....

The Kingston Cycle by C. L. Polk (2018-2021)

In an original world reminiscent of Edwardian England in the shadow of a World War, cabals of noble families use their unique magical gifts to control the fates of nations, while one young man seeks only to live a life of his own. 

Magic marked Miles Singer for suffering the day he was born, doomed either to be enslaved to his family's interest or to be committed to a witches' asylum. He went to war to escape his destiny and came home a different man, but he couldn't leave his past behind. The war between Aeland and Laneer leaves men changed, strangers to their friends and family, but even after faking his own death and reinventing himself as a doctor at a cash-strapped veterans' hospital, Miles can't hide what he truly is. 

When a fatally poisoned patient exposes Miles' healing gift and his witchmark, he must put his anonymity and freedom at risk to investigate his patient's murder. To find the truth he'll need to rely on the family he despises, and on the kindness of the most gorgeous man he's ever seen.

The Faerie Wars Chronicles by Harbie Brennan (2003-2011)

When Henry Atherton helps Mr. Fogarty clean up around his house, he expects to find a mess and a cranky old man; what he doesn't expect to find is Pyrgus Malvae, crown prince of the Faerie realm, who has escaped the treacherous Faeries of the Night by traveling to the human world through a portal powered by trapped lightning. An egomaniacal demon prince, greedy glue factory owners Brimstone and Chalkhill, and the nefarious Lord Hairstreak, leader of the Faeries of the Night, all dream of ruling the Faerie realm and are out to kill Pyrgus.

Enlisting the help of his sister, Holly Blue, and his new friend, Henry, Pyrgus must get back to the Faerie world alive before one of his many enemies gets to him instead. But how many portals are open, and can Pyrgus find the right one before it falls into the wrong hands?

The Ordinary Princess by M. M. Kaye (1980)

Along with Wit, Charm, Health, and Courage, Princess Amy of Phantasmorania receives a special fairy christening gift: Ordinariness. Unlike her six beautiful sisters, she has brown hair and freckles, and would rather have adventures than play the harp, embroider tapestries . . . or become a Queen. When her royal parents try to marry her off, Amy runs away and, because she's so ordinary, easily becomes the fourteenth assistant kitchen maid at a neighboring palace. And there . . . much to everyone's surprise . . . she meets a prince just as ordinary (and special) as she is 

The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge (1946)

When orphaned young Maria Merryweather arrives at Moonacre Manor, she feels as if she's entered Paradise. Her new guardian, her uncle Sir Benjamin, is kind and funny; the Manor itself feels like home right away; and every person and animal she meets is like an old friend. But there is something incredibly sad beneath all of this beauty and comfort--a tragedy that happened years ago, shadowing Moonacre Manor and the town around it--and Maria is determined to learn about it, change it, and give her own life story a happy ending. But what can one solitary girl do?

Dr. Greta Helsing by Vivian Shaw (2017-2024)

Meet Greta Helsing, doctor to the undead. After inheriting a highly specialised, and highly peculiar, medical practice, Dr Helsing spends her days treating London’s undead for a host of ills: vocal strain in banshees, arthritis in barrow-wights and entropy in mummies. Although barely making ends meet, this is just the quiet, supernatural-adjacent life Greta’s dreamed of since childhood.

But when a sect of murderous monks emerges, killing human undead and alike, Greta must use all her unusual skills to keep her supernatural clients – and the rest of London – safe.

Of Mermaids and Orisa by Natasha Bowen (2021-2022)

Simi prayed to the gods, once. Now she serves them as Mami Wata—a mermaid—collecting the souls of those who die at sea and blessing their journeys back home.

But when a living boy is thrown overboard, Simi does the unthinkable—she saves his life, going against an ancient decree. And punishment awaits those who dare to defy it.

To protect the other Mami Wata, Simi must journey to the Supreme Creator to make amends. But something is amiss. There’s the boy she rescued, who knows more than he should. And something is shadowing Simi, something that would rather see her fail. . . .

Danger lurks at every turn, and as Simi draws closer, she must brave vengeful gods, treacherous lands, and legendary creatures. Because if she doesn’t, then she risks not only the fate of all Mami Wata, but also the world as she knows it.

Girls Made of Snow and Glass by Melissa Bashardoust (2017)

Sixteen-year-old Mina is motherless, her magician father is vicious, and her silent heart has never beat with love for anyone--has never beat at all, in fact, but she'd always thought that fact normal. She never guessed that her father cut out her heart and replaced it with one of glass. When she moves to Whitespring Castle and sees its king for the first time, Mina forms a plan: win the king's heart with her beauty, become queen, and finally know love. The only catch is that she'll have to become a stepmother.

Fifteen-year-old Lynet looks just like her late mother, and one day she discovers why: a magician created her out of snow in the dead queen's image, at her father's order. But despite being the dead queen made flesh, Lynet would rather be like her fierce and regal stepmother, Mina. She gets her wish when her father makes Lynet queen of the southern territories, displacing Mina. Now Mina is starting to look at Lynet with something like hatred, and Lynet must decide what to do--and who to be--to win back the only mother she's ever known...or else defeat her once and for all.

[cy-ella]

Pride and Prejudice (And the skeletons in the closet)

So I had a run of interesting Pride and Prejudice AUs come across my dash recently (thank you whoever was responsible for them), and that crossed with heavy meds made me come up with a ridiculous but fun idea of my own.

So background: Mr Colins came a year earlier so without Bingley to give cause for Mrs Bennet to direct his attention elsewhere, he chooses Jane. Jane, feeling a duty to secure her sisters' futures, accepts his proposal, hoping she may grow fond of him as time passes

She doesn't.

Months later and married, Jane is miserable, and her sisters are done... Time for him to go!

So the story begins with Jane the beautiful bride becoming an enchanting widow (to-be-confirmed), after being informed of her husband's disappearance during a visit back to Longbourn.

Thankfully, she is surrounded by family, with her sisters nearby for comfort (while also frantically hiding the shovel).

...Unfortunately, for her sisters, the previously empty Netherfield estate is soon rented. Mrs Bennet is quite surprised when even Elizabeth is extremely keen to visit meet the new residents (need to check what the chances of an unfortunate discovery are).

And though dressed demurely and sitting out from the dancing in account for her husband's uncertain status, Bingley is still hopelessly charmed by Jane, and continues to be charmed over the next few visits.

Something he is quick to mope about to Darcy and Caroline - how could he fall for married woman, yes she may yet be a widow, but she is clearly grieving her husband, yet how could he not fall for her.

They however, would be more concerned about Bingley's affections, except they are currently dealing with their own problem...

Wickham.

More precisely, Wickham's body which needs to be quickly disappeared and stay disappeared before is connected to either of them.

So there are two layers of story going on, Bingley and Jane who are ignorantly in a hopeless romance where they are held apart by the social appropriateness and the uncertainty of Colin's death.

Meanwhile, the Bennet sisters and Darcy and Caroline are practically in a comedic action, as they know exactly what is going on - for their situation only - and are frantically trying to keep the others from discovering 'the body' that is buried in Netherfield.

And somehow the two murders resolve most of the original story problems as the characters are too busy trying to pretend there are no bodies to behave inappropriately/have misunderstandings, there is no Wickham to cause problems, and Mrs Bennet is too flustered over Mr Colin's disappearance and the effect it will have on their reputations to cause further problems.

...so that's it. It's ridiculous, but it's fun and I can just imagine it as a movie, constantly swapping between perspectives and seeing things happen in the background.

[theteasetwrites]

Merciless Beauty

Chapter 3: The Wound Is Quick and Keen

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: mild swearing, scary situation, violence and gore, references to death and traumatic situations (including child abuse) ❧ Word Count: 6.6k

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In This Chapter: Sir Daryl escorts you outside the walls of Alexandria for the first time, and though the excursion is mostly pleasant, it is rife with danger. A close call leads the two of you to a secluded cottage that only Daryl knows of, where a bond begins to grow.

❧ A/N: The princess is free! Well, kind of. She is so cute I love her. And Daryl... UGH. Literally the best. I don't have much to say about this part, but I wanna give a quick shoutout to all my friends who have been beta-reading this series! @weretheones @finalgirlrick @darylspissslit @devnmon @purple-witch-23 @littlelovingideas @spncupcake thanks so much friends!! I appreciate you<3 Also pls check out their work because they also write TWD stuff and it's amazing

The long, dark, sepulchral tunnel seemed at once cavernous and claustrophobic, with the light of the knight’s torch only illuminating a few feet ahead, but the feeling of a much wider expanse of darkness, in which shadows that may or may not have really been there lurked within the blackest corners. It was no small wonder they had been not-so-lovingly dubbed The Tombs. 

Though you were sure nothing was behind you, it felt as though an unseen entity stalked you, stepping on your heels despite no real physical weight overcoming you. There were always rumors around court about these tunnels, how they were haunted by the souls of those who perished in the first struggle against the Dead, but you tried not to pay mind to those rumors. After all, that would mean your own mother haunted these dank, miserable passages, and that was a fate worse than death, you thought.

But Daryl knew this tunnel now, having made sure the path was clear and snuck his horse out to meet you at the end of the underpass just an hour before. Still, you found yourself not straying more than a foot from him, his broad, cloaked back becoming a strange source of comfort to you in this abyss of darkness. 

“You’re sure there are no dead ones in here?” you whispered. “It smells of… death.”

“I went through here twice… No walkers.”

“Walkers?”

“Dead ones.”

Oh. A colloquial term. 

Silence settled in again, with only the echoes of globs of water dripping onto the rough cobbled stone to fill the eerie space where words had provided some relief. In that silence, your anxiousness caught up with you―what if Elizabeth’s lie fell through? She’d informed the guards not to disturb you in your chambers, that you had fallen ill and needed rest. She left strict instructions not to check on you, for fear of contagion. And with your father out of town, there shouldn’t have been any chance for disturbances. Even so, the only thing more terrifying than this tunnel was the idea of having less freedom than you already did. Being confined to your bedchamber for the rest of your life, surely, would’ve been the punishment if the king discovered your escape. He wasn’t a cruel man, but his overbearing nature could inadvertently lead to such a cruel decision. 

When a horse’s neigh startled you from your thoughts, you stumbled forward to cling to the knight’s upper arm, which flexed and stiffened in response to your sudden movement. Your chest pressed firmly against his back, he felt you briefly shiver in fear, though as your senses came back to you, you chided yourself for your jumpiness. 

“S-sorry, Sir Daryl.”

If he wasn’t caught in a rather serious situation, he might’ve let his internal amusement at your persistent formality manifest itself in the form of a chuckle, but he only huffed instead. “Just Daryl.”

Blinking hard, you loosened your grip on his arm, reluctantly pulling yourself away. He seemed to radiate warmth, and this tunnel was so cold and frightening. “Sorry. Daryl.”

He peered over his shoulder to speak again. “Stop sayin’ sorry.”

With a sniffle, you nodded your head. “Sor―” You stopped yourself. “All right.”

The further you traveled, the louder the sounds of Daryl’s horse, which provided some comfort now. It meant you were getting closer to getting out of here, and closer to fresh air.

At the end of the tunnel, Daryl placed his torch in the iron sconce hanging on the wall of a modest wooden door, with a thick bar placed across to prevent the Dead (or alive) from getting in. There stood the knight’s horse, too, hardly visible in the blackness that matched his sleek, shiny coat. From what you could see, though, the horse was beautiful, with a long crimped mane of ebony and a long forelock draping messily, yet gracefully, over his eyes. Upon each leg was a slight feathering, just above his hooves, nearly cloaking them. 

“What a beautiful horse.” As he lifted the bar with a huff, he looked your way to see your hands caressing the animal’s neck, and his black nose buried in the loose tendrils of your hair. “Oh!” you laughed. “Friendly, too. What’s his name?”

Daryl wiped the sweat from his brow as he spoke bluntly. “Phantom.”

“Oh.” You sounded a little disappointed. “Well, that’s not a very friendly name for such a friendly horse.”

The knight scoffed as he took the horse’s reigns. “He ain’t friendly. He’s a warhorse.”

He didn’t expect such a look of excited curiosity to form upon your face. “Oh, a destrier? How grand.”

With one hand guiding the horse towards the door, the other unlatching the final lock, Daryl looked back at you. You could see a sliver of bright light pouring in through the thin line where the door was beginning to open. Of course, you’d seen light before, but not like this, not from this direction. Somehow, it was different. 

“You wanna stand around talkin’ about horses all day or you wanna go outside?”

The last thing you wanted to do was spend more time inside this rotten intestine of a tunnel. “Lead the way, Sir―I mean, Daryl.”

Trying to avoid the inevitable smirk that formed on his face, he pushed the door open further, slowly guiding Phantom into the light of day, which allowed the horse’s coat to shine an almost reddish chestnut tone. 

But the horse’s beauty was momentarily eclipsed by the magnificent glade of silver birch trees before you, a simple dirt path diverging through the forest. You’d seen these trees from high above, and from a great distance, outside your window, but never had you seen them so close, so almost within reach. Many times you’d reached your hand out, imagining you could touch the trees, but now, there was nothing standing between you and that forest. 

As you stepped forward, you relished in the feeling of dirt and leaves underfoot. You’d felt the ground before, in the garden and the courtyard, but this was something different, something new. In fact, you wanted to feel it on your bare skin, the closeness of the earth. 

While Daryl busied himself with readying the horse’s saddle, you were stripping yourself of your brown leather shoes, letting one bare foot take your first step as you worked on removing the other shoe. 

The knight looked wide-eyed at you, your feet now sinking into the dirt beneath you. “What the hell are you doin’?”

To his surprise, you let out a sing-song laugh as you took several more steps towards the forest. With your head down, your hair draping all around the sides of your face, you were focused on the movements of your feet, as if you could feel the sensation through your eyes. 

“I used to run around barefoot as a child,” you said, lifting your face to his. He was greeted by a wide, toothy grin, the likes of which he hadn’t seen upon your face. He’d seen the joyful expression upon your face when he offered to escort you outside the walls, but this was something else entirely, accompanied by bright, carefree eyes that captured the glow of the sunlight streaming down to consume the last of the early morning mist. “It’s just not the same in the courtyard at the castle.”

Your attention peeled away from the knight as you took in the trees all around you, tall and magnificent, surely hundreds of years old. The stories these trees could tell, the things they’d seen—you’d hoped that their knowledge would make up for your lack of it for the past ten years. If you couldn’t have seen such things, at least they had.

Absentmindedly, you meandered towards the trees, your arms outstretching the closer you got as you prepared to touch them. Daryl could only look on in slightly amused confusion at your wonderment for such mundane objects of nature, but he had to remember, it’d been a long time since you’d seen these things out in the wilds, outside of the manicured gardens and meticulously trimmed botanicals found within the walls of the castle to which you were confined. Still, the little laughs and sweet giggles that bubbled up from within you were undeniably delightful. 

But Daryl couldn’t let you spend all day admiring a silver birch tree. He hopped upon Phantom and instructed the beast forward, until a blackness swallowed your peripheral vision. As you blinked your attention towards the knight, his hand now outstretched to you, you noticed your shoes had been stuffed carefully inside the saddlebag near his thigh. 

“C’mon,” he said with a nod of his head. “There’s more than this.”

Your bare feet skipped delicately through waves upon waves of tall white beardtongue, the petals of which occasionally tickled your bare thighs when they got caught inside your gown. You had to admit the feeling gave you a rush so strong that you skipped faster through the meadow, careful not to trample over any of the wildflowers.

Daryl’s presence was a comfort to you, him standing at the edge of the meadow with Phantom’s reins in his hand, and your velvet teal cloak draped over the crook of his elbow as he watched dutifully. Though no walkers had come across your path yet, he worried most about the poor, soft soles of your feet being marred by the elements. These thoughts were always immediately dismissed, though, as his job wasn’t to fret over your cleanliness, but your life.

“Oh, Daryl!” you called out, alerting him a bit too well as he instinctively grasped for the hilt of the greatsword strapped to his belt. He huffed when he raised his eyes to see you entranced by the pale blue spotted butterfly resting upon your hand. “Look!”

Again, you let out a sweet laughter, the cadence of which tickled the knight’s spine like a feather being dragged languidly over each vertebra. With the tiny, delicate creature flapping its wings upon your hand, he admired your gentleness, how sweet your eyes turned when gazing upon the beautiful butterfly. It was strange—he’d been out here with you for almost two hours, and yet no walkers or bandits had crossed your path. It was almost as if your purity somehow deterred those things, those horrible things that plagued this land. Indeed, he’d never seen the world like this before, so much happier and sweeter than it had once been. Perhaps you didn’t need this world, but this world needed you. No, of course not. That was silly, he told himself, shaking his head to rid himself of his own thoughts. No one woman could change the world just by existing in it.

“Oh,” you sighed in a bittersweet tone. The butterfly flew away, your eyes following it for as long as it could before it disappeared beyond the hill. 

Don’t be sad, princess, he found himself thinking, his own heart seeming to sink a little when your eyes turned just a little soft with sorrow. Please don’t be sad. 

“Well,” you sighed again, your voice getting louder as you approached him, your hands lifting your gown just enough to allow you to step high over the tall flowers. As if by instinct, his eyes trailed to your bare ankles, then your calves, your knees, and just a sliver of your soft thighs… 

Stop looking, that rational voice in his head commanded. But the improper, unabashed voice replied, But, oh, milady… What fine legs you have.

“This meadow is beautiful, but there must be more to see.” You took your cloak from him to swing it around your shoulders and clasp it around your neck, then circled around the horse to retrieve your shoes from its saddle. “Where are we going next?”

Daryl thought for a moment, but his immediate attention was directed towards the gracefulness of your movements, the way your fingers curled through Phantom’s forelock and tickled underneath his chin, and the way you nuzzled your nose against his… How gentle the warhorse was, as if you had some soothing effect upon him. 

If Daryl was a superstitious man, he’d say you worked some kind of womanly magic upon your surroundings, wooing him and his horse and even the Dead. If he was a cruel man, he’d accuse you of being a witch, demanding to see if you bore the Devil’s mark or if you sank in water. Of course, he didn’t believe in sorcery or witches or Satan, but he did believe you had worked some kind of spell on him, one of a more corporeal nature. 

“Daryl?”

He cleared his throat as his senses came back to him. “Yes, I, um… I know of a lake nearby. Would that, um, suit you, your highness?” He tried to speak in his best chivalric tone, though he knew not why. He never cared much for that before, until right this moment, and it seemed almost against his will. Maybe witches were real, afterall. Still, he wasn’t about to rid himself of this warm, ticklish feeling in the pit of his stomach, even if it was the work of the Devil. 

A sweet, beautiful, kind agent of the Devil.

“A lake would be lovely,” you replied. 

At length, you walked alongside Daryl, who let you guide Phantom this time. You’d insisted upon walking to the lake, giving the poor horse a break from carrying the weight of the two of you. It was no disappointment to the knight, who found that he quite liked spending more time with you, prolonging his time outside the walls to hold your cloak as you frolicked or to kneel and let you hold onto his strong shoulder as you brushed the dirt off your feet. It almost sickened him how much he relished in being of service to you. 

And it was such a beautiful day, the perfect day for you to see the outside world. In your fascination, you were rendered quiet, turning in every direction to catch with your eyes every bird or deer or squirrel or insect that crossed your path. The woods were serene, too, much brighter and free of any pestilence that your father had so ominously warned you of. 

Indeed, you wondered where the Dead were. It seemed too good to be true, considering the horrible memories you had of that night your mother died, of seeing her getting pulled into a swarm of walkers as she reached her hand out to you, calling for you. You still remembered how you struggled to reach for her, your fingers just grazing her trembling hand before you were yanked away by a guard. 

Of course, you knew there was no way you could’ve saved her. Her neck and arms were already being feasted upon, spurts of blood shooting out and sprinkling in crimson globs upon your tear-stained cheeks, while her screams were increasingly drowned by the sound of her flesh tearing from her bones. When her body was taken in completely by the hoard, you heard one last scream—No, please, no!

As this memory inflicted itself upon you, the feeling akin to a knife in the chest, you stopped in your tracks, staring blankly at the vision before you that seemed to have crawled out of your head. Between the trees ahead of you, five or six of the dead lumbered clumsily over sticks and stones towards you. 

When the knight pushed you behind him, drawing his sword, you studied the appearances of the dead men with shock. They wore clothes just like any commoner, one even wearing a blacksmith’s apron, another wearing a simple white linen coif upon her head, not unlike the ones you owned, except yours weren’t caked in dried blood, but the similarity was enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Dar-Daryl…” Your voice faltered as you backed away, your hands clinging tight to the reins on the horse. “What do we do?”

It hadn’t occurred to him that you didn’t know the first thing about walkers, how to kill them, how to avoid them. He should’ve told you. He planned on telling you, but he got… distracted. So distracted he’d forgotten of the Dead’s existence altogether.

“Just stay behind me,” he said. “If one comes at you, you run.”

Run? Run where? I do not know these woods… 

“All right.”

He held his sword with both hands, and you wondered how on Earth he could hold such a large thing, no doubt made of fine, heavy steel. He must’ve had a great deal of strength, not to mention the heavy armor he would carry in battle. Indeed, he was broad and seemed hearty enough to withstand almost anything. 

A sparkle of sunlight reflected off the silver blade as it sliced through a walker’s neck, severing the head in one fluid motion that caused you to gasp in horror at the sight. 

But Daryl moved so fluidly, with such ease and intensity. Every stroke was purposeful, and every kick and turn and step was made with confidence. As you watched in combined terror and amazement, you realized that he really was a great knight. His chivalry left much to be desired, but you could tell why he achieved his status as knight. Soon, the walkers were all headless, and he got to work plunging the blade of his sword directly into the creature’s severed heads, which appeared to still be alive. 

You leaned forward in awe, curious about how the heads could still be alive when severed from the body. 

But your thoughts ceased when a cold hand wrapped around your ankle, pulling you with great strength down to the forest floor. You came down with a yelp, both from the startling action and the feeling of your ankle twisting in an unnatural manner, creating an awful pain that traveled all the way up to the top of your head to send you nearly passing out.

But the lone, legless walker kept you awake, yanking at your leg with its teeth gnashing horribly, creating a terrible clicking sound with each attempt to take a bite of you.

You pulled away, kicking at the thing’s forehead to get it away from you, but it was relentless, and soon set its sights on your neck as its disgusting, rotting body began to climb up your torso, its mouth dripping foul blood over your surcote as you gasped and panted and screamed in fear.

In the distance, you heard the loud whinnying of Phantom, then the sound of his hooves against the dirt, getting further and further away. 

All this happened in a matter of milliseconds, with the knight moving quickly to tear the dead man away from you, throwing its growling body several feet away from you. With a grunt, he swung his greatsword overhead, bringing it down to slice the creature’s head vertically with a horrid squelch. 

The thing fell back in its final state of death, allowing Daryl to sheath his bloodied sword and hurry over to you, his gloved hands feeling all over your arms and legs and torso. Your eyes widened at the touches, how brazenly he handled you with his strong, filthy hands. 

“You bit?” he asked.

Oh. 

He kept feeling you, lifting your dress to examine your calves with a stoicism and seriousness you wouldn’t have expected from a man with his hands all over you. But then, this was a serious situation. Get your mind out of the gutter, you chided yourself. 

“N-no, I’m fine…” Dizzied from the sudden fall, you raised your hand to your forehead, then stroked it through your now wild hair. As you became aware of your body once again, you realized the dull ache surrounding your right ankle. “Oh, my… my ankle. It hurts.”

He lifted your gown again to examine your ankle, the skin around it inflamed and swollen, and it was angled rather sharply inwards. A grimace contorted the knight’s face. “Sprained,” he said. He knew that well, having seen the very minor injury many times in battle. Of course, if the worst injury one received was a sprained ankle, that was a blessing. 

As his hands cradled you underneath the underarms to lift you, he peered behind his shoulder with a deep huff. “Damn horse,” he cursed. 

Struggling to help lift yourself with your good leg, you realized, too, that the horse had run off in the midst of the chaos. “Oh, no! How are we going to—Oh!”

You felt caught in a whirlwind as the knight somehow slung you over his shoulder, his arm wrapped around the backs of your legs to hold you in place as he began to walk, not wasting any time to catch up to the horse. 

“What are you doing?!” you cried out in confusion. Your sight was momentarily shrouded in darkness as your face was buried in the wool of his cloak, but you lifted your head to see the ground moving beneath dizzyingly as you bounced against his back. “Are you… carrying me?”

“Gotta catch up to Phantom… Ain’t gettin’ anywhere very fast with you limpin’.” He punctuated his sentence with a strained grunt, then stopped briefly to bounce you until you were more securely draped over his broad shoulder. 

“How do you know where he went?”

“There’s a cottage not far from here. He knows to go there.” That, and he could track the horse’s trail quite easily. 

You remained quiet for a while, until he hitched you up again. “You know,” you remarked, “this is not how you carry a princess. A rather large sack of potatoes, yes, but not a princess.”

He tried to hinder his laughter. It was difficult. 

“How did you find this place?” you asked, sat upon a dusty old floor pillow beside the warm, burning hearth.

The cottage was small, just one room. You’d never seen such a modest home, with straw blanketing the dirt floor and a small hole in the roof to allow the smoke from the hearth to escape, with only one small window to let in a tiny stream of afternoon light. 

You watched Daryl crush some mix of pungent herbs, water, and oil with a mortar and pestle, his hair hanging like chocolate colored silken drapes over his concentrated face. 

He looked up for a moment, his hooded eyes peeking out between those brunette strands of hair. He chewed his lip, eying your swollen ankle. The guilt hadn’t stopped washing over him since it happened. How could he be so negligent to let you get hurt? 

“I, uh… Found it a long time ago, when the plague broke out.” With the herbs crushed into an oily paste, he carried the stone mortar over to you, kneeling down to lift your ankle onto his thigh. You watched curiously as his fingers scooped up a glob of the slightly purple-toned concoction, then spread the paste over your swollen ankle. “Was fighting the Dead,” he continued as he rubbed more of the coarse cream over your skin. “A swarm cornered me here. Wasn’t much safer, though… An old man and his wife, but the old man had turned, was just about to take a bite of the woman, but I put him down.”

He noticed your shiver, then crossed the room to quickly procure a thick woolen blanket from the small straw bed. 

“Here.” He draped the warm fabric over your shoulders. “Sorry it’s not much.”

“It’s quite all right… What happened to the old lady?” 

He shook his head as he returned to his treatment of your wound. “She was already bit. I was too late… Cared for ‘er as long as I could, but no one knew back then that even just one bite means you’re dead. The fever killed ‘er… And then, I didn’t know she’d turn, too. Found out real quick that’s how it spreads, and that you gotta kill the brain.” He gestured accordingly to his own head. “And now this place is mine, I guess.”

“I thought you lived on your lord’s fief?” you asked. “You live here?”

He used his teeth to rip a piece of cotton gauze from its roll, then lifted your ankle from its place on his leg to wrap it and conceal the herbal remedy. “I travel between,” he said simply. “Stayin’ in one place never suited me.”

To an extent, you understood that. Though you always valued your home, you’d been stuck in one place for so long that it became less of a home and more of a hostage situation. “You must value your freedom,” you remarked. “Tell me, what did you put on my ankle?”

He scoffed through an ever-so-slight, crooked smirk. “You ask many questions, princess.”

A rosy pink blush bloomed upon your cheeks, accompanied by a gentle heat that wasn’t just radiating from the nearby flame of the hearth. “Well,” you said, straightening your back as his words reminded you of your status, “I think I’m entitled to know what kind of remedy you’ve applied to my wound, knight.”

He gently replaced your skirt over your ankles as he spoke, listing the ingredients. “Arnica, witch hazel, lavender… All good for pain and swelling.”

“Oh? You’re skilled in herbalism?”

“Another question…”

You tilted your head in faux offense at the observation. “I’m entitled to ask whatever questions I wish, knight.”

With a huff, he leaned back to scoot himself onto his own pillow, then kicked off his heavy leather boots. “I wouldn’t say ‘skilled’,” he replied at length. “Just… somethin’ I had to learn.”

Curiosity made you raise an eyebrow at that, and your prying was certainly nowhere near its end. “Why?”

Any other person had asked him this many questions about himself, he might’ve lost his nerve and said some rather vulgar things, but you were a lady. More than that, you were a princess. More than that, you were… something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He knew you were beautiful, of course. He had eyes. There was more that drew him to you, that made him care what you thought of him and made him care about you. 

Despite his usual tendency to become frustrated at this kind of questioning, he couldn’t bring himself to feel agitated at all. In fact, he felt at ease, like he wanted to tell you about himself. Somehow, that look in your eyes told him you weren’t just asking because it seemed the proper thing to do—you were asking him these things because you cared to know about him. No one had cared in that way before. Maybe the duke came close, but he didn’t have this effect on the knight. It was unique to you, this wave of earnestness and openness. For such a closed-off man, he found it very hard to keep his guard up much longer. 

Still, he wondered, if he let his guard down too far, could he stop himself from scaring you away? You were a sensitive thing, he’d realized. You were innocent, too. The things he’d seen and done would surely frighten you, chase you away from him when he’d only just begun to grow fond of you in some strange way. The more you knew about him, the more you’d find him repulsive, he thought. And yet, it was still so tempting. 

“Left home when I was sixteen,” he said. “Had to learn how to take care of myself. Well, learned most of that when I was...” He had to stop himself, his lips hanging open slightly in midair. If he kept going, he might’ve revealed too much, how “pathetic” his life had been. Surely you wouldn’t understand. You’d think he was trying to earn your pity, but all he wanted, as he looked into your eyes and melted into them like they were two pools of warm liquid honey, was to know that you cared about the words that struggled to will themselves into existence. Those soft, warm eyes would prove successful in swallowing him whole, into an abyss of unabashed honesty. Why was he bearing his soul? What good would it do? He didn’t know. In fact, he was sure it would only cause you to look down upon him, but he was wise enough to know that no one before had ever really asked about these things. No one before had ever cared like this. That was why he was hesitant—it was simply uncharted territory. But, then again, everything about you was uncharted territory, and if you asked, it must’ve meant you cared.

“When I was a child, my mother died,” he said. “My father couldn’t handle it… Turned to the bottle, became a lousy sot.” He swallowed hard as a bit of bile came to rise in his throat. He wasn’t sure what came over him—except, well, he’d never spoken these words out loud before. Certainly not in front of a princess. You didn’t stop him, though. In fact, you held a soft gaze, encouraging him with your pleading eyes for him to continue, not with pity, but with sympathy. How strange, you opened him up with just your kind, understanding face. “He, uh, would hurt me… Enough to break skin.” He gestured loosely towards the leftover salve. “This stuff would help with the bruises. Needed other things for the cuts, but I know all of it. Helps in war, too.”

Understanding his hesitancy to speak more about his childhood, you inquired about that—war. Perhaps it wasn’t a much more cheerful subject, but there was something you’d been wondering about since you first met the mysterious knight. 

“War… Is that how you got your scar?”

It took him a moment to register your question, as he had so many scars now, it was hard to keep track of them all, but you gestured your finger to point towards his face, and he cursed himself for not thinking of the long red stripe running down over his left eye, At times, you yourself had forgotten it was there, its pigment blending in with the tone of his tanned skin in certain lights, but it had intrigued you since you first saw him. 

“It’s a battle scar,” he answered. “Yeah…” 

“I read that battle scars are honorable to knights.”

“They are,” he responded quickly, as if defending himself, despite a lack of anything to really defend. But his tone soon shifted as he processed your words. “You… read about knights?”

Swallowing hard, you averted your gaze to try to find some respite from the embarrassment of admitting that you found his kind to be fascinating. To say you read about knights would be an understatement. Your father housed an impressive collection of literature in his cabinet, many of which you’d secretly take to the solar and read by candlelight in the wee hours of the morning when a particularly restless sleep became too much to bear. Among those books were the most popular chivalric romances—The Knight’s Tale, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Le Morte d’Arthur, Erec and Enide, Sir Eglamour of Artois… Daryl wasn’t like any of those knights, though. He was… better, you decided. He was real.

“I do,” you spoke shakily. “I—I… know a bit.” You never stuttered. Why were you stuttering? Eugene had all but trained you out of the habit in your public speaking lessons. He hadn’t prepared you for the intensity of Sir Daryl’s gaze, how it reduced your poise to a shiver. And yet still, you were the most poised woman he ever met. 

In fact, he didn’t notice your stuttering at all. It was hard to let anything distract him from every word you said, every open and close of your plush lips that were made glossy and smooth from suet and marjoram, with just a touch of red wine to paint a delicious tint across the plump skin. The musky amber scent of civet oil mingled with the floral marjoram to tickle his nose so heavenly, even from this distance. Each movement of your lips only carried the scent further, like it was floating on angel’s wings to him, and only him. For a brief, anxious moment, he pondered upon the taste, and the texture… How his lips would feel against yours. 

Lust is a sin, he told himself, despite having not paid a visit to a chapel since his knighthood. Still, a knight should respect the laws of God. Like all the knights in the stories you read, he was beginning to face temptation. 

With a quiet huff, he yanked himself from his intrusive thoughts to face you with a slight smirk. “I guess you’re fond of Sir Lancelot?” he asked. 

Not at all, you thought. I am more fond of Sir Daryl. 

It was twilight when you arrived back at the castle, slipping through the Tombs and coming out into the gloomy dungeons in the dark underbelly of the keep. To distract the guards that stood near your chambers, Daryl alerted them to a “walker that must’ve slipped through the walls,” but used the opportunity to sneak you into your room. 

The knight ushered you in the room with a frantically waving hand. With a slight limp from your injury, you stumbled in laughing. Giddy, that was the only way to describe it. You were giddy from adrenaline, and felt a surge of fiery energy flow through you like a match being struck. Indeed, the whole day had been exhilarating, though terrifying at points. Ultimately, it was everything you’d dreamed it would be, and more. 

And you couldn’t help but admit that it felt wonderful to break the rules, to do something reckless for once. You were a little afraid it would become an addictive habit, but it was worth it. To see the things you saw, to behold new landscapes and to feel unburdened by the oppressive walls of that old gray castle… Oh, it was a wonderful feeling.

You couldn’t contain your excitement much longer—when the heavy wooden doors closed with a quiet clack of the latch, you opened your arms to rush towards the knight with an exuberant, but hushed, “We did it!”

His eyes widened as he felt your warm, soft arms around his torso, his chest pressed against yours so close that he could feel your swift heartbeat pounding against your ribcage. Whatever overcame you, it must’ve been born of your excitement, and he couldn’t hide the fact that he was excited, too. For what, he did not know. The day was over, his task was complete. He’d taken you outside the kingdom, allowed you to do as you please as he kept a watchful eye, keeping you safe from harm… Well, there were some slip-ups, but he was successful in his mission. 

Perhaps he was excited because he, too, felt the adrenaline rush, the excursion having been the most treacherous crime he’d ever committed, and he’d committed a few. Petty theft and a few drunken brawls, to be specific, but you’d never know that. Not as long as he could help it. 

Despite his hands and arms floating awkwardly around the curves of your waist, he didn’t dare touch you. There was an innate desire to, of course, but it wouldn’t be right. None of this was right, in truth, but there was no going back now, and he didn’t want to go back. He didn’t regret a thing, and that scared him a little bit. How on Earth could that scare him? Nothing scared him. His own feelings baffled him, especially when that musky amber scent came back with a succulent vengeance to assault his senses with the most indulgent perfume he’d ever had the pleasure of falling victim to. For a moment, he closed his eyes, taking in a quiet, deep inhale. That was the closest he could let himself get to doing anything he might’ve been wanting to do.

When you realized he wasn’t holding you back, you pulled away from the stoic man. Clarity returned to replace the intoxication of the adrenaline, and you cleared your throat to change the atmosphere back to that of knight and princess, not acquaintances of equal standing.

“Thank you, Sir Daryl,” you said. He winced for a moment at the title, having gotten a little accustomed to the simple name upon your lilted voice. Now, it was formal again, direct yet gentle. It still sounded beautiful, the way you spoke, but it was different. Only now, he noticed that it softened even more, as if your words were resting on downy pillows that filled with increasingly plush goose feathers each time you spoke to him. “Today was the best day of my life.”

Quite frankly, he found that very hard to believe. So hard to believe, in fact, that he let out a puff of air between lips that formed a wry smile. “What’re you talkin’ about, woman?”

“Woman?”

“That’s what you are, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes… What I mean to say is, what you’ve done for me today was what I’ve wanted for so long, and now I feel as though a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Thank you.”

A pregnant silence hung in the air between you before you turned to cross the room over to your vanity, where your jewelry casket sat. You rummaged through to once again procure his payment. 

“No, your highness,” spoke the knight, his steps getting heavy as he approached you from behind. “I told you, I can’t accept that.”

You turned to face him with a smile, and a glimmering ruby brooch encrusted in silver filigree, characterized by delicate, swirling arabesques. “Nonsense,” you replied. “Please, knight. It would please me so for you to take this… And, there’s always more… For next time.”

Raising his eyes from the gem in your hand, he searched your gaze for earnestness. Indeed, you looked not unlike you had that night you begged him. You had that desperation in your eyes, that lust for freedom and exploration. The difference was, there was now a smile upon your face. That was even more tempting for him. A smile like that was dangerous, as he was sure you could just about convince him of anything. 

“Next time?”

“Yes, next time my father is gone. Of course, if you’re agreeable to it.”

Agreeable to it? Your beauty was intoxicating, and exposure to it was like radiation—surely no good for him in the long run. That all being said, there was something tempting about the danger of it all, the wrongness. He hadn’t felt this way in so long, not since before he was bound by the laws of chivalry. It was wrong of him to do this with you, but it had an effect like theriac; it was both an antidote and an addiction. 

With a hefty huff, he took the jewel from your hand, stuffing it into the simple embroidered chaneries hanging from his belt. 

That night, he agreed to another excursion, whenever that might be. Now, he seemed to be officially at your every beck and call, waiting for the signal to come and rescue you from your entrapment. In a way, he himself had become trapped, a chaperon condemned to serve you until your whims ebbed and flowed away from him and his outside world that he knew so well. It wasn’t this in itself that frightened him, though—it was the fact that when he thought of the next time he’d have to be your escort, subject to your will, he smiled. This realization of his devotion to you made the subconscious depths of his mind aware of one important thing: you weren’t just any princess, you were his princess.

~

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated!

Series Masterlist Next Chapter ➳

[princesssarcastia]

the season 1 finale of Madam Secretary is so rich on so many levels. obviously blockbuster congressional hearings are fun, but all the flashback stuff just has emotional teeth in a way that's hypnotizing.

it is the one moment in the series where i feel a keen hatred for henry mccord. you, mr.-fighter-pilot, want to kick up a fuss about your wife going away to a war zone for a year and change for her job? her very important job, for which she was hand-picked, which would have helped her implement a massive policy shift THAT SHE DESIGNED to eliminate the CIA's use of torture? are you kidding me? hypocrite much! gah! i really just want to whack him over the head.

because really, we see elizabeth sacrifice her whole career for her husband, in that moment. her husband throws a fit about her taking exactly the kind of job he used to have, and she caves. she quits. obviously i hate the CIA and everything it stands for, but from a character perspective, through a feminist lens, it is galling.

on the other end of the flashback zone, we have that final scene where they have juliet reminiscing about a time when they were all friends. it is just picture perfect. the camera spins around the table, and you see juliet, who will spend the rest of her life in prison; and munsey, who will blow his own brains out; and george, who will be murdered by the former two; and elizabeth, who will unravel it all and be emotionally destroyed by it.

all this horror and intrigue and death you've spent watching all season, in perfect tension with the real joy and friendship they're all experiencing. it's the best kind of dramatic irony. helped, of course, by a tonally excellent soundtrack, which somehow manages to sound exactly like what you'd imagine ironic nostalgia sounds like.

"i guess there was a time when we were all friends," Juliet says, looking lost instead of righteous for the very first time. not because she regrets what she's done—not because she regrets murdering george, a man who was once her friend. but because she's honestly forgotten. hmm. fantastic. love it.

[mylostlenora]

my sapphic tbr🤍 pt. 1

1. Ink Vine, Elizabeth Broadbent:

Stay the hell out of the swamp — the backwater town of Lower Congaree recites it like an eleventh commandment. But when exotic dancer Emmy Joiner sneaks under the dark tree-canopy behind her family trailer, she meets mysterious, tattooed Zara, the first girl she dares to kiss.

But the small-town South hates a woman who dares to dance instead of plucking chickens for minimum wage, and as Emmy’s life falls apart, her relationship with Zara grows more tangled and bizarre. Zara’s offering something beautiful. But while Emmy’s slowly strangling, its price may be more than she’s willing to pay.

Shifting between the green-bright cypress cathedral and the dreamland of a dance club, Broadbent’s unforgettably-voiced debut confronts the brutal realities of poverty in the South, with a sapphic tale both sultry and sinister, gritty and gothic.”

2. My Darling Dreadful Thing, Johanna Van Veen

“Roos Beckman has a spirit companion only she can see. Ruth―strange, corpse-like, and dead for centuries―is the light of Roos' life. That is, until the wealthy young widow Agnes Knoop visits one of Roos' backroom seances, and the two strike up a connection.

Soon, Roos is whisked away to the crumbling estate Agnes inherited upon the death of her husband, where an ill woman haunts the halls, strange smells drift through the air at night, and mysterious stone statues reside in the family chapel. Something dreadful festers in the manor, but still, the attraction between Roos and Agnes is undeniable.

Then, someone is murdered.

Poor, alone, and with a history of 'hysterics', Roos is the obvious culprit. With her sanity and innocence in question, she'll have to prove who―or what―is at fault or lose everything she holds dear.”

3. House of Hunger, Alexis Henderson

“A young woman is drawn into the upper echelons of a society where blood is power in this dark and enthralling Gothic novel from the author of The Year of the Witching.

Marion Shaw has been raised in the slums, where want and deprivation are all she know. Despite longing to leave the city and its miseries, she has no real hope of escape until the day she spots a peculiar listing in the newspaper seeking a bloodmaid.

Though she knows little about the far north—where wealthy nobles live in luxury and drink the blood of those in their service—Marion applies to the position. In a matter of days, she finds herself the newest bloodmaid at the notorious House of Hunger. There, Marion is swept into a world of dark debauchery. At the center of it all is Countess Lisavet.

The countess, who presides over this hedonistic court, is loved and feared in equal measure. She takes a special interest in Marion. Lisavet is magnetic, and Marion is eager to please her new mistress. But when she discovers that the ancient walls of the House of Hunger hide even older secrets, Marion is thrust into a vicious game of cat and mouse. She’ll need to learn the rules of her new home—and fast—or its halls will soon become her grave.”

4. Our Hideous Progeny, C.E. McGill

“Mary is the great-niece of Victor Frankenstein. She knows her great uncle disappeared under mysterious circumstances in the Arctic, but she doesn’t know why or how. . . .

The 1850s are a time of discovery, and London is ablaze with the latest scientific theories and debates, especially when a spectacular new exhibition of dinosaur sculptures opens at the Crystal Palace. Mary is keen to make her name in this world of science alongside her geologist husband, Henry—but despite her sharp mind and sharper tongue, without wealth and connections their options are limited.

When Mary discovers some old family papers that allude to the shocking truth behind her great-uncle’s past, she thinks she may have found the key to securing her and Henry’s professional and financial future. Their quest takes them to the wilds of Scotland; to Henry’s intriguing but reclusive sister, Maisie; and to a deadly chase with a rival who is out to steal their secret.”

[scotianostra]

On July 5th 1560 The Treaty of Edinburgh was drawn up between England and France bringing to an end the siege by English troops of French forces occupying Leith. (some places say July 6th)

Two events in 1560 combined to create the environment for the signing of the Treaty of Edinburgh. In February, the Treaty of Berwick was signed, which led to English troops entering Scotland. And in June, the Catholic Mary of Guise, mother of Mary, Queen of Scots, and co-Regent of Scotland, died. That latter event signalled and end to Catholic resistance in Scotland. The Treaty of Edinburgh was then concluded on the 6th of July, 1560.

With the assent of the Scottish Lords of the Congregation, the Commissioners of Queen Elizabeth I and French representatives in Scotland agreed to formally conclude the Siege of Leith, abolish the ‘Auld Alliance’ between France and Scotland, establish a new Anglo Scottish accord, and maintain the peace between England and France that had been agreed by the Treaty of Cateau-Cambresis. Also included in the Treaty was the agreement for Mary, Queen of Scots, and her husband, the French King François II, to give up Mary’s claim to the English crown and to recognise Elizabeth I as rightful Queen of England.

The earlier Treaty of Berwick was signed on the 27th of February, 1560, between the representatives of Queen Elizabeth I of England and the Scottish Lords of the Congregation. The result of that treaty was that an English fleet and an army came to Scotland to help expel the ten thousand French troops that were defending the Regency of the Catholic Mary of Guise. The reason Elizabeth was so keen on that treaty was because she feared that France intended to rule Scotland, which would have threatened her realm. In addition, she feared greater unity between Scotland and France, and in particular, Mary Stewart’s claim to her throne.

Mary had a strong claim to that throne, through her grandfather, James IV, who was married to Margaret Tudor, sister of Henry VIII. Catholic Mary was therefore a legitimate relative of Henry VIII, unlike Protestant Elizabeth, who was illegitimate, at least in Catholic eyes, because they saw her father’s marriage to Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth’s mother, as being illegal. Ipso facto, she was not the true Queen of England.

In addition, when Mary had married the then fifteen year old Dauphin, François, on the 24th of April, 1558, when she was herself just fourteen, the two countries had signed an accord. That agreement stipulated that the crowns of Scotland and France would be unified if there were children of the marriage, and the crown of Scotland would be given to France if there were not. From a French point of view, because Mary had legitimate claims, they wanted her to be the Queen of England, Scotland and France. Voilà!

Another factor concerning Elizabeth was the desire to further hasten the Reformation in Scotland, which is why the Scottish Lords of the Congregation were trying to get the Catholic French expelled. For Elizabeth, if Scotland were Protestant, that would make it an ally and help protect England. Armed conflict ensued and the English arrived. French troops retreated, and fortified the port and town of Leith against the combined force of English and Scottish Protestants. And so began the Siege of Leith.

With the death of Mary of Guise, on the 11th of June, 1560, the figurehead of the Scottish Catholic resistance was removed. Mary of Guise had been ruling as Queen Regent on behalf of her absent daughter, Mary, Queen of Scots, who was at that time also Queen Consort in France. In Mary’s absence, the Lords of the Congregation acted on Scotland’s behalf or more properly, their own behalf. Some were confirmed Protestants and couldn’t see past their religious fervour, but some were just chancers who saw an opportunity to claim power for themselves. The terms of the treaty were drawn up on the 5th of July by John de Montluc, Bishop of Valence, Charles de la Rochefoucault, Sieur de Randan, Sir William Cecil and Nicholas Wotton, Dean of Canterbury and York. It was concluded on the following day, the 6th of July, 1560. Nobody asked Mary, Queen of Scots, if that would be OK.

After the Treaty was signed, the French and English armies left Scotland and left the Scottish Protestant nobles in charge – properly delighted with themselves. Later, in August, the ‘Reformation Parliament’ of 1560 met and ratified the acts that would establish the Protestant Kirk in Scotland. It prohibited the practise of the Latin Mass in Scotland and denied the authority of the Pope, in effect implementing the Reformation across Scotland. The detestable John Knox was one of the leading figures during the rebellion against Mary of Guise and French Catholic control of Scotland. The signing of the Treaty and the removal of the French enabled him to return from Europe to lead the fight to make Scotland Protestant. Ultimately, he and his Calvinist successors succeeded. On the 5th of December, 1560, the eighteen years old Mary, Queen of Scots, was widowed and, as Charles IX had no real incentive to support her, she was increasingly isolated in France. The French also had more to do with their own affairs after the outbreak of the Wars of Religion. And so, on the 19th of August, 1561, Mary had little choice but to accept an invitation to return to Protestant Scotland as Queen. Now, don’t forget, the Treaty of Edinburgh had not been ratified by Mary, Queen of Scots. She was the reigning monarch and it needed her ratification, but as somebody might have said, “Ach weel, it was lackin’ only a signature and hersel’ still a wee bit lassie, just.” Mary was put under considerable pressure to ratify the Treaty, but she had no intention of so doing. She viewed the Lords of the Congregation as rebels and traitors against herself and her mother, Mary of Guise. Another reason for not ratifying the treaty was because it officially declared Elizabeth I Queen of England, effectively ending Mary’s claim to that throne. When all was said and done, Mary had to accept the terms of the Treaty, but she never signed.

[mydaddywiki]

Charles III

Physique: Average Build Height: 5'10“ (1.78 m)

Charles III (born 14 November 1948 -) is King of the United Kingdom and the 14 other Commonwealth realms. The first child of Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh. Upon the death of his mother on Sept. 8, 2022, Charles acceded to the throne. He was the longest-serving heir apparent in British history and, at the age of 73, is the oldest person to ascend the British throne. Now one of the few fuckable member of the British Royal family over 50 with Prince Andrew, Prince Michael of Kent, Prince Richard, Duke of Gloucester and Prince Edward, Duke of Edinburgh on that list.

I've noticed, most British royalty seem to have one common trait. They are fugly as young guys, but mature into gorgeous daddies. And Charles is a prime example, having grown into his looks, every inch an elegant statesman. Now the handsomest of his brothers and King of the 14 realms, Charles is definitely one I should be wanting to be the secret gay lover too. What? It’s not like there wasn’t rumors of him having some.

Once married to the late Lady Diana Spencer in 1981, with whom he has two sons: William, Prince of Wales, and Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex. The couple divorced in 1996, after they had each engaged in well-publicised extramarital affairs. In 2005, Charles married his long-term partner, Camilla Parker Bowles. The grandfather of five is a keen gardener and enjoys tending to the organic garden in his countryside manor. Charles is a keen and accomplished watercolourist who has exhibited and sold a number of his works to raise money for his charities and also published books on the subject. He also has interests in traditional countryside practices such as hedge laying. Which is fitting as I'd like to lay his hedge.

[eighteenthcenturyfiction]

Now with links to the books added! I sent the files to press for ECF July 2024, so you know what that means: The July issue reviews section is free to read on the journal website -- ecf.humanities.mcmaster.ca/bookreviews/

#18thCentury Get your read on!

ECF 36.3 Book titles, authors, publishers, reviewers; ToC titles, etc.

England Re-Oriented: How Central and South Asian Travelers Imagined the West, 1750–1857 by Humberto Garcia

Review by Eun Kyung Min, Seoul National University

Literary Authority: An Eighteenth-Century Genealogy by Claude Willan

Review by Paul Keen, Carleton University

Backlash: Libel, Impeachment, and Populism in the Reign of Queen Anne by Rachel Carnell

Review by Nicola Parsons, University of Sydney

Death and the Body in the Eighteenth-Century Novel by Jolene Zigarovich

Review by Heather Meek, Université de Montréal

Daniel Defoe in Context, ed. Albert J. Rivero and George Justice

Review by Kit Kincade, Indiana State University

Women and Property Ownership in Jane Austen by Rita J. Dashwood

Review by Lise Gaston, Concordia University

Romantic Fiction and Literary Excess in the Minerva Press Era by Hannah Doherty Hudson

Review by Elizabeth Neiman, University of Maine

Romanticism and the Biopolitics of Modern War Writing by Neil Ramsey

Review by Matthew Reznicek, University of Minnesota

Decoding Anne Lister: From the Archives to “Gentleman Jack,” ed. Chris Roulston and Caroline Gonda

Review by Ula Lukszo Klein, University of Wisconsin Oshkosh

Theology in the Early British and Irish Gothic, 1764–1834 by Sam Hirst Review by Jarlath Killeen, Trinity College Dublin

[alternatehistoryworlds]

A happier life for Henry VIII's children. Part: 1.

Mary was the first surviving child of King Henry VIII of England from his first marriage to the Spanish princess Catherine of Aragon. The princess knew that she was not her parents' only child - all of her siblings died shortly after birth. The birth of a living and healthy child was a great happiness for King Henry and Queen Catherine, even though the child was a girl. That is why she became the king's favorite daughter. When she was 12 years old, her father decided to divorce her mother. Catherine did not resist the king's decision for a long time, but accepted the inevitable and agreed to the divorce with favorable terms. For this, the king, as promised, retained for Mary the status of princess and allowed the former spouse to communicate with his daughter. After the divorce for Mary little changed, she continued to grow up in the love of her father and mother, often visited both parents. The princess did not like her father's second wife, but did not show it. Anne Boleyn did not meet Henry's expectations, so he sent her to a convent under strict supervision. The king also wanted to declare Princess Elizabeth illegitimate, but Mary stood up for her sister and convinced her father not to do so. Soon the king married Jane Seymour, and a year after the wedding she gave him a long-awaited son, whom the happy father named Edward. In honor of this joyous event, Henry organized a grand feast that lasted for a whole week. In the same year, Princess Mary married Prince Henry, heir to the French throne. Before meeting his future wife, the dauphin had a love affair with Diana de Poitiers, but when he first saw his betrothed, he fell madly in love with her. Henry immediately severed all ties with Diana and was faithful to his wife until his death. The marriage of Mary and Henry turned out to be very happy. They had five children:

Francis II of France(1538 - 1604). Nicknamed "The Peacemaker" for the foreign policy calm during his reign. During his reign, France did not wage a single war. Husband of Helena of Austria, they had a good relationship. In marriage 7 children were born: Mary, Louis XIII, Anne, Henry, Christina, Philip, Gaston.

Claude of France(1541 - 1600). Queen of Spain. In 1556 she became the wife of Philip II. The spouses loved each other despite the big difference in age. They had 5 children: Philip III, Isabella, Joanna, Ferdinand, Diego.

Henry of France(1541 - 1589). Duke of Orleans. Was a favorite son for his mother, as from a young age showed a keen interest in religion. And when he became older he decided to devote his life to the service of God. He was not married and had no children.

Catherine of France(1544 - 1615). Archduchess of Austria. Favorite sister of Francis II. Was the second wife of Ferdinand II of Austria. The spouses did not love each other, but respected each other. In marriage 3 daughters were born: Anne, Mary, Eleanor. After the death of her husband returned to her homeland.

Charles of France(1546 - 1620). Duke of Angoulême. Because of his dissolute lifestyle he had conflicts with his mother. He married his cousin Jane, daughter of King Edward VI of England. The married life of Charles and Jane was not happy, because of his constant cheating. The marriage produced 4 children: Gedeon, Charlotte, Michelle and Cesar.

While in France, she did not forget about her family and maintained a close correspondence not only with her parents, but also with her second stepmother, because of the warm and close relationship between them. Before leaving, Mary and Jane had great difficulty convincing the king to bring Elizabeth to the palace so that she would not feel lonely. Henry initially had no paternal feelings for his second daughter, but was later able to develop a warmth for the girl. In 1540, Dauphine learned that her mother had died. She could not come to her funeral, as she was pregnant with her second child, but due to severe stress she had a miscarriage. Because of these events, the princess fell into depression, she did not leave her chambers and hardly ate anything. Her husband was with her all this time and provided as much support as possible, but when he realized that he could not cope, he invited Jane to help. She couldn't stay away and convinced Henry to let her go to Mary. After a few months, Mary recovered and all three returned to England. The king greeted his wife, daughter and son-in-law warmly. And the princess was finally able to honor her mother. She also spent time with her brother and sister because she missed them during the 6 years of absence. When Mary returned to France, she was already pregnant with her third child, and nine months later she gave birth to twins. Five years passed.During this time, Mary and Henry became king and queen of France and had two more children. They successfully ruled the kingdom. Shortly before his death, Henry 8 appointed his eldest daughter as regent under his young son. The queen excelled in her duties as regent and pursued a mild policy toward her subjects. When she realized that Edward was already capable of ruling on his own, she placed the power in his hands and returned to France. In 1559, King Henry of France fell from his horse while hunting and died. Mary mourned the death of her beloved husband for a long time and wore mourning for him for the rest of her life. She warmly remembered the 22 happy years they gave to each other and loved to tell her grandchildren about it. Mary often came to visit her brother, and the two developed a warm relationship. The dowager queen of France died in 1580. She was buried next to her husband Henry II in the Abbey of Saint-Denis.

Source:

Pinterest: Dinastia Tudor & Reyes Católicos, Bit_na

Tumblr: the borgias ITALIA

[kiss-my-freckle]

Can you talk about Sarah Salvatore?

Sarah Salvatore makes me think of Elizabeth Keen from The Blacklist. She has an appreciation for Enzo because he gave her what Stefan never did. The beauty of truth and actual choice. I blame Damon for killing Sarah's mother, but I blame Stefan for denying Zach and Sarah a life with each other.

Stefan underestimates women. He underestimated Sarah's ability to handle the truth and take care of herself. He delegated himself to be her protector, and not once considered the idea that she didn't need his protection. I get fans debating me about this all the time, claiming Damon would've found them and killed them. Damon doesn't go out of his way to hunt down and kill their family members. He lashed out at Stefan because he was angry. Had Zach and Sarah moved out of Mystic Falls, they would've had a full life together. Damon and Stefan would always return to the boarding house because Mystic Falls is their home.

Stefan didn't hide Sarah to keep her safe. He used her to keep Damon in check. She's half the reason he's making blueberry pancakes in the prison world. Something he does again when he finds out about Sarah and fails to save her from Sybil. Stefan wanted Damon to continue carrying guilt for her death. He's like Lexi in the fact that they don't like how he compartmentalizes his guilt. He feels it when he wants to feel it. Wanting to feel it and being forced to feel it are two different things, that's why he kills Zach and Lexi. Damon has no escape in the prison world. It's every day on repeat, feeling the guilt. That's one of the reasons he's desperate to get home. He hates guilt. He'd rather be tortured with fire than feel guilt.

Bonnie: Thinking about that pregnant lady. She had a thing for pancakes. Damon: That's what you remember? Bonnie: You remember it, don't you? You make pancakes every day. Damon: 'Cause I'm bored. Bonnie: No. 'Cause you're punishing yourself. 

I consider Sarah much stronger than Elena. She's quite a force, and probaby would've made an awesome vampire. She lacks appreciation for Stefan because he chose for her. No different than Jeremy hating on Elena for erasing his memories. Stefan denied Sarah the choice to own her past.