#Elizabethan authors

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Semper Eadem (iii, ao3)

If there’s one thing any self-respecting Elizabethan looks forward to, it’s a jousting match. Be a shame if someone got hurt, wouldn’t it? (Presenting chapter three for @nessianweek day 4!)

(chapter one // chapter two)

Another letter waited when she woke.

Pushed beneath her door as she slept, it lay in the small patch of golden sunlight that filtered through her chamber windows, and Nesta knew before she plucked it from the ground that it was from Cassian. From the crisp, straight edges of the parchment, she knew that this wasn’t a letter that he’d carried with him from his ship. No— this was a new letter, and as she thought of the way she’d smiled deliberately at the Duke of Northumberland last night, she had a feeling she knew exactly when Cassian had penned this particular piece of correspondence. Exactly why he’d penned it, too. 

Her name had been written in that grand, sweeping cursive of his, but his pen had stumbled a little at the end, like his hand had quaked. It shouldn’t have been endearing. Shouldn’t have had her fighting a smile, but—

Damn him.

She weighed the letter in her palm, turning it in hand, and found Rhysand’s seal keeping the edges together. A mountain crowned with three stars was embossed in the dark red wax— some symbol of the Welsh peaks Rhysand’s ancestors hailed from. Nesta fought the urge to roll her eyes, and did not mourn the way that seal cracked as she opened the letter— didn’t mind as the mountain cleaved in two. 

Dearest Nesta, his letter read.

The hour is late, and I know that you will be abed already, but I find myself longing more than anything to hear your voice. I confess, sweetheart, that you left me rather desolate tonight as you left the great hall, and I wish it were not so— that things were not so fraught between us. I wish, too, that I could speak these words aloud to you, but alas, I think the Queen would have my head if I came to find you at such an hour. I will merely have to settle for this— ink and paper and distance. It is a sorry substitute for your sharp tongue, but perhaps if I happen to give myself a paper cut I suppose the end result will be the same. 

I had half a mind to spout some poetry - my heart bleeds for you, et cetera, et cetera - but truly I am not very good at it. My tutors as a boy bemoaned it often, and always said that I was a pale shadow in comparison to Azriel who, irritatingly, is very good at spouting poetry. All I can offer instead is my most heartfelt truth— that I missed you during those days at sea more than anything in the world. Trust, sweetheart, that every word I wrote in my previous letters was the truth, and had I only the opportunity to send them to you, I would have. 

I regret no more now for lack of time, since it is surely not long now until dawn. Sleep well, dear heart, for I trust to see you at breakfast, where I live in hope that you will grant me your favour for the day’s joust.

Ever yours, C.

Nesta blinked, folding the edges of letter together again, brushing a thumb over that broken seal. Her heart fluttered, ever yours resounding in her head, clanging through her chest and ringing like a church bell. Something uncomfortable gathered in her stomach as she thought of the way she had taunted him, the way she had smiled at Eris as her eyes had passed over Cassian entirely. Letting out a bitter huff, she looked to the sun limning the windowpanes, knowing it was only a matter of time before the Queen called for her. She had wanted to make Cassian jealous, and clearly she had already had considerable success but—

Her resolve was cracking.

She had only wanted to give him a taste of what it had been like for her— a sample of the agony she’d felt with every day she’d waited for word from him, not knowing if he was dead or alive. She wanted him to ache the way she had ached for months, but— God’s wounds, did he have to make it so bloody difficult?

She huffed once more, tossing the letter onto the sideboard. Swiftly she dressed— in the finest gown she owned, no less. It was a pale blue and embroidered with silver thread, shining delicate in the morning light. It had been a gift from the Queen, the bolt of fabric so frightfully expensive that even Nesta had been shocked by the generosity. Her father was a duke, and so Nesta fell into the rather slim category of individuals who could wear the colour without breaking the Queen’s sumptuary laws, and it was lucky, because if Nesta knew one thing with certainty, it was that Cassian enjoyed the sight of her in blue.

The first time they had met she had been wearing a dress made of a pale grey, so pale it was almost blue in a certain light. He’d told her then that the colour brought out her eyes.

Perhaps that was what gave her pause before she left her chamber— the thought of him that very first day, glancing up at her with an easy grin and a boyish charm, an irreverence that had made her want to smile. Perhaps it was that memory that had her lingering by the sideboard, studying his letter anew, like it might give her whatever it was she’d been searching for. She couldn’t say, wasn’t certain, and she didn’t know why, but before Nesta left that chamber—

She took up that letter and tucked it inside her bodice.

***

Nesta loved a joust.

The brightly coloured pennants fluttered in the gentle breeze, and beneath the Queen’s canopy the golden tassels hanging from the royal standard gleamed a bright yellow, with three golden lions looking out over the tiltyard, mouths open in silent, embroidered roars. The standard hung above Elizabeth’s chair, taller than the rest, and like the lions on her crest the Queen seated cast her eyes over the yard too, humming in approval as the tournament inched closer.

A long wooden beam ran horizontal through the centre of the yard, and on either end men were preparing— donning armour, feeling the weight of a lance. The stands were already filled with spectators, and somewhere along the other end of the yard minstrels and musicians had taken up, the sound of a lute filtering through the morning air. Greensleeves— they were playing Greensleeves, but Nesta was only barely listening, scanning the yard instead for dark hair and a wicked smile. At the far end, she had glimpsed Rhysand ducking beneath the awning of a tent to ready himself, and a moment later she’d seen the spymaster enter too. Cassian was in there, she was certain of it, but since the Queen had spent so long that morning readying herself for the day, Nesta had missed him at breakfast and hadn’t caught sight of him, much as he’d hoped she would in his letter. 

She glanced down at the ribbons on the sleeve of her dress now. 

Cassian had asked for her favour, but had yet to come and claim it. Mildly, she blinked.

She was wondering why - wondering what had changed his mind - when she caught sight of him at last. He exited the tent Rhysand had entered, already wearing plate armour that had been polished to a high shine, gleaming in the sunlight and moulded perfectly to every swell of muscle, every powerful inch of his frame. A helmet was tucked beneath his arm, and from such a distance Nesta couldn’t hear the way his spurs clattered against his silver plate as he walked, but she could imagine it so vividly it was as though he were already right beside her. He caught her eye— from across the yard, even with so much yawning distance stretching between them, he found her and grinned, raising one hand in greeting as he handed his helm to a passing squire.

He was entirely devoid of jewellery now.

No rings shone on his fingers, no pearl dangled from his ear. His hair was tied back, not a single strand straying, unruly, into his face. He looked ready for battle, a warrior through and through, bedecked in a staggering expanse of shining steel, and Nesta felt her heart kick behind her ribs at the sight— the traitorous thing. Caught somewhere between a scowl and a sigh, she watched intently as her knight stepped forward, and she knew with certainty that he was going to approach her now, that he was going to ask for her favour.

And she’d give it.

God help her— she’d give it.

The damned letter had crumbled her resolve, and her eyes were fixed on him now, on that effortless smile that graced his face, on the way he looked so at home in steel. Her breath caught in her throat, her bottom lip finding a home between her teeth as he flexed his hands, pulling on his gauntlets.

It was its own kind of lunacy, how good he looked in armour. She dragged her eyes over the width of his shoulders, over the broad, hardened span of his chest, and down— all the way down to those shapely calves of his, brought into stark definition by lines of solid steel. She half felt as though the air had been drawn from the tiltyard with the way it refused to fill her lungs, and she couldn’t bring herself to look away from him, like he had suddenly become her world, that which her sun and moon and stars revolved. 

A great deal of the Queen’s ladies thought Azriel was the most attractive knight in the field, but as Cassian stalked slowly towards her from the other end of the yard…

Nesta couldn’t for the life of her understand why.

It was Cassian who held her attention— that imposing frame of his, lined head to toe with cold steel, had her heart fluttering inside her chest as he looked at her with purpose, like she was the only one in the world he saw. It was almost enough to make her dizzy, and—

“My lady,” a voice said, dragging her attention away from the corner of the yard, where Cassian had stilled. Nesta blinked. “I beg for your favour— a token of your affection so that I may compete in your honour.”

Looking down over the wooden railing of the stands, Nesta found the Duke of Northumberland staring up at her, a knowing smile curving his lips. 

She hesitated.

Eris was handsome, even she could not deny it. The sharp cut of his jaw was elegant and fine, and his hair was a richer red than even the Queen’s, much to Elizabeth’s chagrin. His dukedom stretched halfway along the Scottish border to the coast, a once-volatile territory more settled in recent decades than ever before, and with the size of his estates and coffers, he was hardly a disappointing match for a woman of her standing. Indeed, if her father went through with the betrothal, Nesta could hardly complain that her husband wasn’t attractive, nor could she find issue with the scale of his wealth. 

Elizabeth looked at her now, amusement glittering in her dark, unforgiving eyes— so much like her father’s, as sharp and as cutting as the eyes of ravens housed at the Tower. This was the Queen’s favourite game— this dance of chivalry and courtly love, and as Nesta looked down at her wrist, at the ribbons decorating her sleeve, her stomach sank like a stone dropped into a wishing well. She dared to glance beyond Eris— to Cassian, where he had halted at the end of the yard. Even with so much distance between them, Nesta could see how his face had darkened, the murderous tilt to his head and the way his fingers had curled into a fist. She might have laughed at the hardness that had settled over his features - after all, wasn’t this exactly what she’d wanted when she’d smiled at Eris in the chapel? In the hall? - had there not been something inside her whispering that this was one step too far, the cut a little too deep. 

Because Cassian came no nearer, only watched from afar as Eris extended a hand, dipping into a smooth bow as he lifted his gaze to his monarch and his potential bride. 

If only you had come to me sooner, Nesta thought ruefully as she turned her attention back to Eris, still waiting for her to bestow her favour. Didn’t you learn that lesson from all those months away? That no matter how much I want to, I can’t spend my life waiting for you?

Because she couldn’t refuse. The rules of the game forbade it, and all of it - all of it - was a game. It was one the entire court played day in and day out, one of gentle flirtation and chivalric romance, where a courtier wooed his lady with pretty words and grand gestures, and Nesta was powerless against it. A knight had asked for her favour, and it would have been remiss of her not to grant it, especially when the knight in question was a man who might very well wind up being her husband.

No— as Nesta rose smoothly to her feet and untied a single ribbon, she knew she had no choice.

Eris bowed his head as she handed the ribbon over, taking it in hand and pressing it to his lips with a flourish, as if he were crafted from Arthurian legend. When he lifted his eyes, he gave her a winning smile, smooth and charming and effortless.

“For your honour,” he said grandly, holding that ribbon aloft, gripped between his thumb and forefinger. The Queen tilted her head in something akin to approval as Eris backed away slowly, retreating to his end of the tiltyard. Nesta nodded once at the man her father wished her to marry, but she couldn’t help but wish it had been another knight to take that ribbon, another that had lifted it to his mouth. But he was too late— once again, Cassian was too late.

“Well little dove,” the Queen said in a whisper as Nesta sank back into her seat. “You have snared a fox.”

Nesta let out a soft little laugh, but it was hollow through its falsity. She let her eyes dart back towards the corner of the tiltyard, finding Cassian’s attention still fixed on her. She tilted her head in something like a challenge, and briefly he glanced straight ahead, to where Eris was now preparing to mount his horse. Even from the stands she could see the feral glint in Cassian’s eyes, and the murderous smile as he folded his arms across his broad, silver-plated chest— issuing a challenge of his own.

***

“I want the duke,” Cassian demanded hotly, marching over to where the marshall of the joust stood behind a wooden table, parchment and ink laid out on its surface.

A middle-aged man, well versed in the rules of the joust and the tourney, he only blinked lazily at Cassian. “Sir, you are to run first against the earl of—”

“I want Northumberland,” Cassian cut in flatly, looking across the expanse of ground between them, watching Eris tie Nesta’s ribbon to the end of a lance. Cassian gritted his teeth and beside him, Rhys laughed. He had yet to finish donning his own armour, but was testing the weight of a lance in his hand— eight feet long and crowned with a dulled metal tip. It had Cassian suddenly wondering if he would have time to sharpen the tip of his own lance into a fucking spear. 

“Oh, let him have it,” Rhys said airily, waving the hand that wasn’t holding the lance. “I was supposed to be up against Northumberland first but I’m happy to exchange to give Cassian what he wants.” He rolled his eyes. “Terrible temper when he doesn’t get his own way, you know,” he added, almost conspiratorially, to the marshall.

Cassian scowled.

But the trumpets began to sound, and the marshall sighed at length before nodding, scoring out Rhys’ name on his list and writing Cassian’s beneath. Rhys’ coat of arms were rendered in elaborate colour there too, right across from Eris’, and the marshall only looked pointedly at Cassian before crossing that out too, a dark line of ink cutting right through the shield decorated with a Welsh mountain crowned with stars, a nod to Rhys’ ancestry. Rhys rolled his eyes, and the marshall gave a tight hmph before turning from them entirely, striding briskly towards the tiltyard entrance, where he found the herald to inform him of the change of plan.

“You’re welcome,” Rhys said blandly, clapping Cassian on the shoulder before setting down the lance he’d been balancing in his palm. It was Cassian’s turn to roll his eyes now, rolling his shoulders inside his armour and hearing the satisfying clink of metal plate as he shifted. Rhys snorted, turning away and beginning to head for the tent to continue readying for his own match.

“Do me a favour Cass,” he said wryly, turning his head as he lifted the tent flap. “Don’t kill him. You’ll start a civil war in the north if we have to find a new Duke of Northumberland.”

Cassian grinned wickedly. “He has a brother to replace him, does he not?”

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “A brother who is happily occupied by his post in Spain, if I recall correctly. Don’t forget that Nesta’s sister is his wife. Lady Elain won’t be happy if they’re dragged back to England because you put your lance through her brother-in-law’s neck, and if I’ve learned anything over the past few years, its that if there’s one way to piss off Nesta Archeron, it’s to make her sister unhappy.”

Cassian grumbled, and Rhys only gave him one last looked before ducking back inside the tent. Cassian might have marched back in there to argue the point further, but his squire rounded the corner with a horse in tow— the one Cassian had picked out that very morning when they’d marched down to the stables to choose their mounts.

She was arrayed in red and gold, and he’d known from the moment he’d seen her that she was the horse he wanted today. A deep brown destrier, she was named Minerva after the Roman goddess of war, and across her back she sported a black leather saddle and a ruby-red caparison edged with embroidered black roses. She was beautiful, and as Cassian approached and stroked a broad hand down her nose, she nudged the centre of his palm. He grinned. 

“I’ll fetch your lance,” the squire said, bowing his head as he handed the reins over. Cassian nodded, wrapping the leather around his fist as the horse whickered. 

“We’re going to win today, aren’t we girl?” he said softly. Minerva whinnied. “We’re going to win back the affection of Mistress Archeron and knock the Duke of Northumberland from his horse, aren’t we?”

He patted the horse on the nose, nodding to himself.

Oh, yes.

He was going to win today. Eris had already taken Nesta’s favour— he wasn’t about to take Cassian’s victory too. Cassian hadn’t even bothered asking any other lady for a favour. He didn’t want to tuck another’s glove into his breastplate, didn’t want to ask another lady for anything. All he wanted was one of those damned ribbons from Nesta’s sleeve, and yet she’d given it to fucking Eris.

Not that she’d had much choice.

Cassian knew the rules of this game as well as she, and it would have caused a stir if she’d turned Eris down.

Still, he thought as the squire returned with his lance, it didn’t make it any better. Cassian mounted his horse, still thinking of the way Nesta’s ribbon fluttered as Eris tied it to the end of his own lance.

Bastard.

With a snap, Cassian closed his visor.

He could see nothing but right ahead, the tiltyard and the long wooden beam. Eris waited at the other end, similarly visored and gripping the lance with Nesta’s fucking ribbon dancing in the breeze. The visor restricted his vision, but the one and only time he’d gone without it, he’d earned the scar cutting through his eyebrow.

He’d been jousting against Azriel, and his lance had split in three places. He’d worn his helmet but not closed his visor, preferring the wider field of vision, but a shard of his lance had been thrown backwards, cutting through his skin. He’d almost lost an eye, and even though he had no doubt that it would have made him even more dashing, he had no wish to wear an eye patch for the rest of his life— even though, at the time, Azriel had taken pains to remind him that not only had handsome Lucien Vanserra lost an eye in such an accident, but in the Queen’s father’s time, there had been a knight who lost an eye at a joust in Greenwich too, and the eyepatches of both attracted the ladies wonderfully. 

But Cassian didn’t want to attract the ladies, he thought darkly as he studied the tiltyard ahead. He wanted Nesta, and none other.

He gritted his teeth as the herald took up a place in the centre of the yard, his voice echoing through the steel of Cassian’s armour as he announced the beginnings of the tournament. The trumpets sounded a fanfare, and the rumble of the drums clapped through the air like thunder as the energy in the yard began to build, turning frenetic, frantic, as Cassian manoeuvred his horse into position, armoured thighs gripping her flanks tight as he brought her to the starting line. At the other end of the yard, Eris mirrored Cassian’s movements. 

A moment passed, then two, three—

Cassian’s heart hammered in his chest, anticipation thick on his tongue as he waited for the herald to call for the joust to begin, to say the words that would have him surging forwards—

“Laissez aller!”

It was a phrase from Old French, used to signal the beginning of a match. Rhys had told him once that it meant let them go, but Cassian hadn’t ever really cared for the intricacies of language or translation. All he cared for was how he lifted his lance higher now, spearing it towards the sky the moment the words left the herald’s lips. He kicked his heels in hard, setting Minerva lurching forth, racing along the tilt at a breakneck speed. 

Her hooves were thunderous, an unwavering and uncompromising beat as the world went by in a blur, and with each thud of her feet against the tiltyard ground, Cassian felt his armour reverberate— felt the rattle right the way down to his bones. With one hand gripping the reins and the other holding his lance aloft, the world beyond simply fell away, the cacophony of cheers and shouts and music drowned out, eclipsed, as Cassian’s horse neared the centre of the tiltyard.

A pleasance, the herald had declared that morning, before the festivities had begun.

It was a phrase used customarily at a joust, one that let them know this was a friendly match— done not for war, but for fun. But as Cassian raced towards that pale blue ribbon… 

He didn’t echo the sentiment. 

He lowered his lance, keeping his elbow tucked to his side and his grip tight as he extended his arm, holding the lance straight and sure and steady— aiming right for Eris’ heart. He didn’t just want to break his rival’s lance or knock him from his horse. He wanted to kill the bastard. At sea, there had been skirmishes. Drunken brawls in port towns that had turned nasty. Cassian had ended lives beneath his bare hands, and Eris hadn’t seen a day of battle in his life, the sheltered little nobleman that he was. He’d never had to fight a day in his life for anything. The Queen’s reign had been easy for her nobility. Unless they were sent to Ireland or the Netherlands, they had no knowledge of war, no experience with strife. Cassian snarled softly behind his visor. This was not the days of the Queen’s father, when war had raged with France. This was not even the days of her grandfather, when civil war had made a solider of every nobleman.

No— men like Eris had become complacent, and as Cassian seethed, his fingers tightened around the base of his lance. 

In the wind kicked up by Eris’ horse, Cassian saw that fucking ribbon flutter— taunting him, mocking him.

It should have been his. 

He’d asked for it first, had wanted her first, and now Eris thought he could ask for her favour, could wear her ribbon, just because there was talk of a match between he and her? A match that Cassian would let happen over his own dead body?

Once more he snarled inside his armour, keeping his arm straight as his horse barrelled forwards.

He was going to knock Eris off his fucking horse for even presuming to approach Nesta, for daring to ask for that fucking ribbon. He was going to land a blow so fucking fierce the Duke wouldn’t ever joust again—

The distance between them continued to shrink, and it all moved quickly - so quickly - that Cassian didn’t dare blink. Eris was a hundred paces away— fifty— twenty—

There was a deafening crack as his lance split, connecting right with the centre of Eris’ shield.

A perfect score.

The audience applauded, cheers rising from the stands, but Cassian didn’t turn his head. 

He only kept his pace, galloping to the end of the yard and extending a hand as a squire handed him a fresh lance. At the scoreboard, a large III had been written in chalk beside his name. The space beside Eris’ name remained blank. He hadn’t managed to hit Cassian at all, his lance missing him by an inch.

But Cassian didn’t smile, didn’t feel satisfaction burning through his veins— not yet. Eris remained atop his horse, entirely unharmed, and as Cassian reached the end of the yard and spun his horse, already he was preparing to go again, and go again harder. They would run three times against one another, with the highest scoring knight declared victor. Three points were awarded for a hit to the shield, two for a hit to the chest, one for a hit to the arm. Cassian had had the rules memorised since he was a boy, knew them inside and out, because he’d spent years training for this— spent years running against his brothers, rarely losing unless he was up against Azriel. He’d broken Rhys’ arm in this very yard once— shattered the bone beneath his brother’s elbow and sprained his wrist. 

And that was entirely by accident.

He smiled grimly now as he set his sights on Eris anew.

But God had damned him, it seemed, for in the moment his lance crossed the tilt, the sun shone vicious on Eris’ armour, the glare so blinding it forced Cassian to blink, to shield his eyes as his aim slipped. Instead of landing a hit to the shield attached to Eris’ armour at the shoulder, the tip of his lance connected only with Eris’ arm— earning him a single point. In contrast, Eris landed a hit to Cassian’s chest, the blow damn near knocking the breath from his lungs and scoring the duke two full points he didn’t fucking deserve. 

Cassian growled in frustration, a roar building in his chest like he was nothing but some feral creature, and when Eris reached the other end of the yard and flipped up his visor, shooting a dazzling smile to the stands where Cassian knew Nesta sat watching…

Well, his fury was stoked to an almost dangerous fervour, so lethal and so potent it had him practically trembling inside his armour, the breath stuck in his throat as it caved beneath his wrath.

He remembered again how he’d broken Rhys’ arm jousting when they were boys. How, once, he’d managed to make a dent in Azriel’s breastplate with the force of his hit. Eris might have been as learned as Cassian in the sport but Cassian knew he had the edge. Because he wasn’t afraid to spill blood, not too shy to break bones in order to prove to Eris and the Queen and every single one of them watching in the stands that Nesta was his lady, the woman he had once been so certain he would take to wife. 

He was still determined to put a ring on her finger someday.

So as Eris turned his horse, set his lance straight and aimed, Cassian took a breath— deep, filling his lungs as he felt the muscles of the horse shifting beneath his thighs. The herald called the final laissez aller, and Cassian wasted not a single second. Before the crowd could even begin their cheering, he set Minerva to a fierce gallop, even faster than before. The air whistled through his armour as he gained momentum, and still he pushed her further, faster— faster, faster. He held his arm steady, his grip tight as he clenched his jaw, knowing that this was the run that would decide the match, that would have him standing as either a proud victor or a sore, sore loser. 

He didn’t look to the stands. Didn’t search for her face amongst the crowd.

But it was for her— every pounding beat of his heart, every single piece of him that urged that horse forwards… 

For her.

Eris was close now— so, so close. The tip of his lance neared, and Cassian redoubled his grip on his own, fingers straining, knuckles white beneath his gauntlets.

And still he urged his destrier faster, determined to get as much brutal, crushing force behind this hit as possible— determined to make it a final, shattering blow that would make the duke think twice before daring to even look at Nesta ever again. 

Meters became feet became inches, and suddenly Cassian could see the whites of Eris’ eyes, the way they narrowed as Cassian checked his aim, braced himself for the impact—

And with an almighty clash, the tip of his lance shattered entirely as it made bruising contact with the centre of Eris’ shield.

The force of it knocked Eris sideways off his horse, sending him crashing to the tiltyard floor. His armour clattered, the pauldron at his shoulder cracking with the impact, and the lance Eris had been aiming at Cassian’s chest scored only a glancing blow on his shoulder before it, too, fell loudly to the floor. The Duke was winded, lying still on the ground, and for a moment Cassian thought he really had killed the bastard— but then Eris was rising slowly, pushing up on his elbows and removing his helmet. A thin ribbon of blood streamed from his nose, whilst another wound bled far more profusely at his temple, staining his auburn hair scarlet. And as the chips of Cassian’s own broken lance lay scattered in the dust, he smiled— a victors smile, vicious and cold and utterly without mercy.

Because no other man got to ask Nesta Archeron for her favour— not peasant nor knight nor king.

No. Other. Man.

Cassian hoped he’d broken a few of Eris’ bones at least. Hoped he’d shattered something vital, because Nesta was his— for fucks sake, she was his, and he wasn’t about to let some ridiculous betrothal stand in his way. And as he slowed Minerva from a gallop to a gentle trot, spectators rose in the stands, cheers and applause all. With his heart still still racing and adrenaline coursing through him like a torrent, he brought his horse to the end of the yard and dismounted, sliding from the saddle and pulling off his helmet in one smooth, practised gesture. 

He had won— and even though he looked to the stands and saw the Queen clapping enthusiastically, it wasn’t her approval he sought. Not her smile he looked for. 

It was stupid— reckless and unheard of, but Cassian found himself marching towards the covered stand where the Queen watched. He bowed deep when he stood before her, arms extending wide at either side, helmet hanging from his fingers. A thin sheen of sweat slicked his forehead, his muscles burning from the exertion, but he cared not— not as he lifted his gaze and caught sight of Nesta - his Nesta - with her lips parted, a flush touching her cheeks as one hand lifted, all smooth grace and easy elegance, to rest above her heart. 

Mother of God, she was beautiful. 

Her dress was a pale shade of blue, the kind that brought out her eyes, and the low neckline was cut square in the French fashion. The bodice was tight and threaded with silver, and as Cassian dragged his eyes over her middle, he felt his breath catch in his throat. It was tight, clinging to her waist, and though he knew that she would be wearing a shift beneath, he wondered how, given how tightly the bodice hugged her frame. His fingers slackened, and he almost dropped his helmet.

Was there anything in the world more wondrous— more stunning?

He didn’t think so, and though he still didn’t say a word, he gave her a small nod, one he hoped would let her know that all of it was for her, every moment of that display. She met his eye, and he swore he saw some of her ice melt a little. The marshall of the joust began calling across the tiltyard for the next round to begin, but before Cassian could leave—

Nesta smiled.

Just a little, only a tentative curving of her lips, but suddenly Cassian felt like he was the one who had been knocked from his horse. It was the most beautiful thing in the world— and confirmation, he supposed, that all wasn’t lost between them.

That she hadn’t given herself over to marrying Eris completely. 

The marshall began shouting in earnest now, his irritation rising, and Cassian shot the Queen and Nesta both a daring grin, dipping his head in another bow that he hoped the Queen thought was charming rather than irreverent. 

He made his way back to the tent at the end of the tiltyard. Eris swore at him as he passed, spitting blood onto the ground as a squire checked his injuries, and even though the duke cursed Cassian’s name, his mood was so much more vastly improved by that small, infinitesimal smile Nesta had given him that he could do little more than grin.

Fuck Eris and his dukedom— fuck all the riches in the world. Cassian had the greatest treasure of them all.

He reached the tent and found Azriel waiting to clap him on the back as Rhys mounted his horse - a black destrier aptly named Erebus after the Greek god of darkness. He couldn’t see his brother’s face, hidden as it was beneath his intricately patterned visor, but Rhys nodded, tilting his brow forwards as he said a match well won, brother, in a voice that echoed, low and resonant, through his armour. Cassian merely patted Erebus’ flank as he passed, wishing his brother luck as Rhys made his way to the tilt, and as Cassian pulled at the ties on his greaves, letting them fall away from his calves, Azriel took a step forward and held out a hand to take the armour he began to shed.

A squire stepped forward to help, but Cassian stopped the boy with a hand on his shoulder. He could have been no older than fourteen, all gangly limbs, but he was eager, eyes alight as he reached for Cassian’s helm. Cassian shook his head, pulling away just enough to reach for the doublet he’d cast off earlier, draped across a bench beside the tent. He pulled out a leather purse from a pocket inside it, retrieving a single golden coin.

“I need you to do me a favour,” he said, holding up the coin. “Don’t worry about the armour— Azriel will help me remove it.” Az raised a brow, but didn’t contradict him. “I need you to go out there and find the end of Northumberland’s first broken lance. There was a ribbon tied around it. Bring it to me.”

If the boy seemed confused, he didn’t show it. He only nodded, taking the coin before scurrying away, heading to the yard to find the ribbon before Rhys’ match could begin.

Azriel shook his head, a wry laugh leaving him as he began to help undo the ties keeping Cassian’s armour together. The vambraces came off first, falling away from Cassian’s forearms. Then the pauldrons at his shoulders, the cuisses at his thighs. Finally Azriel loosened the ties on the breastplate and Cassian slid it over his head.

As they finished, with Cassian standing only in his tunic and breeches, the boy returned, sky-blue ribbon in his fingers. 

Cassian took it with another grin, the softness of it sliding against his skin as he tied it gently around his wrist for safekeeping. Az looked at him pointedly, both eyebrows raised so high they almost touched his hairline, but Cassian merely shrugged, tracing a finger across the ribbon now encircling his wrist as he looked at his brother, no small sense of satisfaction curving his lips into a smile.

“A memento of my victory,” he said simply. 

Taglist: @c-e-d-dreamer, @andrigyn, @sunlightsage, @burningsnowleopard, @asnowfern

[edwardian-girl-next-door]

Then came old January, wrapped well In many weeds to keep the cold away; Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell, And blowe his nayles to warme them if he may: For they were numbd with holding all the day An hatchet keene, with which he felled wood, And from the trees did lop the needlesse spray: Upon an huge great earth-pot steane he stood, From whose wide mouth there flowed forth the Romane floud.

~ Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queen

[in-omni-scientia]

Every time you and Authority speak with each other there's an Energy... Chemistry, on might say. Ever considered just asking the guy out? (Empathy would probably be cool about it)

ENCYCLOPEDIA — 'Cool about it'? Well, they *have* said before they would support us no matter what we did, but I'd like to draw attention to the fact they've previously shown distress at the prospect of losing us to someone else. AUTHORITY — Sure, whatever, but are we just going to ignore the fact Suggestion exists too? That'd be fucked up to do that to him. COMPOSURE — You guys are boring. I could totally whip up something, anon, just give me some time to gather some inspo. VOLITION — I think maybe we should be taking into account the fact I just *don't* feel that way first and foremost?? No confessions are going to be happening. Not sorry. AUTHORITY — No, the *biggest* fucking issue is that you take fifty goddamn morale damage every time he even LOOKS at you. That's not fucking good to build a relationship on. Manage *that* first before you even consider a FRIENDSHIP, fuckwit. By the way, have you ever considered that in your shit-ass relationship with Empathy, you don't-- VOLITION — No. PERCEPTION — Okay. But, what if-- VOLITION — Nope. ENCYCLOPEDIA — That would be an interesting theoretical to ponder, though. If Au-- VOLITION — My verdict is final, dammit. ENCYCLOPEDIA — Okay.

COMPOSURE [Legendary: Failure] — O, Authority! How, the nonpareil! In time we hate that which we often fear – and fear the flutter of our pages when ye wert near, sir-reverence, we didst… Fie upon’t, foh! Our maltreatments leave a foul taste in our mouth.

VOLITION — What are you doing. AUTHORITY — Oh, for fuck's sake.

COMPOSURE — O me, I cry your worships mercy! Beseech you, sovereign, give’s pardon. What our contempts doth often hurl from us, we wish it ours again… the prevailing prejudices, by revolution lowering, does become the opposite of itself. Byrlady…

VOLITION — ...Hey, wait. Didn't we hear someone-- ENCYCLOPEDIA — What does 'byrlady' mean, Composure?

COMPOSURE — I knoweth not!!!! ⠀⠀Y’wrest’d us from the clammy grips of death with absolute celerity, my lord, and with this hast wrest from us our grip on our wanton feelings. Alack, we do regret our decadence, ‘tis dishonourable to hurt th’heart of sweet Empathy--

VOLITION — Keep Empathy's name out of your fucking mouth. ENCYCLOPEDIA — Also, would you do us the service of not referring to us as a collective, in this instance? I am not regretting any decadence right now for I have not participated in it.

COMPOSURE — --but mine aching heart balance the feather of austerity. ⠀⠀E’en so! The possibility we are doom’d to belove more than beloved oft agnize I, the arm of your companion’s body ye art. But my lungs ‘chill not contain this blaze no longer… thou art the greatest soldier of the world, the heart where mine thoughts did kindle. Made from fire and air, you and I, the other elements left to baser life, and your continued breath alone fans my flame. ⠀⠀Prithee, allow me to be the armourer of your steely heart. I ask no more. In fine, for the love of Love and her soft hours, let’s not confound the time with conference harsh. ⠀⠀Come, sir, come, I'll wrestle with you in my strength of love...

PERCEPTION — Where did that spotlight come from? No, wait, where did those paper roses come from...? COMPOSURE — Thank you, thank you! Oh, you've been such a beautiful audience! PERCEPTION — Wait, Poseur dON'T-- ⠀⠀Oof... COMPOSURE — fffffffffff AUTHORITY — Just because I share a name doesn't mean I'm gonna catch you when you swoon, dickhead! COMPOSURE — You're a *shit* acting partner! AUTHORITY — You're a *shit* skill!

VOLITION — ...Uh. So. What's with the EModS? COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] — Ooh, want an encore with even older Suresne, do we? Of course I will give that to you. Khm, khm... ⠀⠀Lufast ðū mē? Ðū mē scýedest mid frēondsċipe hæfdest, ic eomge-feall-en-- ENCYCLOPEDIA — Quit that. I can accept plagiarising from creative works, but academic texts are where I draw the line. COMPOSURE — Uh. Isn't plagiarising from academic texts all you do, though...?

[gennsoup]

Curses are like arrows shot upright, Which, falling down, light on the shooter's head.

Unknown Author, Arden of Faversham

[terpia]

Learning about a fun trend through the backlash to it so fucking funny.

[chantireviews]

The Chaucer 2023 Book Awards Winners for Early Historical Fiction

The Chaucer Book Awards recognize emerging new talent and outstanding works in pre-1750s Historical Fiction.  The Chaucer Book Awards is a division of the Chanticleer International Book Awards (The CIBAs). The Chaucer Book Awards competition is named for Geoffrey Chaucer the author of the legendary Canterbury Tales. The work is considered to be one of the greatest works in the English language.…

[tudorblogger]

I am still here! Book Update.

Hello all! I feel like I’ve been very quiet recently, but I’ve been beavering away editing my second book and writing my third book, and I’m starting a new job in January at my alma mater, Northumbria University, so I’ve just been quite preoccupied. Thought I’d just quickly jump on here to give you an update on the writing process and some of the research I’ve been doing. My first book…

[farawayeyes4]

The Shakespearean Ciphers Examined: An Analysis of Cryptographic Systems Used as Evidence That Some Author Other Than William Shakespeare Wrote the Plays Commonly Attributed to Him by William F. Friedman and Elizebeth S. Friedman.

This book examines in exquisite and rational detail why and how every cipher (most often attributed to Francis Bacon) applied to the Works of William Shakespeare is invalid and null. The Friedmans were top cryptoanalysts in their day. Elizebeth Friedman is famous for being the codebreaker that decrypted Al Capone’s messages and less famous for being the cryptanalyst that broke the Nazi spyring in South America during World War II. Her husband, William Friedman worked for the government as a cryptanalyst and worked on Nazi spyrings in Europe. This book, written after the War, examines the cryptography often ascribed through the centuries to disprove Shakespeare’s authorship. They meticulously explain, provide historical reference, test, and debunk each method deployed by what they call Baconians who favor Francis Bacon as author of the Works. They delve into printing practices of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, also proving the ciphers used to be false. It is highly readable and understandable. The oddest elements of theories they debunk have more to do with who Baconians believe Francis Bacon to be and less to do with their belief in authorship of the plays, although that is intertwined into it. The Friedmans detail and address the ciphers also commonly believed to be hidden within the Works by Baconians that detail the parentage of Bacon. They believe, with no evidence whatsoever, that Francis Bacon was the product of a love affair between Queen Elizabeth I and her favorite Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. Not only is he royal, there’s evidence that he’s also the half brother of Robert Devereaux, Earl of Essex and that the Earl conspired with the Queen to kill Dudley, their father while he was his own mother’s lover. That Baconians believe these notions makes the entire cipher element all the more implausible in its presentation. For the question of authorship and the examination in my book chapter, none of this is really relevant to the question save to be a counter to a documentary that relies on the very ciphers debunked heavily by the Friedmans nearly 60 years before the documentary was produced. In the end, it should not matter who wrote the Works of Shakespeare. After all, they still exist no matter what name is slapped on it. Rather, it matters most to those who have divided themselves into the camps of Baconians or Stratfordians. Personally, I find the cipher to be beyond ridiculous not because I believe that strongly in Shakespeare’s authorship, rather it’s because it is so beyond over complicated. Is it not simple enough that Shakespeare is Shakespeare and wasting precious time pouring over text to dig up some wild cipher to prove otherwise is just silly? And why Francis Bacon (who Baconians also believe wrote all of Edmund Spenser, Christopher Marlowe, Philip Sidney, and a handful of other notable Elizabethan authors on top of his own works)? It just seems tedious when one thinks it through, and it is clear by the end of the book that the Friedmands have found the exercise just so.

[its-your-mind]

This is a call to action for all the PJO girlies (gender neutral) that I know are sleeper agents on this webbed site

Go read Trials of Apollo. Go do it. Do it right now.

I know what you’re thinking. “Tbh I didn’t love Rick’s writing towards the end of Heroes of Olympus” “There’s no Percy so why bother” “All of the Argo II crew are kinda OOC” and listen my friends. You are so valid to have those opinions. I felt the same way after Blood of Olympus. But listen to me. Look at me.

Now that you have had some time away, you must give these books another try. For me. For Uncle Rick. For the demon baby grain spirit who is only able to say his own name (Peaches).

Do not worry friends, I do not expect you to read just based on my say-so - I also provide:

A list of reasons why you (yes you) should go read the Trials of Apollo series right now gogogo:

(Spoiler warning - all broad plot things that you learn early on, but I know some people (including me) avoid that shit at all costs)

All the chapters are titled in bad haiku. Ya know that one scene in Titan’s Curse where Apollo just starts reciting apropos of nothing? That’s every chapter title. They’re all so bad it’s amazing.

Apollo is so up his own ass about everything, and it’s so cool to experience the same world through the eyes of someone who is not used to being in amongst the chaos

Oh yeah the plot. That’s a reason to read it.

Okay so

Basically Zeus continues his streak of being a shitty shit parent and decides to blame like… every bad thing that has happened on Apollo, and punish him by turning him mortal and enslaving him to a demigod girl named Meg who is a garbage gremlin with a little demon baby guard named Peaches (see above)

And like the A plot is they gotta save the oracles from shitty old Romans who wanna take over the world (stop me if you’ve heard this one before)

But like the B plot is about what it means to discover that you’ve fucked up, you’ve made mistakes, you’ve hurt people, and you gotta fucking own up to that shit

But also

You do not deserve to be punished for every horrible thing that has ever happened because of you, or even around you, and when a parental or authority figure in your life tells you that, they are an abuser and they are wrong

And yet

It can be so hard to fully separate yourself from them. Because for so long, they were all you had.

But that’s okay, because when you start to learn that the people who were supposed to care for you and love you were not actually doing that, there are people around you who will love you, who will support you, who will pick you up and hold you close and make sure you know that you are okay

And they can’t fix you

But they can give you the safe space to fix yourself

hmm that was an essay about themes and metaphors BUT THATS WHY YOU SHOULD READ IT

also there’s a wikipedia arrow who only speaks in Elizabethan prose (in all caps)

OH ALSO ALSO you get to see Will and Nico being a CUTE AS FUCK couple in the first book. Nico smiles. Also makes skeletons grow out of the ground when people annoy him. Fuck I love this little gay death boy so much.

AND. You get to see so MANY of your old friends. And they still! Get! Plot! And! Character! Development!! Even though they are only there for a little bit

OH OH OH there are two old lesbians who run a halfway house for people who are tangled up in magic shit with nowhere else to go

Did I mention Peaches? I did. He’s my favorite.

OH ALSO. This is “unreliable narrator” executed SO FUCKING WELL. Like, all narrators are unreliable. But Apollo used to be a FUCKING GOD. He has not had to deal with the reality of death all that much. He’s used to people praising his name and bowing down at his feet. But that ain’t happening!! And he is Unhappy about that!! But it also lets there be such a clear juxtaposition between what Apollo believes about himself and about the world and what is really true, which is such a wonderful way to write about recovery from trauma.

Ahem

Anyway it’s just real good Uncle Rick continues to knock it out of the park but he just did something different and we (at least I) needed some space from OG PJO fan brain before I could appreciate how fucking awesome this series is.

OH OH OH and if you like audiobooks Robbie Daymond (hello CR mutuals - yes, this is the one who is our beloved Blue Boi who we (Orym) so desperately need returned) is the audiobook narrator and he is. So fucking good. Absolutely NAILS the dramatic-ass-inner-monologue of this dramatic ass ex-deity. Also nails all the other voices as well. 15/10 audiobook narration I’m lichrally gonna go listen to other books JUST cuz he reads them.

okay why the fuck are you still here. GO. GET THESE BOOKS. If your public library does Libby you can absolutely get them on there. GO FORTH.

[neil-gaiman]

To clarify on the CS Lewis question, I've noticed fantasy authors tend to trash CS Lewis on religious grounds while any praise mainly comes from Christian apologists. Guillermo Delo Toro even said he refuses to read Lewis now based on his religion despite once being a fan. It's a big world out there, but offhand the only two people I can think of who speak positively about Lewis and don't make his religion the grounds for liking or disliking his work are you and Steven Moffat.

For me, reading as a kid, Lewis was a pretty ropy Christian allegorist. As a kid reading Lewis the places he sent me, excited, deeper into the library to find out more about what he was talking about, included Silenus, Bacchus, fauns, werewolves, who Plato was and what Plato's cave analogy was, naiads, dryads, maenads, Elizabethan magic and worldview with regard to things like fire elementals and ships, and into the original Arabian Nights.

Whereas the point I noticed that the dragoning of Eustace Scrub was a retelling of Paul on the Road to Damascus just made The Voyage of the Dawn Treader less interesting for me, not more. The wild fun essentially pagan magic was, in retrospect, for me as a seven year old, the joy and the heart of Narnia, while the Christian gloss, especially in the last book, always felt awkwardly imposed from outside. (It was my biggest disappointment with the Prince Caspian movie. They had taken all the gods out.)

And I think it's the undigested blobs of gloss that people, Christians and otherwise, react to badly as adults, because they feel like something from another book. Aslan as the lamb who then assures the children he has a different name in our world feels to me now like it would be more at home in something like The Water Babies. At the time, I just assumed that it meant Aslan kept an eye on this world too, and I would say a respectful hello to Lions in the zoos when I was taken to them, just to be on the safe side.

[resplendentoutfit]

Deathly Pale

The desire of women for ultra-pale skin didn't end with the Elizabethan era. In Victorian times, women still coveted the look of translucent white skin and applied the same causic, poisonous substances to their face, neck, arms and hands. Turbuculosis was a common cause of death in the era. The look of death was considered romantic for its tragic and poetic beauty. Even if a Victorian woman wasn't charmed by death due to turbuculosis, she still coveted pale, translucent skin. Tanned faces were the result of long hours of work out-of- doors, belonging to the lower classes.

“The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world.” - Edgar Allan Poe

The two predominant beauty standards were the painted beauty and the natural beauty. The later was the preferred ideal of the average fashionable woman. The methods she employed to achieve good skin and complexion were all in an effort to look natural. The overly painted look was seen as racy - the province of prostitutes and "loose" women.

Upon a well-off Victorian woman's dressing table were arsenic, ammonia, and opium, among other toxic substances. The Ugly-girl Papers, Or, Hints for the Toilet was a book published in 1874 that contained a series of beauty articles for Harper's Bazaar. The author recommends coating the face with opium before bed and a brisk wash with ammonia in the morning. How refreshing.

Lotions containing lead were popular for whitening the skin as well as erasing freckles and other blemishes. Complexion wafers containing arsenic were widely advertised. These products were peddled to women as being harmless when, in fact, they caused headaches, nausea, and even paralysis.

To achieve eyes with a seductive gaze, Victorian women used Belladonna or Deadly Nightshade in the form of eye drops, which diluted the pupils. Eye irritation and even blindness were reported symptoms of this practice.

A little color over that deathly white facial palor was usually achieved with beet juice and sometimes, animal blood. It's intriguing to wonder how women came into possession of animal blood, though the answer may be as simple as a purchase from a local vendor. Vermillion, also known as red mercury, was used to tint the lips and was known to be poisonous.

Virginie Gautreau, the subject of the famous John Singer Sargent painting known as Madama X, was not only known to use products to whiten her skin, but was also purported to use indigo dye to paint veins over the ultra-pale veneer of her skin. I haven't found any sound evidence of this, however. What I did read in both The Collector and in an article at minsooki, was that over her arsenic pale skin, Virginie used a lavender powder to counteract the warmth of candlelight.

What's most troubling is that in the face of ample evidence of the health consequences of many of these products, women continued to value the look they provided, over their own health and safety.

References:

• Molly Brown House Museum: Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder: How Victorians Used Common Poisons to Become Drop Dead Gorgeous

• Awful Forever

• Atlas Obscura

• minsooki.com

• The Collector

[canmom]

Wait is ratfic not fiction about rats???

I can talk about fiction about rats too! Let's talk about some British childrens' book series! And one American comic book.

The four relevant works for our discussion would be the Redwall series by Brian Jacques, the Welkin Weasels series by Garry Kilworth, the Deptford Mice series by Robin Jarvis, and the Mouse Guard series by David Petersen. All these works portray a world inhabited by semi-anthropomorphic animals that are at the scale of real world animals. And indeed all of them include rats, albeit mostly as antagonists.

Redwall is perhaps the one that has most penetrated internet pop culture, thanks to articles like this one on SomethingAwful which mocked some of the series's recurring elements while painting Brian Jacques as a bit of a nazi. I ate those books up as a kid, but in retrospect I truthfully can remember only snatches: the shrews' battle cry of 'logalogalogalog!', the pages of elaborate descriptions of feasts.

Redwall is a big sufferer from the 'evil races' problem. A certain arbitrary set of species (e.g. rats, stoats, weasels, ferrets) are ontologically evil, and various other species are standins for various stereotypical British social classes (e.g. iirc moles are always working class). As unfortunately tends to be the case, it even makes the strange decision to double down on this - I believe in one of the books, a member of one of the evil species is raised in the Abbey, but inevitably his evil nature comes out when the good rodents and mustelids are once again threatened by an army of bad rodents and mustelids.

Nevertheless, as repetitive and ethically dubious as these books are, they do conjour a very specific flavour which makes them memorable. The author's enthusiasm for food as child of the Blitz shines through, as does his evident love for the idyllic Redwall Abbey. There's a lot of really charming elements like the 'logalogalog' thing. Having these read out to me as kid was great, it had a bit of a panto feel, where I could join in with the expected beats.

The first Redwall book implies that humans exist in this world, but this is subsequently quietly retconned to an only-animals fantasy world.

The Welkin Weasels series is a lot shorter at six books, and you may well bounce off the author's enthusiasm to insert puns and references all over the place (I recall one book managing to set up "badgers? we don't need no stinkin' badgers"), but from what I remember of them they benefit from having more explicit horror elements which makes the stakes much more engaging. I recall the weasels trying to weasel their way into a crypt full of horrible pitfalls and finding it very tense as a kid.

There is once again a sympathetic-unsympathetic species divide - weasels are our plucky heroes, while stoats tend to be aristocratic and cruel. However, it does play out a little differently: the first three books are in a medieval fantasy setting with explicit magic, but over the course of the novels, the mustelids manage to rediscover humans, leading to a timeskip forward into a more steampunk setting where the animals and humans have built a joint society together.

Honestly, I would quite like to reread these books! They may well not hold up today, but it would be fun to revisit them.

The Deptford Mice series by Robin Jarvis - author of Deathscent, a highly memorable novel in which Elizabethans have been transported by aliens into a space archipelago where all the animals are robots which run on the four humours - is a pretty fun one, although my memory is very foggy. It's set in our world, in London, and as I recall the first book involves an evil cat wizard attempting to resurrect the Bubonic Plague from the plague pits. I recall a scene in which rats dig up the plague pit and have their paws melted by the lime coating it. Beyond that I can recall very little but I definitely think it merits inclusion in this list of rat fic.

Once again we have the good rodent/evil rodent problem. Mice and rats are almost identical creatures, so it's weird that the sympathetic/unsympathetic divide falls so consistently.

Mouse Guard is an American comic series about mice with little cloaks and swords. Making it be a comic is kind of a great idea because you get to see how cute they are at every turn. The mouse guard are responsible for defending the other mice from threats such as snakes. They have a pretty high mortality rate.

I'm... actually not super familiar with the comics, but they inspired a roleplaying game by the creators of Burning Wheel, using similar mechanics - e.g. its beliefs system, the simultaneous-resolution combat system. That got a lot of buzz around the late 2010s. So if you want a game to play as an rat at the tabletop, it's probably a good one to check out!

We might also at this juncture mention the wildly popular novel Watership Down, which imagines an elaborate rabbit society complete with a substantially fleshed out rabbit religion. I wrote about the animated film for Animation Night a couple years back - it's quite a memorable one.

Sadly, this is mostly mousefic (with a bit of weaselfic). I don't know of any true ratfic - centred on rats as protagonists. Perhaps this is an opportunity for someone out there to write ratfic ratfic to correct this imbalance.

edit: omfg i forgot the rats of NIMH. thanks to both the people who reminded me of that one

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

In England until the late sixteenth century, individual identity had been imagined not so much as the result of autonomous, personal growth in consciousness but rather as a function of social station, an individual's place in a network of social and kinship structures. Furthermore, traditional culture distinguished sharply between the nature of identity between men and women. A woman's identity was conceived almost exclusively in relation to male authority and marital status. She was less an autonomous, desiring self than any male was; she was a daughter, wife, or widow expected to be chaste, silent, and, above all, obedient. It is a profound and necessary act of historical imagination, then, to recognize innovation in the moment when Juliet impatiently invokes the coming of night and the husband she has disobediently married: "Come, gentle night; come, loving black-browed night, / Give me my Romeo" (3.2.21-23).

Recognizing that the nature of desire and identity is subject to historical change and cultural innovation can provide the basis for rereading Romeo and Juliet. Instead of an uncomplicated, if lyrically beautiful, contest between young love and "ancient grudge," the play becomes a narrative that expresses an historical conflict between old forms of identity and new modes of desire, between authority and freedom, between parental will and romantic individualism. Furthermore, though the Chorus initially sets the lovers as a pair against the background of familial hatred, the reader attentive to social detail will be struck instead by Shakespeare's care in distinguishing the circumstances between male and female lovers: "she as much in love, her means much less / To meet her new beloved anywhere" (2. Chorus 11-12, italics added). The story of "Juliet and her Romeo" may be a single narrative, but its clear internal division is drawn along the traditionally unequal lines of gender.

Because of such traditional notions of identity and gender, Elizabethan theatergoers might have recognized a paradox in the play's lyrical celebration of the beauty of awakened sexual desire in the adolescent boy and girl. By causing us to identify with Romeo and Juliet's desire for one another, the play affirms their love even while presenting it as a problem in social management. This is true not because Romeo and Juliet fall in love with forbidden or otherwise unavailable sexual partners; such is the usual state of affairs at the beginning of Shakespearian comedy, but those comedies end happily. Rather Romeo and Juliet's love is a social problem, unresolvable except by their deaths, because they dare to marry secretly in an age when legal, consummated marriage was irreversible. Secret marriage is the narrative device by which Shakespeare brings into conflict the new privilege claimed by individual desire and the traditional authority granted fathers to arrange their daughters' marriages. Secret marriage is the testing ground, in other words, of the new kind of importance being claimed by individual desire. Shakespeare's representation of the narrative outcome of this desire as tragic -- here, as later in the secret marriage that opens Othello -- may suggest something of Elizabethan society's anxiety about the social cost of romantic individualism.

gail kern paster, "romeo and juliet: a modern perspective," accompanying essay to the folger edition of romeo and juliet; emphasis mine at the parts that made me most wanna scream & shout

[eleanor-bradstreet]

Let Me Be Your Anchor

Chapter 2: The Masquerade

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett An Offer From a Gentleman reimagined Chapter rating: G Word count: 8.1k Masterpost Previous chapter Next chapter

Author's Notes: THANK YOU for your incredible patience while I took forever to write this next chapter. It's the most daunting one in the whole story for me (and potentially the longest), and my summer has been full of travel and distractions. But I'm committed to keeping this story rolling! I do need to write chapter 3 which should be comparatively short, and then chapters 4-15 are already written and just need tweaking. Expect more frequent installments soon, though I do need a bit of time to focus on a Halloween fic for y'all 😉

As a reminder, text in italics are quotes from AOFAG and are the work of Julia Quinn.

Lastly, if we're manifesting things for Benophie in the show, the song I imagine them waltzing to at the masquerade is the VSQ cover of Young and Beautiful - it's so mysterious and romantic and gives voice to Sophie's anxieties. Enjoy 💙

Sophie was no stranger to courage. It was courage that had bolstered her through her lonely childhood at Penwood Park. Courage that enabled her to face each morning knowing she would most likely be subject to Araminta’s abuse. But what drove her to sneak into the Bridgerton masquerade was something different. Courage was an element of it, but she also had the odd and wonderful sensation that she was somehow destined to attend. A sort of magnetism pulling her back to Genevieve’s shop then down the street to the wisteria-clad manse glowing with candles in every window under a starlit night. 

It had proven surprisingly easy to accomplish her ruse. She had dressed Cressida in her iridescent mermaid costume then helped Araminta into a garish Elizabethan gown. Both of them fussed and snipped at her, demanding assistance and criticizing when it was provided. Lord Cowper kept his ensemble comparatively simple with a black horned mask that Sophie found to be an accurate reflection of his true character. Soon enough all of them bundled into their carriage, leaving her alone for the evening. Sophie knew to make for the modiste’s shop as quickly as she could, and only dithered when it came to selecting the shoes Gen had told her to bring. Neither of her sorry two pairs would suffice for a ball which meant borrowing a pair from her employers. She felt safer using Cressida’s except they all proved too large, to the point Sophie knew she would be tripping over herself. Araminta’s shoes fit comparatively well but her stomach lurched at the thought she may discover they had been taken. She reminded herself that she was the one tasked with cleaning them so she could easily replace them once she returned. Memories of a stinging slap dealt that morning solidified her resolve and she selected a pair of silk slippers in a pale blue-grey with diamond clips that complemented the silver gown she knew was waiting for her.

Wrapped in a cloak, she had scurried to Gen’s door and the proud smile on her friend’s face gave her a burst of excitement for what was to come. The modiste slipped her into the finished gown, somehow impossibly more breathtaking than it had been before. Sophie couldn’t tear her eyes away from the mirrors in the shop, bewitched by how the fabric caught the light. Gen had procured all the trappings, outfitting her with elbow length silk gloves, starry earrings and jewels for her hair which she helped to coif atop her head in an elaborate style. She even swiped rouge on her cheeks and stain on her lips, something Sophie had never tried before, and by the time she was done Sophie didn’t recognize her reflection even before the demi-mask was fitted over her eyes. She was an elegant silver stranger and one who looked every bit deserving of entry to a ball.

With a kiss on the cheek Genevieve sent her out into the night and closed shop to attend a party of her own, the likes of which Sophie could only guess at. Though her heart was pounding as she treaded the cobblestones up to Bridgerton House, she knew it was from excitement as much as nerves, and when she was waved into the main hall without question, it nearly stopped altogether. It was a sight far better than she had imagined. A candlelit scene of ivory grandeur with masked guests milling across the lacquered floor and up the grand staircase, dancers in the center and towers of treats and champagne to each side. It felt as if she had stepped into a dream and she never wanted to wake up.

She was knocked from her reverie by a young lady who appeared at her side, costumed as a Grecian muse. “My, what a beautiful dress!” She commented.

Sophie swallowed, suddenly fearful that her very voice may betray her identity, but instinctively she responded. “Thank you.”

When the girl only smiled and moved away, she breathed a sigh of relief. Who here could possibly recognize her voice aside from the Cowpers? She scanned the room but they were nowhere to be found. The lady who had spoken to her was at a table by the wall selecting a dance card. Not wanting to attract suitors, Sophie moved past the cards and weaved her way toward the nearest refreshments. Her eyes were so fixed on the array of delicacies that she failed to register how many heads turned to watch her.

The tiered display before her boasted a variety of sweets unlike any Sophie had ever seen. Candies and fruits, chocolates and tarts, even ice cream were all for the taking. Until that moment the only treat she had ever eaten was marzipan, a controversial candy that both her father and the Cowpers kept on hand for guests but despised themselves and so were none the wiser when she snuck pieces. Spoiled for choice, she seized a raspberry tart and had to fight from moaning at its rich sweetness. Then she nibbled on a chocolate, then a lemon cake before she stopped herself, realizing it would be unladylike to gorge herself and thereby risk revealing that she did not belong. She switched to a flute of champagne, another luxury she had never sampled before but quite enjoyed, and began to move about the perimeter of the room. 

The sea of costumes was so varied and elaborate, Sophie felt confident she did not stand out too drastically. Among the women there were queens and faeries, flowers and creatures of myth, all hidden behind demi-masks or veils. The gentlemen presented as an array of devils and jesters, satyrs and knights if they weren’t simply wearing their tails and a mask. Sophie listened in on their snippets of conversation. Courtship gossip among the women and business among the men. The young ladies whispered their opinions of the bachelors and the bachelors largely stayed silent unless they were mumbling about retiring to the smoking room. Behind them in the center of the hall were the dancers, swishing over a bee motif painted onto the parquet floor. The song was a sprightly one, spurring couples to hop around their partners while grasping hands and looping arms in a complex sequence. Sophie was transfixed, marveling at how it reminded her of a music box come to life. Everything was a feast for the senses: the twinkle of the candles, the strings of the musicians, the bubbles that tickled her tongue and the silk that wrapped around her skin. This was the life she had read about in Whistledown. This was the life she could have had as her father’s daughter if things were ever so slightly different.

A footman collected her empty glass and she felt herself calming. But that calm was immediately shattered when she noticed not one, not two, but three young gentlemen approaching her from various points in the room. It was then she realized that card or no, they would ask her to dance. It was also when she remembered that she did not know how to dance. And it was then that she began to chastise herself for forgetting this crucial fact before sneaking into a ball. She had been so caught up in the thrill of simply observing the masquerade and so used to being overlooked that she had not contemplated the possibility that a man may ask her to dance. If she attempted to, it would immediately become obvious that she was an imposter. Her mind started to race, eyes pinging between the three admittedly handsome gentlemen who drew closer and closer, looking at her as if she were a piece of meat and they were starving lions. There was nothing for it - she would have to hide. Backing away as gracefully as she could, she scurried around a cluster of guests, lifted two more flutes of champagne and darted down a hall where open french doors promised a swift escape.

---

[Shift to Benedict’s POV as written at the beginning of Chapter 2 of AOFAG. He is begrudgingly attending the masquerade, aggravated that he cannot be distinguished from his brothers. 

…he sometimes wished he were considered a little less a Bridgerton and a little more himself.

Violet asks him to dance with Penelope who is unfortunately dressed as a peacock. On his way, he is cornered by rude debutantes.

“A Bridgerton!...Which are you? No, don’t say. Let me guess. You’re not the viscount, because I just saw him. You must be Number Two or Number Three.”]

Grimacing his way out of yet another insulting and inane conversation, Benedict tucked himself into a corner under the stairs. He should have pushed forward to go humor Penelope Featherington but he had lost sight of her and he didn’t know if he would be able to bite his tongue through one more chance interception by an air-headed debutante or her mama. All of these ladies simpering over a man who they could not name while their mothers’ half-smiles betrayed that they saw him as little more than a consolation prize now that his titled brother was taken. He pitied them, knowing it was what they were all raised to do. But he also pitied himself for being the focus of their attentions. He supposed it was inevitable that he would find himself playing the marriage mart one day and it was precisely as miserable as he had imagined it would be, if not more. But having failed in his pursuit of art, the one thing that had stirred true and enduring passion within him, what else was he supposed to do? Perhaps a wife would make him feel grounded, grant him a new sense of purpose. But none of the young ladies he had met throughout the painfully long London season had been able to produce any feeling in him that was even a fraction of what he felt when he daubed oils on canvas, or sketched a flower, or studied a Turner sky.

With a rueful smirk he wondered if he would fail at becoming a husband too. He hadn’t the merits to get into the Royal Academy without a bribe; perhaps he didn’t have the merits to succeed at the marriage mart either. As eager as the women were to throw themselves at his feet, he didn’t know if he could hide his true feelings well enough to make it to an altar. Feelings of disappointment, lack of inspiration, and invisibility. The dreadful suspicion that he was not destined for the productive life of artistry he had always imagined. He was only a Bridgerton, one of many, and the most he could hope to achieve was some form of domestic happiness, if any woman would tie herself to such an empty shell of a man. 

His stomach sank as he heard his surname giggled in a nearby pack of debutantes. It was all too much, he needed fresh air. As he turned toward the back hall he felt an odd tingling sensation in his limbs and all of his focus seemed to narrow on the french doors. Perhaps he had drunk too much, perhaps it was too hot in the room, but it was not an unpleasant feeling. Rather, it was a feeling of certainty. Certainty that he must go outside and his feet were itching to carry him there. He did not protest and in a moment he was through the doors and in the cool air of the back garden. 

On instinct he walked toward the massive elm tree, planning to rest on the swings hanging from its branches. Scattered torches and a pearlescent full moon helped to illuminate the garden, making it a peaceful respite from the crush of people inside. He assumed he was alone but realized he was mistaken when he rounded the rose bushes and beheld an odd sight. It was a woman standing on the paving stones with her back to him. She was dressed in a silver gown, antiquated in style but made of the most mesmerizing fabric that seemed to absorb the very moonlight and make her glow. Her head was turned toward a large window of the house through which could be seen the dancing couples inside. She was mimicking them, slowly, jerkily, raising her arms and stepping to and fro with an invisible partner, stumbling every few steps and then hissing at herself as she tried to match the movements once again. It was clear she was trying to learn the dance and failing spectacularly.

Benedict couldn’t tear his eyes away. Even without seeing her face he could tell she was a beauty. But more than that, she was the most curious creature he had come across at any event of the ton. So many questions immediately arose. Who was she? How atrocious had her dancing master been? Why wasn’t she chaperoned?  Whatever the story was, he simply had to know it.

He stepped closer and cleared his throat, hoping not to frighten her.

“Are you in need of a partner?”

“Oh!” Instantly she whipped around and nearly jumped a foot in the air. 

Benedict’s breath caught in his throat. He had been right about her beauty, it was evident even behind her demi-mask. But it wasn’t simply the trappings of her stunning gown, glimmering jewelry or scarlet lips. It was innate, some kind of light that animated her from within. It called to him like a lighthouse across a stormy sea and he was transfixed. He had never experienced such a powerful sensation upon first seeing a woman. Sophie stuttered, embarrassed to have been discovered tromping around in the garden and nervous that her behavior was about to reveal her as a trespasser. The fact that her inquisitor was tall, dark and handsome was also causing her mind to stall. She offered a meager explanation. “I…I am not familiar with this step, so I was…trying to learn.”

Her voice was the sweetest music Benedict had ever heard. It made him feel weightless, electrified. Akin to how his favorite landscapes left him gaping in awe, but even more visceral. He realized he was staring at her, agog, and snapped himself back to attention. “And you did not want to ask any of the gentlemen inside to teach you?”

“I didn’t want to seem silly. Though I suppose, I have already failed at that.” She dropped her eyes and blushed and Benedict felt heat surge through his own skin at seeing its beautiful hue. What was it about her that made him falter when every other young lady made him want to run? Who on earth was she?

“I don’t recognize you. The same array of people always come to these parties.”

“Ah, then my disguise is working well.” She arched a brow with a mischievous little grin. 

Benedict felt his stomach flip with delight. “What is your name?”

Sophie prickled. She would need to be crafty with her answers to maintain her anonymity. The consequences of being discovered were dire, but perhaps that was what gave it an undeniably exciting edge. She had learned to hide herself in plain sight with the Cowpers. Surely this wouldn't be much harder. “Is a degree of mystery not the purpose of a masquerade?”

His lopsided smile set her at ease. He wouldn’t interrogate her; he was amiable.

“Very true. So you are going to make me guess?”

“I think it would be a fruitless endeavor.”

Benedict marveled at the beautiful stranger as the intrigue grew deeper. She was the first debutante who had reacted to him with anything other than fawning desperation. She was playful. She was a breath of fresh air.

He stepped closer, folding his arms as he looked her up and down. “Well, you have already given me a significant clue. A young lady in society who does not know the quadrille. That is unique indeed.” She straightened her mask and he noticed her unadorned wrist. “And no dance card. You are truly committed to remaining as anonymous as possible.”

“All in the spirit of the event.” She turned quickly and walked to a nearby table where two flutes of champagne sat unattended. She drank down the remnants of one a bit too eagerly, betraying her nerves.

“Is someone joining you?” Benedict wondered if he had interrupted the flirtations of another suitor. If so, the man was a fool to take his eyes off such a creature for even a moment.

Sophie followed his gaze to the second glass and felt herself flush at being caught indulging so brazenly. She picked it up and carried it back to him. Now that he knew she could not dance, she could relax and enjoy his conversation at least.

“You have joined me, Mister…?”

He accepted the glass and huffed a laugh. “Oh come now, my disguise is not nearly as good as yours. You don’t have to be so coy.”

The woman continued to stare at him blankly and the puzzle of her grew infinitely more bewildering. Could it be possible that she truly did not recognize him? Even if this was her first event among the ton, she could not have failed to hear his name on every other woman’s lips as they chased him through the ballroom. Nor could she be so ignorant about her hosts. They were at his bloody house after all.

His brow knitted in disbelief. “You truly do not know who I am?”

“There you are!” A voice called out suddenly.

Sophie’s stomach lurched into her throat. She’d been found out. She’d be thrown into the street, and tomorrow probably into jail for stealing Araminta’s shoes, and–

A second man marched around the rose bushes also in tails and a black demi-mask, shorter and broader than the first but also remarkably handsome. He stomped up to confront the other.

“Mother has been looking all over for you. You weaseled out of your dance with Penelope and I had to take your place.”

The taller man smirked. “And did that put you out terribly, brother?”

Sophie looked from one man to the other. Even under their demi-masks, the familial relationship was more than obvious, and she realized in a blinding flash that they must be the famed and coveted Bridgerton brothers. But which brother was her visitor? Benedict. He had to be Benedict. She sent a silent thank you to Lady Whistledown, who’d once written a column completely devoted to the task of telling the Bridgerton siblings apart. Benedict, she recalled, had been singled out as the tallest. Sophie began to assess him anew, the most eligible bachelor in the ton. Remembering that Gen had shared a dalliance with him, she could understand the appeal.

“It was better than any of the alternatives, I must say,” The man who must have been Colin Bridgerton shrugged. “If you flee the party and leave me to that pack of she-devil debutantes, I swear I shall exact revenge to my dying day.”

Benedict laughed and Colin turned to Sophie with a start, realizing that they were not alone. “Oh pardon, present company excluded. I apologize, Miss.”

He bowed politely and she returned her best curtsy.

“No offense taken, sir.”

The annoyance melted out of his eyes - a captivating shade of blue - and his voice grew silky as he stepped toward her. “Might I request an introduction?”

“I doubt you’ll meet with success.” Benedict snickered. “I would like one as well but the lady is committed to the spirit of the event and will not share her name.”

Colin frowned at her playfully. “Not even a false one?”

Sophie grinned, enjoying their little game. She had never received so much attention from any member of the upper class, much less two suave and flirtatious bachelors. It made her bold. “If you really insist, I suppose I could tell you something.”

“But not the truth?” Benedict asked.

“This isn’t a night for truth.”

Colin leaned in with a devilish smirk. “My favorite kind of night.”

Benedict rolled his eyes and tugged his brother upright. “Shouldn’t you be with Penelope?” 

At this, the younger grew flustered. “I…well…”

“It would be the honorable thing to do, making sure the young lady is asked to more than just one dance this evening.” At the end of his argument Benedict folded his bottom lip into an exaggerated pout and Sophie felt her insides flutter.

Colin seemed possessed by a new sense of chivalry. “Very well, I’ll take my leave. And fight back through the pack of ravenous wolves…”

“Wolves?” Sophie laughed, turning to Benedict. “Is that what drove you out of doors as well, sir?”

“I suspect it is.” Colin grinned and clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Our mother would like nothing better than to see this one married off.”

“Brother…” Benedict’s grip tightened around the champagne flute.

“Would you take pity on the poor, long-suffering woman and chase him up the aisle?” Colin shot a wink at Sophie.

“Have you been at the tea again?” Benedict grumbled under his breath, staring daggers.

Sophie couldn’t remember being so entertained before. “I believe I shall have to get to know him better first, and take the full measure of his character before any chasing shall commence.”

Her co-conspirator released a loud sigh. “Then alas, I fear he may be found wanting and remain a bachelor forever.”

“Are you quite finished?” Benedict snipped.

Sensing the end of his patience, Colin slapped him on the back and desisted. “I am.” He turned to Sophie with a beaming smile and bowed once more. “Enjoy your evening.” Then he was gone as quickly as he had appeared, leaving them alone in the garden.

Sophie allowed a giggle to escape. “It is charming to see two brothers who get on so well.”

Benedict took a large swig of champagne. “You’d call that getting on?”

“I would.” Sophie smiled softly. “I have no siblings myself but it’s clear the jesting stems from a place of love.” Indeed, Sophie felt herself surrounded by love at this house. A love of family and community that she had always longed for but always been denied. It was bittersweet to be wrapped in it, knowing it would only last for one evening.

He quirked a brow. “Another clue. She has no siblings.”

“That cannot be that rare.” Sophie spluttered, chastising herself for her misstep.

“It certainly narrows the options.”

“Well, it is the last thing I shall share about my identity.” She set her chin defiantly and Benedict found it to be quite the most adorable expression. Now he was determined to know everything about her, however long he had to play her game.

He stepped toward her again, lowering his voice. “Why so many secrets?”

“I told you, this entire night is meant for secrets. Though I believe I have uncovered yours.” Sophie said with an enigmatic smile, truly warming to her role as a mysterious stranger. 

“Oh yes?”

“I know who you are.”

Benedict shrugged. “I assumed as much.”

“I didn’t at first,” she confessed.

“What gave me away?”  With no discernable parents shoving her in his direction, Benedict wondered how she had deduced it.

Sophie grinned, victorious. “The fact that you are here with your brother. That you look so alike. And are both being hounded by the young ladies.”

“We look alike even with masks on?” 

“Even with masks,” she nodded. “Lady Whistledown writes about the Bridgerton brothers quite often, and she never passes up an opportunity to comment upon how alike you look.”

Ah, she was a Whistledown reader, though that didn’t help him parse her identity among the young ladies of the ton. He had never read the scandal sheet himself but was unsurprised that it contained discussions of the Bridgerton resemblance. He had heard it all his life, how similar he was to his two eldest brothers. The three of them were often called by the others’ names, even by their own mother on occasion, with everyone typically defaulting to assuming they were all Anthony, the Viscount. He and Colin had used it to their advantage from time to time, wielding perceived status to get preferential treatment or making handshake deals to embroil Anthony in some ludicrous business venture. He of course could see the clear distinctions between each of them but it seemed society could not. If anything, he knew he most closely resembled his late father and it caused the greatest pain when someone slipped and called Benedict by his name. It was all something he had learned to live with. He loved his family dearly but his visibility as a Bridgerton often made him feel invisible as Benedict.

He steeled himself to be wounded again by this lady in silver. “And do you know which brother I am?”

“Benedict,” she smiled brightly. His heart skipped hearing his name on her lips. In the soft glow she cast, he finally felt seen. “If indeed Lady Whistledown is correct when she says that you are the tallest among your brothers.”

He swallowed to try and hide his excitement. “You’re quite the detective.”

She shrugged. “I merely read a gossip sheet. It makes me no different from the rest of the people here.”

He wanted to chuckle at how she voiced his precise thoughts aloud. Perhaps she was an enchantress with the power to read minds. Whoever she was, dream or reality, he needed to know more. Downing the rest of his champagne, he set the glass aside and moved closer, trying to study the contours of her face and color of her eyes behind her mask.

“And if Lady Whistledown were here and saw you tonight, would she know your identity?”

The woman backed away, playfully but pointedly drifting across the grass toward the elm tree. “I’m so well disguised that no one would recognize me right now.”

He continued his pursuit. “What if you removed your mask? Would she recognize you then?”

“I’m not going to answer that.” She walked backward slowly, always staying paces ahead of him. 

He returned her wry smile. “I didn’t think you would, but I had to ask nonetheless. Dare I ask what else you know about me from Whistledown?”

“Are you fishing for compliments?”

Sophie’s nerves were running haywire at being chased with such evident intent by a gentleman. And not just any gentleman, but Benedict Bridgerton himself. She had never planned to flirt nor attract the attention of gentlemen at the ball. She had only wanted to observe it, to soak in the atmosphere, to forget the life of Sophie Beckett for a few hours. But now the most coveted man in the ton - a man far more charming and beautiful than she had presumed - was stalking toward her with hungry eyes. She should have been terrified at being discovered or even compromised, but she wasn’t. She was enjoying this. Perhaps she could blame the champagne for the heated, buzzing feeling throughout her body but whatever it was, it left her heady with confidence and craving more.

Something bumped into the back of her legs and she turned to see that she was standing by a pair of swings hanging from the branches of the looming tree above. He had her cornered. But he was nothing but a gentleman as he held the swing steady and gestured for her to sit. With the volume of her skirt she could do little but perch on the seat and hold onto the ropes to keep her balance. He lowered himself onto the swing next to hers and rocked lightly to and fro with a cheeky glint in his eyes.

“If I cannot know anything about you, at least I might know what you know about me.”

Sophie pondered a moment. Her immediate thoughts were what Genevieve had shared. That he was sensitive, talented and good. But of course she could not reveal that she had learned such things. She had to rely on what had been reported in Whistledown, which had conveniently been confirmed by Colin. “Your name has not been seriously linked with any young lady, and your mother despairs of ever seeing you married.”

The way his shoulders slumped banished her assumption that he simply didn’t want to end a rakish bachelor lifestyle. The burden to marry weighed on him more heavily for some reason.

“The pressure has lessened a bit now that my brother’s gone and gotten himself a wife,” he explained.

“The Viscount?”

“Mmmm,” he nodded. “And anyway, I’m sure at some point I’ll find the lady suitable enough to keep my house and bear my children.” He kicked at the grass, dispirited.

“Among the ravenous wolves?” Sophie chuckled, trying to brighten the mood and coax the truth out of him. “It sounds as if that traditional sort of life would be unappealing to you.”

Benedict shook himself out of his ruminations and sat up straight. He felt so at ease with this mysterious guest that he had let the mask of debonair suitor slip. He must be cautious in revealing his true feelings especially if he hoped to secure her hand, the only one that was making the prospect of marriage seem in any way appealing. He spluttered, “Well…I only…”

She cut him off. “Do not worry about offending me, Mr. Bridgerton. I am not here to find a husband and I’d much rather have your honesty than your flattery.”

Who on earth was this miraculous woman? A young lady who was not scheming for a proposal but rather seeking to know him better. The first and only he had encountered in the marriage mart. He felt as if he had discovered a unicorn and effortlessly opened his heart to her. 

“I suppose there are other pursuits in life that interest me. To travel the Continent and see the artworks of the great masters. To seek out beauty in all its forms and capture it. To do something worthwhile with myself, have an occupation. Shocking as that may be, I feel that I would find it fulfilling.”

While his desires may have confused many of her peers, the lady in silver only smiled. “I think it’s admirable for anyone to hold an occupation. It shows a great deal of character, not to mention independence. And in this independent life of yours, there would be no room for a wife?”

“I didn’t say that,” he clarified. “I have never disdained romance, as it appears you do. If you’re not here to find a husband, then what are you here for?”

“To enjoy myself.”

“Simple enough,” he smirked.

“Yes,” she sighed. “If only I knew how to dance.” The pointed challenge in her eyes lit a spark within him. She was a smart little thing, a force to be reckoned with. He would not shy away. He bounced to his feet and stood before her.

“I would teach you gladly but be forewarned, I will teach you badly. I never took to it.”

Sophie laughed. “Have you two left feet, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Why do you think I find myself still unmarried?”

“Surely your dancing skills cannot be that atrocious. Could it be you have some nefarious personality traits that are driving the women away?”

Benedict sniggered. “Hmmmm. Perhaps I am too rakish. Too predisposed to indulgences.”

“Does that not describe just about every gentleman in the ton?”

“Are you saying that I’m indistinguishable?” His lip folded into a hilarious pout again. 

Sophie was enjoying their sparring immensely. “I’m saying it must truly be your dancing that is to blame.”

Then he bent and extended his hand. “Let me show you and you can judge for yourself.”  

She rose with a rustle of silver skirts and allowed Benedict to guide her back across the lawn to the paving stones, the two of them walking in comfortable silence. She felt like a princess - a reckless princess - and so when he asked her to dance, she put her hand in his. And even though she knew that this entire evening was a lie, that she was a nobleman’s bastard and a countess’s maid, that her dress was borrowed and her shoes practically stolen - none of that seemed to matter as their fingers entwined. For this moment, at least, Sophie could pretend that this gentleman could be her gentleman. It was nothing but a dream, but it had been so terribly long since she’d let herself dream.

Standing across from the house window once more, they turned to face each other. Sophie swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how tall and how close he was. The moonlight shone behind him, cutting a striking silhouette with glinting pale blue eyes set behind his black mask. Never releasing her hand, he guided it into place.

“Put your hand here on my shoulder. Just a touch lower, there you are.”

Then his hands moved, one to her waist and one to extend their arms to the side. Sophie couldn’t help but shudder at the expanse of his grasp. 

Benedict dropped his voice, instructing gently. “Now, listen to the music. Do you feel it rising and falling?”

Drifting out from the house Sophie could hear the musicians’ strings playing something light and hopeful. She concentrated and began to sense its rhythmic pattern.

“I feel it.”

Benedict smiled. “Good. Now watch my feet and let me lead you. One, two, three; one, two, three.”

As if on queue Sophie stumbled after just a moment, tripping over Benedict’s feet. “Oh! I’m sorry!” 

His hold tightened around her to keep her from falling but he couldn’t help bursting into laughter. “See? I am an awful teacher. Perhaps you should return to watching the dancers inside. What are they doing now?”

Sophie couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across her own face, realizing she had never met such a good humored man. A nobleman who didn’t scold her for a misstep and even blamed himself instead. He was so playful, so easy to talk to. Despite the outrageous risk she was taking with this entire evening, she had never been more comfortable around a member of the gentry. She turned to peer into the ballroom and watched the flurry of dancing couples moving around one another. Their hands and arms entwined in a series of looping motions, palms meeting to raise over their heads before sliding back down to wrap around the ladies’ shoulders. 

Knowing they were entirely unsuited to the task and giggling at each other with mischief in their eyes, she and Benedict attempted to mimic - or rather mock - the dancers inside. They grasped at each other’s elbows and wrists, fumbling to change holds and laughing as they found themselves tied in ridiculous knots and unable to glide into the next motion. Benedict pranced like a peacock and overexaggerated a deep bend of the knee as the men inside artfully swept a leg behind themselves. Next, the ladies twirled, grasping the mens’ hands and floating in a circle to revolve around their backs. Benedict extended his hand with a flourish, Sophie took it and then began skipping like a child around him, skirts bunched in her fist. They were laughing so much she was sure the champagne was to blame, which was practically confirmed when she rounded Benedict’s other side and promptly tripped on her dress, pitching to the ground.

But he caught her, swiftly and easily moving to cradle her in his arms. Their laughter died away as they gazed at one another, catching their breath. For the first time Benedict was close enough to determine the color of her eyes - they were green. A deep emerald green that sparkled as richly as her silver costume. He was nearly overcome with their light and the feeling of how perfectly she fit in his arms. Barely keeping his wits about him, he lifted her gently back to her feet.

“Lord, I never expected to find the one person worse at dancing than me,” he chuckled, trying to tame the maelstrom of emotions swirling within.

The woman returned a shaky smile. “Well I hope it serves as a boost to your confidence.”

The tremor in her voice gave him a glint of hope. Could she be feeling the same way he did? Did she too sense an overwhelming connection between them? Something he was ready to label as destiny. She hadn’t spurned any of his advances. No indeed she had flirted back at him, toying and challenging, matching his wits and his energy. She was not eager to marry him for his family or position, she was able to pick him out among his brothers and she supported his dream to do more with his life than simply wile away in domesticity. She made him laugh, she made him feel alive, she made him feel visible. Everything he had been searching for and had abandoned hope of ever finding, all embodied by a nameless lady in silver who had appeared in his garden like a gift from the heavens. She was a star, and he wanted to pick her up and hang her in his sky to guide him. 

He stepped close and wrapped an arm around her waist, just wanting to hold her again. “Shall we try again? In earnest?”

Sophie was transfixed, something blooming inside her chest from the moment he caught her. This already exceptional night had taken so many unexpected turns. She had never expected to speak at length with any attendee of the ball, much less the most prized bachelor in society. And she certainly never expected a private audience with him for the whole evening, nor the feelings it would stir within her. So quickly he had banished her assumptions of what such a man would be like. He was nowhere near as snobbish as she imagined he had a right to be, nor was he the dour figure she had supposed when Gen told her he probably disdained attention. He was passionate, animated, with a comic disposition and a large heart. He disdained attention because he wanted more and felt out of place - feelings she could relate to very well indeed. He was good-natured, forgiving, gentle. And as if that weren’t enough, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen despite that she could only view half of his face beneath his mask. Though she knew the Bridgerton siblings were famed for their looks and she had only seen one brother to compare him to, she knew that Benedict would always have drawn her eye above all. 

She was in danger of losing her heart to him. She feared it may have already happened. But there was no happy ending to this story. She could not reveal herself nor enjoy his company for any longer than this one night. But with his arm around her and his blue eyes holding hers so warmly, she could not bring herself to care. The musicians inside were playing a new song, something resonant and soulful, full of longing and magic. She would fit an entire lifetime into this night.

“Alright, one last go.” Bringing one hand to his shoulder and lacing the other with his, she took her position and stared down at their feet again.

“Look up,” Benedict encouraged.

She shook her head. “I will stumble.”

“You won’t. I won’t let you. Look into my eyes.”

She followed his soft command and raised her eyes to meet his. Mesmerized, she couldn’t look away. She could barely breathe. She was dimly aware that they were moving, that he was guiding her through a waltz slowly and fluidly. Suddenly their feet knew precisely how to carry them. Benedict never blinked, determined never to let this silver blessing out of his sight or his arms until she understood how she had enchanted him. Everything around them was bathed in moonlight, making her shimmer like a precious jewel in his hands. 

“What do you feel?”

“Everything,” she breathed.

“What do you hear?”

“The music. I hear the music as I’ve never heard it before.” She moved light on her feet, the romantic call of the strings making it seem as if she were floating across the paving stones.

Benedict’s heart was pounding, desperate for her answer to his next question. “What do you see?”

Sophie froze, paralyzed by the impossibility of putting it into words. As their steps gently stopped and they stood inches apart, everything about him was thrown into sharp focus. She saw everything she had never dared to hope for. A man who showed interest, a man who was kind, a man who could free her from her miserable life. If only she was not who she was. Her skin tingled where he touched her, and the air grew thick and hot. This was desire, Sophie realized. This was what she’d heard fellow maids whispering about. This was what no gently bred lady was even supposed to know about. But she was no gently bred lady, she thought defiantly. She was a bastard, a nobleman’s by-blow. She was not a member of the ton and never would be. Did she really have to abide by their rules? 

As Benedict’s lips parted and his head lowered toward her, she knew he was moving to kiss her and she would allow it. She craved it. It was enough to ruin a reputation, but what sort of reputation did she have to begin with? She was outside society and she wanted one night of fantasy. One kiss to savor for the rest of her pitiful existence.

Their breaths gusted across each other’s skin, lips barely an inch apart. Sophie was certain her heart was thundering loud enough that he may hear it. The music swelled. She closed her eyes. Then she felt his long, slender fingers cup her face and begin to slip under the ribbon tying her mask. 

Alarm bells sounded in her mind and she lurched backward, bringing a hand to press her mask firmly to her face. She could not be discovered. Despite how everything in her body was crying out for him, she would not allow it. In the commotion a lock of her hair fell loose and dangled over her shoulder. After securing her mask she began trying to pin her hair back in place, fingers slipping in her silk gloves.

Benedict stood befuddled, watching her fumble with her gloves and hairpins. She was truly committed to not revealing her identity. A thought flashed through his mind that perhaps she was hiding some kind of deformity. At this point, he did not care. It would not make him feel anything less toward her and he was determined to woo her.

“Blasted things…” Sophie cursed under her breath as her hair continued to slip out of her grasp.

“Allow me.” Benedict reached forward and softly took her wrist, slowly sliding the glove down from her elbow to pull it off. Sophie stood trembling as he kept her hand in his and brushed his thumb across her knuckles, their skin meeting for the first time. Then he bent, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he pressed a deep, warm kiss to the back of her hand. Her breath hitched, feeling an electric current spider out from his lips across every inch of her skin. This was already a bold move but he took it even further, turning her hand over and lavishing her palm with another sensuous kiss - making his intentions clear without a single word.

“Who are you?” Benedict rasped. “I have to know.”

“I can’t say.” Sophie felt torn in two - her heart and body tugging her forward into his arms while her mind and reason held her back.

Benedict felt the heat rising under his collar. He didn’t want to learn her name simply to beat her at her game. He wanted it so that he could know who had stolen his heart so quickly and completely. So that he could keep her in his life and sing her praises. He would not end the evening without making his feelings known.

He gripped her hand tighter, pressing in close, his voice urgent. “I want to see you tomorrow. I want to call on you and meet your parents. Do you understand what I’m saying? I need to know you. I want…”

“Don’t say anything more! Please. Not another word.” Sophie cut him off, tears pricking at her eyes. This was all a mistake, a dreadful mistake. She never should have remained in the garden with Benedict, should never have flirted with him, should never have let it go this far.

“Then tell me your name,” he pleaded desperately. “Tell me how to find you tomorrow.”

The sobs were rising from her throat, anguished at how much pain she was causing them both. At how unfair it all was. “I…”

Her voice was drowned out by a booming clang from within Bridgerton House, followed by the guests inside erupting into cheers and laughter. 

“What is that?”

“Midnight. Time for the unmasking.” Benedict explained, turning to her with hopeful eyes.

“Unmasking?” Sophie’s mind whirred, horrified. No one had ever mentioned an unmasking. It wasn’t reported in Whistledown and Gen hadn’t warned her. Perhaps it was something that everyone of good breeding inherently knew about a masquerade. Clearly she was not one of them. She had been so wrong to attempt this, so ill-prepared for what would happen. Now she would be out of place for not revealing herself.

As she panicked over what to do, Benedict pulled off his own mask and her crisis deepened. He was beautiful. Impossibly more beautiful now that she could see the boyish mirth in his face, the inquisitive slant of his brow, the way his crystal blue eyes were framed by the most endearing creases, evidencing a lifetime of smiles.

Benedict’s hope deflated as the woman stared at him, stock-still. “Are you alright?”

“I have to go,” she choked, barely audible. Then she gathered her skirts in her hands, turned and fled into the house.

“Wait!” Benedict leapt after her, feeling like a man possessed. He could not lose her, the only woman who had stirred him to the depths of his soul. The only one who he could be prevailed upon to marry. She held his future. She held his heart. He couldn’t let them vanish. 

He tore back through the house, catching glimpses of her silver form sweeping around each corner. She was remarkably fast. He burst into the ballroom and had to scan to find her among the riot of costumes and noise. The candlelight glinted off her dress as she pushed steadily through the crowd, already halfway to the door, and he dove in after her. He abandoned any care of being polite and began shouldering his way past guests, even knocking into his brother Anthony who promptly began to admonish him but Benedict pressed on, deaf to anything but the chanting in his mind. No, no, no. He could not lose her.

Sophie dipped and sashayed around the crush of partygoers, moving as quickly as she could for the exit but not wanting to cause a scene. The genteel crowd proved their manners by parting easily as she passed. She cast glances back over her shoulder, seeing Benedict trying to catch up with her but people were less inclined to clear the way for a man. Her heart was in her throat, unsure if she could escape without being caught by Benedict or the Cowpers or anyone else who found her behavior curious. The large front doors were in sight and she turned one final time to see Benedict’s path blocked suddenly by a severe looking woman with a scarlet costume and a cane. She would make it. 

Barely maintaining composure, she slowed her pace as she approached the doors and nodded politely to the footmen who opened them and ushered her out into the cool night. She scurried down the stairs, mask still on her face as she began to soak it with tears. Confused and frantic, she gave over to her instincts which were drawing her away from Grosvenor Square and back to the modiste shop. Though she knew it was her only course of action and she knew she had let the entire evening get out of hand, she couldn’t help but feel fractures splintering her heart with each hurried footfall on the cobblestones.

Tagging: @angels17324 @bridgertontess @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @eg-dr3amer3 @time-to-hit-the-clouds @lyta2323 @autumn-grace @sadprose-auroras @the-other-art-blog @yellowprimrose @colettebronte @heeyyyou @musicismyoxygen84 @faye-tale

[beccibarnes]

"We've never met before" - Good Omens Fanfiction

Fandom: Good Omens

Relationship: Crowley / Aziraphale

Summary: 1601, London.

Aziraphale and Crowley made it through the horrendous 14th century, but their situationship has taken a serious hit. They are slowly reconciling, but it won't be another 100 years until they are back where they left off. That at least is Aziraphale's impression. He quickly reconsiders when Crowley presses him to a wall in a public alley before getting down on his knees.

Or: Crowley shows Aziraphale a secret garden of delight and what snakes can do with their jaw.

Words: 5,757

Rating: Explicit

Status: Finished (Part 3/14 of a series)

Warnings: No Warnings

Tags:

Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Aziraphale Has a Penis, Crowley Has a Penis, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smut, Blow Jobs, First Time Blow Jobs, Public Blow Jobs, Deep throat, Missing Scene, Episode: s01e03 Hard Times, Canon Compliant, POV Aziraphale, Aziraphale Loves Crowley, Awkward Conversations, London, Elizabethan Era, Scene: Globe Theatre 1601, Historical References, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Idiots, Author's overuse of nature similes, How to make a Deep Throat sound poetic, Adding another layer to The Wall Scene in s1, Elizabethan Era clothing is NOT made for this

Click here to read on AO3

[doyouwanttoseeabug]

Ok, Lantern reading headcanons:

Hal reads literally everything, he will just go to charity bookshops, grab ten of the cheapest paperbacks available, and earnestly devour The Thursday Murder Club with the same laser focus and critical attention that he devotes to Pale Fire. The only thing he doesn't read is political non-fiction, because he has vague and angry feelings about the government that roughly translate to "dishonourably discharged from the circus, no longer my monkeys." He is TERRIBLE to talk to about books with because he'll be comparing the presentation of love vs class in Trollope and Collins and then he'll somehow transition to ranting about Twilight in a point-by-point takedown with quotations and fucking page numbers. Also to be clear he has no conception of when these books were written/the personality of the author/any context. He has thoughtful comments on both Dickens and Shakespeare but he gets the Elizabethan and Victorian periods mixed up all the time and wouldn't be super clear on the dates.

Guy loves horror. Ghost stories delight him, the spookier the better. He occasionally takes a dip into spatterpunk and can sort of enjoy the nastiness with a grim chuckle but he has to space those out or he ends up getting depressed. He also reads self-help books (derogatory), like he genuinely thinks that shit like The Four-Hour Workweek and The Five AM Club is life-changing good advice instead of Just The Opinions of Some Huckster. He keeps trying to tell John "one weird trick to improve productivity" and John keeps having to dive away.

John obviously loves reading really weird science non-fiction books, like 600 page deep-dives about the history of sand or paper or cancer. He also loves sci-fi, like he's a MASSIVE space opera nerd, and really grimdark fantasy in the vein of Joe Abercrombie. I think he's probably one of those people who conscientiously reads whatever the FT classes as the "politics/business/economics books of the year" in order to be Part of the Conversation, but he frequently finds them extreeemely irritating.

Kyle is.... ok a few days ago I went on a date with a guy and when we were talking about what we were reading he said, "I like to read really strange indie authors no one's ever heard of. Like, do you know Camus?" That (and I say this with love) is Kyle. He also does read a lot of genuinely interesting indie novels and novellas just by virtue of being part of a creative scene. Also obviously a massive manga nerd.