#Sir Gustav Graves

[shippingdragons]

Toby Stephens Returns to the New York Stage to Investigate the Media In ‘Corruption’

Stephens talks about playing Tom Watson, the member of Parliament who pursued the investigation of the UK phone hacking scandal. “We’re still living in the aftermath of all the stuff that came out," he says.

By Harry Haun • 03/25/24 4:55pm

Toby Stephens as Tom Watson in Corruption at Lincoln Center’s Mitzi E. Newhouse Theater. T Charles Erickson

“I love doing what I do on stage,” declares Toby Stephens, more joyfully than boastfully. Call it a (very) early calling. The gifted offspring of genuine theatrical royalty (Sir Robert Stephens and Dame Maggie Smith), he plies the family trade with distinction on two continents. He can’t help it.

When Broadway first saw Stephens, he was drawing double duty in the 1999 revival of Jean Anouilh’s Ring Round the Moon, playing patrician twins who turn into romantic rivals. A quarter of a century later he has finally returned to New York in Corruption, where he is one of just two actors in a company of 13 who does not play multiple roles.

Stephens portrays Tom Watson, a British Parliament member who helped squeeze a death rattle out of Rupert Murdoch’s News of the World for hacking the phones of thousands of celebrities. Playwright J.T. Rogers adapted Watson and journalist Martin Hickman’s 2012 book Dial M for Murdoch: News Corporation and The Corruption of Britain into Corruption, currently getting a world-premiere staging from Bartlett Sher at Lincoln Center’s Mitzi E. Newhouse Theater, the site of the duo’s previous Tony winner, 2016’s Oslo.

In the 25 years between his New York stage sojourns Stephens has been busy doing his thing “in an industry that’s becoming more and more precarious,” he tells Observer. That’s meant keeping “a variety going,” trading movie roles like the Bond villain Gustav Graves in Die Another Day with a turn as Hamlet with the Royal Shakespeare Company. “I still try to balance theater with making money. That’s what it comes down to—finding that balance.”

What was the lure that brought Stephens back to New York? “A number of things,” he begins. “Firstly, I worked with Bart and J.T. on Oslo in London and enjoyed the experience. Secondly, Corruption is a new piece. Really interesting new writing is quite rare these days. Lots of revivals are done, but I really want to work on something new.” And then there’s focus of Corruption: the media, privacy, and truth itself. “It’s an important subject because we’re still living in the aftermath of all the stuff that came out. It’s still on-going.”

It’s not been an easy play to bring off. “There’s a point in rehearsals and previews where you suddenly feel like ‘Oh, I’m in control of this. It’s not in control of me,’” he says. “What I hate is when you aren’t quite in control of the material. It’s just beyond your fingertips.” The challenge of Corruption was its complexity. “The play is freighted with information, and you have to get that across and make it all seem naturalistic and real. You must leave the audience believing this narrative.”

Adding to the complexity, the show changed throughout previews, a process Stephens calls “terrifying,” though, “that’s how J.T. and Bart work,” he adds. Some of the changes were subtle, others were major. “By the time we reached the first night, it was a very different piece than what we started with. The skeleton was there, but the way we told the story was different. They tightened it up, cut things, rearranged things, even put new scenes in.” Still, there was enough time to work with the material that by opening night Stephens had found the control he was looking for. “I had fun because I knew it was cemented and this would be the piece we’re doing.”

How deeply did Stephens delve into the character of the man he was playing? “Not very,” the actor admits. “I know of him because I’m aware politically in the U.K. I read the newspaper and follow current affairs. I’ve watched him through the years. In terms of research, I believe the play is the play. That’s my main touchstone. I have to trust J.T. has done thorough research, which he has.”

Tom Watson, Toby Stephens, playwright J.T. Rogers, and director Bartlett Sher on opening of Corruption. Tricia Baron

In fact, Stephens opted not to read the book the play is based on. “I find doing loads of research—beyond what the material is— isn’t helpful. All that does is confuse and muddy what you’re doing,” he says. “My business is to do the play I’m given and make my character dramatic and nuanced enough for audiences to deal with.”

So for Stephens, the research is the script, though he does admit one addition to get Watson’s accent right. “He’s got an accent that’s quite broad when he’s talking as himself, but when he’s in Parliament or talking officially, it’s slightly subtler,” he says. To nail that, he watched “a lot of videos—but up to a point. I don’t want to do an impersonation.”

Tom Watson was a surprise guest at Corruption’s opening. “Thank God, I didn’t know that he was present,” Stephens sighs. “Afterwards, Tom said, ‘If this play was done in London, it would be a lightning rod.’ I think he’s right about that. It’s still very fresh in people’s memory. There’s still legal action against newspapers for hacking.” Though Watson had read the play before seeing it, Stephens thinks he was slightly stunned by the whole thing. “Actually seeing it, seeing somebody else playing you, is a completely different thing. You’ve got someone who has lived the real story, and you’re doing a simplified version of that. But I think that he was very, very impressed by the show. ”

[master-john-uk]

30th January 1965 - The funeral of Sir Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill, KG, OM, CH, TD, PC, DL, FRS (30 November 1874 -- 24 January 1965).

Churchill's beloved country residence, Chartwell in Westerham, Kent is very close to where I live, and my grandparents were good friends with Winston and Clementine. (My own claim to fame is that I once took afternoon tea with the great man and his lady wife at Chartwell, although I was only 2 or three years old at the time.)

Churchill first met Princess Elizabeth when she was nine years old, and during his first term as Prime Minister in WWII became a close friend of her father, King George VI. Their weekly meetings often involved lunch and sometimes lasted for several hours.

When Princess Elizabeth became Queen during Churchill's second term as Prime Minister in 1952, he was able to offer the new Monarch support and advice, both "professionally", and at a personal level.

On the day of Churchill's funeral, The Queen broke with royal etiquette by being one of the first to arrive at St Paul's Cathedral. This day was to honour to Sir Winston Churchill.

Following the service at at Paul's Cathedral, Churchill's coffin was carried by a bearer party from the Grenadier Guards to the Tower of London. This procession took 18 minutes, and is the longest distance a coffin had been carried by pallbearers at any state funeral.

From Tower Pier, Churchill's coffin was transported along the Thames to Festival Pier on the South Bank by MV Havengore. As the boat set-sail, 16 RAF English Electric Lightning jets flew over in formation. As the vessel proceeded along the river, 36 dock workers at Hay's Wharf lowered the jibs of their cranes in an unplanned, and unrehearsed mark of respect. Churchill's grandson, Nicholas Soames later said that this unexpected tribute, "undid us all!"

From Festival Pier, Churchill's coffin was transported to Waterloo Station and loaded onto a train to take him to his final resting place in Oxfordshire.

Why Waterloo? There is no direct railway link to Oxford! Waterloo Station was chosen by Sir Winston as the departure point for his funeral train. He knew that General de Gaulle, his French wartime ally would be present. Although Winston and Charles de Gaulle were friends, there was always a rivalry between the pair harking back to the historic conflicts between England and France. Churchill chose Waterloo as a final V-sign to his French friend!

Churchill's original funeral wish was to be cremated, and for his ashes to be buried under the croquet lawn at Chartwell. A couple of years before he died, Winston visited his father's grave at Bladon, in sight of his ancestral home of Blenheim Palace, Oxfordshire. He reportedly tapped the ground with his walking cane and said, "This is my place... Right here!" And that is where the great English gentleman rests today.

Music: "Thaxted" (Jupiter from The planets Suite) composed by Gustav Holst.

[a-man-for-hire-and-his-archives]

"Bumping into Bond baddie Toby Stephens (Sir Gustav Graves, the villain of Pierce Brosnan’s Die Another Day (2002))"

Source: Alex Nightingale

[senkovi]

[ID: a screenshot of text that reads:

The main villain in Die Another Day is Colonel Tan-Gun Moon, a rogue North Korean army officer who near the opening of the film is supposedly killed by Bond during a chase scene that takes place in the Korean demilitarized zone. We later discover that Moon is alive: cutting-edge gene therapy performed in a clinic in Cuba has completely and permanently replaced his original Korean body (portrayed by the Korean American actor Will Yun Lee) with a Caucasian body masquerading as a wealthy, arrogant, sophisticated philanthropist and fencing champion named Sir Gustav Graves (portrayed by the English actor Toby Stephens). For reasons that will soon become clear, it is important here to note that the “DNA transplant”—the metamorphosis from Moon to Graves—is never shown on screen. The film presents Moon/Graves to us as either “100 percent Asian” or “100 percent Caucasian.”

end ID]

file 'toby stephens playing a korean character in a james bond movie who underwent a procedure to be a white brit' under things i was not expecting to learn today

[pedroam-bang]

Die Another Day (2002)

[cardest]

Sweden playlist

Goodness! The Swedish Chef is deliriously pleased with this Sweden playlist. Det här är otroligt! It’s not far off 350 songs. Can we get there? I think so. (I tried to get songs by Retaliation and 10,000 years, but maybe later when someone puts up those songs on Youtube). This is epic!

What songs and bands have I overlooked for this? I bet there’s plenty. Sweden is just oozing with so much talent and so many great bands. Listen to the playlist here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-iHPcxymC1-HqTl9SJKkER2dKbR2NWkE Add your songs and suggestions. Tack! SWEDEN

001 The Muppet Show - Swedish Chef goes bezerk in the kitchen 002 Grand Magus -  Fear Is The Key 003 In Flames -  Pinball Map 004 Entombed - Like This With The Devil 005 Soilwork - Figure Number Five 006 The Divine Comedy - Sweden 007 Bathory - Reaper 008 ABBA - Take a Chance On Me 009 Therion - Gothic Kabbalah 010 Moloko - Indigo 011 Katatonia - I Break 012 Opeth - The Baying Of The Hounds 013 Sabaton -  Carolus Rex 014 Europe - Scream Of Anger 015 Jean-Louis Aubert - Stockholm 016 Blues Pills -  Jupiter 017 Amon Amarth  - The Pursuit of Vikings 018 Triakel - Alla Gossar (Swedish folk music ) 019 Arcana - As the End Draws Near 020 Kenta  Guldkorn  - Stockholm 021 Tiamat - Whatever That Hurts   022 AVATARIUM - The Starless Sleep 023 Spiritual Beggars  -  Star Born 024 Dismember - Dreaming In Red 025 Lasse Berghagen - Pomperipossa 026 In Solitude - Sister 027 Sahg III - Baptism of Fire 028 Ebba Grön - Mona Tumbas Slim Club 029 Nightingale -  The Dreamreader 030 Roxette - Dressed For Success 031 Ghost - Rats 032 Yngwie J. Malmsteen – Far Beyond The Sun 033 Candlemass - Crystal Ball 034 Bathory - Under The Runes 035 Orup - Stockholm 036 Katla - Embryo 037 Pugh Rogefeldt - hog farm 038 Trees of Eternity - Gallows Bird (feat. Nick Holmes) 039 Paatos - Shame 040 THE STRANGLERS  - SWEDEN 041 Katatonia - Brave   042 Brighter Death Now - No Salvation 043 Nationalteatern - Livet är en fest 044 Meshuggah -  Bleed 045 Sir Douglas Quintet  - Meet Me In Stockholm   046 Ulf Lundell - Stockholm City 047 In Mourning - Fire & Ocean 048 Dark Tranquillity - The Science Of Noise 049 Blue Swede - Hooked On a Feeling 050 Clawfinger - The Truth 051 John Coltrane - Dear Old Stockholm 052 The Hellacopters - In The Sign Of The Octopus 053 Hypocrisy -  a coming race 054 Carola - Mig Var Du Står 055 Bloodbath - Let The Stillborn Come To Me 056 Vapnet - Stockholm sett snett uppifran 057 Mercy - Im Your Pervert Priest 058 The Spotnicks - Hava Nagila 059 Vanhelgd - Allt Hopp ar Fobi 060 Mammoth Storm - Fornjot 061 Vomitory - redemption 062 Entrails - No Cross Left Unturned 063 Virna Lindt - Attention Stockholm 064 Night - Fire Across the Sky 065 Dungen dar -  Har du vart i Stockholm 066 The Hives - Hate To Say I Told You So 067 Sabaton - Gott Mit Uns 068 Svante Thuresson Och Totta Näslund - Stockholm Sweetnin' 069 Lake of Tears -  To Blossom Blue 070 Scott Walker - The Seventh Seal 071 Garmarna - Vänner och fränder   072 Stockholms Negrer - Det förlovade landet 073 Thåström - Ballad om en gammal knarkare 074 The Haunted - Godpuppet 075 Ordo Equilibrio - The First Harvest 076 Therion -  The Dreams Of Swedenborg 077 VINTERSORG - Fjällets mäktiga mur   078 Aeon - Aeons Black 079 Arckanum - Trulmælder 080 Edge of Sanity - Enigma   081 Scar Symmetry - The Illusionist 082 Tribulation -  Melancholia 083 Witchcraft - It's Not Because Of You 084 At The Gates - At The Gates 085 Unleashed - The One Insane 086 Candlemass - ancient dreams 087 Hasse Andersson - Guld och grona skogar   088 Crucified Barbara -  Electric Sky 089 Evergrey -  The Grand Collapse 090 Lord Belial - Bleed on the Cross 091 Hedningarna - Räven 092 Dismember - Pieces (with intro) 093 Entombed  - Sinners Bleed 094 MUSE - Stockholm Syndrome 095 Bathory - Valhalla 096 Gösta Berlings Saga - The Shortcomings Of Efficiency 097 Tiamat - The Ar 098 Oz - Turn the cross upside down 099 Grand Magus - I Am The North 100 Soilwork -  Light The Torch 101 Spiritual Beggars - Fools Gold 102 Stuck In Motion - Moon 103 Cult of Luna - Receiver 104 Arcana - A Cage 105 Memento Mori - The Seeds of Hatred 106 Wolfbrigade - Barren Dreams 107 Dr Zeke - Jag Ska Aldrig Dö 108 Yngwie Malmsteen - gimme gimme gimme (your lust after midnight) 109 Arch Enemy - Pilgrim 110 Torch - Watcher Of The Night 111 Magic - Vi drar på disco 112 Refused -  Elektra 113 Grave - Into The Grave 114 Lädernunnan - Ensam I Natt 115 The Orchard Enterprises - Fear Might Harm Self 116 Suma - Swordlord 117 Kulning - Ancient Swedish herdingcall 118 Bob Hund - Ska du hanga med Na 119 Dark Funeral - As One We Shall Conquer 120 Disfear - Get it off   121 Ghost -  From The Pinnacle To The Pit 122 Morbus Chron - Chains 123 Heavy Load - Traveller 124 Therion - Tuna 1613 125 Entombed -  Left Hand Path 126 Hearse - Mountain of the Solar Eclipse 127 Monolord - The Last Leaf 128 Night Viper - The Wolverine 129 Agrimonia - A World Unseen 130 Jonathan Hultén - Nightly sun 131 Diabolical Masquerade - Blackheim's Quest To Bring Back The Stolen Autumn 132 Army Of Lovers - Crucified 133 Dissection - Where Dead Angels Lie   134 Noctum _Liberty in Death 135 Europe - Open Your Heart 136 Darkane  - Secondary Effects 137 Candlemass - Codex Gigas 138 Bathory - Enter Your Mountain 139 ABBA - Ring Ring (Bara du slog en signal) Swedish Version 140 Watain - Malfeitor 141 Louise Lemón - Devil 142 Cult Of Luna - Vague Illusions 143 Diablo Swing Orchestra -  Black Box Messiah 144 Opeth - Nectar 145 Hills - Milarepa 146 Ceremonial Oath - The Book Of Truth 147 Dark Tranquillity - Silence And the Firmament Withdrew 148 Göteborg Sound - Björn Borg 149 In Flames -  Reflect The Storm 150 MESHUGGAH - Demiurge   151 Expiremental Pop Band - Gothenburg 152 Millencolin - polar bears 153 Hedningarna - Pornopolka 154 Ratata - Ogon Av Is Liv Utan Spanning   155 OBSCURITY - Roses With Thorns 156 Nifelheim - Sodomizer 157 Soilwork - One With The Flies 158 Gardenian - Netherworld 159 Cemetary - Sundown 160 Månegarm - Hemfärd 161 Garmarna - Herr Mannelig 162 YE BANISHED PRIVATEERS - First Night Back In Port   163 VINTERSORG - Svältvinter 164 SNOWY SHAW - Nachtgeist 165 Moloken - The Titan Above Us 166 BEWITCHED - HARD AS STEEL (HOT AS HELL) 167 The Night Flight Orchestra - Green Hills Of Glumslov 168 Vanhelgd - Gravens Lovsång 169 Marduk - Christraping Black Metal 170 Garbochock - Streberbarn 171 Negative Self - Back On Track 172 Nightingale - Sleep 173 Iggy Pop - Five Foot One 174 Owe Thörnqvist - Varm korv boogie 175 Candlemass - Elephant Star 176 Tiamat - Cold Seed 177 Dismember - Shadowlands 178 Hypocrisy - Penetralia 179 Therion - Melez 180 Yngwie Malmsteen - You Dont Remember Ill Never Forget 181 Woven Hand -  Swedish Purse 182 Roxette - Joyride 183 Wolf -  Skeleton Woman 184 Europe - Seven doors hotel 185 ABBA - Me Knowing Knowing Youse   186 Opeth - Ghost Of Perdition 187 Katatonia - I Am Nothing 188 Sabaton - Uprising 189 Bathory - Total destruction 190 Cult Of Luna - Owlwood 191 Cortex - Warrior Night 192 Trettioåriga Kriget - Krigssång 193 Lee Hazlewood A House Safe for Tigers 194 Dead Sleep - Back to black 195 Greenleaf  - Tides 196 The Crimson Shadows - When I'm Going Away 197 The Night Flight Orchestra - Transmissions 198 Anekdoten - Nucleus 199 Enhet För Fri Musik - Det Finns Ett Hjärta 200 In Flames - Jotun 201 Dungen - Ta det lugnt 202 Ghost - Ritual 203 Witchery - A Paler Shade of Death 204 Landberk - Tell 205 At The Gates - Blinded By Fear   206 Anna von Hausswolff - Epitaph of Theodor 207 Uran - Mr Piggy 208 Runemagick  Remnants of the Old 209 SKÁLD - Flúga 210 Sacramentum - Far Away from the Sun 211 Dawn - Malediction Murder 212 Nifelheim - No more life 213 Craft - The Cosmic Sphere Falls 214 Solitude Aeturnus -  Waiting for the Light 215 ARCH ENEMY - War Eternal 216 Nasum - Worldcraft 217 Insision - No Belief 218 The Oath - silk road 219 Shining - Förtvivlan Min Arvedel 220 Burst - I Exterminate The I 221 Bloodbound - Stormborn 222 Puissance - Love Incinerate 223 Electric Boys - All Lips 'n Hips 224 Exgenisis - Embers 225 Don Cherry - GamlaStan - The Old Town By Night 226 Raison D'etre -  Sub Specie Aeternitatis 227 Bloodbath  - Weak aside 228 Therion -  Opus Eclipse 229 Cult of Luna - I: The Weapon 230 Marduk - The Sun Turns Black as Night 231 Ragnar Grippe - Symphonic Songs: Part 1 232 Unanimated - From a Throne Below 233 Entombed - Hollowman 234 Grande Royale - Royale 235 PAGANIZER  - Soulless Feeding Machine 236 Bathory - Woman of Dark Desires 237 Paranorm - Critical Mass 238 Refused - The Deadly Rhythm 239 Golgata - Med din kyss kom mörkret 240 Ett Dödens Maskineri – ‘Låsta dörrar 241 MÖRK GRYNING - Fältherren   242 Daughter Chaos - The space born 243 BLUES PILLS - Rhythm In The Blood 244 LUCIFER - Ghosts 245 November - Mount Everest 246 Dissection - Night's Blood 247 Tøronto - Lights Out At Bedlam 248 ICE AGE - Breaking The Ice 249 Sweven - By Virtue of a Promise 250 Ghost-  Year Zero 251 TRIBULATION - Strange Gateways Beckon 252 Drain S.T.H. - Crack the Liar´s Smile 253 Horisont - Odyssey 254 Witchcraft - Snake 255 Kirstie Sarboe - Ein Student Aus Uppsala 256 Sodomisery - Reapers Key 257 Opeth - Under The Weeping Moon 258 Olle Adolphson - Gustav Lindströms visa 259 Therion - The Wild Hunt 260 Bloodbath - Bloodicide 261 Bathory - The Golden Walls of Heaven 262 Soilwork - Follow the Hollow 263 Magnus Härenstam - Huddinge, Tullinge, Tumba 264 OBSTRUKTION - Hopeless Path 265 Amon Amarth - The Way Of Vikings 266 Anguish - When the Ancients Dare to Walk 267 Palme sköt först - Spiders 268 Totalitär - Allt Är Inom Dig 269 Vassago - Sign of Vassago 270 Larma - Elitens Eskapism 271 ENSNARED - Anti-Prophet 272 Third Storm - Forgotten Deity 273 Chronic Decay - Ecstasy In Pain 274 Transport League - Man Sized Drain 275 Nasum - mass hypnosis 276 Inevitable End - Memento 277 Candlemass - Dancing in the Temple (Of the Mad Queen Bee) 278 Gadget - Remote 279 Sayyadina - Nothing 280 Coldworker - The Contaminated Void 281 Katatonia - Teargas 282 In Flames - Dead God in Me 283 Trial - Motherless 284 Watain - Satan's Hunger 285 Bewitched - Rise Of The Antichrist 286 Shining - Jag Är Din Fiende 287 In Solitude - Witches Sabbath 288 Comecon - The House That Man Built 289 Marduk - The Black Tormentor of Satan 290 Lifelover - M/s salmonella 291 Naglfar - Enslave the Astral Fortress 292 Sacrilege - Sweet Moment of Triumph   293 Spiritual Beggars - Monster Astronauts 294 Massgrav - Det Här Är Stockholm 295 IRON LAMB - Backstabbers 296 The Hives - Tick Tick Boom 297 Candlemass - Dark Reflections 298 Megatomb - Forbidden Altar 299 Entrails - Condemned to the Grave 300 Katatonia - Gateways of Bereavement 301 Träd, Gräs och Stenar - Sanningens Silverflod (Djungelns Lag) 302 Hammerfall - Let the Hammer Fall 303 Obnoxious Youth - Mouths Sewn Shut 304 GRAND MAGUS - Wolf God 305 Dark Funeral - Unchain my soul 306 Entombed - Say it in slugs 307 Amon Amarth - Runes to My Memory 308 Ghost - Absolution 309 Hypocrisy  - Dominion 310 Edge of Sanity - Darkday 311 Orbit Culture - North Star of Nija 312 Cemetary - Caress the Damned 313 DOZER - Through The Eyes Of Heathens 314 Grave - Now and Forever 315 ARCH ENEMY - Bury Me An Angel 316 Skraeckoedlan - Universam 317 Cult of Luna - I remember 318 Doris  Svensson - Did You Give The World Some Love Today, Baby 319 Svard - A Rift in the Green 320 Evergrey - Monday Morning Apocalypse 321 Lightbringer - Lightbringer in Sweden 322 Bastard Priest - ghouls of the endless night 323 Westkust - Cotton Skies 324 Maggot Heart - sex breath 325 Abruptum - De Profundis Mors Vas Consumet 325 Raised Fist - Flow 326 Makthaverskan - Antabus 327 Eternal of Sweden - Heaven's gate 328 Wolfbrigade - Fire Untamed 329 Fyfan - Intrangd Och Instangd 330 Opeth - Svekets prins 331 Martyrdöd - Hexhammeren 332 The Haunted - Liquid Burns 333 Dismember - Override of the Overture 444 Bathory - Under the Runes 666 Dark tranquillity - A Bolt of Blazing Gold

Play the songs here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-iHPcxymC1-HqTl9SJKkER2dKbR2NWkE

Next edition of Sweden playlist will have tracks from: God Macabre, Deutsch Nepal , Retaliation, In Slaughter Natives and 10,000 Years.

[artdaily7]

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Only this and nothing more.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Nameless here for evermore.

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍This it is and nothing more.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Darkness there and nothing more.

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Merely this and nothing more.

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍With such name as “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.” ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍She shall press, ah, nevermore!

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍‍‍‍‍ ‍‍Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Gustave Dore 1883-4 The Raven series, steel-plate engravings

[michael-weinstein]

Death in Venice, but instead of cholera it is Covid-19

Thomas Mann's novella Death in Venice has been an important part of my life for the past 6 months. I first read it in January, when Covid-19 was already widespread in China, and it was beginning to spread in Italy and South Korea. I was reading it for a book report for my English lesson, yet the day I was doing it, though, Putin and Pence were in town for the 75th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. As a result, I had to leave early and I could refresh my memory over the week with a Hebrew translation. After that, I saw the Visconti movie (which I might discuss in another post), and was deeply touched despite the many differences between the movie and the novella (and I do prefer the original). Now, even though I don't live in the US, Israel has enough hell going around here regarding the virus, and during these times I keep being reminded by a certain passage in Mann's novella. After spending a month in Venice, the main character, German writer Gustav von Aschenbach, reads in the German-language newspapers rumors regarding a cholera outbreak, and all around the city there are notices in Italian, and there is a smell of disinfection in the air. After trying to figure out what is going on, he finally decides to ask a British travel agent.

He [Aschenbach] entered the English travel agency at St Mark's Square and after he had exchanged some money, he addressed the clerk with his fatal question, with the expression of the distrustful stranger. It was an Englishman in tweed, still young, his hair parted down the middle, with narrow-set eyes, and that kind of loyalty of character which seems so alien and peculiar in the roguish South. He said: "No reason for concern, sir. A measure without grave implications. These kinds of orders are issued all the time to combat the ill effects of the heat and scirocco. . . " But looking up with his blue eyes he met the weary and somewhat sad gaze of the foreigner which was trained with slight disdain at his lips. The Englishman blushed. "That is," he continued, "the official version which people are trying to uphold. I will tell you there is something else to it. . . " And then he told the truth in his honest language.

For several years Indian cholera had shown an increased tendency to spread and travel. Born in the sultry swamps of the Ganges delta, ascended with the mephitic odor of that unrestrained and unfit wasteland, that wilderness avoided by men, in the bamboo thickets of which the tiger is crouching, the epidemic had spread to Hindustan, to China, to Afghanistan and Persia and even to Moscow. But while Europe was fearing the specter might make its entrance over land, it had appeared in several Mediterranean ports, spread by Syrian traders, had arrived in Toulon, Malaga, Palermo, and Naples, also in Calabria and Apulia. The North seemed to have been spared. But in May of that year, the horrible vibrios were discovered in the emaciated and blackened bodies of a sailor and of a greengrocer. The deaths were kept secret. But after a week it had been ten, twenty or thirty victims, and in different quarters. An Austrian man had died in his hometown under unambiguous circumstances, after he had vacationed for a few days in Venice and so the first rumors of the malady appeared in German newspapers. The officials of Venice responded that the public health situation had never been better and ordered the necessary measures to fight the disease. But the foodstuffs had probably been infected. Meat, vegetables and milk contributed to more deaths and the tepid water of the canals was particularly to blame. It seemed as if the disease had become more contagious and virulent. Cases of recovery were rare; eighty of a hundred infected persons died in the most horrible fashion, because the malady came in the particularly severe form called "dry cholera". Here the body was unable to even get rid of the water that came from the blood vessels. Within a few hours the afflicted person dried up and suffocated on his viscid blood amid spasms and croaky cries of pain. Comparatively lucky were those who, after a slight feeling of nauseousness fell into a deep blackout, from which they mostly did not come to again. In early June the quarantine barracks of the hospital had been filling silently, in the two orphanages there was no longer enough room, and a horrific traffic developed between the city and San Michele, the cemetery island. But the fear of general damage, regard for the recently opened exhibition of paintings in the municipal gardens, for the enormous financial losses that threatened the tourist industry in case of a panic, had more impact in the city than love of truth and observation of international agreements; it made feasible the official policy of secrecy and denial. The highest medical official had resigned, filled with indignation, and had been replaced with a more docile person. The people were aware of that; and the corruption at the top together with the reigning uncertainty, the state of emergency caused by the suffering all around, caused a certain demoralization, an encouragement of unsavory antisocial tendencies, which took form as debauchery, wantonness and a rise of criminal behavior. Against the normal rule, many drunken men were noticeable in the evenings; vile rabble made the streets unsafe in the night; robbery and even murder happened again and again, for two times it had already proven that supposed victims of the epidemic had in reality been killed by their relatives with poison; and prostitution became more obtrusive and excessive, in a way that was normally more associated with the South of the country or the Orient.

Sounds familiar to anyone?

(Originally posted: 23 July 2020)

[im-the-punk-who]

 Toby Stephens Thirstography #3 - Die Another Day (2002)

Toby Stephens Hotness: You Might As Well Be Walking On The Sun

Ah, yes. And we’ve come to the catalyst for this entire project.

This movie is an excellent example of our classic paradox, “Must a movie be good? Is it not enough for it to be incredibly aesthetically hot?” Is it not enough to watch Toby Stephens skydiving, being evil, fencing, yelling, and flexing his pecs in a skintight white fencing uniform. Is it not enough to see him cry multiple times. Is it not enough to Witness That Ass. IS IT NOT ENOUGH that he wears the patented Toby Stephens Shark Grin through 80% of his screen time. Must He Among Us Without Sin Be The First To Condemn The Nipples, Sir?

Listen. You can see the rating. This is undoubtedly one of the hottest roles Toby Stephens has ever taken on but ... god, at what cost. Other stuff has better quality, or more nakedness or just more Toby Stephens in general but. For literally four minutes of the entire 2+ hour movie, this got into the top three. That should tell you something, I suppose. Toby Stephens’ shoulders in this movie alone can and have rendered me speechless. It’s really just...the filmmakers must have known that Pierce Brosnan had no chance of measuring up to Halle Berry and Rosamund Pike so they rang Toby up like ‘hey do you want to be the hot one’ because just....Damn.

(I will add as a caveat, this is also the highest budget thing Toby Stephens has ever done, which really only matters because the actual picture quality is good enough to pick up the tiniest detail and therefore enhance hotness. Out of Toby’s entire filmography, this is one of only two entries that I didn’t have to High Pass a majority of the screenshots for visual clarity.)

What is this, a mid 90s band poster?

One upside of Toby being in this was that it gave him the opening to actually voice James Bond in a bunch of radio plays, which I generally enjoyed if only for the ASMR of Toby Stephens talking for two hours.

Plot: 4/10

I find it absolutely hilarious that even among Bond films this is regularly rated the worst of the bunch. That, my friends, takes talent. And in my opinion, it is a well deserved ranking because this movie is t e r r i b l e and not in the good irreverent way. 

The plot I think can generally be summed up as:

Super-Suave-Sexist-Man, James Super-Suave-Sexist-Man, sets out to discover who sold him out to the North Koreans - resulting in him going through a largely plot-irrelevant torture sequence - and why super hottie Gustav Graves is so smoking hot. Oh, wait. Why (super hottie) Gustav Graves is building a space satellite in apparent collaboration with the aforementioned North Koreans. I personally would rather know why he’s so hot but - ya know. Priorities.

Oh, also, conveniently there’s a face-changing laser that can make ANYONE LOOK LIKE ANYTHING! I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with eugenics or racism. 

Watchability: 5/10 and 3 of those points are for Toby Stephens. 2 are for Halle Berry and Rosamund Pike respectively.

Honestly.............even aside from the general unredeemable problems with the script itself I just didn’t find this that entertaining? Granted I’m not any part of the target audience so maybe it’s a spy movie thing. The parts with Toby in them almost make up for the terribleness ... almost. And also Halle Berry. Rosamund Pike is also In This And Smoking. 

But, still. This one two hour movie was actually the most painful thing in Toby’s entire filmography, and that’s saying something because I watched Dark Corners. The only reason to watch this is if you are bisexual and/or gay and/or a lesbian and/or just like gazing at pretty people with the sound off - just literally the only reason to watch this is Toby Stephens and the other various hot people running around getting paid bank for it.

But really, just watch the fencing scene and call it a day.

Warnings: 

Is “It’s a Bond Movie” enough of a warning? Lots of racism and racist tropes and the kind of sexism and awkward male fantasy dialogue you should expect in a Bond film.

Where to Watch:

This changes almost daily. It’s been on Netflix before in various countries, so check your local streaming services. There is also a copy on Dailymotion last time I checked. Please don’t pay for this.

[niphre124]

Roses.

Written for Raoulstine Week. 

What if Raoul had been older then Christine?

First Meeting.

In this world, it's Gustave Daae that Raoul de Chagny is friends with, as Raoul is 40 years of age, and 10-years-old Christine sees him as an uncle. Still, he is the first to dive into the waves to fetch her scarf, and she rewards him with a kiss on the cheek.

Hannibal.

<p>When Christine sees Raoul again after ten years, she is a beautiful flower of a girl, and he is thirty years older then her. This time, when Meg asks her if she knows the new patron, Christine does not say they were childhood sweethearts. Instead, she says, ''He was like an uncle to me.'' and Meg remarks how handsome he still is at his age. His smile-there is something in his smile that pulls at her heart.

Think of Me.

When Christine sings, Raoul recognizes her instantly, and heads out to buy her a bouquet of flowers-lilies, and pink roses. He smiles, and goes along with the managers to her dressing-room, and leaves when they are not looking. She sits there, clad still in her fairytale princess-like dress of white satin overlaid in star-studded tulle,holding a rose in her hands that seems very likely from an admirer.

''Hello.'' he begins, and she turns to look.

''Is it- oh, it's good to see you!'' she exclaims and runs to embrace him.''Uncle.'' she teasingly calls him.

''There's no need for that anymore.'' he says, and presents the flowers to her. ''Oh, they're beautiful!'' she sniffs them, smiles at him. She walks over and places them in a vase, arranging them nicely. Then she turns and waits, hands clasped in front of her.

He smiles.'' You sang beautifully tonight. I think the angels would have wept to hear you.''

Christine smiles. ''Is that all?'' She looks as if she expects him to ask her out to dinner, and indeed, if he were a younger man, he would have done so. But he is not young anymore. He knows what could happen to her reputation if he does. So he merely bids her good-night, and Christine must take comfort in the nearness of her Angel.

Il Muto.

As Raoul heads to confront the managers about the letter he received, he is stopped by a masked figure. While he cannot see the face, he wonders who the man is to talk to him.

''Who are you, sir?'' he questions.

''No one at the moment.'' the man replies, his voice low. ''What business do you have with Miss Daae?''

''Her father was my friend.'' Raoul answers.

''She's grown, hasn't she?''

Raoul nods, and feels confused. This conversation is going nowhere. ''She's very lovely.'' he says after a while.

''You care for her.'' the man remarks.

''Yes, as an uncle. Nothing more than that.'' With that, the conversation is over, and Raoul heads towards the stairs.

Rooftop.

When the stagehand is hanged, Raoul runs to find Christine, to make sure she is alright. Why? Because- no, he cannot think such a thing of her. She finds him, and pulls him towards the stairs. ''Hurry!'' she urges. ''He cannot find us!''

Who? Raoul wants to ask, but does not. When Christine wants to, she will tell him.

Once they reach the rooftop, Raoul must stop and take a breath, as he is a little tired from running up all those stairs. Then he walks over to Christine. ''Do not be afraid. I'm here.'' She steps closer. He holds out his arms, and she throws her own around him.

It is the sort of thing a uncle would do, he is sure, and he desperately tries to ignore the beating of his own heart.

She pulls away, and he kisses her forehead.

''Take me away from here?'' she asks, and he cannot refuse.

''Of course.''

She tilts her head, looks at him. ''Can I say something?''

''Anything.'' he affirms. He is not prepared for what she does say.

''I love you.'' she says, fingering the edges of his evening jacket. ''I suppose I have always loved you, ever since you rescued my scarf from the sea. I did not think to harbor such feelings for so long, yet it was only when I saw you again at the Hannibal rehearsal that they began again. Please, I don't care what people think, but I believe that a marriage ought to be based on love. Couldn't you-'' she looks at him with those eyes, brown and large like a doe's, ''Couldn't you love me, too?''

Raoul stares at her in shock. ''Christine, for God's sake, do not say such things to me. Please! I could not bear it.'' he steps back from her, and she stares at him. ''I'm much older than you.''

''Aristocratic girls marry men much older than themselves. There's no difference.'' Christine pleads. ''If you cannot love me now, could you try to love me?'’

He cannot refuse her any longer. ''Very well, then. We'll have a pretend engagement.''

 Masquerade.

Christine must accept the idea of a fake engagement, even though it makes her heart ache.

Still, she laughs with Meg, and they gossip about what the wedding will be like, even though she knows there will be no marriage. Every time she sees him- she thinks of running away, to avoid the heartbreak of it all.

But she does not, and time passes.

There are times when they stand next to each other, and his arm brushes hers or his side touches her own, and he stiffens. She thinks that he might feel something, but the next minute, he is gone.

Her dress for the masquerade is pink silk satin, with a tulle overlay and tiny rosebuds at the neck and sleeve overlay. She is a princess, and Raoul comes as a soldier. It is like the stories, where the knight swears to guard the princess.

Everything is happy, everything is joyful, until the Phantom shows up and Raoul runs off to get his sword, hoping to finish the monster off. But Christine dashes off after him, holding her skirts. 

''Raoul, you shouldn't!'''

''Why?'' he questions, almost furiously. ''You care for him?''

She shakes her head. ''No! I care for you.'' Still so stubborn in that one respect. Still so stubborn. She takes his sword away from him, places it carefully on the floor. ''I don't want to see you get hurt.'' she tells him, stands on her tiptoes, and presses her mouth to his. He stands there in shock, and his mind says to pull away, this is wrong-but his heart tells him to kiss her back, to give her what she wants. Give Christine what she wants is what he does, his mouth meeting her own in a gentle need-and it's not enough for a girl who has experienced her first kiss from the man she loves.

Raoul cups his hand to the back of her head, deepens the kiss and his other arm winds around her waist, pulls her closer.

One of her hands presses against the satin of his costume, and she can feel his heart, that beats as fiercely as her own. 

He stops-this is not right, not at all! He pulls away, picks up his sword quickly, even though his hands shake. 

''That will not happen again.'' he says firmly.

Graveyard.

It is very early in the morning when Christine wakes up, and for a moment she smiles, remembering his mouth on hers, the way he'd kissed her, as if he could not help himself. ''Oh my darling.'' she whispers. ''Oh my dear heart's darling.''

She starts to go back to sleep, but then she hears her Angel's voice again. Not now.she thinks.Not after what happened.Still, she gets out of bed, and she is halfway down the stairs, passing a sleeping Raoul, when he mutters something in his sleep, and she turns. 

He cannot have said that. 

He says it again.

''Christine, I love you.''

She steps towards his sleeping frame, brushes a few strands of hair out of his face. ''I love you.'' she whispers, and he starts, jerking his head away from the wood. 

''What was that?'' She pulls her hand away, and hurries to the stables to fetch a horse, when he catches up to her. It is most improper, as she is still in her nightgown with a shawl wrapped round her, and he only in a loose shirt and pants, but still, they ought to talk.

'Where are you going?'' he asks, voice still thick with sleep.

''To the cemetery to visit my father's grave.''

''I'll come with you. Get dressed.'' She hurries back inside and pulls on a black velvet dress and tucks a black scarf into the neck, for it is cold outside. 

She returns, he helps her onto the horse, and they head to the graveyard. She finds her father's grave, whispers a prayer, and places a bouquet of roses on the stone.

A phantom's plans have been thwarted, and he will not stand for it.

[riusugoi]

Censura a un viejo manual didáctico de danza de la filosofía- José María Bellido Morillas, revista RELEA

La dicotomía entre lo apolíneo y lo dionisíaco no le pertenece a Friedrich Nietzsche: fue preconizada por Johann Joachim Winckelmann y Karl Wilhelm Friedrich Schlegel, introducida por Georg Friedrich Creuzer y desarrollada por Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling, Friedrich Gottlieb Welcker y Johann Jakob Bachofen, y actualizada como oposición entre lo apolíneo y lo fáustico por Oswald Spengler, seguido por Ruth Benedict.

Como deja entrever Albert Szent-Györgyi de Nagyrápolt, siguiendo la adopción que de esta dicotomía hacen en la ciencia Wilhelm Ostwald y John Rader Plat, el descubrimiento, al ser una variación del conocimiento preexistente, no es dable a una disposición de ánimo apolínea, que aspira a lo permanente e invariable y, por tanto, previsible39. El descubrimiento, como recuerda o más bien revela Ortega y Gasset, en zaga filológica de Leo Meyer y Gustav Teichmüller, es alḗtheia, el nombre primigenio, verdadero y poético de filosofía (el que le dio Parménides en su Poema) 40, y aun asimilable con el vivir, de acuerdo con Juan José López Ibor41, en quien reverberan Martin Heidegger y Julián Marías. Así que hace bien García Bacca al sostener que toda verdadera filosofía es dionisíaca:

«cuando una filosofía adopta la forma apolínea está muerta o, a lo más, es una bella durmiente. Toda filosofía viva y en trance vital es dionisíaca; es una borrachera de ideas; y el filósofo, en cuanto tipo de vida, es un Baco, un beodo más sutil y considerado que los vulgares chispos. En la borrachera de vino, el ritmo no existe; y de las curvas geométricas, sólo la sinusoide –palabra griega para aludir con eufemismo a cierto tipo de curvas– conserva un oscilante dominio geométrico. Por el contrario: en la borrachera de ideas, las ideas imponen un ritmo perfecto, un sistema de curvas y conexiones ideales que llamamos lógica y dialéctica. Por eso, el filósofo parece superlativamente cuerdo, precisamente mientras y porque está superlativamente borracho».

Es un grave error de García Bacca identificar la filosofía no ya con el entusiasmo y el demonismo socrático sino con la saturación y abundancia de ideas43, cuando queda visto que la filosofía es destapar, levantar los velos superfluos, unir lo que estaba roto para acabar mostrando la verdad. Por eso tantos filósofos, ya sean naturales (lo que ahora damos en llamar científicos) o especulativos, tienden al monismo: materialista, idealista o explicativo, en busca de la fórmula universal anhelada por Laplace44 .

«según el santísimo Moisés el fin de la sabiduría es la alegría y la risa, pero no aquella que se encuentra en todos los niños que están privados de razón, sino aquella que se encuentra en los que son ya ancianos, no sólo por la edad, sino por el buen sentido». Incluso llega a decir Filón (De plantatione, 40.168; Filón, Tutti i trattati del commentario allegorico alla Bibbia, ed. y trad. de Roberto Radice, Milán, Rusconi, 1994, p. 560), basándose en Génesis, 21.6, que el sabio «no participa de la risa, sino que es la risa misma».

Así, el Beato Tomás de Celano, Vita prima di S. Francesco d’Assisi, ed. de Leopoldo Amoni, Roma, Tipografia della Pace, 1880, p. 118, aclara que San Francisco «movía los pies casi bailando, no viciosamente, sino ardiente por el fuego del amor divino, no moviendo a risa, sino arrancando llanto de dolor». Por la misma vía, la liga de Hinduistas Americanos Contra la Difamación se ofendió porque Stanley Kubrick usara un texto de la Bhagavadgītā (4.8) en la pieza de Jocelyn Pook Migrations (sacada de su disco Deluge, 1997, y refundida en Flood, 1999) en la escena de la orgía carnal de la versión de Traumnovelle cinematográfico que es, no logra superar la de Wolfgang Glück, de 1969. La Bhagavadgītā es un canto dialogado contenido en el épico protagonizado por una mujer que tiene cinco maridos, tres de ellos concebidos por la misma madre la misma semana con tres padres distintos, y dos gemelos concebidos por su hermana durante el mismo tiempo, también de padres distintos (y gemelos). Pero los hinduistas vieron heridos sus sentimientos religiosos porque el texto se rela coyundas sexuales grupales.

64 Se trata de un hombre con un rabo de buey en cada mano, cfr. Sharron Gu, History of the Chinese Language propio de la danza el blandir escudos, hachas de guerra o estandartes emplumados: Berthold Laufer la considera una actividad estrictamente masculina, cfr. Berthold Laufer, Sculptures of the Han Period pequeños aristócratas a través de las estandartes con guirnaldas de colores), (danza con escudos), cfr. Jie Jin, capítulo «Chun Guan Zong Bo» del la danzas Yunmen, Daquan Aesthetic Tradition, Honolulu, Universidad de Hawái, 2010. p. 5, quien también recuerda que el Lüshi Chunqiu dice que en el tiempo de Ge Tianshi la música se originó cuando la gente empezó a cantar melodías a mientras cantaban ocho estrofas: unos viriles pisotones que nos recuerdan el «triumpe, triumpe, triumpe, triumpe, triumpe» de los arvales (cfr. Harriet I. Flower, the Serpent in the Garden: Religion at the Roman Street Corner sobre los que tanto disertó Thomas Fitzh una versión aceptada por Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio, Splendet dum frangitur, Madrid, Nostromo, 1974, p. 92, al traer a la memoria las norteamericanas «que se bailan bajo la dirección de un maestro de baile que va dictando en voz alta los sucesivos movimientos que han de hacer lo Esos rabos animales61 serían análogos a los que el Faraón llevaba en el , al igual que los cazadores y guerreros arcaicos del Museo Británico que reproduce Wallis Budge63, frente a lo que llevar el rabo en la como en el antiguo ideograma chino para ‘danza’ 64 An Introduction to Chinese History and Culture, Heidelberg, Springer, 2015, p. Ancient Egyptians: Life in the Pyramid Age, El Cairo, Universidad Americana, 1996, Sir Ernest Alfred Wallis Budge, Osiris and the Egyptian Resurrection, Londres, Philip Lee 1911, p. 170; cfr. tb. la p. 331, y, muy especialmente, la p. 240 sobre las informaciones de Burton acerca de los danzarines del rabo (logun-sinsi) de Dahomey. Se trata de un hombre con un rabo de buey en cada mano, cfr. Sharron Gu, f the Chinese Language, Jefferson, McFarland, 2011, p. 11. El «Yueji» del propio de la danza el blandir escudos, hachas de guerra o estandartes emplumados: Berthold Laufer la considera una actividad estrictamente masculina, cfr. Berthold Laufer, Sculptures of the Han Period, Leipzig, Drugulin, 1911, p. 40. Entra en la educación de los pequeños aristócratas a través de las Seis pequeñas danzas, que incluyen estandartes con guirnaldas de colores), Maowu (danza con rabos de buey), Ganwu o Bingwu (danza con escudos), cfr. Jie Jin, Chinese Music, Cambridge, Universidad, 2011, p. 13. En el capítulo «Chun Guan Zong Bo» del Zhouli, por su parte, se alaba la instrucción de los hijos en Daquan, Daxian, Daqing, Daxia, Dahu y Dawu, cfr. Zehou Li, , Honolulu, Universidad de Hawái, 2010. p. 5, quien también recuerda que el dice que en el tiempo de Ge Tianshi la música se originó cuando la gente empezó a cantar melodías agitando rabos de buey mientras aplastaban el suelo con sus pies mientras cantaban ocho estrofas: unos viriles pisotones que nos recuerdan el «triumpe, triumpe, triumpe, triumpe, triumpe» de los arvales (cfr. Harriet I. Flower, The Dancing Lares and pent in the Garden: Religion at the Roman Street Corner, Princeton, Universidad, 2017) sobre los que tanto disertó Thomas Fitzh-Hugh, y sobre cuya práctica dio Agustín García Calvo una versión aceptada por Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio, Las semanas del jardín. S , Madrid, Nostromo, 1974, p. 92, al traer a la memoria las norteamericanas «que se bailan bajo la dirección de un maestro de baile que va dictando en voz alta los sucesivos movimientos que han de hacer los danzantes»

Esto de las danzas en los funerales puede parecernos una extravagancia exótica, digna de una aclaración al público como cuando Sir Ernest Alfred Wallis Budge expone que68 «Todos los pueblos nilóticos son grandes adictos a la danza, y nunca parecen capaces de llevar a cabo ceremonia alguna sin danzar: danzan en las bodas y danzan en los funerales, y danzar, entre muchas tribus, constituye un acto de adoración de la más alta y solemne importancia».

Y no consideramos, en el País Vasco francés o Iparralde, la karakoltzia, porque no tiene un uso fúnebre71. Los corsos estaban mucho más cerca de lo primitivo y oriental añorado con lirismo esotérico por Jean Servier72: «La humanidad es como esos danzarines enmascarados, con tanta frecuencia estudiados por los etnólogos. El cuerpo del hombre se adivina por los movimientos del taparrabo de fibras, por las oscilaciones de la cimera de madera, por el jadeo y la baba. Para nosotros los occidentales, la mascarada se detiene allí porque, deliberadamente, queremos ignorar al hombre que, por la ascesis, el ayuno y las plegarias, dio su cuerpo a un dios que por un instante ha venido a vivir en él: a un dios que ritma una danza que es la aventura del mundo. No vemos más que el polvo de estrellas brotado de la danza, al ritmo del universo».

Un error menos particular y más general de Servier es el caer en el orientalismo, en el sentido que dio a la palabra Edward Wadie Said86. La idea de que los “occidentales” somos menos “espirituales” que otros pueblos, ya patente desde el período helenístico, se viene abajo si se procede a un estudio mínimamente profundo. Cuando Bayo Ogunjimi y Abdul Rasheed Naʼallah alaban los poemas de las danzas fúnebres del pueblo Egbé de Kogi por estar preñados, según ellos, de profundidades filosóficas, hay que hacer notar que esta filosofía es la de apartar la vida de la muerte, en lugar de predicar una fusión o religación: esto se ve en los versos «Eda gogogoro sodo, sodo, sodo/ Eda gogogoro s’odo», sobre la necesidad de mandar el cuerpo del muerto, carcasa vacía, a la tierra, o «Egbé l’a wa ayé la se/ A ò bókùu lo», que los autores traducen como «En Egbé pertenecemos al mundo,/ no seguimos al muerto»87 . ¿Puede ser mayor el contraste con la espiritualidad verificada en las danzas fúnebres de la capital de España, y que el antropólogo tiene a la mano, más allá de las zonas por donde se mueven los universitarios?8

Para Garfinkel, como hemos visto, es, generalmente, el sentido de la danza (antihorario para la celebración, horario para el llanto) el que cambia su significado.

Algo parecido ocurre con la voz tavā’if, según explica Scott A. Kugle129: «Tavā’if es un término persa compuesto por dos palabras árabes diferentes que suenan igual en persa y en urdu pero que tienen dos raíces distintas en árabe. En árabe, tavā’if (con una dental t) quiere decir un grupo, compañía, comunidad o secta (plural tā’ifa). Sin embargo, tavā’if (con una t retroflexa) significa gente que se mueve en círculos o forma un círculo; deriva de la misma raíz que indica la circumambulación de la Ka‘ba (tavvāf). Estos dos términos acabaron superpuestos porque se pronuncian igual en persa y en urdu para denominar a un grupo de bailarines que dan vueltas».

Como no podía ser de otra forma, Aurangzeb quiso acabar con la acepción profana del homófono. Natalia Prigarina trae a colación este artículo de Iqbāl de 1916130: «Una vez el Emperador decidió limpiar la ciudad de tavā’if o cortesanas. Esas tavā’if eran mayormente jóvenes damas bien educadas, que ejecutaban música y danza y conocían la poesía. El Emperador ordenó que se casaran, y que las que no consiguieran marido se embarcaran en una nave para hundirlas en el mar. Había una joven cantante entre ellas que cada día pasaba por la calle donde se sentaba un santo sufí llamado Kalīmullāh. Ella lo saludaba y seguía adelante. Pero ese día ella le dijo: “Acepta la última despedida de tu sierva”, y empezó a irse. El jeque se dio cuenta de que se estaba preparándose para la muerte. Le dijo: “Escucha mi consejo. Cuando tú y las otras muchachas lleguéis a la playa para que os monten en el barco, recita este verso de Ḥāfiz: No se nos consiente la senda del Piadoso,/ si Tú no lo apruebas, el destino cambia. En el día señalado, el grupo de jóvenes mujeres fue conducida a la playa para tomar el barco. Empezaron a cantar estos versos con ardor y pasión, seguras de que sería su última actuación. Su canto llegó a los oídos de Aurangzeb, y retiró la orden». La conclusión que saca Iqbāl, y es bastante sintomático de lo que es hoy Pakistán y el Islam heredero de Aurangzeb, es que Ḥāfiz es un poeta poderosamente pernicioso, capaz de hacer desviarse a un hombre tan recto como el Emperador.

Ibn Munawwar, descendiente y hagiógrafo de Abū-Sa‘īd Abī-l-Jayr, recoge una carta de sus vecinos contra él y sus discípulos del siguiente tenor135: «Organiza encuentros sufíes. Recita poemas en el púlpito. Comentar el Corán, eso no lo hace. Ni habla de las tradiciones de los profetas. Hace afirmaciones grandilocuentes. Él canta y sus discípulos danzan. Comen pollo asado y tarta, y luego dice que es un asceta. Esas no son maneras de asceta, ni es la fe de los sufíes. Tiene las masas a mal traer, las lleva por el mal camino. La mayoría del populacho ignorante ya está cometiendo vicios. Si no se hace algo inmediatamente, va a saltar un desorden público muy pronto».

El exceso y superabundancia nunca será de ideas diferentes, sino de una misma cosa, como recuerda Mossi de Cambiano a base de Orígenes y de las obras atribuidas al Areopagita y el Vercelense152. Si el exceso es de bienes, son bienes que provienen de la misma fuente. Las Cien Escuelas surgen solas: el promover la idea de «que florezcan cien flores», como hizo Mao, no deja de ser, de una u otra forma, una trampa política y burocrática, además de una caricatura de la filosofía digna de Aristófanes en sus Nubes. El filósofo no produce ideas, no tiene una fábrica ni pensadero, no se alegra con los gráficos que indican la buena marcha de la producción ni danza con ellas, sino que busca quitar zarandajas y faramalla, unir lo que estaba roto y quitarle la ropa a la verdad.

El abuso del flujo de ideas sería aquello de lo que Hölderlin previene en An die jüngen Dichter, «¡Odiad la borrachera, como el hielo!» y al mismo tiempo lo opuesto al consejo de Baudelaire en Le Spleen de Paris: «Para no ser los esclavos martirizados del Tiempo, emborrachaos; ¡emborrachaos sin cesar! De vino, de poesía o de virtud, a vuestra guisa».

Al celebrar esta celebrada independencia, que para Ricciotto Canudo es la viva imagen del conservadurismo obsolescente166, los futuristas no hacen justicia en estas afirmaciones a su papel en el denso entramado que conduce a la geometrización y mecanización de la danza, a través del paso por escena de ruidos, marionetas, autómatas y robots, en un incesante torrente desde el siglo XIX: Coppélia, ou la Fille aux yeux d’émail, de Arthur Saint-Léon, Charles Nuitter y Léo Delibes sobre el cuento de 1815 de Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann (1870); la pantomima-ballet de Marie Maury-Holtzer con música de Frédéric Barbier Les Poupées electriques (1883); Die Puppenfee, de Haßreiter, Gaul y Bayer (1888); la primera obra de Maurice Maeterlinck, La Princesse Maleine, hecha para marionetas (1889); Paracelsus (1899) y Der Puppenspieler (1903), de Arthur Schnitzler; Ubu roi, de Alfred Jarry (1896); Le roi Bombance, de Marinetti (1905, estrenada en 1909); Балаганчик (Marionetas) de Aleksandr Aleksándrovich Blok, estrenada por Vsévolod Emílievich Meyerhold en 1906, obra que inspiraría Веселая смерть (La muerte alegre), de Nikolay Nikoláievich Evréinov (1909), quien a su vez inspiraría a Pirandello; Les Poupées electriques de Marinetti, estrenadas en Turín como La donna è mobile (1909) y basadas en L’Ève future de Auguste de Villiers de L’Isle-Adam, de 1886.; las Serate futuriste del Politeama Rossetti de Trieste y Paradosso di arte dell’avvenire, de Ginna y Corra 167 (1910); el Manifesto dei drammaturghi futuristi de Marinetti, que propone un teatro de autor en el que el actor y el público (del que sólo se esperan silbidos) no cuenten en absoluto, y Петрушка (Petruška), con libreto de Aleksandr Nikoláievich Benois, revisado por el autor de la música, Ígor Fyodórovich Stravinsky (1911); L’arte dei rumori de Luigi Russolo (1913, publicado en 1916), el manifiesto de Marinetti Il teatro di varietà, y Победа над Cолнцем (Victoria sobre el sol), de Jlébnikov, Matyušin y Malévich, (1913); creador de los intonarumori; el Drama for Fools en que Edward Gordon Craig se ocupó desde 1914, el mismo año en el que Balla concibió su Machine typographique; la interpretación de Zang tumb tumb en Londres por Marinetti y Christopher Richard Wynne Nevinson que fue asaltada por lo vorticistas (1914); Il teatro futurista sintetico de Corra, Settimelli y Marinetti (1915) y La declamazione dinamica e sinottica de Marinetti (1915); Manifeto della danza futurista, de Marinetti, y Aventure electrique, de Depero (1917); Il teatro visionico de Pino Masnata, Il teatro del colore de Achille Ricciardi y R.U.R., de Karel Čapek (1920); Il teatro della sorpresa de Marinetti y Cangiullo, y el Manifiesto del actor excéntrico de Kózintsev, Trauberg, Yutkévich y Kryžitsky (1921); el Manifesto dell’arte meccanica futurista de Ivo Pannaggi y Vinicio Paladini, al que se sumaría Prampolini, y el Triadisches Ballett de Oskar Schlemmer (1922); El retablo de Maese Pedro de Manuel de Falla (1923); Anihccam del 3000 (1924), de Depero y Casavola, donde se recupera una Canzone rumorista de 1916; el Tablado de marionetas para educación de príncipes de Valle-Inclán (1926); Il mercante di cuori, de Prampolini y Casavola, L’Angoisse des machines de Ruggero Vasari e Ivo Pannaggi, y Metropolis, de Fritz Lang (1927); Del teatro teatrale, ossia, del teatro, de Anton Giulio Bragaglia, suma de toda innovación; el Retablillo de Don Cristóbal de Federico García Lorca (1930); Il teatro totale per masse de Marinetti (1933), por poner sólo algunos de los ejemplos más relevantes y significativos.

No tiene mucho sentido, en toda esta maraña, hacer a Parade el principio de nada, porque nada es nuevo en el Arte. Inventores absolutos hay muy pocos, como Apolodoro de Damasco (la cúpula del Panteón) o Brunelleschi (el punto de fuga). Indudablemente, Picasso es el creador del cubismo, pero llegó a él a través del arte africano e ibérico y de Cézanne, quien a su vez partía de Piero della Francesca. Además, muchas innovaciones artísticas no son sino recuerdos modificados. El famoso Cuadrado negro de 1915, que Malévich remite a una idea para Victoria sobre el sol en una carta a Matyušin168, ya está como imagen de la nada en Robert Fludd (que pide que el lector desarrolle con su imaginación el negro por los cuatro costados hasta el infinito); en el exvoto en forma de cuadro negro pedido a un pintor por un español porque cuando se salvó de seis ladrones era más de noche (lo que sirve a Bernini para explicarle a Chantelou en 1665 que los españoles no tienen gusto ni conocimiento de las Artes); en las páginas luctuosas de John Quarles y, con ironía, en Laurence Sterne; y los monocromos de Pelez, Bertall y Bilhaud (reproducido por Allais y comentado en Rusia en un artículo de 1911)169 .

Esta última interpretación de Bilhaud del cuadrado negro como «Combate de negros en una cueva» fue la que siguió Malévich con el suyo, donde hasta escribió esas palabras170. Toda la palabrería mística sobre el cuadro que Malévich y sus admiradores han ido vertiendo desde 1915 hasta cien años después que se descubrió la broma (y aun después) era sobrevenida. Defenderla equivale a afirmar que Virgilio predijo el nacimiento de Jesús de Nazaret, Séneca el descubrimiento de América, Torres Villarroel la Revolución Francesa, Mahler la muerte de su hija, Dalí la Guerra Civil y la muerte de Hitler (aunque sí adivinó lo que se escondía debajo de los repintes del Angelus de Millet), Alfonso Ponce de León el accidente de coche que lo mató, y Victor Brauner la pelea con Óscar Domínguez que lo dejó tuerto.

El de Myasin sería retroceder a un paso intermedio entre el tiempo de Rodrigo Caro y el que el personaje que es su trasunto, don Fernando, añora, en el que los miembros de los mimos hablaban con boca silente («ore silente») y se representaban sólo con gestos obras como la Batalla de los Titanes, el Nacimiento de Júpiter, la Prisión de Saturno, las Penas de Prometeo, la Caída de Ícaro (el argumento elegido por Lifar para su propuesta de danza sin música) o el Laberinto de Creta.

Sólo habría que objetar a estas danzas que probablemente serían tan convencionales y estereotipados que podrían servir como lengua de sordomudos, como se piensa Roch-Ambroise Auguste Bébian en su Mimographie al traer los testimonios de Luciano, Casiodoro, San Cipriano y San Agustín186 . Schönberg venció fácilmente el prejuicio de su tiempo que identificaba la danza con el ritmo, que llega a García Bacca cuando hacer notar que la música de Ravel es más independiente del ritmo que la de Strauss, sólo para inferir que esto la hace menos bailable187. Que bailarines como Franz Xaver Nadler sentenciaran que puede haber danza sin música, pero no danza sin ritmo188, y que compositores como Tibor Harsányi 189 o Darius Milhaud190 concuerden, contestando a una encuesta sobre las propuestas de Serge Lifar, en que la danza puede sostenerse en el solo ritmo, no quiere decir, ni mucho menos, que la danza sea sólo ritmo.

Así que, si Debussy veía en Dalcroze al peor enemigo de la música, Fernand Divoire, escribiendo contra Yvonne Sérac, que danzaba en silencio, tiene sobradas razones para hacer esta reflexión: «He venido en considerar al mimo como el peor enemigo de la danza. El mimo reduce la danza a lo anecdótico […]»198: aunque no llega a generalizar del todo. Sin duda, hay ejemplos célebres, como el bailarín que, en tiempo de Nerón, bailó sin acompañamiento musical ni nadie que le llevara el ritmo ante Demetrio el Cínico, haciéndole confesar, entusiasmado, que la danza era un arte en sí misma (Luciano de Samósata, Sobre la danza, 63: ¡véase hasta qué punto eran novedosas las propuestas del siglo XX!) 199 . Pero una cosa es tener entidad y dignidad propia y otra muy distinta decidirse a actuar siempre en solitario200:

«El triunfo de las ciencias positivas en el siglo XIX y la incapacidad de la filosofía idealista para resolver los problemas del mundo físico trajeron el descrédito de la especulación filosófica en el campo científico: los físicos, químicos, biólogos y hasta psicólogos se jactaron de ignorarla y aun de detestarla. En esa época pareció que para investigar la realidad bastaba con pesar, tomar temperaturas, medir tiempos de reacción, observar células a través de un microscopio. Se originó un tipo de físico que sólo tenía confianza en cosas como un metro o una balanza y que despreciaba la filosofía; y esta tendencia se extendió hasta alcanzar a hombres alejados de la ciencia, pero que admiraban su precisión (Valéry). El Dios de los filósofos ha imaginado un castigo para los que hablan mal de la filosofía, incluyendo a Valéry: que esas habladurías sean también filosofía, pero mala. A estos físicos les pasó lo que a esos campesinos que no tienen fe en el banco y guardan sus ahorros debajo del colchón, que es un banco menos seguro: si se analiza la estructura en que hacían descansar sus observaciones se descubre que no era cierto que no tuvieran una posición filosófica: tenían una muy mala».

Lisa Duncan: «La primera experiencia fue realizada por Isadora en 1912. Quizá se recuerde aquel drama danzado, después de muchas representaciones de Isadora, con la orquesta ya ausente, cuando el público quería aún otra cosa y se oían voces que venían del cielo reclamando La doncella y la muerte. Yo era bien pequeña, pero me acuerdo de haber sentido un gran miedo, que quizá sólo los niños pueden sentir. Después, en el curso de mi vida, he visto bailarines del silencio que me han procurado simplemente incomodidad. Hace algunos años, Mary Wigman, en París, hacía acompañar sus danzas solamente de ruidos ritmados, provocados por dos instrumentos bárbaros. El resultado era una danza brutal y cortante, casi masculina en su violencia.

De un pasaje del De pratica seu arte tripudii vulgare opusculum de Guglielmo Ebreo da Pesaro, llamado Giovanni Ambrosio después de su bautismo, discípulo de Domenico da Piacenza (autor del De arte saltandi et choreas ducendi), Alessandro Pontremoli saca la idea de que pudo existir una danza sin música en los círculos cerrados de la Academia florentina201, a modo de ars subtilior, musica reservata o musica secreta, aquellas vanguardias de tiempos remotos que eran para pocos y que olvida Ortega y Gasset al hablar de las nuevas vanguardias y la supuesta excepcionalidad de siglo y medio de cultura exclusivamente popular, de masas

Lo ideal, naturalmente, tal como plantea Senghor en su poema al hablar de la harina blanca que necesita de levadura, es la armonía entre lo racional y lo irracional. Ravel afirma, elogiándolo, que «Schönberg es vienés e israelita, y por esta razón es menos frío, menos cerebral, menos abstracto que un verdadero alemán, por ejemplo, un Reger» (lo cual es una forma bastantante reveladora de referirse al padre del serialismo), y de él mismo proclama que «Mi maestro en la composición es Edgar Poe por el análisis de su maravilloso poema El cuervo. Poe me ha enseñado que el verdadero arte se encuentra en el justo medio entre el intelectualismo puro y los sentimientos»208 .

No hay en estos atentos sorbos que Ravel toma de Schönberg dipsomanía, ni saturación insipiente de tiempos desparejados que se devoran, sino, como dice Paul Valéry, adoptando la pregunta (y la respuesta) de San Agustín a propósito de qué es el tiempo para definir la danza, «la creación de una especie de tiempo o de un tiempo de una especie toda distinta y singular». Al considerar la relación de Valéry con la danza es imprescindible contar con la figura de Francis de Miomandre, cfr. Monique Allain-Castrillo, Paul Valéry y el mundo hispánico, Madrid, Gredos, 1995, p. 68; Remi Rousselot, Francis de Miomandre, un Goncourt oublié, París, La Différence, 2016.

en De coniuratione Catilinae, Gayo Salustio Crispo acusa de indecente a Sempronia (no a Catilina) por ser demasiado experta en el danzar, al igual que ridiculiza a Calígula y Nerón por sus aficiones escénicas en las Vitae duodecim Caesarum. Juan Luis Vives usa a Demóstenes, Cicerón y Salustio en el capítulo «De saltatione» del De institutione feminae Christianae, y a ellos les suma San Ambrosio, quien, de paso, repite el dicterio de Cicerón. Lovecraft (y muchos otros enemigos de la danza) desconocen que, como recuerda el propio Vives al principio del capítulo, Cicerón y Quintiliano consideraron que la danza era útil para la educación de la juventud, y que Salustio censuró los andares sin ritmo de Catilina, pasaje que aprovecha Juan de Arce de Otárola con muchos otros tomados de la historia sacra y profana para defender las excelencias de la danza

Pero la repetición de sentencias como las de Demóstenes y Cicerón, amplificadas por los Padres de la Iglesia –latinos como Tertuliano o griegos como San Juan Crisóstomo–, hace que el Humanismo desprecie la danza: Erasmo concuerda con su poco estimado Tulio, y Castiglione admite que los caballeros dancen, pero en la intimidad215 . Ante los severos romanos que, como Cornelio Nepote, al biografiar a Epaminondas, consideran la danza más un vicio que una virtud, por más que dijeran los griegos (y a los griegos, como hemos visto en el caso de Demóstenes, no siempre les parecía virtuosa), Luciano de Samósata responde a con algo que hoy puede confundir y desconcertar a los arúspices de la dicotomía de Nietzsche, tan enemigo de Sócrates (Sobre la danza, 25)216:

«Sócrates, el hombre más sabio, si podemos creer a Apolo Pitio, que dijo tal cosa de él, no sólo elogiaba la danza, sino que incluso consideraba que valía la pena aprenderla, atribuyendo el más alto valor al mantenimiento del ritmo, la belleza de la música, el movimiento armonioso y al decoro en las evoluciones, y no se avergonzaba, aun siendo un viejo, de creer que era uno de los más serios temas de estudio. No se iba a tomar poco interés en el arte de la danza un hombre que no vacilaba en aprender incluso lo más trivial, y acudía con frecuencia a las escuelas de las flautistas y no desdeñaba oír algo interesante de una mujer cortesana como Aspasia».

Estas informaciones, junto a las que recuerdan que su única obra escrita conocida fueron versificaciones de fábulas esópicas, nos las dan los testimonios fidedignos de sus discípulos Jenofonte y Platón, y ponen en serias dificultades a los Padres de la Iglesia y a los humanistas que, como Erasmo, tanto desprecian a los idiotas (los que no saben latín) y las mujerzuelas. Mujerzuelas ven los eruditos en la danza, en el peor de los sentidos, y no sólo en el de poco valor o poco seso. Aunque autor de muchos bailes, de unas Cortes de los bailes y otros poemas sobre las modas dancísticas de su tiempo, Francisco de Quevedo 217 se ensaña con Herodes, «Rey que gobernaba no con los entendimientos de sus manos, sino con los de los pies de una ramera bailadora» (aunque, aludiendo a su final, dice que bailaba sobre el hielo y que al final se rompió degollándola con sus carámbanos); con los ministros que aconsejaron a Saúl un citarista y bailarín para aliviar su posesión diabólica, buscando diversiones y no soluciones; con un disciplinante vanidoso, «bailarín y Narciso del pecado»; pero, ante todo, en la Historia de la vida del Buscón, llamado Don Pablos; ejemplo de vagamundos y espejo de tacaños, deja clara la ralea de gente que, según él, se dedica a la danza:

«Íbamos barajados hombres y mujeres, y una entre ellas, la bailarina, que también hacía las reinas y papeles graves en la comedia, me pareció extremada sabandija. Acertó a estar su marido a mi lado, y yo, sin pensar a quien hablaba, llevado del deseo de amor y gozarla, díjele: “A esta mujer, ¿por qué orden la podremos hablar, para gastar con su merced unos veinte escudos, que me ha parecido hermosa?”. “No me está bien a mí el decirlo, que soy su marido”, dijo el hombre, “ni tratar de eso; pero sin pasión, que no me mueve ninguna, se puede gastar con ella cualquier dinero, porque tales carnes no tiene el suelo, ni tal juguetoncita”. Y diciendo esto, saltó del carro y fuese al otro, según pareció, por darme lugar a que la hablase».

cuenta Barrionuevo esta espeluznante noticia, regocijado y entre burlas219:

«Estaban el Marqués de Almazán y Conde de Monterrey juntos viendo una comedia. Antojóseles una comedianta muy bizarra que representaba muy bien y con lindas galas. Asieron de ella sus criados, y así como estaba, la metieron en un coche que picó, llevándosela como el ánima del sastre suelen los diablos llevarse. Siguiola su marido, dando, sin por qué, muestras de honrado, y con él un alcalde de corte que se halló al robo de Elena. No se la volvieron, aunque los alcanzaron, hasta echarle a la olla las especias. Mandolos el Rey prender. Todo se hará noche; contentarán al marido, con que habrá de callar y acomodarse al tiempo, como hacen todos, supuesto que se la vuelven buena y sana, sin faltarle pierna ni brazo, y contenta como una Pascua. Llámase la tal la Gálvez».

Los antiguos griegos se opusieron con la misma fuerza que Confucio a lo licencioso y a lo doliente, y lo representaron a través de la figura de la transformación de los hombres en animales y piedras. Así, la crueldad  Los antiguos griegos se opusieron con la misma fuerza que Confucio a lo licencioso y a lo doliente, y lo representaron a través de la figura de la transformación de los hombres en animales y piedras.    

Ni los griegos ni los humanistas, ni, por supuesto, García Bacca, consideraron que había pueblos entre los que llegar a transformarse en animal no era castigo sino premio, y en los que no eran deshonrosas las borracheras ni la locura, que Cicerón ligaba a la danza y que García Bacca separa de ella. Patrick E. McGovern vincula la danza con las flautas más antiguas (Geissenklösterle, Istúriz, Jiahu, Caral, Pecos)223, y a ambas con el consumo de bebidas fermentadas, que serían causa de respetabilísimas y sacrosantas borracheras.  

Ya dijimos que los cristianos heredaron los prejuicios paganos contra la danza, y José Aldazábal resume perfectamente las contradicciones que se dan con el culto y la tradición224: «Si san Basilio afirmaba que “la danza es la ocupación más noble de los ángeles en el cielo”, san Juan Crisóstomo no dudaba en decir que “allí donde hay danza allí está el diablo”. San Gregorio Nacianceno distinguía: el “baile de David, sí”, o sea, la danza en homenaje a Dios. Pero “el baile de Salomé, no”: o sea, la danza cn connotaciones de sensualidad».

    Hay, naturalmente, una densa maraña de testimonios de los Santos Padres, latinos, griegos y sirios, que se pronuncian en favor y en contra de la danza, y de otros no tan santos, como Tertuliano con su diatriba De spectaculis, cuya postura es la que ha solido prevalecer. Fray Juan de los Ángeles, Obras místicas, II, ed. de Jaime Sala y Gregorio Fuentes, Madrid, Bailly-Bailliére, 1917, p. 207, escribe que «En el libro IV de los Reyes, cap. III, se cuenta un caso a este propósito de harta consideración. Dícese allí que, estando juntos el rey de Judá, de Israel y de Edón, al tiempo que iban a dar guerra al rey de Moab, llamaron al profeta Elíseo y rogáronle que pidiese a Dios que les enviase aguas, porque perecía de sed el ejército; y para haberles de profetizar el santo viejo el suceso de la batalla mandó que saliese allí una doncella con una harpa o psalterio, y que tañese. Hízose así; la doncella comenzó a tocar su instrumento, y el profeta iba profetizando y como cantando a versos su profecía. De manera que no quiso profetizar sin música, significando en esto que la profecía y la Escritura no es otra cosa que una música del cielo concertadísima, de diferentes voces. Y no fué sin misterio juntarse el viejo Elíseo y la doncella con su instrumento músico para profetizar: porque en las canas y vejez del profeta es significada la Escritura antigua y viejo Testamento, y en la doncella tierna, la doctrina del Evangelio, entre los cuales hay harmonía y consonancia admirables».

los instrumentos marciales de los cristianos hicieron que en el Nuevo Mundo surgiera la «Danza de los Señores, la cual pasados los años de la conquista se transformó en lo que conocemos hasta ahora con el nombre de Mitote, el cual tenía lugar por ejemplo con motivo del “paseo del Pendón”, frente a la iglesia de San Hipólito»231 .

Artemis Markessinis, al dar cuenta de tres danzas sacras que han sobrevivido a nuestros días (la de Echternach en Luxemburgo, Barjols en Provenza y la de los seises en la Catedral de Sevilla)

Las cortes de toda la Europa cristiana usaban al mismo tiempo que despreciaban a los juglares. Giraldo III de Cabrera humilla a su juglar Cabra en el famoso Ensenhamen y, aunque Giraldo Riquier, en la corte de Alfonso X, dice que en Castilla se trata mejor a los juglares que en Provenza, las Partidas beben de Justinano para legislar contra ellos como personas viles, al igual que el jurista Odofredo tiene por infames a los juglares y a los señores ciegos233 que van a la plaza del Ayuntamiento de Bolonia y cantan de Roldán y Oliveros, si lo hacen a cambio de dinero. En Aragón, Jaime I prohíbe que los juglares se sienten a la mesa de los caballeros234 . Y, sin embargo, en estas circunstancias, Francisco, cuyo nombre bien deja claro su origen, pide a sus seguidores, según se puede extraer de Ubertino da Casale, que no sean “como histriones que cantan los golpes de Roldán y Oliveros y sus huestes y nunca dieron golpe en una batalla”235, sino que sean ellos mismos también caballeros, y que se sienten juntos a la misma mesa para vivir la singular aventura del espíritu.

Naturalmente, reciben críticas, como esta de Fray Jacopo Passavanti236: «Estos predicatores de tales hechuras, antes juglares y romanceros bufones, a los cuales acude el público como a aquellos que cantan de los Paladines, que dan grandes golpes, incluso con el arco de la vihuela, son infieles y desleales dispensatores del tesoro de su Señor».

Hay pueblos que valoran extremadamente a los bufones. En la mitología de muchas tribus venezolanas existe un personaje que, según el testimonio de Gilij, citado por De Goeje, los tamanacos llaman Amalivacà, los paresis Amaruacà, y los caribes o más propiamente kalinas Amarivaca253, y que Alejo Carpentier llama Amaliwak para hacer que se encuentre en su cuento «Los advertidos» con otro protagonista de su misma historia, Noé, aunque hay muchos más héroes diluvianos. Este mundo antediluviano se presenta poblado por estrambóticas danzas fálicas e imitativas que similares a las documentadas por De Goeje254: «De noche se bailaba a la luz de las hogueras; los hechiceros sacaban las Grandes Máscaras de Aves y Demonios; los bufones imitaban el venado y la rana; había porfías, responsos, desafíos incruentos entre las tribus». Carpentier se entretiene morosamente en la descripción de los bufones255: «Pero los bufones, de caras lacadas, pintadas con zumo de árboles, seguían saltando a canoa en canoa, enseñando los sexos acrecidos por prepucios de cuerno de venado, agitando las sonajas y castañuelas de conchas que llevaban colgadas de los testículos».

Un ambiente parecido podemos suponer en torno a Osiris. Sir Ernest Alfred Thompson Wallis Budge prefiere llamar bufones a los sátiros que, según Diodoro Sículo, deleitaban a esta divinidad256, y recuerda a continuación que los reyes de Egipto se complacieron no bailando «la danza del dios», sino viendo ejecutarla a un enano o un pigmeo257 . Asa, de la IV dinastía, se entusiasma con un pequeño danzarín venido de la «Tierra de los Espíritus», y Pepi II, de la VI dinastía, no puede reprimir su regocijo y sus atenciones (pide que tengan mucho cuidado para que, durante el viaje, no se caiga del barco) ante otro pigmeo cuya danza llega al corazón del Gran Trono.

  [ Sir Ernest Alfred Wallis Budge, Osiris and the Egyptian Resurrection, Londres, Philip Lee Warner, 1911, p. 231. No es la única interpretatio Graeca que se sirve de los sátiros: «Cuando Babilonia es reducida a desierto, Isaías dice que “morarán allí las fieras, y los búhos llenarán sus casas. Habitarán allí los avestruces y harán allí los sátiros sus danzas” (13:20-21). La traducción al latín de este pasaje hecha por Jerónimo (“et pilosi saltabunt ibi”) dio pie a que los seirim fuesen clasificados como sátiros; se trataba de demonios del desierto característicos del antiguo folklore judío. A estos seres peludos se les rendía culto idolátrico, cosa que se prohíbe exresamente en Levítico: “no ofrecerán sus sacrificios a los sátiros, con los cuales se prostituyen», Roger Bartra, El salvaje en el espejo, Ciudad de México, Era, 1992, p. 44.]

No es más que un juguete encontrado en «El Lisht, en la tumba de una niña llamada Ḥapy, que vivió durante el reinado de Se’n-Wosret I de la XII dinastía»258, pero las cuatro figuras de pigmeos en marfil descubiertas por la expedición en Egipto del Museo Metropolitano de Arte de Nueva York entre 1933 y 1934 adquieren una importancia extrema para la Historia de la Danza. Giannina Censi negaba en una lección de 1989 la utilidad de las fotografías para reconstruir la danza259, y cuánto más inservibles debemos considerar para imaginarnos a los hombres y mujeres del pasado en movimiento las imágenes esquemáticas y descontextualizadas a las que, en su mayoría, se reduce nuestro estudio. Ciertamente lo que tenemos entre manos está lejos de la Kinetographie de Rudolf von Laban (1928) y de otros intentos más antiguos de notación de la danza260, aunque resulta menos confuso que una de las más antiguas, la llamada chamu261: la contemplación del Ms. A-1 de la Colección de Manuscritos Naxi de la Biblioteca Yenching de Harvard nos sume en muchas  más dudas que otros posibles sistemas de notación primitivos, como los símbolos hallados en Dinggong, en Zouping, en la provincia de Shandong, muy antiguos y muy diferentes con respecto al resto de la tradición escrita china262 , y que parecen ser no otra cosa que danzarines en distintas posiciones que señalan con precisión unos pasos a imitar (si se trata de una escritura, lo será por el mismo modo que la de «The Adventure of the Dancing Men» en The Return of Sherlock Holmes de Sir Arthur Conan Doyle), por no hablar de las imágenes de danza en el suelo (como si se tratar ade un primigenio salón de baile) en Tell Halula 263 y Dadiwan, en la provincia de Gansu 264 . Otras reproducciones de acciones de danza, en cambio, son muy simples, como la de una figura en Nawarla Gabarnmang que tiene los brazos representados simultáneamente en dos posiciones distintas265 .    

Este juguete articulado, en el que unos cordeles (que se han reconstruido en el Museo del Cairo, que se quedó tres de las figuras) hacen girar sobre pequeños discos a tres pigmeos con el cuerpo flexionado y las manos levantadas nos permite reconstruir, siquiera de manera rudimentaria, un movimiento. La cuarta figura, que se quedó el Museo Metropolitano de Arte de Nueva York, es descrita así por Hayes, de manera bienintencionada pero que sería hoy tenida por políticamente incorrecta266: «Nuestro pequeño danzante, que era el líder de este ballet liliputiense, está evidentemente capturado en el acto de dar palmadas para dar el ritmo a su compañía, flexionando sus rodillas en una danza indudablemente lúdrica».

En la España aurisecular donde se escribieron estos versos, los soberanos, en cambio, danzaban, como bien testimonia Luis Cabrera de Córdoba274, si bien con Felipe IV la afición a la danza fue menor275:

«y entonces bajaron los Reyes, y el Príncipe de Piamonte y doña Catalina de la Cerda, y todos veinte y ocho fueron danzando y haciendo mudanzas hasta donde estaba la Infanta, a la cual llevaron luego de allá su aposento, por que no se congojase ni cansase más; y habiendo hecho diferentes danzas, los Reyes se quitaron las máscaras y se subieron A asentar en sus sillas, y lo mismo hicieron los demás, sentándose los que eran señores, como los duques de Lerma, Condestable, Infantado, Alba, Pastrana, Cea y Lemos en almohadas al lado de las damas, y los caballeros poniendo una rodilla sobre la alfombra, como es costumbre. Luego se comenzó el sarao, señalando el Rey los que habían de salir a danzar, que eran los mismos de la máscara, y solamente salió de los demás el duque de Sesa y los dos sobrinos del almirante de Inglaterra, que el uno danzó en cuerpo y el otro con la capa caída, haciendo muchas cabriolas al son de los ministriles; y después de haberse hecho todas las danzas que se acostumbran, tañeron la danza de la hacha, y habiendo salido a ella los de la máscara mandó el Rey a doña Catalina de la Cerda que sacase a S. M., y con ellos al almirante de Inglaterra que danzó con ella, el cual lo estimó por singular favor y merced».

Era, además, la Corte de España aficionadísima a los enanos, que no siempre han caído también en todas las latitudes. En la India, en el aplastamiento durante la danza de Śiva del enano Apasmāra o Muyalaka, hay ciertamente una condena de lo grotesco276, pero en ninguna otra parte esta condena se ve con más claridad que en la China confuciana.

Si se ve como infamia, como hacía Odofredo de Bolonia, el vender el cuerpo y la voz en los espectáculos a cambio de dinero, es claro que, como hacía ver Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, que la infamia la causa quien paga.

Los romanos distinguían el espacio para los espectáculos sangrientos (el anfiteatro) del teatro y el odeón, donde no había violencia, si bien muchas veces el anfiteatro teatralizaba sus funciones y tenía interludios jocosos (como los que esperaba una vez ver Lucio Anneo Séneca, aunque se encontró, en su lugar, con ejecuciones); y también se puso de moda un teatrorealidad, pornográfico y criminoso, como el que recrea Federico Fellini en Fellini Satyricon (1969).

Sin embargo, de la exposición de Élie Faure se deduce que esta influencia se debe a un valor intrínseco de la danza de los negros, debiéndose, en realidad, al gusto de los blancos, algo que se repite mucho en los testimonios de antiguos esclavos de los EEUU284. De hecho, muchas veces bailan danzas de blancos285, y seguirán haciéndolo cuando sean libres, algo que no les perdonarán algunos jóvenes rebeldes como Hampton Hawes286 . Antes que el ¡Danzad, danzad, malditos! con que se tradujo en España TheyShoot Horses, Don’t They? de Horace McCoy, llevada al cine por Sydney Pollack, y que trataba de quienes bailaban por dinero en un ambiente que también refleja Vicente Rossi287, fue el «Dance, niggers, dance» de la famosa narración de Solomon Northup288 .

4 Cfr. Neil Harding McAlister, «The Dancing Pilgrims at Muelebeek», en Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences, 32, 3, 315-319; se remite a E. L. Backman, Religious Dances in the Christian Church and in Popular Medicine, Nueva York, Greenwood, 1952, p. 171, para ubicar el primer caso de coreomanía en el siglo VII.

Pero a los negros no sólo se les hacía bailar para diversión de sus amos, como cuenta el P. Patrick Desbois que los nazis hicieron con los judíos de Mokrovo289 a quienes obligaron a bailar sobre un puente, o como se ve en la obra El baile de los montañeses de Víctor Hugo Rascón Banda. Ni por razones religiosas (muchos de los bailes promovidos por los blancos se hacían en Navidad), como los madrileños hacían bailar a los moros y judíos en el Corpus so pena de multa290, o, mucho peor, como los mexicas obligaron a bailar a los españoles ante Huītzilōpōchtli291 o como a Pedro de Ursúa «mostrábanle mucha cantidad de sogas que traían ceñidas a los cuerpos, diciendo que con aquellas sogas los habían de llevar atados para se holgar con ellos en sus borracheras y bailes»292 . Y tampoco se trata de la coreomanía descrita por Paracelso293, pintada por Brueghel 294 y caricaturizada por Pierre Gardel 295 , ni de una danza sobrenatural forzada como la de Korred o Korrigan296 o como la, por otro lado naturalísima Danza de la Muerte297, sino de una razón parecida a la narrada por Fray Bernardino de Sahagún cuando explica298: «Estos dueños que mataban a estos esclavos llamábanse tealtiani, que quiere dezir “bañadores”, y es porque cada día bañaban con agua caliente a estos esclavos. Este regalo y otros muchos los hacían porque engordasen; hasta el día que habían de morir dábanles de comer delicadamente y regaladamente, y acompañaba cada dueño del esclavo a una moza pública a su esclavo para que alegrase y retozase, y le regalase y no le consintiese estar triste, porque así engordase».

Así pues, el artículo « Primer recuerdo de Isadora Duncan» que Gabriela Mistral publicó el 12 de febrero de 1928 en El Mercurio, y cuyo mecanoscrito firmado conserva orgullosamente la Biblioteca Nacional de Chile (BN 964577) diciendo escuetamente en su descripción que «la compara con la bailarina de color Josephine Baker» añade el absurdo a su condición de repulsivo, aberrante e indigno de la sociedad de los seres humanos civilizados (Gabriela Mistral, como Fray Bartolomé de las Casas y como José Vasconcelos, exaltaba la raza y la cultura blanca e india, y la mestiza de ambas, en sufrido detrimento de la negra): «En verdad, Isadora murió a tiempo, cuando París ha madurado para la danza estúpidamente canalla de Josefina Baker, cuando, a fuerza de condescendencia para las aficiones yanquis –que en esto son de una grosería de pirata–, París ha acabado por entregar, como una alcahueta, sus mejores salas a una danza antítesis de la suya. Yanqui era ella también, Isadora, pero yanqui irlandesa, y, en todo caso, de una generación que no había caído en el sótano hediondo de lo negrero. Curiosa venganza la de los negros sobre los ingleses de Norteamérica: los que viajan en carros especiales como los bueyes; los que aparte comen, rezan y existen, y no pueden abrazar un cuerpo de mujer blanca, sin que los hijos de Lynch caigan sobre ellos y les dejen derramando sobre el pavimento la única blancura suya, la de los sesos, han comunicado a su enemigo, el lector de la Biblia, el superblanco, como algunos lo apellidan, su inmundo zangoloteo de vísceras, y les han creado los ritmos bestiales con los cuales en Nueva York ahora se despierta, se vive el día y se duerme».

Richard M. Moyle, citando unas palabras de Nūnua Posongat de 1999, «Tātou e anu koi ki nā taratara» (‘Simplemente bailamos las palabras’), desarrolla la idea de la imposibilidad de la danza sin canto328. La dependencia de los movimientos respecto a las palabras le permite esbozar una tabla de correspondencias entre pasos de danza y descripciones de acciones y pasiones (por ejemplo, hiahia, que es alegrarse, se representa haciendo sonar una o dos manos a la altura del pecho). No habría lugar para la abstracción, porque incluso los meros movimientos (nā āuna koi) serían una especie de cero aritmético o signos de puntuación en el sistema plenamente definido de equivalencias, que indicarían que algo no se ha entendido bien o que no se puede expresar a través de lo admitido por la convención (y entonces se usaría la forma sava) o que se introducen unos compases de espera (a través de la forma ē tū) 329 . movimientos

Ante un público extraño, el texto se va haciendo innecesario y de la lengua original de los cantos quedan sólo rescoldos arcaicos, como les ocurre a los pigmeos cuando entretienen a los egipcios, los bantúes o los árabes, a los dravidios cuando entretienen a los arios o a los oscos cuando entretienen a los romanos. Menéndez-Pelayo:  «Conceden especial atención a los groseros perfiles de hombres (?) con cabeza bestial. Pueden ser máscaras de caza, como las que usan los esquimales, los indios, los bosquimanos. Pero estos pueblos conocen también danzas de carácter mágico, a las cuales son admitidos únicamente los iniciados, y en que cada uno de ellos toma por máscara la cabeza de su animal totémico. “Si los trogloditas pensaban como los Aruntas de la Australia actual (dice Reinach), las ceremonias que cumplían delante de estas efigies, debían tener por objeto asegurar la multiplicación de los elefantes, de los toros salvajes, de los caballos, de los ciervos que les servían de alimento. Trataban también de atraerlos a los alrededores de la caverna, por creer, según un principio de física salvaje, que un espíritu o un animal puede ser compelido a vivir en el sitio donde ha sido representado su cuerpo”. Todo esto no pasa hasta ahora de hipótesis plausibles e ingeniosas, y algunos detalles pecan quizá de sutiles, pero en general, puede admitirse como la mejor explicación del origen y desarrollo del arte en la época del reno, la idea mística de la evocación por el dibujo o por el relieve, análoga a la invocación por la palabra».

Yosef Garfinkel, que es, con Emmanuel Anati, uno de los nombres que andan por todas partes en los estudios en otros tiempos (y que haya tan pocas autoridades sobre una manteria ue en la cerámica china y las pinturas rupestres australianas se piensan que son patas de insecto o costillas salientes. Pieza del Museo de Gansu Yosef Garfinkel, que es, con Emmanuel Anati, uno de los nombres que andan por todas partes en los estudios sobre danza antigua, al igual que Breuil en otros tiempos (y que haya tan pocas autoridades sobre una materia)  

De todo esto extraemos que la danza se aprende. Sólo el pulso es innato: todo lo demás, por genuinamente propio que nos parezca procede del estudio. ¿Qué más chino que el interminable león que baila desfilando por los barrios chinos de nuestras ciudades occidentales? Y, sin embargo, es iranio. Ahora bien, ¿cómo se aprende? Ante todo, a través de tres elementos.

El primero es el maestro. En España no han faltado muchos y muy buenos. Al prologar el tratado de Rocío Espada, José Blas Vega cita, con notables errores y omisiones, los manuales de Baltasar de Rojas Pantoja (compuesto por Juan Antonio Jaque), Juan de Esquivel Navarro, Bartolomé Ferriol y Boxeraus (discípulo de Pierre Rameau), Pablo Mínguez e Irol, Antonio Cairón, Manuel Justo Menor, José Otero Aranda, Trini Borrull, Manuel García Matos o Teresa Martínez de la Peña358

Antonio Cairón, Compendio de las principales reglas del baile, Madrid, Repullés, 1820, pp. 1-4.

La exagerada disciplina que impone el ballet, sus sacrificios, la dictadura del maestro, la jerarquía de los danzantes, es, aparte del éxito de los Ballets Rusos antes del advenimiento de la URSS, una de las razones de su gran predicamento entre los países totalitarios, y especialmente los socialistas, mucho más incluso que la ópera. Hergé dibuja a la diva Castafiore como un elemento al que le están permitidos espacios cerrados para la mayoría en una dictadura de corte estalinista, pero en Torn Curtain (1966) de Alfred Hitchcock, con guion de Brian Moore, tenemos a la atrabiliaria y ególatra bailarina socialista que forma una parte indiscutible del aparato del Estado. El Ballet Nacional de Cuba pesa tanto o más que un ministerio y, si Fidel Castro es un hombre que marca el siglo XX, hay que recordar que Alicia Alonso nació antes que él y sigue viva en el momento de escribir estas líneas y esperemos que mucho después.

Carlo Blasis: «La reflexión, la meditación, la curiosidad, la admiración, la observación movieron el genio de Galileo y de los otros matemáticos, astrónomos y filósofos; Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Alamanni escribieron animados por el amor patrio; Dante, Casti, Maquiavelo, mostraron hasta dónde lleva el coraje civil; Aquiles, César, Ferruccio fueron tipos de coraje militar; el ardor, el ansia de novedad, la curiosidad, fueron el estímulo del genio de Colón; las grandes pasiones, desaforadas, sublimes terribiles, guiaron el pincel y el cincel de Miguel Ángel; el amor de la belleza, a lo celeste, a lo divino formaron el genio de Rafael; el amor propio, la emulación, el amor de la gloria, de la inmortalidad, el entusiasmo, la ambición, el sentimiento religioso, el amor patrio han formado a los grandes escritores, artistas, guerreros, a los filósofos ilustres; la bilis (poderosísimo motor de nuestro ánimo), la envidia, los celos, el odio, la cólera, la malicia, la calumnia, el temor, la venganza han también contribuido a un número infinito de obras, las cuales han naturalmente honrado más la actividad y la versatilidad del genio que el corazón. Las pasiones que engrandecen el genio deberían ser las únicas inspiradoras de los hombres, de donde hacer cosas bellas, porque las pasiones viciosas no tienen en el fondo más que la ceguera y la injusticia».

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

Six Baudelaires AU, Part One {AO3} {Read from the Beginning}

Chapter Thirty → Epilogue - in which the Baudelaires are enrolled in a School 

“Baudelaires, I hope you know I am very disappointed in you.”

The Baudelaires sat on the steps of Lucky Smells Lumbermill, trying not to look at Mr Poe, who stood above them coughing into his handkerchief.

“Running away from the executor of your parents’ estate?” Poe said. “Enrolling in a dangerous job? Acting like Count Olaf was running around in a dress?”

“He was.” Nick said.

“Don’t be daft, Nicholas.”

“My name is Nick.” said Nick sharply.

“Of course it is.” Poe coughed. “Now, children, say goodbye to your friends- where is the owner of this mill? I have some words for him for exploiting our poor child labor laws.”

“He disappeared.” Violet explained. “Ran from the angry workers who decided they didn’t want to get paid in coupons.”

“I had a secretary once who requested pay in coupons.” Poe said. “I don’t believe she knew much about money, which is a strange quality in a banker’s assistant. I will be right back, let me at least find your things.”

He walked away, and as he did, Charles approached. “I’m sorry to see you go, children.” he said softly. “And I’m sorry I was not a good guardian, though I was never an official one.”

“It’s alright, Charles.” Lilac said.

“We weren’t supposed to be here anyway.” Violet said glumly.

“Well…” Charles said hesitantly. “You should at least have this. Sir stuffed it in his desk.”

Charles handed Violet a ripped piece of paper. Then he gave them a smile and wished them luck, and walked off to try and talk to the frustrated workers, who were trying to form a union.

Violet unfolded the paper, smiling at the page from The History of Lucky Smells Lumbermill. “The Baudelaires were unequivocally responsible,” she read, “For putting out the fire and helping the survivors get back on their feet.”

She smiled at her siblings, and they smiled back at her. Babbitt poked their head out from Solitude’s pocket, and they let out a little chirp. Solitude giggled, petting their head, and Violet put her head on Lilac’s shoulder, and Nick put his arm around Klaus, and Sunny crawled over to Soli in order to say hello to Babbitt.

“So,” Lilac asked, staring out the window, “What’s our next guardian’s name?”

They were squeezed back into Poe’s car, once again dressed in clothes the Poes had bought for them, watching the fields go by as they drove. They had gotten in the car very early that morning, as they apparently had a long drive.

“Next guardian?” Poe coughed. “Oh, no, I couldn’t find a single person willing to take you in after what happened to your last guardians. But I have a place to put you until I can convince someone. It’s a lovely school, one of my associates just dropped off two twin orphans there a few weeks ago. I’ve always wanted to go to a boarding school!  You’ll get uniforms and classmates and get to share rooms!”

“We’ve shared rooms before.” Nick said bitterly. “And public school sucks.”

“Private school.” Poe corrected.

“That’s worse.” Nick groaned, sliding down his seat in a very unsafe way.

“How long will we be there?” Klaus asked quietly, holding Sunny closely as she slept on his lap.

“Hopefully not long, but I do hope you will behave yourselves, and that you won’t run away to a lumbermill.” Poe said.

“Lumbermills suck, too.” Violet said.

“Froggy.” Solitude added helpfully. Babbitt chirped from her pocket.

“What was that noise?” Poe asked.

“Nothing.” Lilac said.

“Oh, alright.” Poe shrugged, and continued driving.

As they pulled into the driveway of the school, Poe said, “Here’s some fun trivia for you children: the designer of this school was severely depressed.”

“Mood.” said Nick.

Outside them, small buildings were built in the rough shape of tombstones, made of dark gray stone. Students in drab uniforms walked around, barely glancing their way. Sunny had awoken, and was playing with Klaus’s spyglass, flipping it in her tiny hands and occasionally biting the edge when Klaus wasn’t looking. Violet pretended to sleep on Nick’s shoulder, while he watched out the window.

Poe parked the car, and the children walked out. They jumped back when a little girl, shorter than all of the oldest four children, rushed past, splashing through a mud puddle. “Out of my way, cakesniffers!” she shouted, almost hitting them with the dirt.

“What an adorable girl.” Poe said as he exited the car, coughing into his handkerchief.

Nick glared at her, gripping tight onto Klaus with one arm and Solitude with another. Lilac took Sunny from Klaus, and Poe said, “We’ll find you the bathrooms, children, and you can change into your uniforms.”

They went into the building, and Nick walked up to the first student he came across. “If I was a bathroom,” he asked, “Where would I be?”

The girl gave him a sullen look, and then said, “Two rights, a left.”

“Thank you.” Violet said.

The girl rolled her eyes, and her friend called for her, and she left. The children found the bathrooms, and Poe gave them bags of uniforms, including some tiny ones for Solitude and Sunny. They ducked into the bathrooms as fast as they could, not wanting to be separate for long.

Nick and Klaus changed in the boys’ bathroom, and when they came out of the stalls, Klaus asked, “Can you tie my tie?”

“Do it yourself.” Nick said.

“I can’t.” Klaus said. “That’s why I asked.”

They jumped when another stall opened, and a boy came out. He glanced at the boys, and he said, “Are you two new?”

“First day.” Nick said.

Klaus stared at the boy a moment, a little flustered, though he wasn’t sure why. The boy looked at him, and then he said, “I’d help you with your tie, but I can’t tie mine without some trouble. My sister usually helps.”

“So does mine.” Klaus admitted.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, my brother’s useless.” Nick shrugged.

“I’m not!” Klaus protested.

Nick punched his shoulder playfully, and Klaus stumbled slightly. His half-spyglass fell from his pocket, clattering onto the ground. “Great job, asshole!” Klaus shouted, leaning down and picking up the spyglass.

“You’re the one who’s a klutz!” Nick said.

Neither twin noticed the other boy, who was staring at the spot where the spyglass had fallen on the ground, nor did they notice him run out to find his sister.

When they came out of the bathroom, Violet had to tie Klaus’s tie for him, and Nick helped Solitude find a pocket to hide Babbitt inside.

“Your new Vice Principal is waiting for you in his office. You will wait for him on the bench outside.” Poe said, taking them down a hall. “And I will see you once I have found a guardian. Please behave yourselves as you would at a normal school.”

“Our normal school burned down with our parents inside.” Nick said.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nicholas,” Poe said, “Your home burned down with your parents inside.”

Nick give Lilac a pleading can we kill him? look, and she sternly shook her head.

“Well, I wish you luck.” Poe said, and he left them alone.

Lilac sat on the bench first, seating Sunny on her lap. Klaus sat beside her, and Nick squeezed in beside him, grabbing onto his arm tightly as Solitude sat on his lap, patting her pet in her pocket. Violet sat last, beside her brothers, staring into nothing.

“When do you think Poe will come back?” Klaus asked, pulling the spyglass out of his pocket to fiddle with.

“Klaus.” Violet said quietly. “We’re on our own.”

They all fell silent, and then Sunny looked up at Lilac. She was still tired, and she whispered, “Browning?” which meant something similar to, “Will you sing us to sleep?”

Lilac shut her eyes, gripping onto Klaus’s hand, and she put her other arm around Sunny, and she nodded.

“You might think that the Baudelaires ought to prevail, and be tucked someplace all safe and sound.”

She was changing the words slightly to an old tune they used to hear on the radio when they were bored, and on a music box that was given to the boys when they were toddlers by a relative they hadn’t liked much before she was trampled by horses, and playing in a coffeeshop their Father had to duck into one time they were heading to the train station to pick up their Mother from a journey.

“Count Olaf captured and rotting in jail, his henchpeople nowhere around.”

But while the radio and the horses and the coffeeshop and train station all remained, the music box had been lost long before the fire- Lilac and Violet had ripped it apart to use its parts for the a baby mobile they’d made for Solitude before she was born.

“But there’s no happy endings, not here and not now; this tale is all sorrows and woes.”

The relative was gone, too. The train they took no longer went to the destination their Mother had been at.

“You dream that justice and peace win the day, but that’s not how the story goes.”

Their Father and Mother were gone, too.

“You might think that two parents, both brave and both true, would live to a nice ripe old age. But I’m sad to say I have bad news for you, the curtain rings down on the stage.”

Violet opened her mouth, and so did Klaus, and they sang along with their big sister.

“Yes, there’s no happy endings, not here and not now. This tale is all sorrows and woes. You dream that justice and peace win the day…”

Nick joined in, and Solitude hummed slightly as she cuddled up against him.

“But that’s not how the story goes.”

The siblings fell silent, and it was just Lilac again.

“I once loved a girl, and she thought well of me, we thought we’d be happy together. But now I’m alone, as you can well see, and she’s cold in her grave forever.”

Lilac shut her eyes. Too many people were cold in their graves forever. Mother. Father. Uncle Monty and his assistant, Gustav. Aunt Josephine- if she had a grave at all- and her dear husband Ike. Soon, Georgina Orwell would be, too, though they didn’t miss her like they did the others. Still… her death was their fault. It was all their fault.

Nick sang the next line, when Lilac did not.

“There’s no happy endings, not here and not now.”

Klaus and Violet sang the next.

“This tale is all sorrows and woes.”

Then it was just Violet, her voice broken slightly.

“You might dream that justice and peace win the day, but that’s not how the story goes.”  

Solitude had fallen asleep, as well as Babbitt, and as they both snored slightly against Nick, he sang quietly, “The world is a pair of ill-fitting pants, and other dire, hideous clothes.”

Lilac finally sang again, and Klaus and Violet joined in, and all the oldest children sang, “You might think that six children would lead pleasant lives, but that’s not how the story goes.”

“Some people smile at the end of the day,” Klaus put his head on Nick’s shoulder.

“Some people laugh, I suppose,” Nick put his head against his brother’s, shutting his eyes.

“But for me,” Violet shut her eyes so her siblings couldn’t see her tears, “There’s nothing but gloom and despair.”

“That’s just how the story goes.” Lilac hugged Sunny close, as Sunny started to whistle quietly, kicking her legs, not quite understanding the song that was making her siblings cry.

And together, they all said, “That’s just how the story goes.” 

[im-goin-mad]

new weird pairing unlocked: tang lin zao x tan-sun moon (sir gustav graves)

[sincerelybluevase]

Fairy Tale Retellings, Little Red Riding Hood: Rouge, Part Four

Part One- Part Two- Part Three

A falling leaf brushed her ear. “Hurry,” it whispered. It landed on the sandy road and scuttled away.

Poivre twisted her head to see the oaks and willows and birches wearing their golden autumn crowns. She placed her hand against a birch, its white stem and inky markings so like her own.

Another leaf fell. It rested in the crook of her neck for a moment, its tip stroking her cheek like a dry finger. “Hurry, Poivre,” it murmured, before whirling out of her reach, skipping over the road and into the bracken.

“I’ll hurry. It’s not much further,” she said.

“Then hurry,” the trees sang.

She took another step.

***

She was out in the fields when Colette came to her.

Her sister was running, her long braid dancing around her, soft and supple like a snake. Her cheeks were red. “Poivre!”

Poivre straightened and tucked a lock of her own colourless hair behind her ear. “What is it?”

“Come quick!” Colette grabbed her arm and pulled her along. “There’s a fairy, and I think he and papa are going to come to blows over you!”

“What do you mean, they’re fighting over me? And what fairy?” she asked her sister.

“There’s a fairy that says he’s going to marry you and take you away, but papa won’t let him,” Colette panted.

Wolfsbane?!

“I’ll finish here for you,” Colette offered.

Poivre gave her a grateful nod, bunched her skirts up with her hands, and ran, the corn stroking her bare legs, whispering encouragements. Her heart hammered in her chest. Sweat trickled down her back, causing her dress to chafe and rub. For once, though, she hardly felt the prickle of her skin, its insistent stinging.

Jean stood in front of the farm, four other men from the village behind him. One had a shovel, another a gun. The two others had cudgels.

Wolfsbane was only a couple of feet away from the men, his hands balled into fists, his head held high. “Sir, I…” he started.

“Get off my property, and never come near Poivre again. I won’t ask another time, you filthy fairy,” Jean snarled, pushing up his sleeves, showing his arms corded with muscle.

Wolfsbane went crimson. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Very well, sir. Just know that I intend to marry Poivre. I prefer to do it with your permission, but it won’t stop me if you refuse.”

“Wolfsbane!” Poivre cried out.

He turned to her, golden eyes sparkling. He smiled, and took a step towards her, but Gustave blocked his way, stroking his cudgel lovingly. “Not so fast, fairy,” he said.

“Don’t be an idiot, Gustave,” Poivre panted. She pressed a hand against her chest. Her heart was beating painfully fast.

Wolfsbane stretched his hand towards her, tried to walk past Gustave, but the other man shoved his chest, pushing him back. Wolfsbane narrowed his eyes, upper lip curling into a snarl.

“You heard Jean. He wants you gone, and you’re not to take the fairy girl with you,” Gustave whispered.

“And go I shall, but I’m taking Poivre with me.”

Her heart pitter-pattered in her chest. Her eyes burned with emotion. “Wolfsbane…”

“You’re not taking anyone with you. Poivre belongs to this village,” Jean said, cracking his knuckles. The sound was loud, like a gunshot.

“She’s not an object!” Wolfsbane snarled.

“Look at him, totally smitten with slivering, slithering Poivre,” Gustave snarled. He turned his head to Pierre, the man with the gun. “Doesn’t it just make you want to retch?” They started to laugh, high and sharp and horrible, like magpies.

“Do they rut together, do you think?” Pierre asked.

Jean gagged.

“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here.” She’d meant to scream it, but her mouth had become parched, and it came out as a hushed whisper.

“Do you?” Gustave asked, poking Wolfsbane with his wooden stick. “Do you rut with her? Do you do it like dogs do, or like lizards?” He almost smashed the end of his cudgel against Wolfsbane’s ribs, causing the fairy to grunt in pain. “I bet that’s the sound you make when you’re ploughing her field,” Gustave sneered.

Poivre balled her hands into fists. Something inside her twisted and curled. I’m going to hit him, she thought, and marched towards Gustave, hands balled into tremulous fists.

Wolfsbane was faster, though. His fist connected with Gustave’s stomach. The man grunted and doubled over, allowing Wolfsbane to punch his face with his other hand. Gustave’s cudgel clattered to the ground. He dropped to his knees only seconds later.

Wolfsbane grabbed his throat with his left hand. He’d barred his teeth. His canines were sharp and almost impossibly white, flashing in the autumn light. “Talk about her like that again and you’re a dead man,” he whispered. Magic curled inside his mouth, dark and twisting like a black ribbon. “Pray tell me: do you prefer to be a dog, or a lizard?”

“Wolfsbane, no!” Poivre yelled. Her cry was punctuated by a gunshot.

The bullet hit Wolfsbane in the shoulder, ripping straight through his muscles, exiting on the other side with a spray of blood. Wolfsbane tilted his head, as if listening to a strain of melody only he could hear. Then, he collapsed, falling almost on Gustave. The magic died in his mouth. He exhaled, a shudder racking his body. The spell fell between his teeth like a dead thing, and curled up and disappeared before hitting the ground.

“What have you done?!” Poivre screamed. She turned to Pierre. She’d rip his throat out with her bare hands. She’d smash his face in with her boots. She’d…

Wolfsbane tried to stand. He doubled over and coughed. Blood so dark it seemed black dripped holes in the sand.

“Iron bullet,” Pierre said.

“Best thing against fairies,” Jean said. “Just finish him, will you?”

“I only had one bullet.”

“You don’t shoot vermin; you crush it,” Gustave rasped. He got to his feet, reaching for his cudgel, murder written in his eyes.

“Wolfsbane, run!”

She launched herself at Gustave, nails catching the soft flesh of his cheek and ripping it. He howled and swung his stick at her. She ducked and kicked against his ankle, causing him to hit the ground again. She stepped on his hand holding the cudgel, stomped on his fingers till she heard them snap like twigs. Gustave screamed, but she wasn’t done yet.

She looked over her shoulder. Wolfsbane was making his way towards the woods, Jean on his heels. Were they talking? Maybe they were, but she couldn’t hear anything but her own heart thumping.

He’ll never make it, she thought. But if he makes it, he’s safe. He can go to grand-maman. Humans don’t go into the forest; only members of the Fair Folk dare to.

“You bitch!” Gustave moaned, palm rubbing past her cheek as he reached for her hair. He wound his fingers in her short tresses and yanked. She screamed as pain ripped through her scalp, then rammed her elbow against Gustave’s stomach. He let go, air escaping his lungs in a soft sigh.

They’ve murdered Wolfsbane, she thought as she sat down on Gustave’s chest. They’ve murdered the love of my life. Her fist connected with Gustave’s face. His nose cracked. Blood poured from his nostrils. It was obscenely red against her white hands, and warm, too. Her hands were slick with it as she hit him again, her fingers slipping on his bronzed skin.

Someone pulled her away. She screamed and struggled, but the hands around her arms and legs were hard like iron, hard like stone.

“We can’t hurt her. What would the village do without a fairy?” Pierre grunted.

“Put her in the basement. It has a lock,” Jean said.

“What about that other fairy?”

Jean set his jaw. “He’s gone into the forest. I daren’t follow. Not alone, at any rate. We’ll go after him later, with a dozen men.”

She twisted and clawed at his face. She aimed for his eyes, but scratched his nose instead. He yelped and raised a hand to slap her, then lowered it. “This village might need a fairy,” he hissed, “but that fairy doesn’t need to have two working legs. Do it again and I’ll break one for you.”

“You’ve murdered him!” she howled. “You’ve murdered him you’ve murdered him you’ve murdered him…”

They dragged her to the farm and brought her inside. She held on to the doorframe, but Gustave came with murder written in his eyes, raising his cudgel to bring it down on her hands. She let go, then, allowing the men to drag her through the living room, towards the basement.

“You’re dead men,” she sobbed. If only she’d been taught how to do proper magic by grand-maman…

They threw her in. Poivre tumbled down the stairs, each step another blow against her ribs, her back, her skull. She landed on the floor in a tangle of limbs and skirts, the taste of pennies in her mouth. The soft click of the lock didn’t stop her from crawling up and hammering against the door. She put her hand around the handle, but it was iron, and she had to pull away or risk her skin blistering and melting.

“Amélie would twist in her grave!” she screamed.

“You shut up, or I’ll come in and make you!” Jean hollered back.

She rested her head against the thick wood. “I won’t do anything for you,” she said. “When I get out of here…”

“When you get out of there, your little bed-fellow will be nothing but ashes and bones,” Gustave said, words strange and twisted. Had she split his lip, or had Wolfsbane done it?

She sobbed again, and buried her face in her hands.

Oh, Wolfsbane, why did you ever come back?

***

Later, when her throat was raw from screaming and her nails had broken on the unforgiving wood of the door, the lock clicked again.

The sounds beyond had stilled a while ago. The men who had gathered at the farm had drunken cheap wine and beer to give themselves courage, and had either fallen asleep or left for the forest. Poivre prayed for the former, but feared the latter.

The door swung open, the hinges moaning.

Poivre flew at the person on the threshold, her teeth bared. Her hands had closed around the slender neck before she realised who it was.

Colette stared at her with huge eyes, her skin chalky white. “It’s only me,” she whispered.

Poivre let her sister go and slumped down against the wall, another sob racking through her body. “Why are you here?” she asked.

Colette sat down next to her and draped her arms around her, kissing her pale hair. “I couldn’t come before, but now, they’ve all gone to the forest, to grand-maman. They said they’re hunting a fairy. They said you’ve lost your mind. Father Gabriel is with them. He said they must purge the forest of sin.”

Poivre laughed. It sounded bitter and hollow, not like her at all. “They’re going to murder him.”

“They must find him, first.” Colette pulled Poivre’s hands from her face and forced her to look at her. “They’ve gone into the forest now that it’s still light. They’re scared. They don’t know the way. But you, you’ve gone into the forest dozens of times…”

If I find him before they do…

Colette stood and brushed the dust from her skirt. She pulled Poivre up and out of the basement, into the living room. The table was littered with empty mugs and bottles. A basket with a red cloth stood in the centre. Colette took the basket in her arms and pushed the cloth away, revealing what was inside. “You must take it and never come back, even if you don’t find that fairy in time.”

Poivre narrowed her eyes into slits. “Why are you doing this?”

Colette looked up at her. Her eyes were moist. A tear dripped down her round cheek. “Because you are my sister.”

Poivre pulled her into a hug. Her bones were sore from her fight and the tumble down the stairs, but she took their complaining as an encouragement to embrace Colette harder. “You’re the only one I will miss from this place, you and grand-maman,” she whispered.

“Just… just don’t hurt papa, please?”

Poivre let go and took the basket in her hand. It was heavy. She put it in the crook of her elbow, testing its weight.

“Please,” Colette pleaded, taking Poivre’s dry hand in her own.

“I’ll do my best, but only because you’ve asked me,” Poivre said slowly.

Colette helped her in her red coat, buttoning it up as if Poivre was a child.

Poivre kissed her sister’s knuckles. Then, she pulled her hand back and went to the kitchen, slipping a knife in her basket.

Colette was crying in soft, tired sobs.

For a moment, Poivre thought about going back to the living room and comforting her, but Wolfsbane had been shot with iron, and there were men hunting him. He needed her more than her sister had ever needed her.

She looked at the bottle of wine in her basket, at the slices of fae bread and cheese wrapped lovingly by her sister of more than twenty years.

She’s my past, but Wolfsbane is my future.

She left the farm behind her without looking back.

[rufeepeach]

Fic: Happiness in Exchange

Title: Happiness in Exchange Rating: M/NC-17 Word count: 18,567  Summary: When Belle ascends to the throne of Avonlea after her father's death, shocks the court when she appoints the mysterious Lord Gold, the new owner of half her lands, as her Chancellor. Alone in a realm of strangers, finding themselves united against a common enemy, an unlikely partnership is born. But with everyone waiting for the Princess to marry, Belle has a choice to make: to fight to rule alone, or to find a partner who can meet her halfway.

A/N: HAPPY RCIJ @junoinferno​!!! Hope you enjoy this (loose) Victoria/Melbourne AU!!

On AO3 here 

---

“Presenting, for the first time: Her Royal Highness, Belle, Princess of Avonlea!”

The announcer’s voice rang out through the ballroom, and Belle took a confident step forward, out of the shadows and into the light. The metaphor was not lost on her, as she blinked out at a sea of strange, unfamiliar faces staring back. They were applauding, cheering, but how could they not? She was their ruler now, their young, completely unexpected ruler. For all they knew she would hold public executions for dissenters.

Belle took two more steps forward, once the applause had died down, and came to the top of the staircase. She gave a deep curtsey, and descended slowly, allowing everyone to look their fill. Her skin crawled. Belle hadn’t been the centre of attention this way since her betrothal ball, over a decade ago. Then, they had eyed her ten-year-old body seeking signs of fertility, deciding whether Lord and Lady Gaston had made the right choice for their son.

Now, there were bigger questions to ask: did this girl-child, barely out of her teens, a stranger in her own castle, have the mental and physical capacity to rule Avonlea? Had the realm made the right choice, allowing her to take the throne?

She had been away from home for nearly a decade, sent to live with her betrothed and his family when the ogre war broke out once more. She might never have returned had her father not died suddenly, leaving Belle as his only heir. So much had changed since then. She barely knew most of the faces staring back at her; they certainly did not know her.

She had left Avonlea a scared child, missing her parents: she returned an adult, and an orphan.

Belle tried not to shake under their scrutiny. She was glad of a familiar face to greet her at the foot of the stairs. She hadn’t seen Ruby since they were children: she almost didn’t recognise the beautiful, willowy young woman as Avonlea’s ten-year-old tree-climbing champion. That was until Ruby smiled, and suddenly they were children again, and for a moment she forgot her self-consciousness in how happy she was to see her oldest friend.  

“Your highness!” Ruby hugged her tight, “Welcome home!”

“It’s good to be home,” Belle grinned, remembering her manners only a moment later and pulling back. “I missed the sea.”

“The mountains always look so gloomy,” Ruby said. Her eyes turned grave and serious for a moment, “I am so sorry about your father, your highness. He was a great leader, and we all mourn him.”

There were respectful nods from the crowd, the people listening who weren’t polite enough to pretend not to. Belle swallowed, hard.

“He died on horseback,” she said, the answer she had prepared for this inevitable moment. “The stag in his sights. It is how he would have wanted to end, if he’d been asked.”

“He’ll be remembered a hero, your highness,” Lady Lucas assured her, warmly. She squeezed Belle’s hand. Belle wished for a moment that she was a child again, and able to grab Ruby’s hand and run away to the kitchens to steal sweet rolls, unmissed by the court. Back then no one called her ‘your highness’. But back then, everyone had expected a male heir, and for Maurice’s bookish daughter to never have a chance at the throne.

“Thank you, Ru- Lady Lucas,” Belle said, remembering herself. “Your kindness means the world, as it always has.”

Ruby smiled, and leaned in close, “If you need anything just let me know.” Belle nodded. “It’s so good to have you home, Belles!”

“What do I do now?” she asked, under her breath. “I don’t like them all staring at me.”

“Music,” Ruby advised, after a moment. “Call for music.”

Belle smiled, and stepped back, and did just that. The crowd cheered, the dances began anew, and music replaced the hush that had fallen over the room.

Ruby took Belle’s arm, and led her around the ballroom slowly, introducing her to old friends and new additions to the court, in particular her father’s favourites. She met young Lady Snow and her husband James; General Fa and his daughter Mulan, poised to take his place upon his retirement; Lord George, Belle’s father’s closest confidante, and his wife, who were James’ parents; it seemed Ruby knew everyone.

However, despite how often they veered close to him, there was a man Belle didn’t recognise, whom Ruby never seemed to introduce. He was slight, older, a distinctive gold-topped cane in his hand, and dressed in darker fabrics than any other man present. In a year when bright emeralds and rich blues were the fashion, the stranger’s blacks and browns made him a shadow in a sea of colour. A shadow Ruby seemed to be going out of her way to avoid.

He didn’t speak to anyone, she noticed, even while she spoke to everyone. She discussed the latest routing of the ogres’ forces in the Frontlands with General Fa, and crop rotations with Freeman Leroy and his wife; she discussed the formation of a new High Council with Lord George, who hinted heavily at his desire for a seat, and the latest dances with Lady Snow. But every now and then, her eyes strayed back to that slight, dark figure circling the outer rim of every conversation, never saying a word.

“Hey,” Belle said, when there was at last a lull in their meetings, “Who is that?”

“Who is who, your highness?” Ruby asked, and Belle rolled her eyes.

“Him!” she said, gesturing as discreetly as she could to the man in question, who was glowering over a goblet of wine. Ruby’s eyes flicked to where she had pointed, and she sighed.

“He’s no one,” Ruby said, brusquely. “Definitely no one worth talking to, anyway.”

“Then why is he here?” Belle asked. “This is an affair of state, surely we’re not allowing in total strangers!”

“He’s here because he owns half the land,” Ruby told her. “So he gets an invite so he won’t make trouble. We all pretend he isn’t here, he leaves early, it all works out.”

“If he owns half the realm then he’s someone I should know,” Belle argued. “If he’s that important.”

“You shouldn’t have to put up with him,” Ruby insisted. “He’s rude, and an upstart, and he and your dad hated each other.”

“At least let me know his name, so I’ll know it when I hear it?” Belle asked. Ruby sighed, and relented. “Who is that?”

“His name is Lord Gold,” Ruby sighed, reluctantly. “Ugh, Granny made me swear I wouldn’t let you near him.”

“Lord Gold,” Belle repeated, nodding. It suited him. “So he just came from nowhere, and bought half the land?”

“You know the law,” Ruby said, “Technically the throne owns all of Avonlea. But apparently Sir Maurice granted him a thousand-year lease, so he’s as good as bought it outright. Half your people are his tenants.”

“I see,” Belle murmured. “Well, thank you. That’s very helpful.”

“Any time,” Ruby replied, smiling, apparently relieved the topic of Lord Gold had been dropped. She was about to speak again, but she was interrupted by a tall, dark, handsome young man with a warm smile, who tapped her on her shoulder.

“Excuse me, your highness,” he said. “May I steal Lady Lucas for a dance?”

“Billy!” Ruby swatted his arm, “I’m in the middle of introducing her highness to everyone Granny thinks she needs to know.”

“Billy?” Belle blinked at him, trying to reconcile this dashing young man with the round little boy who’d followed them around as children. “Sir William Gustav, Is that you?”

“Your highness,” Billy grinned, and bowed. “It’s great to have you back at court.”

“And you’re dancing with Ruby now,” Belle turned to Ruby, and raised an eyebrow. “Anything your Princess should know about?” she asked.

“Bil-Sir William is a really great dancer,” Ruby said, defensively.

“I’m sure he is,” Belle laughed. “It’s okay, Billy, you’re welcome to steal her. I’m just going to do a lap on my own, I think.”

“Come grab me if you need me!” Ruby cried, as Billy gratefully tugged her away toward the dance floor. Belle watched with amusement, and wondered how long it would be before there was another ball, celebrating their engagement.

Her absence, Belle had to admit, was welcome. It gave Belle a chance to step back, out of the crowd, and into a darker part of the room. Belle had never been a fan of crowds, and had known her coronation ball would be a trial. She promised she would return to the festivities soon. She’d just always felt more at home leaning against a wall, watching the dancers, than she had participating. The stone was cool, unyielding, ever lasting. For a moment, she’d never gone away, and nothing had changed. Her father would scold her for her shyness; her mother would spirit her away to the library under the guise of bedtime. The music from the party would lull her to sleep late into the night, safe and warm.

“Your highness,” a low murmur, softly accented, broke through her reverie. She glanced sidelong at the interloper, and found herself staring into the intense dark eyes of Lord Gold himself.

“Your lordship,” she said, politely. “Are you enjoying the party?”

“Are you?” Gold countered. Belle didn’t know how to respond to that.

“I… yes, of course I am,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“In my experience, young women who enjoy parties don’t tend to hide in corners.”

“I am not hiding,” she said, hotly. “You forget yourself, sir.”

Lord Gold laughed, a low chuckle that reverberated in Belle’s bones. “I assure you, forgetting myself is not in my nature,” he said. Something about the way he said it made something coil in the pit of Belle’s stomach.

“You forget your manners, then,” she retaliated. He eyed her.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But then, I hate these sorts of gatherings, and the sorts of people who attend them.”

Something about his intense gaze and his peremptory manner set Belle’s teeth on edge, and she heard herself retorting, “You attended, did you not, sir?”

“I did,” he said. “I was curious about you, I admit.”

“Dare I ask your first impression?”

He smiled, thinly. “You’re a decent public speaker,” he said, after a moment, “Beautiful enough, smiling, approachable, but insubstantial. Your remarks are over-rehearsed, and empty. Better than your father, who didn’t believe in thinking at all before he spoke, but the fact remains. You have been trained in courtly manners, I suppose, and your manners are really very pretty. Hardly your fault all that dancing and curtseying crowds the brain.”

Belle’s face flushed red, then paled, then flushed again. She didn’t think she’d ever been angrier in her life. For a moment, she wanted to slap the smirk right off his handsome face, or maybe land a sharp knee to his groin. She’d gotten rather good at that, fending off he former betrothed’s advances.

Then, for just a second, she saw the flash of challenge in his eyes, the gleam that begged her to retaliate. He was curious about her, he’d said. Perhaps this was a test.

“You are Lord Gold?” She asked, as if she didn’t already know. He nodded. ”You’ve bought up my father’s land, I hear,” she said. He inclined his head again, ineffably elegant with his heels aligned and his cane between his feet.

“You hear correctly.”

“Then I expect the leases to be brought to my steward within three days,” she said, pulling herself up to her full, unimpressive height. “I wish to review the terms.”

A flash of surprise crossed Lord Gold’s face. “Whatever for?” he asked, as if the concept mystified him. Belle smiled.

“As you so astutely noted, Lord Gold, my late father often acted before thinking. I worry now that you may well have ensnared him in deals he did not understand. Given that the land is rightfully mine, I will need to review all contracts pertaining to it before I continue any on-going relationships. If they are not to my liking, I am sure you will be reasonable enough to negotiate.”

“My contracts are airtight, your highness,” he assured her. She smiled.

“Then I’m certain we won’t have a problem,” she said. “I look forward to discussing them in due course. Lord Gold,” she curtseyed deeply, and grinned as she came up. He inclined his head, and looked a little lost for words, his bow automatic and stiff. Belle didn’t think she’d ever felt happier.

“Still curious?” she asked, softly. She didn’t know what made her do it, but something about his dumbstruck face made her mischievous.

“Immensely,” he admitted. Something like electricity ran down Belle’s spine.

She swallowed hard, and walked back toward the crowd, leaving Lord Gold at home in the shadows.

Belle had never seen such complex, well-drafted leases.

She had begun her perusal certain she would find egregious demands and unfair terms, loopholes large enough to ride elephants through. She had intended to find a way to discredit Lord Gold, and force him to renegotiate. If he intended to remain a permanent tenant, with controlling interests over two-thirds of her farmlands and most of the forest, they had to work together.

But the more she read the more those hopes died. Gold had been ruthlessly thorough: every contingency was planned for, every loophole efficiently plugged. The more Belle read through the pages of agreements, the more she realised where the real power in Avonlea had sat, since the end of the war that had taken her mother and ravaged the land. Her father had, in all likelihood, been the puppet of Lord Gold – who ran the countryside – and Lord George – who ran the city.

Lord George’s family had held controlling interests in Avonlea’s only city for generations: it was a hereditary right, and one no Princess could hope to sever. The country had always been the counterbalance, the seat of true loyalty and wealth in Avonlea, controlled by the throne. Gold’s intervention threw off that balance.

Belle couldn’t imagine, no matter how huge the sum of money Gold offered, why her father would have agreed to sign away half his realm. There was something she was missing, something to make sense of all of this.

Had the money been enough to turn the tide of the ogre war? Belle had been kept safe, sent to live with her betrothed when the first ogre attacks hit Avonlea, protected in a citadel far from her war-torn home. She had been amazed, upon her return, to see Avonlea looking so strong and prosperous. Had Gold done that? Had his wealth and clear administrative talent won not only the war, but also the peace? If so, what was he doing living as a country squire, in a mansion on the edge of the realm? His talents were certainly better utilised closer to home.

Belle had trained herself in these administrative tasks, the day-to-day running of a kingdom. Gaston’s homeland had been the Marchlands, and she had expected to rule it someday, while her husband hunted and wenched. She knew that money did not solve everything. She couldn’t imagine how any sum could have accomplished so much in so little time. So how had Gold done it? She knew for a fact George and her father hadn’t the talent, so it had to be him, but how?

“What’s all this?”

Belle’s head shot up, startled by Ruby’s sudden entrance into her study. The other woman bustled forward, her eyes on the papers spread out on Belle’s desk.

“Ruby, you startled me!” she laughed.

“Sorry, Belles,” Ruby apologised. “I just thought you’d be reading or sewing or something. This all looks so official.”

“Well, you told me Lord Gold owns half my land,” Belle reminded her. “So I asked him to deliver the leases this morning so I could read them for myself.”

“Do you want me to call for Lord George, or General Fa?” Ruby asked. Belle blinked at her.

“Whatever for?”

“Lord Gold has a talent for talking good people into knots,” Ruby warned. “He’ll take advantage of your kindness. Give that man an inch, he’ll take the realm.”

“Lord George helped broker the deal,” Belle countered, tapping the clause in question. “I doubt his input would be unbiased. And General Fa has more important matters to attend to than holding my hand while I read big words.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Ruby said, and Belle nodded, accepting the apology. “You always were the smart one, always reading. If it were anyone but Gold on the other side…”

“But it is Gold on the other side,” Belle said, “And it’s important he knows he’s dealing with me, from now on. I won’t be taken advantage of just because I’m young, and no one expected me to inherit the throne.”

“So have you discovered anything?” Ruby asked, finally taking a seat on the other side of Belle’s desk. Belle made a soft snort through her nose, and shook her head.

“Only that Lord Gold might be the shrewdest merchant in the Enchanted Forest,” Belle said. “These contracts are watertight. They even make provision for me!” She pointed to the section in question, against which she had made a small, erasable mark in charcoal. “You see? In the event that Sir Maurice should pass before the contract ends, my father agreed on behalf of any heir to uphold it!”

“He made the decision for you?” Ruby asked. Belle nodded.

“I was already locked in before I even met the man.” She sighed, and slumped back in her high-backed chair. “I’ve combed through these documents, but everything is provided for. I cannot raise or lower taxes, alter the flow of goods from his farms to the castle or out of the realm, even change basic building regulations, without consulting him first!”

“That snake,” Ruby bit out. “No wonder your father hated him so much.”

“Why did he sign this?” Belle asked. “There’s so little benefit to the realm, and so great a cost!”

Ruby shook her head. “You weren’t here during the war, Belle,” she said. Her eyes were clouded, sad. Belle swallowed: Ruby had lost both her parents to the first battles with the ogres, and the war had raged on in her absence. “Things got really bad, we were running low on everything. When Lord Gold showed up, and bought the land, suddenly we had enough money and spells to fight back properly. He turned the tide.”

“Then why do you hate him so much?” Belle asked, mystified. “If he won the war for us…”

“We won the war,” Ruby corrected. “Gold just profiteered off our misery. He set himself up as your father’s business partner, as if he could run the realm from his office in town. Everyone hates him for that.”

“Well, I’ll get to decide that for myself when he gets here,” Belle said, briskly. Ruby gasped.

“What?”

“He’s my next appointment,” Belle said, calmly. “He’s actually due to arrive any minute.”

“You’re going to meet with him alone?” Ruby asked. Belle shrugged.

“You’re welcome to stay if you want,” she said. “But I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be,” Ruby said, a little ominously. “Most of the rest of us are.”

Right then, as if on cue, the steward entered the room. “Your highness, Lord Gold is here to see you.”

“Send him in, Leroy,” Belle replied, and turned to Ruby. “Last chance to scarper.”

Ruby stood, and straightened her spine. She gracefully rounded the desk, and took a seat behind Belle, in one of the councillor’s chairs. “Not abandoning you alone with him,” she said, stoutly. Belle smiled in gratitude.

Lord Gold entered. He was dressed similarly to the night before, all blacks and dark browns, although now she noticed that his breaches were leather, rather than the customary velvet or brocade, and it matched the collar and detailing on his long coat. Last night, among the riot of colour, he had appeared a shadow hanging over the crowd. Now, in the muted tones of her father’s study, Lord Gold appeared somehow darker yet, the hard lines of his jacket giving him an almost malevolent appearance. Another of those odd shivers ran down Belle’s spine.

“Lord Gold,” Belle did not curtsey; instead, she held out her hand for Gold to shake. She didn’t throw him off so easily this time: he shook her proffered hand, and remained standing when she sat down. “Take a seat,” she offered. Only then did he do as bade. His cane rested between his knees; he rested both hands on the handle.

She held his gaze, and felt for a moment as if his probing stare would reach into her mind itself, extract every hidden thought, every memory and dream. Belle resisted the urge to look away. Gold’s eyes were unreadable, and for a moment they just blinked back at hers, a staring contest Belle refused to lose. His irises were a rich, deep brown, that seemed to grow darker and cooler the longer she stared into them. She almost flinched when she was certain, impossibly, that for a moment they became snake’s eyes.

“I trust the contracts are all above board,” he said at last, when she didn’t speak. Belle called it a victory, and gratefully looked away.

“Indeed,” Belle smiled, “it’s a masterpiece. You have somehow managed to purchase the realm right out from under me.”

“I’m just a tenant, your highness,” he spread his hands, modestly. “Your father thought the terms very reasonable.”

“My father, it seems, was held to ransom by a war he couldn’t win.”

“The realm is safe, is it not?” Gold asked. He grinned, a shark’s smile, and a gold tooth in the corner of his mouth glistened. “Clearly the war was not so futile as once thought.”

“Clearly,” she conceded. “Which is why I think a reward far greater than a long-hold tenancy is in order.”

“I’m sorry, your highness?” Oh, Belle enjoyed his confusion. He blinked at her, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows. It was perhaps the most human he ever appeared, when wrong-footed.

“Well, given that there was clearly more offered in consideration for the land than these contracts let on, it has been suggested that you are our saviour, Lord Gold,” she said. Ruby made an odd noise behind her. “Would you like to elaborate on that?”

“You have the agreement between your father and myself there in your hands,” Gold said. “I don’t think there’s much more to say on the matter.”

“The facts speak for themselves,” she said, briskly, “You arrived in town, and the war ended. So, congratulations.”

“For what, pray tell?”

“Your appointment to my Council, of course!” Belle grinned, almost brought to laughter at the consternation on his face. “Given that you must be consulted on all changes made that might affect your holdings, I thought why not make the relationship between your holdings and my government official? I am officially appointing you as my Chancellor, beginning immediately.”

“Belle!” Ruby jumped to her feet, “What are you doing?” she hissed.

Belle glanced around at her lady-in-waiting, “I’m giving Lord Gold his due,” she said. “If he wants to be close to the throne so badly, then why not sit at its side?” She turned her eyes to Gold, and raised an eyebrow, “Unless you want to end the contract, and renegotiate your tenancy?”

Gold was glaring at her, anger simmering in his eyes behind his cool expression. Somehow nothing on his face had changed, and yet Belle could see him seething. “And if I do not accept the appointment?” he asked, coolly.

“Then you will have to negotiate with whomever I do appoint,” she said. “And I’m afraid my flighty female feelings may well lead me to choose someone who will be less pleasant to deal with than myself. It’s all that dancing and curtseying, you know. It addles the mind. Lord George would almost certainly find a way to drive you out, if he were given the power to do so. And he is likely the only other qualified candidate.”

Gold’s eyes fixed on hers. Belle didn’t flinch. If he wanted to hold her to ransom, then he would have to put his money where his mouth was.

“As Chancellor,” she pressed on, “You would report directly to me. You would be responsible for running council meetings, as well as being my principle advisor. It is a position of great power.”

“I will not be kept beneath your heel,” Gold snarled.

Belle considered him. The outburst had come from somewhere other than the cool, dismissive persona he had presented thus far. Ruby had called him an upstart, and certainly he didn’t conduct himself like a noble. Belle had the sudden insight that he had struggled to reach a position of such influence; someone, long ago, had forced him to the ground, and he refused to return to that position. In so doing, she saw herself through his eyes: a Princess, born to privilege and power, able to snap her fingers and crush him at a whim.

“I am in need of an experienced advisor,” she said, her voice moderated and conciliatory. “I am new to this, and aside from a handful of old friends, I don’t know who I can trust at court.”

“Most, including your erstwhile lady-in-waiting would agree that that distrust should begin with me,” Gold told her, with a glance to Ruby, still fuming at Belle’s side. Belle nodded.

“So I have heard. I can therefore trust you are not in league with any other element.” She gestured to the papers on her desk, “You put everything in writing, Gold. I know your interests, your ambitions. You are now the counterweight to the George family’s influence, and the architect of Avonlea’s current stability. You belong beside the throne, not managing petty holdings in the countryside.”

“Oh Gods, you’re serious,” Ruby moaned.

“I am,” Belle confirmed. “You’ve gone to great lengths to rise up in Avonlea, and you have clearly done more still to rescue it from ruin. I’m asking you to take your place in its future.”

Gold eyed her closely, scrutinising her. She could see the curiosity in his eyes, the interest, perhaps even joy at being surprised. He looked for a moment ageless, hold as the hills and yet young as the dawn.

He opened his mouth, as if he were about to reply, when a commotion outside the door cut him off. The door burst open a moment later, Lord George and poor Leroy tumbling into the room.

Lord George caught himself, and straightened his doublet. Leroy proclaimed belatedly, “The Lord George to see you, your highness.”

“Thank you, Leroy,” Belle gave Leroy a sympathetic smile, and had to bite down a laugh at the man’s grumbling as he left the room, glaring murderously at Lord George as he went.

“Your highness,” Lord George began, “I must object to this on the strongest possible terms!”

“Object to what, my Lord?” Belle asked, although she was certain she could guess. Lord Gold was grinning like a crocodile, with gleaming teeth and sharp eyes. Lord George looked as if he could throttle the other man where he sat.

“This… this clandestine meeting with a rival landowner,” Lord George sputtered. “I must insist that a member of the Council is present when-“

“It was hardly clandestine, my Lord,” Belle cut in, bristling although she kept up a polite smile. “My steward is free to share the details of my meetings through the day with anyone who asks. I presume that was how you heard of this in the first place, in fact. Leroy can be such a terrible gossip.”

Gold’s eyes flicked from George back to Belle, and she felt an odd burst of pride at what she saw there. He almost looked impressed.

“Nevertheless, I must insist on being present if any court contracts are being renegotiated.”

“Considering how you brokered the deal in the first place, I can understand your consternation, my Lord,” Belle replied. “However, I assure you I am more than capable of taking it from here. Your kind offer of assistance is appreciated, but unnecessary.”

“I hardly brokered anything,” Lord George objected. “I only made the introduction at the insistence of your father.”

Belle swallowed, her poise faltering. George was mentioned in the contracts, and she had assumed therefore that he had been involved in the negotiations. He’d always intimidated her as a child, her father’s Chancellor, a grim, stoic man with a face cast in granite and an unimpeachable military record. He’d lead the charge that had routed the ogres, or so she had been told. Much as she believed she was in the right here, it was hard to maintain her position in the face of his anger, towering over her from the other side of the desk. She felt Ruby’s hand on her arm, but brushed it aside. The comfort was welcome, but she couldn’t show weakness, not now. If she let him, she had no doubt Lord George would undermine her at any turn, relegating her to a figurehead and consolidating power in his own hands.

She had lied to Gold: there was no way in hell she would ever make this man Chancellor again.

“You were compensated handsomely for any inconvenience caused to your business,” Gold muttered. Belle and George both stared at him: Belle with gratitude, George with contempt. “I hardly see how renegotiations would impact you at all.”

“You have no say in this,” George retorted. His gaze swung back to Belle, “Your highness, I demand you throw this upstart out at once, until the Chancellor’s office has had time to read over any new proposals.”

“Chancellor’s office?” Belle blinked up at him, Gold’s intervention having given her time to regroup. “I wasn’t aware I had officially appointed a new Chancellor yet.”

“My apologies, your highness,” George backed down, but she knew it was only an act. He felt he owned the place. Belle’s smile was icy.

“Your name is under consideration,” Belle told him. “As are a number of other well-qualified candidates. A new government may need new ideas, don’t you think?”

“I think continuity and stability at a time of transition are vital, your highness,” Lord George replied. “I had assumed you were bright enough to recognise that too.”

Lord Gold snorted, a soft, dark little laugh. Lord George turned to him. “Something to add, Lord Gold?”

“No, no, you’re doing a fine job insulting her intelligence all on your own,” he chortled. “Do go on, dearie, it’s going swimmingly.”

“Your highness, without a Chancellor to properly inspect any changes to the contracts, and considering your lack of experience in this area, I must caution against any deal you make with this… this…”

“Monster?” Gold suggested, smiling with all his teeth. To Belle’s surprise and fascination, George baulked a little. “You would know all about deals, wouldn’t you, George?” he continued, his soft voice slicing through the air. “Tell me, how is your son, by the way? He was looking well at the ball last night.”

George’s face went white. Belle watched on with a hundred unanswered questions, as George’s gaze flicked between her and Lord Gold.

“Is that all, Lord George?” Belle asked, pleasantly. “As you can see, we are rather busy here.”

George swallowed, hard. With one last fearful look at Gold, he gave a curt bow to Belle. “Your highness.”

“Lord George,” she inclined her head, politely, and he turned on his heel and left. Leroy seemed grateful to slam the doors behind him.

Belle took a deep breath, and slumped back in her chair. Ruby’s hand covered her shoulder again, and this time Belle held it tight, comforted by her friend’s silent support. “Next time I sit with you, I’m borrowing Granny’s crossbow,” she muttered. Belle laughed, a welcome release of tension.

She looked to Gold, and straightened up. “You see what I have to deal with?” Belle asked. “This is day one. He won’t ever respect my authority, he barely respected my father’s, but his position is secure. I need someone at my side who is at least united with me in opposition to him, someone who knows the terrain. It seems we make a decent team.”

An odd smile was playing about the corners of Gold’s mouth, and Belle caught herself watching it for just a moment. He looked nothing like handsome, burly Gaston or friendly, smiling Billy, and yet there was something so interesting about his face, an odd mix of malice and care, as if his face had been made for smiling but twisted into something else. And then there were those eyes, just a little too dark, almost opaque.  

“If I decide to leave, you will not prevent me,” he stipulated, carefully. “You will use no means at your disposal to prevent my departure or force my hand, at any time.”

“You are free to act as you choose,” Belle agreed. Her eyes narrowed: it was such a specific demand. Had he been a prisoner once? An indentured servant, even a slave? The more he spoke, the more certain she was that he had started with nothing, and was terrified of returning to that state. “Do we have a deal?”

His eyes narrowed, and an odd smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “It appears we do.”

One month later

Belle took a deep breath, and finally reached the top step. Typical of Gold to have chosen to make his office not down near the throne room, where Lord George had set himself up, but in the tallest tower of the castle.

He didn’t like people; she had learned that right away. It was part of what made them a good team: she liked to make friends, and he liked to keep to himself. It was also what made state functions these days so much harder to bear. Belle found herself gravitating more and more to the dark corner where her Chancellor always lurked, than to the midst of the party where the Princess was supposed to be.

She rationalised it that it was to avoid the flock of suitors who had streamed into Avonlea following her coronation. That didn’t explain her disappointment that Gold always refused to dance, with her or anyone else.

“Gold, open up!” she called, hammering on the door. “I need to talk to you!”

She wasn’t sure if she was breathing hard from exertion or anger. Gold had quickly become her confidante, her chosen partner for venting. Ruby was wonderful for social slights and gossip, but when she was angry, no one understood like Gold. She heard a sound on the other side, and that odd scent of ozone she always seemed to smell in these situations. A second later, he had opened the door, and stood in the doorway. “Your highness?” he asked. He didn’t give a damn what she called him, but he refused to drop the formalities even for a moment. “What can I do for you?”

“George is petitioning again to make whomever I end up married to King instead of Prince Consort,” Belle snarled, storming past Gold into his tower-office. “Does he have no shame at all?”

“No, none,” Gold agreed pleasantly. She was the only person he was ever pleasant to, and it threw her off a little. Even Ruby, who she knew he didn’t dislike, received only the thinnest of smiles.

“Thank God that man only has one son,” Belle muttered. “Otherwise I think he’d hold me at sword-point until his family was on the throne.”

“But he has only one son, so what are you so concerned about?” Gold asked, closing the door and stepping around his fuming Princess to return to his desk. “You know this ridiculous proposal will never leave the Council.”

“I think he has support this time,” Belle said. Gold frowned.

“Really, from whom?”

“Well, General Fa, for one,” Belle said.

“Well, that’s disappointing. I thought General Fa had at least a semblance of brain activity,” he said. “How did George achieve that little coup?”

“I’ve no idea,” Belle sighed. “But when I mentioned the proposal to the General, he became cagey.”

“Well, he’ll never get Dame Lucas on side,” Gold said, waving a hand. “I wouldn’t worry about it, dearie.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Belle said, miserably. That was what hurt the most about this whole ridiculous situation: she wasn’t sure she even still had Granny’s support that she could rule alone. “Granny mentioned this morning how nice it would be for me to have a partner, someone to share the burden of ruling with.”

“Ah,” Gold nodded, taking a seat. “Do you agree?”

“I think I’m learning, aren’t I?” she demanded. Gold shrugged.

“From where I’m sitting, you’re doing a fine job, dearie.”

“Women rule alone elsewhere, don’t they?” she asked. Gold considered the question.

“Well, I’d hardly recommend you model yourself on Queen Regina, if that’s what you mean,” he said. Belle swallowed, hard.

“You… you think I can’t do this?”

“I would never dare think such a thing,” Gold assured her. “I’m well aware that the moment anyone implies you cannot do something, it will hit the top of your agenda.”

Belle rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t keep down a smile. His respect meant the world to her.

“It’s basically a vote of no confidence, isn’t it?” she said. “The Council would rather I marry a biddable fool and relegate me to second string, than place their faith in a woman.”

“It may be more complex than that,” Gold sighed, and Belle couldn’t understand the note of regret in his voice. “Belle, no one can deny what you’ve achieved in a month…”

“Then why are they trying to oust me?” Belle demanded. “I mean, the first school is already under construction in Avonlea town centre! The water’s cleaner now the Hatter’s Row witch has her own well to dump her waste in, and the farmers are coordinating their crop rotations so there will be more variety in the marketplace. I know what I’ve accomplished, so why do they think some Lord’s son with a ring on his finger will do better?”

“Your highness, who drafted and submitted the contracts for the building of that school?”

“You did.”

“And who gave you the exact right words to say to the witch to convince her to accept a new well, rather than using the local stream?”

“You…” Belle murmured, dread curling in her stomach.

“And who provided the maps and guidance on how best to rotate those crops?”

“You did, but… but you’re not running Avonlea through me! Those were my ideas!”

“You know that,” he said, gently, “I know that.”

“I’m not marrying some concussed young knight and handing over my power because some suspicious idiots are afraid of you,” Belle spat. She didn’t know why that made her so angry, so protective. She couldn’t have done any of this without Gold’s help. She knew what the townspeople thought, what Granny thought, what even Ruby and Billy, her friends, thought of her Chancellor. There were rumours he used dark magic to manipulate her, and that he was the real Prince of Avonlea. It was malicious, and ridiculous, and she wouldn’t stand for it.

“You’re a very brave young woman, Belle,” he said, softly. She thought it might be the first time she’d ever heard him say her name. She liked how it sounded in his low, rolling accent. It sent a pleasant shiver down her spine, which she chose to ignore.

“Lord George hates you,” she said, “and so he hates me for listening to you.”

“Yes,” Gold agreed.

“Why does he hate you so much?” Belle asked, a question she’d asked any number of times and received no plausible answer. “Is it just because you’re his rival?”

“Who knows why men think the way they do?” he asked, a question for a question. He could be so frustrating sometimes.

She sighed: she knew she’d never get a straight answer out of him. “What do I do now?” she asked.

“What do you think you should do?” Gold asked, spreading his hands.

Belle rolled her eyes. “I think I should approach General Fa and Granny alone, in a low-pressure setting, and convince them to switch their votes.”

“Correct,” Gold inclined his head. “Tonight’s ball would be a perfect opportunity.”

Belle made a face, “You know I was planning to feign a headache and miss that,” she said. “The suitors have been arriving all day, and my facial muscles start to hurt from pretending to smile after a while.”

Gold snickered, “It’s hard being royal, isn’t it?” he said. “Why not just give the job to Lord George, if he wants it so badly?” She rolled her eyes.

“Yes, cry a river for the poor princess, forced to dance and wear pretty dresses. Woe betide, there shall be much hair-pulling and gnashing of teeth.”

“Someone’s been reading the Greeks,” he murmured, approvingly. Belle grinned.

“I should save some reading for all my future free time. You know, when I’m someone’s little wife, embroidering and weaving while my strong husband rules my lands.”

“Your highness, I doubt you could ever be a ‘little’ anything.”

Belle stood up, and put her hands on her hips. “I’ll have you know I’m five-foot-one even in heeled shoes,” she said. “I’m nothing but little.”

“I was referring to your personality,” he countered, easily. “You fill up a room.”

Belle felt herself blush at that: she almost thought it was a compliment, especially when accompanied by the warmth in his eyes.

“I was only reading the Greeks on your recommendation,” she said. She didn’t know why that was important, it just felt like something he should know.

“Careful who you say that to,” he said. “Someone might decide that you’re being unduly influenced by the realm’s personal monster.”

“You’re not a monster,” she replied, firmly. “Anyone who says that can answer to me.”

“And therein, I believe, lies the problem,” Gold replied. “Anyhow, you have a plan now. You’ve no more need to disturb an old man.”

Belle looked at him, really looked at him. “How… how old are you, exactly?” she asked. He narrowed his eyes, and tilted his head to one side.

“Ancient,” he said. “Old as the bloody hills themselves.”

Belle rolled her eyes, “You know, if you ever give a straight answer to anything, I think Hell will freeze over.”

“Most likely,” he agreed.

Belle threw up her hands, and left the room. “Good day, your highness!” he called after her; she slammed the door without responding.

Belle didn’t see Lord Gold again until the ball.

As ever, as always, she found him skulking in a dark corner, a glass of wine in one hand. She was stunned, however, to see that he wasn’t dressed in his customary dark leather trousers and coat. Instead, his waistcoat was cream brocade with a gold trim, and his frock coat was rich, royal blue velvet. It was as if a shadow had decided for one night to become a handsome prince. She couldn’t quite keep her eyes off him, even his hair looked softer.

“That’s a new look for you,” she said. He shrugged.

“I like to subvert expectations,” he replied, with a lopsided smile. She loved when he smiled like that. She didn’t get long to admire it, however, before he spoke again, gesturing to General Fa across the ballroom, “You should speak with him now, before he becomes embroiled in conversation.”

Belle nodded, and regretfully left Gold’s side to find the General. When she reached him, she was glad to still find him unattached to any of the wandering conversations. There was no risk of the man dancing with anyone; like Gold, he had been injured long ago, and was now forced to walk with a limp. Unlike Gold, however, the cause of General Fa’s injury was well-known: he had famously launched himself onto an ogre’s back to sever its spine at the neck, and when the beast fell he had been crushed.

The cause of his injury was yet another question Gold always refused to answer. But Belle couldn’t dwell on that now.

“General Fa,” she greeted him, and he turned to her with a warm smile.

“Your highness,” he inclined his head. “You are looking lovely tonight, as ever.”

“Thank you, General,” she said. “Your wife and daughter are here, I hope?”

“My wife is visiting her mother, but my daughter is around here someplace.”

“And are you having a good time?” she asked. The General nodded.

“Your highness always throws enjoyable parties,” he said, diplomatically.

“This ball isn’t of my design,” Belle said. “A fact we are both well aware of. This is Lord George’s party: he should take the credit.”

“Indeed,” Fa murmured. He looked suddenly uncomfortable, as if he knew where this conversation was heading.

“Speaking of Lord George, have you had time to look over his newest proposal yet?”

“I have, yes.”

His forthrightness knocked her back a little: she had expected more of the caginess from a few days back. “I see. And your response has not changed?”

“If it comes to a vote, I will be supporting the proposal, yes,” he said.

Belle grit her teeth, fighting the rising sense of injustice and accompanying anger. “May I ask why you believe I need a man to hold my hand?”

“Your highness,” General Fa sighed, his shoulders slumping, “I have no doubt you will become a very capable ruler. I intend my own daughter to succeed me upon my retirement, so you understand this is not an issue of your gender.”

“Then why are you supporting such a ridiculous proposition?” Belle demanded. “You never did before!”

“It’s politics, your highness,” General Fa said, heavily. “Much as I detest it, this is the way of the world.”

Belle looked at him, really looked at him, and thought about what he’d said. “If this isn’t about the bill, then… is this about Lord George himself? Did he buy your vote, or threaten you somehow?”

General Fa’s gaze drifted, and Belle followed his eyes. Across the room, not far from where Gold stood, in fact, she saw General Fa’s daughter Mulan standing with Ruby, their heads together as if sharing a secret, both women laughing. As Belle looked closer, she saw their hands were clasped between them.

“It’s an exchange of favours,” General Fa admitted, as if even saying the words pained him. “It’s not honourable, I’m not proud of it.”

“Whatever he can do for you, I’m sure I can match it,” Belle said. General Fa looked at her.

“He has offered to make sure that Dame Lucas’ granddaughter is married before the year is out,” he said. “Can you offer the same?”

“Why would you care if Ruby is married or not?” Belle asked.

General Fa’s eyebrows rose, and he looked again at his daughter. “You may be the only person in Avonlea who does not see what I see,” he said. “I want my daughter to be happy. In a perfect world, I would be able to see her paired with anyone she chose. But this world is imperfect. I will not have my daughter made mockery of, made an outcast of, if I can help it.”

Belle blinked at him, then back at Mulan and Ruby, and felt realisation hit in a rush. “You… you believe that if she could, Mulan would marry Ruby?” she asked.

“Lord George believes so,” he said. “I see no reason to dispute it.”

“And you would… you would sell Ruby to some unknown man, just to keep them apart? Don’t you see how that would hurt Mulan?”

“In time, she would see the kindness in it,” he said.

“You would force two women to marry against their will, because you can’t accept your daughter’s choice?” she demanded. She couldn’t believe it: she had always respected General Fa, had always thought of him as a good man and a kind father. He had always respected and valued Mulan, never treated her any differently than if he had had a son for an heir.

“I see no other option,” he said. “The men will have a hard enough time accepting a female General as it is, when the time comes. What will they say, if that woman is also...?”

“In love with a woman?” Belle finished. General Fa nodded. Belle took a deep breath, and found her gaze drifting, away from her friends laughing together and toward Gold. She met his eyes; he was watching her too. “They will say that in Avonlea, we love whom we choose. I am willing to issue a counter proposal to that effect, in fact, with rigorous enforcement.”

“Lord George will never approve,” General Fa said. Belle shook her head.

“Lord George disapproves of kittens and sunshine, too,” she said. “This is a new era, General Fa. In my Avonlea, we will educate our children, clothe our poor, and love as our hearts desire. Will you help me with that?”

General Fa looked at her, a small smile curving the corners of his lips. “I will speak with Dame Lucas, but I believe we have an agreement.”

Belle beamed, and shook the General’s hand. She looked back across the room, and saw Gold still watching her, his eyes warm. He looked so handsome, his hair all soft and tousled, the blue setting off the warmth of his skin. Perhaps Lord George should meddle more often, if setting him off-kilter achieved these results.

Belle made her way back across the ballroom, as if drawn to him by an irresistible force. “The General looks happy,” he said, when she was back at his side.

“I presented a counteroffer,” Belle said. “He’ll talk to Dame Lucas, too.”

“Well played, your highness,” he murmured, and took a sip of his wine.

“I’m rather proud of myself,” she admitted, looking up at him. His profile was distinctive, his long nose and high forehead, the ends of his hair curling at his collar. “Aren’t you proud of me?”

He snorted, “You’re more than capable of defeating Lord George’s ridiculous proposal at the next Council meeting,” he said. “You didn’t need my help to accomplish that.”

“I negotiated, just like you taught me,” she pressed. “I noticed what he cared about, identified the problem he needed resolving, and found a way to align our interests. I created a win-win.”

“And I’m very proud of the monster I’ve created,” he agreed. She grinned.

“You speak like I’m going around murdering peasants and bumping off family members,” she said. “I see no monsters here.”

“You’d be the only one,” he said. She rolled her eyes. “It will be noted if you refuse to dance with any of your suitors tonight,” he said then. “People will talk.”

“I don’t want to dance with any of them,” Belle sighed. “I don’t want to marry any of them.”

“You intend to remain a maid?” he asked, an eyebrow raised. “It’s not uncommon among women who inherit in their own right.”

Belle’s eyes drifted to him, away from the crowd. She wondered whether she intended never to marry. She wondered if she could imagine a husband she would love, who would support her and encourage her, challenge and delight her, as much as the man beside her. Was it so unthinkable that she could choose a husband who was older than her, not the young, well-meaning son of a noble house but a merchant-lawyer who had clawed his way to a title?

“What about your former betrothed?” he spoke again, before she could give voice to her thoughts. “Sir Gaston? An alliance between Avonlea and the Marchlands would be beneficial to both.”

Belle shook her head. “I never cared for Gaston,” she said. “I never could have loved him.”

“Oh?” Gold raised an eyebrow, and glanced down at her. She thought she saw hope there, behind his cool exterior, but perhaps she was only seeing what she wanted to see.

“To me love is… love is layered,” she continued, “Love is a mystery to be uncovered. I could never have given my heart to someone so superficial as he.”

Gold looked down at her; her eyes met his. For a moment, the world stood still.

The music changed, the country jig changing to a slower waltz, one of Belle’s favourites. Belle sighed: she’d have a hundred young men lining up to dance with her any moment now, and only Gold’s fearsome reputation was currently holding them at bay.

“Will you dance with me?” she asked. She knew what the answer would be before he said anything, and stepped in before he could, “We can go slowly around your leg, I promise. I just need to not have this song ruined by some handsy suitor, and it’d definitely set Lord George off his game. You’re trying to subvert expectations, right? Subvert mine and dance with me.”

He looked at her, and she blinked up at him, her eyes as wide and appealing as she could make them. Then he sighed, and to her amazement, he held out his hand. “Your highness,” he said, his voice low and wonderful, “May I have this dance?”

“You may, my Lord,” she said, and took his hand in hers.

They touched so rarely, and never on purpose, that Belle was taken aback by the sudden jolt of electricity up her spine as his skin met hers. His hand was rough, calloused and strong, and again she wondered at his past. These hands had done more than pen contracts, once upon a time. Not that he would ever tell her what, of course.

He lead her out onto the dance floor, and if she had thought holding his hand was intense, she was unprepared entirely for the feeling of having his other hand brace on her waist. He left his cane by the wall, but he seemed to manage remarkably well without it, as he lead her confidently in the waltz. Belle was grateful for that: she didn’t know if she would have remembered the steps without his guidance. His gaze never left hers, warm and intense, hot and dark and that little but dangerous, his eyes containing far more than eyes had any right to express. The smile on his lips was kind yet sardonic, an intoxicating mix of light and dark that set her stomach clenching, the shocks down her spine continuing every time she brushed against him, every time his hand tightened on her waist or his fingers stroked her hand.

Belle barely heard the music. It was such a strange delight, to be held in his arms, and yet they did not speak. Their relationship, a partnership built on intelligence, on a meeting of minds, a mountain of words wrapped and bound between them, and yet now Belle could not think of a thing to say. Their feet moved almost of their own accord, as if the harmony of their conversations had moved from the verbal to the physical, their bodies moving together the way their minds had been for weeks. Belle even fancied that when he pulled her close, she could feel his heart beat in time with hers.

She didn’t know his forename, but she knew he liked his tea black and his wine red. She didn’t know where he came from, or why he’d come to Avonlea, or how he’d injured his ankle, but she knew he slept badly at night and that he thought higher of strong women than hard men. He hated the military, and had an odd knack for knitting and sewing, for dextrous activities Belle had never mastered. She knew him, and yet he was still a total mystery to her.

“Why did you want to dance with me?” he asked, breaking their silence. His voice was low and rough, rasping as she had never heard it before. It was intoxicating.

“You looked so lonely,” she said. “Any man would be, living the way you do. Some days, I think the only person you talk to is me.”

“If I had my way, every day would be like that,” he said. It was such a strange confession, it sent a shiver down Belle’s spine, made something low in her belly clench and coil, heat building where she’d rarely felt it before. “I look forward every day to you banging on my door.”

“Why did you come to Avonlea?” she asked. She searched his eyes, trying to find truth when she knew his mouth would evade the question.

“I saw opportunity,” he told her, the same old half-answer.

“And did you find it?” she asked, as he spun them around. She wished he would pull her closer, crush her against his chest, dip her low and kiss her mouth so she could see if his lips felt as soft as they looked.

He didn’t answer. The music came to its end, and they stood still on the dance floor, his eyes locked on hers. There were a million things she wanted to say, but they clogged her mouth and stopped her tongue. She said nothing at all; neither did he.

His hand came up, and for a moment his fingers brushed down the curve of her cheek, his thumb playing over her bottom lip. Belle’s eyes fluttered closed; she waited, hoping desperately he would follow that touch with a kiss.

The other dancers began to applaud the band. The sound jolted Belle out of her reverie, and her eyes snapped open. She applauded too, glancing away from Gold to cry praise at the band, as was expected of their patron.

When she looked back, he had melted away into the crowd like new snow, as if he had never been.

Belle raised shaking fingers to her lips. They still tingled where he’d touched her.

Belle plastered on a bright smile, and cried out for an encore, a group dance perhaps. The crowd cheered, and the wine flowed, and Belle made sure to let everyone see her merriment before excusing herself.

She strode off the dance floor with a murmur she needed refreshment, and found a quiet place to stand for a moment and collect herself. All the blood had rushed to her face, and her heart was pounding far, far too fast.

“You’ve made quite the ally there, your highness,” a voice she hadn’t wanted to hear cut through the music, and she turned, as poised as she could muster, to face Lord George.

“Lord Gold has made an excellent Chancellor,” she said, not even attempting to feign ignorance.

“A matter of taste, I suppose,” Lord George smiled, thinly. “I hear you had an interesting conversation with General Fa, earlier.”

“He was concerned for his family’s welfare,” Belle said, her skin crawling. She wished Ruby were here, or Gold. She didn’t feel comfortable alone with Lord George, even among a sea of people. Without an ally, she felt like a mouse alone with a lion.

“He’s a good man, the General,” Lord George agreed. “I had thought him an honourable one, too. But I see now those are in short supply in Avonlea these days.”

“Do you have a point to make?” Belle snapped. “Or are you here simply to badmouth your peers?”

Lord George sighed, deeply. “Your highness, you have altogether the wrong impression of me. I am not, as you may imagine, a villain from one of your storybooks. Certainly Lord Gold is no dashing hero, however he may have chosen to clothe himself in that skin tonight. Believe it or not, I am speaking from a place of concern, for both your welfare and the realm’s.”

“Your concern expresses itself as contempt, more often than not,” Belle replied. “You will forgive my scepticism.”

“You know me, your highness,” Lord George said, bluntly. “I was your father’s friend and confidante, his Chancellor, for decades. You grew up with my son James. You know where my holdings are, what my interest is. And whether you believe me or not, I have been impressed by how well you’ve taken to the task of ruling, with some glaring exceptions.”

“Then I expect you to withdraw your latest attempt to replace me with a squire of your choosing,” she said. Lord George gave her a stern look.

“My concern is not with your abilities, but your objectivity,” he said. “Lord Gold is not what he appears.”

“Then what is he, Lord George?” she asked. Lord George reached into his doublet, and pulled out a long, gleaming silver knife.

Belle flinched, afraid for a moment, but then he took the blade in his palm and handed her the handle. Belle took it, and ran her fingers over the metal, a shiver of something ancient and terrible running down her spine. It had serrated, wavy edges, carved black into the polished metal. A name was inscribed on the blade: Rumplestiltskin.

“I recognise this,” she murmured. “This is the Dark One’s blade.”

“Indeed it is,” Lord George replied. “Your Lord Gold kept it in his possession, but at last it has been wrested from his grasp. It is the only thing capable of controlling his power.”

“Then why give it to me?” Belle asked. Lord George shrugged.

“You are the ruler of Avonlea,” he said. “You brought him into the castle, into your confidence. It is your duty to banish the monster, not mine.”

Belle gaped at him, then let out a bark of stunned laughter. “You cannot be serious,” she said. “You go too far, my Lord, if you’re accusing my Chancellor of having possession of a demon!”

“I do not accuse him of controlling the beast,” Lord George replied, tautly. “I know that he is the beast.”

“That’s impossible,” Belle shook her head. “The Dark One has skin like a snake’s, and eyes that devour the world. He makes mountains tremble, he doesn’t sit in a tower office and read over court documents!”

“I have told you what I know,” Lord George said, implacably. “This is no political ploy, and certainly no trick. My work is done. If you continue on as the plaything of the Dark One, if you cling to power through dark magic, all of Avonlea will know of your crimes, and his. This is your last chance to prove your loyalty to your people, your highness. This realm will not fall to his evil. I have already lost too much to his tricks for that.”

“What… what did he do to you?” Belle asked. “If you expect me to believe this fairy tale, you must tell me all of it.”

“Once, my family had need of something very precious. My wife, in her desperation, summoned the most powerful creature she could find. He engineered it so that despite the joy the deal brought us, it soon turned to sorrow, and we were forced into his debt a second time. He is a vicious, malicious creature. He absolutely cannot be trusted.”

“How am I to know you are not in his thrall, then?” Belle asked. Lord George shook his head.

“I know the demon for what it is. I know the mistakes I have made, the choices I have to live with. This land will not fall to those same demons.”

“Are you threatening me?” Belle asked, her voice low and dangerous, the tone Gold had taught her.

“I’m telling you that you have a choice to make. You can choose your kingdom, or your beast. Mark my words, you cannot have both.” Lord George gave a curt bow, “Your highness,” and walked away into the crowd, his head high like he hadn’t just said what Belle had heard him say.

Belle looked back down at the paper in her hands. She ran a hand over the picture, the lettering on the blade. She thought back over everything he’d never told her, the things he’d never said. Why wouldn’t he tell her his age? Why didn’t he say why he’d come to Avonlea? How could mere gold, however much he had spent, destroy an ogre army and rebuild a realm in a matter of weeks, when the war had raged unrelenting for half a decade?

Belle swallowed hard around the knot in her throat. For the first time since she had risen to the throne, she felt completely lost.

Belle’s fingers trembled where they held the blade. Whatever did one do with an item such as this, something so dark and powerful, so terrible? She couldn’t bear to have it on her person, but she couldn’t risk losing it either.

It could be a fake, she reasoned. Yes, it was probably a fake, a forgery Lord George had given her to incriminate her should he need leverage. It still needed to be hidden for safekeeping.

Belle slipped out of the ballroom through a side door, pleading a need for air. She made her way through the castle to the empty, quiet library, a space few save herself frequented. She knelt, and with shaking fingers found the loose floorboard beneath the heavy rug, where she’d hidden sweets and contraband as a child. She wrapped the knife in her handkerchief, and buried it there, until she could formulate a plan.

Then, she rose to her feet, and wrapped her arms around herself. For just a moment, she allowed herself to miss her parents, to miss her youth, to miss a time when such terrible decisions were not hers to make. She could not turn to her Chancellor for guidance here. She knew what Ruby and Dame Lucas would say, what Mulan would say, what General Fa would say. They would all tell her what they always had: that she should never have trusted Gold in the first place; that Avonlea had to come first.

Unbidden, the memory of their dance flickered through her mind. The way he’d held her in his arms, the way his voice had lowered to that rough, soft timbre, the way he’d held her face at the very end, as if he might kiss her at any moment… the thought that it all could have been a lie, a demon’s trick, made her stomach turn. She thought in that second that she might be sick.

Belle took a deep breath, and released it slowly.

Then, Belle mustered a broad smile, and returned to the party. Gold was nowhere to be found; she felt Lord George’s eyes on the back of her head with every step.

The book in Belle’s hands was heavy, leather-bound and ancient.

Three days from the ball, she had spent closeted away in the library. She had told everyone she was sick, something contagious she had contracted at the party, and left Dame Lucas in charge of the day-to-day running of things. She hadn’t spoken to Gold since their dance. She didn’t know what she’d say to him if she did.

Finally, after three days of research, she had found the book she was looking for.

She had tried, after Lord George’s departure, not to think about what he had told her. It seemed by turns threateningly possible, and ridiculous in the extreme. The Dark One was legend, however recent many of the stories about him were, and to believe that the creature Rumpelstiltskin and her friend Lord Gold were the same person… it stretched even Belle’s impressive imagination. What would a being of pure magic and power, a creature of fairy tale, have to gain from playing a minor country Lord and merchant? Why would someone who could have everything, who could go anywhere and do anything he pleased, choose to settle for such a mundane existence? The Dark One could level mountains, why would he walk with a limp?

But then she thought of the thousand unanswered questions, the simple queries he danced linguistic circles around her to avoid. She thought of his odd dress, so much darker and sharper than his peers, and the instinctive fear all of Avonlea seemed to hold for him. She thought of how his arrival, his seemingly unremarkable bargain with her father, had coincided exactly with the destruction of the ogre forces.

She wanted to trust that her closest friend at court, the man she trusted and adored, would not have kept such a terrible secret from her. She needed to believe him incapable of such a feat. The problem was that she knew no one in the world better suited for just such a task.

A better woman, kinder and more trusting, might have confronted him directly. Belle hoped she might yet find the strength to march into his office, slam the knife down on the desk, and demand an explanation outright. But that plan would accomplish nothing.

If he was the Dark One, and had lied to her from the moment they met, then why would an accusation founded only on the word of an enemy prompt his honesty? And if he were not, then accusing him outright would only betray her own doubts and misgivings, that in a moment of truth she had listened to his rival instead of him. It could ruin forever the delicate, wonderful bond between them. Belle had only had Lord Gold in her life a month, but she already couldn’t imagine how she would continue at court without him.

That left two other options: either she could try and raid his office or his home, in search of evidence of dark magic, or she could summon the creature himself.

Belle had brushed the former idea off immediately. She was no spy: she was small, but hardly nimble, and had no clothing without a full skirt. The Dark One would hide the evidence, anyway, surely. Maids cleaned his rooms in the castle every day, just like everywhere else, and she couldn’t reach his estate in the country without someone finding out.

That left only one option: the book in her hands, containing a summoning ritual to bring the Dark One before her.

Belle swallowed hard around a knot in her throat, that seemed to be directly connected to the much larger tangle in her belly. Her skin crawled, alive with anxiety and fear. What if he didn’t come, and she was left as clueless as before? What if he did, and she didn’t survive the encounter?

She shook her head. Her mother had died in this very room, protecting the realm’s knowledge and delaying the ogre attacks until her servants could get away. She had known her duty, to the realm and to herself. Belle had been hiding leagues to the north, sent away to her betrothed’s home for her safety when the war began. She wasn’t there to hold her mother’s hand, to die beside her or to carry her memory. All she knew was that Colette had died a hero.

Belle had always wanted to be brave. Now, it seemed, was her chance.

The candles flickered in a circle before her, flanked by amethyst and quartz, and every religious symbol Belle could filch from the temple downstairs. The other lights had been extinguished: the creature liked the dark, according to her reading. She didn’t mean to offend the demon, only to find her answers.

Belle took a deep breath, and raised her head, straightening her spine and planting her feet wide apart. She raised the knife in her fist, so the flat of the blade faced her heart.

“Rumplestiltskin, I summon thee!” she called out into the darkness.

The silence was deafening. The very air seemed to hold still, as if to emphasise the emptiness of the room, how alone Belle still was.

“Rumpelstiltskin, I summon thee!” she cried again. A tree branch tapped at the window, and Belle almost jumped out of her skin. She looked around with wild eyes. Nothing.

This time, she threw her whole being into the shout, her anger and fear and crippling doubt forcing the words from her throat, “Rumplestiltskin, I summon thee!”

The wind whistled outside. The candles flickered. Silence reigned.

“Well,” a voice cut through the night, high and full of vicious mirth, “There’s no need to shout.”

Belle spun on her heel. Her summoning circle remained empty; a figure lounged in the doorway. His arms were folded, his heel pressed to his ankle and knee casually bent, the picture of nonchalance and elegance. His face was cast in shadow.

“You didn’t reply,” she said, “So I thought maybe you couldn’t hear me.”

“If you wanted to speak to me,” he said, taking a step forward into a shaft of moonlight from the windows. She gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. Through all of this, she had not expected everything to be true. She had thought… she didn’t know what she had thought. “Then you know where my office is, dearie.”

Belle swallowed down the initial sob, the barrage of insults, the accusations and betrayed, terrified scream. She wasn’t a little girl. Everything she had become since she came back to court, since her coronation, kept her head high and her lips pressed tight closed. She lowered her shaking hand to her side, and clenched it into a fist.

“So it’s true,” she said.

He crept forward on light feet, “Bit of a shock, eh?” he teased, his voice higher and lighter than she had ever heard it. His hands made a slight flourish. Every muscle in his body was tight, every movement practiced and precise. His hair, usually so soft and smooth, sprung from his head in wild curls and brushed the high leather collar of his long coat; his boots laced to his knees. His skin glistened in the moonlight, as scaly and dark and reptilian as her books had led her to believe.

His eyes were what caught her most: opaque, greenish-grey and too large, as if they would swallow the world. She hadn’t realised how greatly she would miss the dark brown she knew, until it was gone.

“Well then, speak, dearie!” he cried, his voice harsh and sharp, startling her. His hands flickered and danced before him. She took an unwilling step back. “You did summon the Dark One, after all! And wherever did you get that?”

His fingers steeped before him, the points of his index fingers pointing at the knife wavering in her fist. “The man who told me who you really were gave it to me,” she said, trying to hold her voice steady. She felt her heart crack and break in her chest; she looked at him, her dearest friend, and didn’t know him at all.

“And I wonder how he got his grubby little hands on it, hmmm,” Rumplestiltskin murmured, stepping closer yet. Belle’s hand did not loosen on the blade. He did not try to take it.

“I just wanted to see if he was right,” Belle whispered. “I didn’t want to believe it.”

“Then why did you?” Rumpelstiltskin sneered, his nose wrinkling. “Why demand the truth when fiction is so much sweeter?”

“Stop it!” Belle snapped, shoving the blade forward, and she was stunned when he took a step back. “Stop lying to me!”

“Put the blade down, Belle,” he said.

“No,” she shook her head, and to her horror she heard her voice crack, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. “No, you lied to me, and now I want the truth!”

“We had a deal, dearie,” he reminded her, softly, his high voice a twittering mockery of the low, sweet brogue she knew so well. Who was this creature? How could her friend, her ally, the man who made her heart beat faster, who challenged her and guided her, exist within this sneering, prancing body? How could both men coexist within the same skin?

“I never made any deals with the Dark One,” Belle bit out. “You owe me the truth!”

“You agreed to never force my hand,” he told her. “You have to put down the knife.”

Belle looked at the blade in her hand, and thought back to what Lord George had said. “The blade controls the beast,” she murmured, and her eyes flicked back up to Rumpelstiltskin. “If I… if I command you, holding this, do you have to obey?”

“Yes,” the word seemed forced from his throat, and she remembered her order from before, that he stop lying. The urge to keep hold of the blade, to keep the order in place, to force him to tell her everything and apologise and whatever else came to her mind, was almost overwhelming.

She looked at him, really looked at him. He was not the man she knew, the man she might even have loved. He didn’t smile like him, his eyes weren’t the same; she didn’t know him at all. But he was terrified of the blade. Not because she might stab him, but because she could force him to his knees. Once more, she saw herself in his eyes: a Princess born to freedom and power, with the ability to bring him to heel and remove his free will with a flick of this blade. She could be cruel, she could be a tyrant, she could make him pay for every moment he had lied to her, every crack that had formed in her heart since his betrayal was revealed… and it would consume her. And worse, whatever truth there had been in her beloved Lord Gold, it would kill him too.

“I promised never to force you,” she said, softly, lowering the knife. “Unlike some, I keep my word.”

“What promises have I broken, Belle?” he asked, softly. She didn’t like her name in this voice, this pretended tone. She missed how the letters had rolled over his tongue before, how warm and safe his voice had made her feel.

“I trusted Lord Gold,” she said. “Not… not whatever you are.”

“I’m not a what,” he corrected.

“You know what I mean,” she said.

“You should be careful, dearie,” he said. “I’m not to be trusted around ambiguities.”

“Don’t do that!” she cried, “Don’t… don’t talk to me like I’m other people, like I’m someone else! I might not know you but I know you know me, don’t you dare pretend you don’t!”

“You summoned the Dark One,” he reminded her. “Your wish is my command.”

“Do you know how badly I wanted anyone else to show up?” she demanded. “How hard it was to even imagine you might have been lying this whole time, manipulating me?”

“When did I lie to you, Belle?”

“From the moment you introduced yourself as Lord Gold, and not Rumpelstiltskin,” she said, her chin raised in defiance.

“A name is only a name, dearie,” he said, but his voice had taken a gentler tone, something softer and more yielding than the sneering from before. “You are both Belle, and the Princess of Avonlea. Could I not be both Rumpelstiltskin and Lord Gold?”

She watched him move, the little dances of his fingers, and wondered at how he could be so different and yet so completely the same as the man she had known. Every movement was still elegant, graceful and practiced, but where Lord Gold had been smooth and restrained, Rumpelstiltskin was wild and frenetic, otherworldly.

“A lie of omission is still a lie,” she said, stoutly.

“And what would you have done, had I walked into your office some sunny morning, and told you that as well as being Avonlea’s largest landowner and collector of antiquities, I was in fact the physical embodiment of an ancient demon hell-bent on destruction and chaos? Are you telling me you wouldn’t have had me banished from your realm?”

“I was owed the chance to make that decision for myself,” Belle replied. “This is my realm. Given everything you’d done for me, the good we did together… I hope I would have given you a chance.”

“Are you certain of that?” Rumpelstiltskin asked. His eyes bored into hers. She nodded. “Then put down the knife.”

Belle’s grip on the dagger wavered, loosened… then tightened again. She held it to her side. She neither raised nor dropped it.

“How did you come to Avonlea?” she asked. “You owe me that answer now.”

“Your father summoned me,” he told her, with another of those giddy, unsettling little movements. He circled her, rested his chin on her shoulder; she shivered at his voice in her ear. “Help, help, we’re dying, can you save us?” his voice was high with mimicry; in the corner of her eye, she could see his mocking smile. “There was no firstborn in sight, no gold in the coffers, nothing to offer in exchange but the land itself. My price was ownership of all the fertile farmland and forest in Avonlea.”

“And in exchange, you beat back the ogres?”

“Oh no,” he purred, and she shivered again, a sensation both unsettling and strangely exciting. “I destroyed them,” he whispered, and bared his teeth. She flinched; he giggled, and danced away.

“Then were is the contract?” she demanded, turning to face him head-on once more. He tilted his head to one side.

“You mean the pages of leases you so carefully examined weren’t sufficient?” he asked, his finger tapping his chin as if flummoxed by the very idea. “Ah, yes,” he flicked his finger upright, struck by a thought. His theatricality was unnerving, and yet she couldn’t look away. “There may have been one page missing.”

He bared his hand into a fist, and a scroll appeared in his grasp. He shook it out, and it flew down, exposing a long roll of script. He held it out, one hand at the top and the other at the bottom. Belle read as fast as she could.

“A thousand years of ownership, in exchange for the kingdom returned to its pre-war state,” she murmured. “And the total annihilation of the ogre army.”

Rumpelstiltskin gave another of those little giggles. “That’s about the size of it,” he said.

“Then why stay?” Belle asked, frowning. “If the land was just… just a last resort, the only thing my father had to offer, why do you care?”

It was odd: she thought he was a little impressed with the question. His eyebrows did the same thing Lord Gold’s had, when she did something particularly clever. “The forest contains something very… precious to me,” he said, softly. “The war threatened it. The Council’s expansive ambitions threatened it. Your father’s sudden death, and the coronation of an unknown party threatened it.”

“What is it?” she asked. He tilted his head to the side.

“Is it so important you know?” he asked. She raised her chin.

“What is it, Rumpelstiltskin?”

“Is it important enough to force me to tell you?” he asked. She felt herself falter, waver. She shook her head. “Then put down the knife.”

Belle’s grip on the dagger trembled again. She wondered what he would do if she dropped it. What if once the dagger was returned, he turned on her, and she had no means to defend herself? What if his dark arts could enthral her, and she became a puppet ruler, controlled by the Dark One?

He had saved her kingdom. He had danced with her, laughed with her, walked and talked and shared his mind with her. He had made her fall in love with him. If he were still that man, surely he wouldn’t hurt her now, out of spite?

“Was any of it real?” she asked, her voice shaking, barely above a whisper.

“Any of what, Belle?” he asked. His voice sounded lower, softer, more familiar. It broke her heart.

“Our partnership,” she said. “You were my friend, I thought we trusted each other.”

“Then why didn’t you come to me, and ask me if what you’d heard was true?” he asked.

“Why didn’t you come to me, and tell me the truth?” she countered.

“Do you want the answer?” he asked, and she swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of his presence as he came closer, and closer yet. She looked into his eyes, those strange, opaque eyes… and all of a sudden, she knew him. He had the same expression he’d worn when they’d danced, the same intensity, the ambivalence. His face was the same, save the shimmering skin, and she could learn to love that, too. The same man looked out at her from behind those eyes, and she couldn’t look away.

She nodded.

“Then drop the knife,” he whispered, his words a breath against her mouth. She felt the dagger slip from her grip, heard it clatter on the floor. She knew him. She trusted him. He would not hurt her.

He was breathing hard; so was she. Her heart thundered in her chest. His mouth still looked the same: just as soft, just as warm.  

She leaned up on her tiptoes, and on impulse she took the lapels of his stiff jacket in her hands and pressed her mouth to his. It was a soft kiss, gentle and warm, a sweet press of his lips to hers entirely at odds with their heated words from before. It felt like a continuation of their dance, like time had looped around and returned them to that place where his thumb had traced her lips, and the world had stood still.

He coaxed her lips open with his, and Belle moaned when his tongue touched hers. It was nothing like when Gaston, the rare times he’d been given the chance, had shoved his meaty tongue into her mouth and almost choked her. Rumpelstiltskin, Gold, whoever he was, kissed with the same delicacy and deliberation he brought to everything else he did. The tip of his tongue danced over her lips, played with the tip of hers, stroking and dipping as his lips caressed hers. Belle felt her knees give out, her body melting against his as he held her close against him, his arm coming around her waist, his hand tangling in her hair.

Belle moaned, and slid her hands from his collar up and around his neck, into the springy locks of his hair, and he hissed when her nails bit into his scalp.

This couldn’t last: Lord George would never allow him to remain in the castle now that the truth was known, and she had no doubt that if he had had the knife, he had other proof as well. Lord Gold could never return as Chancellor, so long as Lord George breathed. He would have to leave. She would have to continue on without him. Certainly any wistful fantasy she might have had about marrying him was out of the question, if she intended to keep her throne.

She kissed him deeper, more desperately at that thought. She was running out of breath, but she couldn’t imagine pulling away, parting from him, being forced to deal with the fallout of whatever they were doing now.

It felt so right, his mouth against hers, their bodies pressed tight.

Eventually, she did have to pull back for breath. He didn’t try to speak, didn’t make her think about what they’d done, what she hoped they would keep doing. Instead, he began to kiss along her cheek, down her jaw. He nibbled with sharp teeth at the corner of her jawbone, making her jump and whimper, a shot of sensation shooting straight down her spine. He kissed down her throat, along her collarbone, exposed by her simple white blouse.

Belle stepped back, and back again, pulling him with her as she found one of the long study tables, so she could brace herself and not have to think about staying upright. When his mouth found her pulse point, her forward thinking paid off. Her knees wobbled and melted again, and when he felt her tremble he lifted her with one hand under her backside, so she was sitting on the table.

She felt his harsh breath on her throat, and she swallowed hard. She pulled his head up with her hand in his hair, and rested her forehead against his.

Her eyes fluttered closed, and she breathed him in, enjoying his closeness however it came. He didn’t look like he should. He wasn’t the man he ought to be. She had thought – perhaps hoped – that once she had learned the truth she would forget her feelings for him, and regain the objectivity Lord George had accused her of losing. But he was still the man she knew, somewhere inside. She had always known he was a mystery: somehow, this only created new layers to uncover.

“You shouldn’t have lied to me,” she whispered. His low exhale brushed against her lips and made her tremble.

“I’m sorry, Belle,” he replied. “The darkness is who I am. I never intended to know you. I never intended…”

He trailed off, but Belle understood. She nodded, swallowing around a lump in her throat. She didn’t want to cry now. For now, she wanted to enjoy whatever this was.

“Kiss me again?” she asked. There were so many questions that needed answers, so many things to be said, but right then Belle thought she might die if she couldn’t kiss him.

He nodded, and returned his mouth to hers, kissing her for long moments until her heart was racing and her bones were liquid. Her legs had wrapped themselves around his waist of their own accord, so he was holding her tight, every inch of his body pressed to hers.

His mouth slipped from her mouth again, and worked down the other side of her face and neck, pushing the barrier of her blouse aside so he could kiss along her shoulder too, lavishing every inch of skin he could find with his mouth.

Belle’s fingers shook, but they found their way to the stays of her bodice. She wanted him to touch her all over, her skin all but shivering with desire for him. If she could never marry him, if she would have to spend forever alone or with someone else, someone she couldn’t possibly love the way she loved him, then she would have this one night. He owed her that much. She needed that much.

He pulled back and gaped at her as she opened her bodice, revealing the sheer blouse beneath. The bodice had enough corsetry in it that for days spent alone in the library, she had little need of other supports. She had not considered until now how transparent the blouse was, how much of her was exposed through the thin linen. She blushed with embarrassment when she saw his eyes drift lower, watched his throat bob as he gulped at what he could see. Her nipples had hardened to rosy peaks, clearly visible through the fabric.

Belle lifted her arms to cover herself, but Rumpelstiltskin caught her arm with the lightest touch. “Please?” he murmured. He sounded like himself again, that low rolling brogue she loved so much. He sounded wrecked, desperate. She nodded, and lowered her arm.

Gently, his thumbs rubbed over those little points, sending sensation racing through Belle’s whole body. She gasped, her head arching back, her whole body pulled tight and taut as a bowstring. His hands gently squeezed and massaged her breasts, and Belle felt her breaths growing quick and shallow, her whole body heating with pleasure and sensation, an odd, thick heat pooling between her legs. She suddenly, desperately needed him to touch her there, too. She needed to feel him everywhere.

“Please, Rumple…” she sighed, unable to finish the rest of his name. It seemed a good compromise, all things considered: not the name of the twittering demon, but also not the human lie he had spun her in the past month. Something in between the beast and the man was the person before her. The person she loved.

He nodded, and his hands left her chest, coming to push and tug at her skirts, lifting the fabric up her knees and letting it puddle around her hips. It was Belle who took the final step, and pulled her pantaloons down to her ankles, kicking them free so they fell to the floor in a little white heap.

The cool air on her exposed skin suddenly brought her back to reality, to how open and vulnerable she currently was. She blushed all over, and pulled back, trying to regroup. “Belle?” his voice came to her, and her eyes blinked up into his.

What she saw there comforted her more than she could say. His eyes were full of concern, no hint of his former malice or of his guarded care from before. He looked like he would die if she stubbed her toe, like he wanted to protect her from everything and anything that came her way. He looked like he loved her. She wondered if he knew than she loved him too.

“I love you,” she said, softly. “It doesn’t change anything, but I do.”

Her eyes dropped from his, her bravery not holding out to watch the expression on his face.

“Oh Belle,” he murmured, and lifted her face, kissing her again, reigniting the banked fires within her. He kissed her again, again, until she was breathless and shivering again, although she was hardly cold. She was burning up, in fact, afraid she might well combust before this was over.

She wrapped her legs back around him, and moaned into his mouth when she felt the hard bulge between his legs, encased by his leather trousers, pressing against her sensitive flesh. She was so ready for him, embarrassingly wet and ready. She had never felt this way before, and hoped he didn’t mind, hoped he wouldn’t think her wanton for needing him so badly. It wasn’t her fault: she had been lost the moment she’d first looked into his eyes, whatever their colour, green-grey or brown, it didn’t matter.

“Are you sure?” he murmured, and she nodded.

“Please, Rumple,” she moaned, “Please.”

He nodded, dazed and lost for words. She felt a ripple, a tingle, a shiver of something alien and strange, and then the leather was gone, the stays of his breeches untying themselves and exposing him. Suddenly Belle could feel hard flesh pressing between her legs, and then it was accompanied by dextrous fingers, brushing over her, slipping into her folds and over a sensitive place at the apex, that made her cry out when it was touched directly.

“You really want this?” he murmured, frowning. She kissed his forehead, the little line between his eyebrows; she had always wanted to.

“Yes,” she whispered.

His fingers withdrew from her, and then she felt him, his member, the broad head pressing against her entrance. It hurt when he pushed it a little way inside, and she cried out, tensing up. Rumple’s fingers returned to her, and there was another ripple of that odd sensation, not quite pleasurable, not quite unpleasant. Then he was pushing in again, and this time it felt good, no pain at all, and she felt him fill her, their joining so perfect it made her arch her back and moan aloud.

When he was inside as far as he could go, he stopped, and his forehead rocked forward again to rest against hers. Their breaths met between them, and it was like their dance, like their conversations, like every moment they’d ever spent together encapsulated into a single second. She had never felt more connected to another person in her life, and Belle felt both rooted and set free.

Then he shifted out a little and pushed back inside, and his fingers were back at it between her legs, and everything was liquid and heat, pleasure and sensation, sparks up her spine and shivers across her skin. She gasped and keened, rocking in time with his movements, and his mouth was everywhere, open and kissing her throat, her cheeks, and finally her mouth, a kiss both messy and perfect, searing her soul.

His fingers twisted and pinched, and suddenly she exploded, the tension coiling at the base of her spine bursting into a thousand sparks, her whole body set alight. She moaned and whimpered, clinging to him with every muscle, her inner walls clenching around him as he continued to thrust within her. She felt him tense a moment later, as she was descending from her high, and he buried his face in her throat with a low groan as he released inside her. She petted his springy hair – she could grow used to it, although she missed the softness of before – and he clung to her, shaking as hard as she was.

For a perfect moment, it was as if nothing in the world, not even his lies or her duties, her kingdom or his dark curse, could hurt them. Belle wished she could live in it forever.

Then he had stepped back, withdrawn from her. Another ripple of magic had their clothes set to rights, and Belle felt suddenly cold, lonelier than she had ever been in her life.

“Goodbye, Belle,” he said. Then, in a swirl of purple smoke, he was gone, and the dagger on the floor with him.

One month later

Lord George had what he wanted: his rival was banished, and as the only man who wanted the job, he was installed once again as Chancellor.

He was competent: Belle would give him that. But he was domineering, and poor company, and ran roughshod over her in every Council meeting. Things returned to how she remembered them being under her father: with a ruler on the throne, but the real power rested in Lord George’s Chancellor’s office.

The leases binding the land in Lord Gold’s name were still valid at least, so he couldn’t claim all of that for his own, too. The man himself, the story went, had gone home to the Frontlands to help the war effort.

Belle was bereft.

She didn’t want to mourn him. He was a liar, and he’d never told her half of what she needed to know. They’d made love in the library, and she was certain he loved her too, but then he’d vanished.

Belle was starting to realise that what she’d enjoyed about ruling Avonlea wasn’t the power, or the politics, or even love of the land. She’d only lived here for a portion of her childhood, and while she knew the people cared for her, they were equally loyal to the Council, and especially Lord George. She was a young woman who had come to her maturity somewhere far away. She had never intended to inherit; no one had expected her to.

Sometimes – often – she thought on what Rumple had said to her, the day before the ball. If George wanted the throne so badly, why not let him have it?

She was stood in the garden when that thought occurred to her again. Since Lord George’s return to power, she had a lot of time to walk in the gardens, to sew, to read, to do anything but rule her lands. She supposed she should be thankful that she didn’t have to marry; Lord George already had what he wanted. She could appoint or adopt an heir, find a distant cousin to inherit. She didn’t think she could have borne the touch of another man, after she knew what it felt like to be with the man she loved.

She was watching the gardeners tend the flowerbeds – even they were allowed to do their work in peace – when she heard Ruby calling her name.

“Belle!” the other woman all but tumbled out of the doors and onto the balcony, and caught Belle’s arm. “Belle!”

“What, what is it?”

“They need you in the throne room!” Ruby cried, breathlessly. “The Lord Chancellor has an announcement!”

Belle frowned: Lord George only had need of her signature or her silence. Whatever he wanted now, she was sure he could accomplish alone. But then, he took a perverse joy in making her sit and bear witness to his us of her power. Everything he did, by his own design, was under her name.

“What is it?” Belle asked, as Ruby led her by the hand through the palace. Ruby shook her head.

“He won’t say,” she said. “He just said you were needed.”

Belle was only more confused, but followed Ruby all the same. They reached the throne room, and Leroy announced her with an odd smile on his face. He knew something about what was about to happen, but Belle had no time to ask what.

“Her Royal Highness, Belle, Princess of Avonlea!” Leroy announced, and Belle stepped through the doors and along the podium. Everyone in the chamber stood in respect. She gestured for them to sit as she took her place on the throne.

“Please, sit down,” she said. “Now, Lord Chancellor,” she turned to Lord George, standing uncomfortably before the throne. Usually he dominated proceedings from his chair to her right, crowding her, giving the impression of equal footing. “What is this about?”

“Now that your highness is here, I can present this document to your highness,” Lord George looked as if there was a knife in his kidneys, as if every word was acid, but he shoved a scroll in her direction.

Since when did Lord George use scrolls?

Belle unwound it, puzzled beyond belief. “…My Lord Chancellor, is this what it appears to be?”

“It is my resignation from courtly life, your highness,” he managed, through a heavy grimace. “I have decided to spend my days with my family. Our family seat is in the Marchlands. I have a desire to be in the mountains.” “I see,” Belle couldn’t believe what she was hearing, what she was reading. The document in her hands was watertight: Lord George officially abdicated his position, and the claims of his whole family to any part of Avonlea. “You will be a loss to the realm, my Lord,” she lied, fighting to keep a smile from her lips. She had a suspicion as to what was really behind this. Who was really behind it.

She would find out that night, she supposed.

“First Lord Gold, now you,” she continued. “My Chancellors are dropping like flies.”

“Dame Lucas has kindly offered to take my place,” he managed. The way his nostrils had flared, his eyes hardening at the name of his predecessor told Belle all she needed to know.

“Thank you, Dame Lucas,” she said, smiling to the older woman in her seat along the podium. Dame Lucas inclined her head, and went back to her knitting.

“You will be greatly missed,” Belle lied. “Your service to this realm will not be forgotten.”

Lord George looked as if he wanted to say something. Then he looked out at the crowd, and whatever he saw made him think twice. Belle followed his gaze: all she could see in his direct line of sight was an older woman with dark hair streaked with grey, shaking her head with a placid smile. She didn’t recognise the woman, but Lord George clearly did.

“Farewell, your highness,” he said, with the shallowest bow Belle had ever seen. He stormed from the room without another word. The door slammed behind him.

---

Belle stood in her bedroom, and took a deep breath.

This time she had brought no book, no summoning stones, no dagger. She stood alone, in the middle of the night, the servants sent to bed and the castle quiet, and her call was not a scream but a soft, quiet plea.

“Rumpelstiltskin, I summon thee.”

This time, the whistle of the wind was not a slap in the face but a sigh, an exhalation of held breath. He was standing by her window, right in front of her.

“I need the whole story,” she said, before he could speak. She held her thin robe tighter about her, her arms folded to keep from running to him, kissing him, so grateful was she to see him again. His hair looked soft again, his scales muted, and he’d forgone the stiff dragonhide jacket. He came before her in a waistcoat and silk shirt: the most casual she had ever seen him. He looked handsome in the candlelight. She had known she could get used to it.

“The story, dearie?”

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Lord George just happened to resign today,” she said. “Out of nowhere, apropos of nothing, at the moment of his victory, he walked away. Why would he do that?”

“Who knows why men do what they do?” Rumple asked, spreading his hands with a shrug. “Perhaps it was something he ate.” He wrinkled his nose, his voice high and strange. Even that, she could get used to. His pantomiming was as funny as it was unsettling.

“It wasn’t something he ate,” she shook her head, catching herself smiling. Even now, with an expanse of empty air between them, seeing him again felt more like home than the past month in her castle without him. He was so familiar: the shape of his jaw, the long angle of his nose, the soft springy hair and slender frame, the smile on his lips. She’d missed him more than she could say.

He took a step toward her, and she leaned closer almost without thinking. “What is your hypothesis then, dearie? A knock on the head?”

“Nope,” she grinned, and popped the ‘p’. “I think you happened to him.”

“I, good lady?” he asked, pressing a hand to his chest, his mouth opening in shock. “Perish the thought!”

She laughed at his antics, and she saw his eyes brighten. There was gentleness to his mockery now, affection instead of malice. She rather liked it. He hadn’t been so different as Lord Gold, after all.

“He told me once you’d made a deal with him, long ago. I need you to tell me what you did.”

“Why?” he asked. “Why not simply remain innocent?”

“Rumple, stop it,” she said, firmly. “I need to know. You know I do.”

It was incredible the effect her words had, even without the control of his dagger. He rolled his eyes, “Well, if you insist.”

He gestured for her to sit on the edge of the bed, and took a deep breath. “Once upon a time, there was a Lord who had everything, everything he could desire, power, honour, money, land… but no sons. And then, in a village not far from here, there was a farmer who had nothing… except he had two sons. You see where I’m going with this?”

Belle pursed her lips. “You sold one of the farmer’s sons to Lord George?” she asked. He tilted his head to one sid.e

“I facilitated an adoption, your highness,” he corrected, a little snidely. “In return for which, the Lord got in the way of a merger of kingdoms some way from here that benefitted me, and the farmer was greatly compensated. All was well, until the careless bastard the Lord raised was murdered by an ogre during a foolish raid-“

“But James is still alive,” Belle objected, “He’s-“ she stopped, the pieces falling together. Rumple made a gesture with his hand, imitating the penny dropping. She threw a cushion at him. “He’s the other son, isn’t he?” she said.

“Clever girl,” he grinned, and tapped her nose with one finger. Even that slight, teasing touch made her shiver. She hoped he wouldn’t leave without more of those lovely kisses, once she had her answers. “The farmer had died, terrible shame, and his wife was at risk of losing their home. The son agreed to the charade for his mother’s sake. Very noble young man, that one: some might call him charming.”

“The mother is an older woman with dark hair with grey streaks, a flat nose and an open face,” Belle said. Rumple stopped still, and tilted his head.

“You saw her this afternoon,” he murmured, and she watched as he ran his eyes appreciatively over her, as if he’d only just noticed her state of relative undress, clad only in her nightgown. “Very clever girl.”

Belle shivered again, and felt that heat beginning to build low in her belly. His gaze was almost physical, and slipped over her like a caress.

“So… what, you threatened to expose Lord George?” she asked. He grinned.

“His James is the pride of the family, even if now his real name is David. He married above his station, Snow’s closer to royalty than you are, and he’s a war hero to boot. His reputation would be marred forever, if it were revealed he traded in stolen babies with a demon to achieve such glory.”

“I thought you said it was an adoption,” Belle’s eyes narrowed, and Rumple’s smile gleamed.

“All a matter of your point of view, sweetheart,” he said. Oh, she liked when he called her that.

“Why do that?” she asked, shaking her head. “Your land was secure, the leases are still watertight. Even if he’d wanted to destroy whatever you need in the forest, he wouldn’t risk offending you.” She tilted her head to one side, her curiosity returning. “What was that, by the way? I can make sure it’s protected as Avonlea’s Princess.”

He sighed, as if he’d finally run out of reasons to avoid the question. “A tree,” he said, simply. “A tree that will one day become a very special piece of furniture.”

“You did all this… for a tree?” Belle blinked.

“It has magical properties,” he told her. “As will the wardrobe that will be created from it.”

Belle blinked. “You drove out Lord George, manipulated two families and a whole realm, for a tree?”

He looked at her, frowning, his head tilted. “Were you happy with him as Chancellor, Belle?” he asked. She laughed.

“I don’t know, are birds happy in cages?”

He didn’t reply. She looked at him, really looked at him, and blinked in disbelief. “You did all of this for me,” she said, softly. She’d thought it, hoped for it, but hadn’t really believed until now. “You… you banished him for me.”

“You’re a good ruler, Belle,” he fidgeted with his fingers, uneasy and restless. “You deserve a chance to do it right. And it only seems fair that young David be reunited with his mother.”

“You did it for me,” she said, biting the inside of her lip. She looked up at him, and if she’d had any doubt that she loved him, or that he loved her, they were no more. “I love you, Rumple.”

His eyes met hers, sheepish and hopeful, an odd expression on such a face. “I love you too, Belle,” he said, so softly she almost didn’t catch it.

She rose from the bed, and stepped into his arms. When he kissed her, she swore she could fly.  

[fictionalthrill]

The Auror (Series) Chapter 4: Early Days and Late Nights

Percival Graves Imagine

A/N: Sorry for taking so long on this one. It’s been busy for me these past two weeks. Still, I managed to work through with this piece. Fair Warning, some of the writing might be bad. I don’t know why but everything I’ve written lately has been a bit sucky, and this is an example of that. I don’t feel as confident as I did with the past three pieces. Anyways, I hope you still enjoy this follow up of the series; it’s really coming along. I feel like part 5 is going to be really awesome since I already have ideas for the events. 

THANK YOU TO ALL WHO’VE READ MY SERIES SO FAR. I CAN NOT THANK YOU ENOUGH FOR THE SUPPORT AND KIND WORDS YOU’VE ALL SHARED WITH ME. TAKE CARE AND GOD BLESS!

Description: Another week gone, but it has been an easy one. Y/N has been working hard to become an Auror, and the challenges continue to grow. Not to mention, she’s been on a constant search with Graves to find Grindelwald.

February 20th, 1928.

           It was early Monday morning, and Y/N was stomping through the streets of the city, in an eager mood to arrive at MACUSA. For the past week, Y/N had decided to endure early days of pure bitter cold, all to report over to Mr. Graves and assist his avid investigation of Gellert Grindelwald. He had never ordered her to present herself at such time, but she thought it was a good idea, seeing as he practically lived in his office, and they could use all the time they had. So, by six in the morning Y/N was out of her warm apartment, and in the freezing streets.

           The only thing about this morning were the sheets of snow that laid all over the sidewalks and roads. The outfit she wore was winter appropriate; but not this winter appropriate. Her coat was wrapped tightly around her body, but somehow the chilling wind snaked through the material. Her face was blocked with a wool scarf, but even so her cheeks and nose were blasting cold. And her shoes? In no way were they keeping her tingling toes toasty, instead, they felt like they were being submerged in a bucket of ice every time she placed a foot on the ground.

           In a moment, Y/N grew tired of the murdering weather, and thought of only one other way to get to work. Apparition. It’s never her first choice of travel, but in this case, there was nothing else. She did have her license and all, but she wasn’t really a fan. After much deliberation, she continued her path towards a mediocre alleyway, and before hiding besides a dumpster, she made sure no one noticed her. Within seconds, she was in another alleyway near MACUSA’s esteemed building. Steadying her feet, Y/N leaned against a wall for balance. Apparating was never complicating for her, but somehow, it always made her a bit dizzy. After a minute or so, she finally regained herself, and proceeded to enter headquarters.

           By now, she had gotten accustomed to her work local. She knew her place and her duties, and always remembered her ultimate goal. To become an Auror. There was no doubt she was talented, but the process to such a high position was surely challenging. There were times when her body was full-on ready to shut down during the lessons, and yet she never faltered. And just when she’d hope to be home in no time to rest, Graves would ask her to assist his investigation on Grindelwald. This very Monday would be no exception. Another day, more work.

           After finally landing in Law Enforcement, she cruised directly over to the head’s office, and sure enough, his door was ajar. A clear sign of his presence. Gently, Y/N approached the door and laid a soft knock on its surface.

           “Yes?” Was all the man said.

           Slowly, Y/N pushed in the door and looked inside. But when she stared towards Graves’ desk, her eyes were met with Madam President and the director deep in conversation. Y/N’s eyes stretched widely like those of a deer stuck in the headlights. Both figures just stared at her, and someone finally spoke.

           “Miss Y/L/N. You’re here early.” He stated.

           “Mr. Graves, Madam President. I apologize for the intrusion. If I had known I wouldn’t have bothered to knock…” Y/N uttered with a sincere voice.

           “Ah, so you’re the famous Y/N Y/L/N.” The President said evidently.

           “In the flesh, Madam.”

“Fantastic. Graves here has been rather resolute of you and your talents. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Madam told her. Meanwhile Graves had bowed his head, a bit startled by the President’s statement.

“He has?” Y/N asked curiously. She couldn’t help but look to Graves as she did. All he did was caress the back of his head and stretch his hand to point to her.

“Well, I’ve been keeping her in check of the investigation.” Graves shared, but he was a bit to uncomfortable to add more. One could say he was embarrassed, but he was far to composed to demonstrate such response.

“Yes. When Julius had recruited you to study Grindelwald, I never had the chance to view your investigative process… Now, I have.”

“Well, at the time of the investigation, I did most of the work from my home, Madam.”

“Still, you did an amazing job. And from what I’ve seen, and heard, in this investigation, you certainly know what you’re doing.” The President smirked at Y/N.

           “Thank You, Madam President.” Y/N responded.

           “As for what we discussed Graves, make sure you have more information before you plan anything. We need to be smart about this. Let me know when you’ve found enough to take action.” Madam President added while looking back to Graves.

           “Yes, Madam President.” He replied.

           “Now, I must go. You may continue your work. Good day.” The President concluded as she left the office.

           “I am so sorry for interrupting, Mr. Graves. It wasn’t my intention.” Y/N quickly said once she and Graves were alone. He had moved over to the board he had set up in the room. It was scattered with notes and images related to Grindelwald.

           “It’s no worries, Miss Y/L/N. You got to meet Madam President; she was eager to do so.”

           “I wasn’t expecting that. She’s quite graceful in person.”

           “Interesting choice of words.” He squinted his eyes a bit at her, “Anyways, I hope you being here early isn’t my doing, is it?” Graves added.

           “Not entirely, sir. I just thought it would be better for the both of us to use any time that we have for the investigation.”

           “I understand that. But, I thought I told you to come in at your assigned time. You won’t get much rest if you keep this up.” He told her while facing the board.

“I know, sir. But, I figured since these past early days have allowed us to cover much on the investigation, then another day wouldn’t hurt.”

“Keep that up and it will always be ‘another day’. Remind me to buy you a coffee once all this is done…” He turned around and faced her this time.

“No need, sir. Might I say, you don’t seem like yourself today. Something the matter?” Y/N questioned him. He was moving towards his desk now.

“Yes, well, I have news. A Senior Auror has been undercover for us in the city. We’ve had him keep a lookout for any sign of Grindelwald followers. Maybe even the wizard himself…”

“And?”

“He found something. Apparently, Grindelwald does have followers in New York. And, they appear to have a location,” he went on, “An old building between seventh and eighth avenue. He spotted lots of activity there. Not many entering, but he has spotted that figure constantly come in and out of the building.” Graves informed her while pointing to a dark image on the board.

“How do we know for sure?”

“Well, we don’t exactly know who that is. But, he has traced some magic to the building, and from the few people that have been detected, there is one we’ve managed to identify.” He said as he handed her a file.

“Gustav Alvez? The escapee from Azkaban? I don’t understand. The Ministry had publicized his murder after his supposed encounter with Grindelwald.”

“Looks like they were wrong. He appears to be very much alive.”

“Have you notified his reappearance to the Ministry?” She wondered as she studied the file.

“No. Why, should we?” Graves questioned her.

“Well, if they hear about a man rising back from the dead, they’ll have to submit an investigation of his death. This could help push them off your backs for some time, while you continue your own search of Grindelwald.” Y/N suggested.

“A distraction? This could actually be good for us. I’ll tell the President, immediately.” Graves said, as he went on to compose a note. Meanwhile, Y/N stepped over to the investigation board to examine everything they’ve had so far. As her eyes scanned the material, they landed on the dark image of the silhouette that was walking into the presumed location of Grindelwald followers. She squinted her eyes a bit, trying to get a better view of the man, but it didn’t seem to work. Behind her, was a small fluttering of wings as Graves sent the note to Madam President away. Y/N continued in front of the board without saying a word. She was deep in thought, when suddenly Graves came to stand next to her. He didn’t want to bother her, but he was curious as to what she was thinking.

“Is there something wrong?” He asked as he looked between her and the board.

“No. Well, I’m just curious about this man.” She pointed to the image.

“Before you came, I was telling Madam President that we must plan a capture. For all we know, this man could be Grindelwald.”

“No. He’s too smart pull something like this off. He must have known that MACUSA would eventually find some of his followers.” Y/N stated while shaking her head.

“You don’t believe he’s there?”

“Unless he’s gambling with the possibility of being caught, I don’t think so. He must have seen us coming. I mean, what are the chances one of the Auror’s just so happens to uncover such activity at this building, and that they find an ex-prisoner from Azkaban? A lot just doesn’t add up.” All the while she shares this, Graves is staring at her. He is completely amazed by how much she’s managed to conclude from a simple look at notes and images.

“Anything else you’ve gathered from all this?” Graves requested.

“Yeah. There’s going to be much work to do if we intend on catching this guy…” She told him; a hint of amusement in her voice. Graves chuckled lowly at this, for he was very much aware of that.

“Yeah, well, it’s part of the job. Anyways, don’t worry about this for now. I’ve got it covered. Go ahead and report yourself to your post. If I need anything, I’ll find you.”

“Yes, sir.”

As she replied, Y/N went on to leave the office, leaving Graves alone to study the board. He placed his hands on his hips and sighed heavily. Looking all over the work, he shook his head and glanced over to his door. Incredible. If there’s somebody here who will lead the capture of Grindelwald, it’s her. He thought.

After leaving Mr. Grave’s office, Y/N had gone to the Wand Permit Office to resume her duties. As she made it to her little desk, she laid her coat on the back of her chair. Just then, Queenie and Tina arrived.

“Hi, Honey!” Queenie saluted in her usual sugary voice.

“Hey, Queenie. Hey, Tina.”

“Hi, Y/N. How are you?” Tina asked her.

“I’m good. You gals?”

“I’m fantastic! And Tina is super happy because she’s on Wand Permit duty today!” Queenie stated.

“That’s great. It’s nice to see you as happy as ever Queenie. And, I’m glad you’re with us today Tina.”

“Your glad? I’m relieved. Don’t tell on me, but I’m just happy to get a break from Mr. Graves.” Tina confessed secretly.

“I don’t think he’s that bad. Is he?” Y/N wondered.

“Oh, no. He’s amazing at what he does and all, but he likes to drown himself in work, and when I’m helping him out, he drowns me as well. It’s just hard to keep up sometimes with everything happening in MACUSA.”

“Yeah, I got assigned to attend to him one day and he even drove me off the edge.” Queenie added lowly.

“Luckily you didn’t get assigned to him again.” Tina said.

“Why? What happened?” Y/N asked the girls.

“Well, whenever he’d had me do something, I often read his thoughts.”

“You barely gave him a chance to speak. It got on his nerves.” Tina chuckled and the other girls joined. When the laughter died down, Tina continued to talk, “Anyways, how is Auror preparation going, Y/N?”

“It’s going. It can be exhausting at times, but I get by.” Y/N admitted.

“Still, you seem to be making quite the impression. Some of the Auror’s have heard a lot about you.”

“What? How?”

“Julius, of course. He takes great pride in impressive candidates. He speaks highly of you. At least that’s what I’ve gotten to hear.” Tina told her. In that moment, James Henry walks into the Wand Permit Office, several files at hand. The girls all look to him as he approached them.

“Morning, ladies. Y/N.” James salutes, and he nods his head as he greets Y/N. The Goldstein sisters catch the moment, and they both seem to be aware of the vibe James is sending.

“Good Morning, James.” Y/N saluted. When James finally looked over at the sisters, they both recomposed themselves and continued to greet him back.

“Good Morning, James!”

“Hello, James. Listen, Y/N, Queenie and I need to go to the back for a second to retrieve some… files. Yeah, files. We’ll be back.” Tina told Y/N while grabbing Queenie and dragging her away.

“O…kay.” Y/N said. Her tone was suspicious, but she waved the girls off and looked back to James.

“So, Y/N, I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while now, about the uh, the umm… You got any plans tonight?” James asked her, his voice off balance.

“Not that I know of. After Auror Training, I’ll hopefully be heading home. Why?”

“You see, there’s this new jazz bar about two blocks from here. They say it’s really swinging. I was thinking of checking it out and thought you might want to come with me?” James went on. He was unnecessarily smoothing out his tie, numerous times, while looking to Y/N.

“I mean- I don’t know, James…”

           “I really think you’d like it. Plus, you said you’d show me a step or two, me having knowing no steps and all…” He added almost pleading.

           “Um… alright, I guess. We can go after we get out. And just for a little while!” Y/N pointed demandingly.

           “Great! Absolutely, a couple of minutes won’t hurt,” James said highly, “I’ll see you at training!” He added as he walked backwards away.

           “Later…” Immediately, Queenie and Tina reappeared. Both with grinning faces.

           “Everything alright?” Tina asked Y/N.

           “Yeah. He just wanted to tell me something.”

           “Something? That looked like a whole lot of something with the way he was shaking in his shoes!”

           “So, you were spying?”

           “No… Maybe… It’s just, he likes you so much and you make him so nervous!”

           “Really, honey. You should see what was going through his mind the entire time.” Queenie jumped in. Y/N glanced at her accusingly.

           “I know he likes me, guys. It’s not like he’s very discreet about it.” Y/N said to the girls.

           “What did he say?!” Tina asked excitingly.

           “He invited me to some jazz bar tonight. Said it was new and wondered if I would accompany him.” Y/N told her in a monotone voice.

           “And you said?”

           “I said I would accompany him only for a little while- why are you so ecstatic like that?” She wondered as Tina seemed to be quite giddy.

           “Because, he’s such a nice guy, and you are amazing without a doubt. I mean, you’’d make a nice couple. That’s all…”

“Couple? Tina, this isn’t a date. We’re just going to check out some jazz bar, nothing else.” Y/N was confused by Tina’s immediate labeling, “Besides, I don’t see him that way.”

“Awn…” Queenie sounded deflated.

“I’m sorry, gals. I’m just not looking into that right now. I have more important things to be thinking about… like Auror Training! Remember?”

“Well, at least give him a chance. He might just surprise you.” Tina said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Thanks.” Y/N replied annoyed, still she smirked at the girls.

“Anyways, we got a lot of work to do today. Let’s start checking those permits.” Tina added.

“Ok.” Responded both Queenie and Y/N as they all proceeded to their desks to work on their files.

When the girls had finished with some of the wand permits, Tina had excused herself to go on and perform her daily duties as an Auror. Meanwhile, Queenie and Y/N remained in the offices, up until Y/N had to leave to her Auror Training. She said her goodbyes to Queenie incased she missed her afterwards, and went off to the Target Room.

As she entered the room, Julius came right behind her, and continued to place himself in front of all the trainees. Y/N stood next to James who had accommodated himself at the end of the outstretched line. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

“Today, we begin with some very tricky spell work. What we will be casting today requires immense practice, and much concentration. If you do not learn to execute this skill, you might as well kiss your chances of being an Auror, goodbye. The lesson… Detecting and Identifying traces of magic.” Julius explained.

“Oh, boy.” James sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Y/N asked.

“This is one of the toughest lessons in this Training.” He worried.

“I know.” Was all she responded.

Julius continued to share, “Now, the harboring of this skill takes time to master, so don’t expect to get it on your first day. Still, remember you won’t have forever to try. Let us begin!”

           At the end of the lesson, Y/N was drained. Just understanding the skill of detection was tiring enough. Yet she pushed through; with much difficulty, of course. As everyone exited the room, Queenie waited for Y/N near the doors. She waved her over, and Y/N followed suit.

           “Mr. Graves needs to see you right now. He said he’d be waiting in his office. He was pretty determined.” Queenie told her a little too seriously.

           “Oh, God. Um, okay. I’ll go right now.” Y/N responded a bit defeated. Then, James came up beside her.

           “You ready to go?” He asked her.

           “I can’t just yet. I have to go over to Mr. Grave’s office. Apparently, he needs to see me. I’m so sorry, I won’t take long. Wait for me in the lobby.” She told him as she skipped away to the elevator.

           “Mr. Graves? You asked to see me, sir?” Y/N said as she quietly stepped in the office.

           “Yes. I’ve got some more information on Gustav, from the Ministry. They’ve just arrived. If you don’t mind, I’d like for you to take a look at them so we can set up a profile.” He answered as he sauntered back and forth between his desk and the board, pining various notes.

           “Must all this be done now, sir?”

           Graves turned away from the board, “I would like for it to be. Why?”

           “It’s just, I-I- no reason, sir. My apologies.”

           “Miss Y/L/N, if you have somewhere to be, by all means go. I understand you must be tired and all…”

           “No, sir. That’s all right. May I borrow some of your notes? I need to compose one for somebody.”

           “Go ahead.”

           With his permission, Y/N grabbed a note and began to write a message on its surface.

I’m sorry. Something has come up and I need to be here. I hope you understand. Bests, Y/N