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blackswaneuroparedux · 3 years

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Anonymous asked: I have always appreciated your thoughtful views on the defence of the British monarchy, and as a university historian it’s reassuring to see someone using history to make invalubale insights to a controversial institution. I wonder what are your own thoughts on the passing of Prince Philip and what his legacy might be? Was he a gaffe prone racist and a liability to the Queen?

I know you kindly got in touch and identified yourself when you felt I was ignoring your question. I’m glad we cleared that up via DM. The truth is as I said and I’m saying here is that I had to let some time pass before I felt I could reasonably answer this question. Simply because - as you know as someone who teaches history at university - distance is good to make a sober appraisal rather than knee jerk in the moment judgements.

Contrary to what some might think I’m not really a fan girl when it comes to the royal family. I don’t religiously follow their every movement or utterance especially as I live in Paris and therefore I don’t really care about tabloid tittle tattle. I only get to hear of anything to do with the royal family when I speak to my parents or my great aunts and uncles for whom the subject is closer to their heart because of the services my family has rendered over past generations to the monarchy and the older (and dying) tight knit social circles they travel in.

Like Walter Bagehot, I’m more interested in the monarchy as an institution and its constitutional place within the historical, social, and political fabric of Britain and its continued delicate stabilising importance to that effect. It was Walter Bagehot, the great constitutional scholar and editor the Economist magazine, who said, “The mystic reverence, the religious allegiance, which are essential to a true monarchy, are imaginative sentiments that no legislature can manufacture in any people.” In his view, a politically-inactive monarchy served the best interests of the United Kingdom; by abstaining from direct rule, the monarch levitated above the political fray with dignity, and remained a respected personage to whom all subjects could look to as a guiding light.

Even as a staunch monarchist I freely confess that there has always been this odd nature of the relationship between hereditary monarchy and a society increasingly ambivalent about the institution. To paraphrase Bagehot again, there has been too much ‘daylight’ shone onto the ‘magic’ of the monarchy because we are obsessed with personalities as celebrities.

Having said that I did feel saddened by the passing of Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh. After the Queen, he was my favourite royal. Anne, Princess Royal, would come next because she is very much like her father in temperament, humour, and character, so unlike her other brothers.

I have met the late Prince Philip when I was serving in the army in a few regimental meet-and-greet situations - which as you may know is pretty normal given that members of the royal family serve as honorary colonel-in-chiefs (patrons in effect) of all the British army regiments and corps.I also saw him at one or two social events such the annual charitable Royal Caledonian Ball (he’s an expert scottish reeler) and the Guards Polo Club where my older brothers played.

I’ll will freely confess that he was the one royal I could come close to identify with because his personal biography resonated with me a great deal.

Let’s be honest, the core Windsor family members, born to privilege, are conditioned and raised to be dull. Perhaps that’s a a tad harsh. I would prefer the term ‘anonymously self-effacing’, just another way of saying ‘for God’s sake don’t draw attention to yourself by saying or doing anything even mildly scandalous or political lest it invites public opprobrium and scrutiny’. The Queen magnificently succeeds in this but the others from Charles down just haven’t (with the exception of Princess Anne).

However, many people forget this obvious fact that it’s the incoming husbands and wives who marry into the Windsor family who are relied upon to bring colour and even liven things up a little. And long before Kate Middleton, Meghan Markle (very briefly), or Lady Diana Spencer, were the stars of ‘The Firm’- a phrase first coined by King George VI, Queen Elizabeth II's father who ruled from 1936 to 1952, who was thought to have wryly said, "British royals are 'not a family, we're a firm,” - it was Prince Philip who really livened things up and made the greater impact on the monarchy than any of them in the long term.

Prince Philip’s passing belied the truth of a far more complex individual: a destitute and penniless refugee Greek-Danish prince with a heart breaking backstory that could have been penned by any 19th Century novelist, and also eagle eyed reformer who tried to drag the royal family into the 20th century. At the core of the man - lost scion of a lost European royal dynasty, a courageous war veteran, and Queen’s consort - were values in which he attempted to transform and yet maintain much older inherited traditions and attitudes. Due to his great longevity, Philip’s life came to span a period of social change that is almost unprecedented, and almost no one in history viewed such a transformation from the front row.

Prince Philip would seem to represent in an acute form the best of the values of that era, which in many ways jar with today’s. He had fought with great courage in the war as a dashing young naval officer; he was regularly rude to foreigners, which was obviously a bonus to all Brits. He liked to ride and sail and shoot things. He was unsentimental almost to a comic degree, which felt reassuring at a time when a new-found emotional incontinence made many feel uncomfortable. Outrageous to some but endearing to others, he was the sort of man you’d want to go for a pint with, perhaps the ultimate compliment that an Englishman can pay to another Englishman. This has its own delicious irony as he wasn’t really an Englishman.

There are 4 takeways I would suggest in my appraisal of Prince Philip that stand out for me. So let me go through each one.

1. Prince Philip’s Internationalism

It may seem odd for me to say that Prince Philip wasn’t English but he wasn’t an Englishman in any real sense. He was a wretch of the world - stateless, homeless, and penniless. That the Prince of Nowhere became the British Monarchy’s figurehead was more than fitting for a great age of migration and transition in which the Royal Family survived and even flourished. That he was able to transform himself into the quintessential Englishman is testimony not just to his personal determination but also to the powerful cultural pull of Britishness.

He was born on a kitchen table in Corfu in June 1921. A year later in 1922, Philip, as the the great-great-grandson of Queen Victoria and nephew of Constantine I of Greece, was forced to flee with his family after the abdication of Constantine. He grew up outside Paris speaking French; ethnically he was mostly German although he considered himself Danish, his family originating from the Schleswig border region. He was in effect, despite his demeanour of Royal Navy officer briskness, a citizen of nowhere in an age of movement. From a very young age he was a stateless person, nationally homeless. Indeed, Philip was an outsider in a way that even Meghan Markle could never be; at his wedding in 1947, his three surviving sisters and two brothers-in-law were not permitted to attend because they were literally Britain’s enemies, having fought for the Germans. A third brother-in-law had even been in the SS, working directly for Himmler, but had been killed in the conflict.

Even his religion was slightly exotic. He was Greek Orthodox until he converted to Anglicanism on marrying Elizabeth - what with his wife due to become supreme head of the Church and everything - but his ties with eastern Christianity remained. His great-aunts Princess Elisabeth of Hesse and by Rhine and Tsarina Alexandra are both martyrs of the Russian Orthodox Church, having been murdered by the Bolsheviks; Philip’s mother went on to become an Orthodox nun and a “Righteous Among the Nations” for saving a Jewish family during the Nazi occupation of Greece, spending much of her time in squalid poverty.

His parents were part of the largely German extended aristocracy who ruled almost all of Europe before it all came crashing down in 1918. When he died, aged 99, it marked a near-century in which all the great ideological struggles had been and gone; he had been born before the Soviet Union but outlived the Cold War, the War on Terror and - almost - Covid-19.

The world that Philip was born into was a far more violent and dangerous place than ours. In the year he was born, Irish rebels were still fighting Black and Tans; over the course of 12 months the Spanish and Japanese prime ministers were assassinated, there was a coup in Portugal and race riots in the United States. Germany was rocked by violence from the far-Left and far-Right, while in Italy a brutal new political movement, the Fascists, secured 30 seats in parliament, led by a trashy journalist called Benito Mussolini.

The worst violence, however, took place in Greece and Turkey. Following the defeat of the Ottoman Empire, what remained of Turkey was marked for permanent enfeeblement by the Allies. But much to everyone’s surprise the country’s force were roused by the brilliant officer Mustafa Kemal, who led the Turks to victory. Constantinople was lost to Christendom for good and thousands of years of Hellenic culture was put to the flames in Smyrna.

The Greek royal family, north German imports shipped in during the 19th century, bore much of the popular anger for this disaster. King Constantine fled to Italy, and his brother Andrew was arrested and only escaped execution through the intervention of his relative Britain’s George V. Andrew’s wife Alice, their four daughters and infant son Philip fled to France, completely impoverished but with the one possession that ensures that aristocrats are never truly poor: connections.

Philip had a traumatic childhood. He was forged by the turmoil of his first decade and then moulded by his schooling. His early years were spent wandering, as his place of birth ejected him, his family disintegrated and he moved from country to country, none of them ever his own. When he was just a year old, he and his family were scooped up by a British destroyer from his home on the Greek island of Corfu after his father had been condemned to death. They were deposited in Italy. One of Philip's first international journeys was spent crawling around on the floor of the train from an Italian port city, "the grubby child on the desolate train pulling out of the Brindisi night," as his older sister Sophia later described it.

In Paris, he lived in a house borrowed from a relative; but it was not destined to become a home. In just one year, while he was at boarding school in Britain, the mental health of his mother, Princess Alice, deteriorated and she went into an asylum; his father, Prince Andrew, went off to Monte Carlo to live with his mistress. "I don't think anybody thinks I had a father," he once said. Andrew would die during the war. Philip went to Monte Carlo to pick up his father's possessions after the Germans had been driven from France; there was almost nothing left, just a couple of clothes brushes and some cuff-links.

Philip’s four sisters were all much older, and were soon all married to German aristocrats (the youngest would soon die in an aeroplane crash, along with her husband and children). His sisters became ever more embroiled in the German regime. In Scotland going to Gordonstoun boarding school, Philip went the opposite direction, becoming ever more British. Following the death of his sister Cecilie in a plane crash in 1937, the gulf widened. As the clouds of conflict gathered, the family simply disintegrated. With a flash of the flinty stoicism that many would later interpret, with no little justification, as self-reliance to the point of dispassion, the prince explained: “It’s simply what happened. The family broke up… I just had to get on with it. You do. One does.”

In the space of 10 years he had gone from a prince of Greece to a wandering, homeless, and virtually penniless boy with no-one to care for him. He got through it by making a joke of everything, and by being practical.

By the time he went to Gordonstoun, a private boarding school on the north coast of Scotland, Philip was tough, independent and able to fend for himself; he'd had to be. Gordonstoun would channel those traits into the school's distinct philosophy of community service, teamwork, responsibility and respect for the individual. And it sparked one of the great passions of Philip's life - his love of the sea. It was Gordonstoun that nurtured that love through the maturation of his character.

Philip adored the school as much as his son Charles would despise it. Not just because the stress it put on physical as well as mental excellence - he was a great sportsman. But because of its ethos, laid down by its founder Kurt Hahn, a Jewish exile from Nazi Germany.

Hahn first met Philip as a boy in Nazi Germany. Through a connection via one of his sister’s husbands, Philip, the poor, lonely boy was first sent off to a new school - in Nazi Germany. Which was as fun as can be imagined. Schloss Salem had been co-founded by stern educator called Kurt Hahn, a tough, discipline-obsessed conservative nationalist who saw civilisation in inexorable decline. But by this stage Hahn, persecuted for being Jewish in Nazi Germany, had fled to Britain, and Philip did not spend long at the school either, where pressure from the authorities was already making things difficult for the teachers. Philip laughed at the Nazis at first, because their salute was the same gesture the boys at his previous school had to make when they wanted to go to the toilet, but within a year he was back in England, a refugee once again.

Philip happily attended Hahn’s new school, Gordonstoun, which the strict disciplinarian had set up in the Scottish Highlands. Inspired by Ancient Sparta, the boys (and then later girls) had to run around barefoot and endure cold showers, even in winter, the whole aim of which was to drive away the inevitable civilisational decay Hahn saw all around him. To 21st century ears it sounds like hell on earth, yet Philip enjoyed it, illustrating just what a totally alien world he came from.

That ethos became a significant, perhaps the significant, part of the way that Philip believed life should be lived. It shines through the speeches he gave later in his life. "The essence of freedom," he would say in Ghana in 1958, "is discipline and self-control." The comforts of the post-war era, he told the British Schools Exploring Society a year earlier, may be important "but it is much more important that the human spirit should not be stifled by easy living". And two years before that, he spoke to the boys of Ipswich School of the moral as well as material imperatives of life, with the "importance of the individual" as the "guiding principle of our society".

It was at Gordonstoun one of the great contradictions of Philip's fascinating life was born. The importance of the individual was what in Kurt Hahn's eyes differentiated Britain and liberal democracies from the kind of totalitarian dictatorship that he had fled. Philip put that centrality of the individual, and individual agency - the ability we have as humans to make our own moral and ethical decisions - at the heart of his philosophy.

At Dartmouth Naval College in 1939, the two great passions of his life would collide. He had learned to sail at Gordonstoun; he would learn to lead at Dartmouth. And his driving desire to achieve, and to win, would shine through. Despite entering the college far later than most other cadets, he would graduate top of his class in 1940. In further training at Portsmouth, he gained the top grade in four out of five sections of the exam. He became one of the youngest first lieutenants in the Royal Navy.

The navy ran deep in his family. His maternal grandfather had been the First Sea Lord, the commander of the Royal Navy; his uncle, "Dickie" Mountbatten, had command of a destroyer while Philip was in training. In war, he showed not only bravery but guile. It was his natural milieu. "Prince Philip", wrote Gordonstoun headmaster Kurt Hahn admiringly, "will make his mark in any profession where he will have to prove himself in a trial of strength".

2. Prince Philip and the modernisation of the monarchy

In his own words, the process of defining what it meant to be a royal consort was one of “trial and error.” Speaking with BBC One’s Fiona Bruce in 2011, Philip explained, “There was no precedent. If I asked somebody, 'What do you expect me to do?' they all looked blank. They had no bloody idea, nobody had much idea.” So he forged for himself a role as a moderniser of the monarchy.

He could not have had much idea back in 1939. Back then in Dartmouth in 1939, as war became ever more certain, the navy was his destiny. He had fallen in love with the sea itself. "It is an extraordinary master or mistress," he would say later, "it has such extraordinary moods." But a rival to the sea would come.

When King George VI toured Dartmouth Naval College, accompanied by Philip's uncle, he brought with him his daughter, Princess Elizabeth. Philip was asked to look after her. He showed off to her, vaulting the nets of the tennis court in the grounds of the college. He was confident, outgoing, strikingly handsome, of royal blood if without a throne. She was beautiful, a little sheltered, a little serious, and very smitten by Philip.

Did he know then that this was a collision of two great passions? That he could not have the sea and the beautiful young woman? For a time after their wedding in 1948, he did have both. As young newlyweds in Malta, he had what he so prized - command of a ship - and they had two idyllic years together. But the illness and then early death of King George VI brought it all to an end.

He knew what it meant, the moment he was told. Up in a lodge in Kenya, touring Africa, with Princess Elizabeth in place of the King, Philip was told first of the monarch's death in February 1952. He looked, said his equerry Mike Parker, "as if a ton of bricks had fallen on him". For some time he sat, slumped in a chair, a newspaper covering his head and chest. His princess had become the Queen. His world had changed irrevocably.

While the late Princess Diana was later to famously claim that there were “three people” in her marriage - herself, Prince Charles and Camilla - there were at least 55 million in Philip and Elizabeth’s. As Elizabeth dedicated her life to her people at Westminster Abbey at the Coronation on June 2, 1953, it sparked something of an existential crisis in Philip. Many people even after his death have never really understood this pivotal moment in Philip’s life. All his dreams of being a naval officer and a life at sea as well as being the primary provider and partner in his marriage were now sacrificed on the altar of duty and love.

With his career was now over, and he was now destined to become the spare part. Philip, very reasonably, asked that his future children and indeed his family be known by his name, Mountbatten. In effect he was asking to change the royal family’s name from the House of Windsor to the House of Mountbatten. But when Prime Minister Winston Churchill got wind of it as well as the more politically agile courtiers behind the Queen, a prolonged battle of wits ensued, and it was one Philip ultimately lost. It was only in 1957 that he accepted the title of “Prince.”

Even though he had almost lost everything dear to him and his role now undefined, he didn’t throw himself a pity party. He just got on with it. Philip tried to forge his own distinct role as second fiddle to the woman who had come to represent Great Britain. He designated himself the First Officer of the Good Ship Windsor. He set about dusting off some of the cobwebs off the throne and letting some daylight unto the workings of the monarchy by advocating reasonable amount of modernisation of the monarchy.

He had ideas about modernising the royal family that might be called “improving optics” today. But in his heart of hearts he didn’t want the monarchy to become a stuffy museum piece. He envisaged a less stuffy and more popular monarchy, relevant to the lives of ordinary people. Progress was always going to be incremental as he had sturdy opposition from the old guard who wanted to keep everything as it was, but nevertheless his stubborn energy resulted in significant changes.

When a commission chaired by Prince Philip proposed broadcasting the 1953 investiture ceremony that formally named Elizabeth II as queen on live television, Prime Minister Winston Churchill reacted with outright horror, declaring, “It would be unfitting that the whole ceremony should be presented as if it were a theatrical performance.” Though the queen had initially voiced similar concerns, she eventually came around to the idea, allowing the broadcast of all but one segment of the coronation. Ultimately, according to the BBC, more than 20 million people tuned in to the televised ceremony - a credit to the foresight of Philip.

Elizabeth’s coronation marked a watershed moment for a monarchy that has, historically, been very hands off, old-fashioned and slightly invisible. Over the following years, the royals continued to embrace television as a way of connecting with the British people: In 1957, the queen delivered her annual Christmas address during a live broadcast. Again, this was Philip’s doing when he cajoled the Queen to televise her message live. He even helped her in how to use the teleprompter to get over her nerves and be herself on screen.

Four years later, in 1961, Philip became the first family member to sit for a television interview. It is hard for us to imagine now but back then it was huge. For many it was a significant step in modernising the monarchy.

Though not everything went to plan. Toward the end of the decade, the Windsors even invited cameras into their home. A 1969 BBC fly-on-the-wall documentary, instigated by Philip to show life behind the scenes, turned into an unmitigated disaster: “The Windsors” revealed the royals to be a fairly normal, if very rich, British upper-class family who liked barbecues, ice cream, watching television and bickering. The mystery of royalty took a hit below the waterline from their own torpedo, a self-inflicted wound from which they took a long time to recover. Shown once, the documentary was never aired again. But it had an irreversible effect, and not just by revealing the royals to be ordinary. By allowing the cameras in, Philip opened the lid to the prying eyes of the paparazzi who could legitimately argue that since the Royals themselves had sanctioned exposure, anything went. From then on, minor members of the House of Windsor were picked off by the press, like helpless tethered animals on a hunting safari.

Prince Philip also took steps to reorganise and renovate the royal estates in Sandringham and Balmoral such as intercoms, modern dish washers, generally sought to make the royal household and the monarchy less stuffy, not to have so much formality everywhere.

Philip helped modernised the monarchy in other ways to acknowledge that the monarchy could be responsive to changes in society. It was Prince Philip - much to the chagrin of the haughty Princess Margaret and other stuffy old courtiers - who persuaded the Queen to host informal lunches and garden parties designed to engage a broader swath of the British public. Conversely, Prince Philip heartily encouraged the Queen (she was all for it apparently but was still finding her feet as a new monarch) to end the traditional practice of presenting debutantes from aristocratic backgrounds at court in 1952. For Philip and others it felt antiquated and out of touch with society. I know in speaking to my grandmother and others in her generation the decision was received with disbelief at how this foreign penniless upstart could come and stomp on the dreams of mothers left to clutch their pearls at the prospect there would be no shop window for their daughter to attract a suitable gentleman for marriage. One of my great aunts was over the moon happy that she never would have to go through what she saw as a very silly ceremony because she preferred her muddy wellies to high heels.

A former senior member of the royal household, who spent several years working as one of Prince Philip’s aides, and an old family friend, once told us around a family dinner table that the Duke of Edinburgh was undoubtedly given a sense of permanence by his marriage into the Royal Family that was missing from earlier years. But the royal aide would hastily add that Prince Philip, of course, would never see it that way.

Prince Philip’s attitude was to never brood on things or seek excuses. And he did indeed get on with the job in his own way - there should be no doubt that when it came to building and strengthening the Royal Family it was a partnership of equals with the Queen. Indeed contrary to Netflix’s hugely popular series ‘The Crown’ and its depiction of the royal marriage with Philip’s resentment at playing second fiddle, the prince recognised that his “first duty was to serve the Queen in the best way I could,” as he told ITV in 2011. Though this role was somewhat ill-suited to his dynamic, driven, and outspoken temperament, Philip performed it with utter devotion.

3. Prince Philip’s legacy

One could argue rightly that modernising the monarchy was his lasting legacy achievement. But he also tried to modernise a spent and exhausted Britain as it emerged from a ruinous war. When peace came, and with it eventual economic recovery, Philip would throw himself into the construction of a better Britain, urging the country to adopt scientific methods, embracing the ideas of industrial design, planning, education and training. A decade before Harold Wilson talked of the "white heat of the technological revolution", Philip was urging modernity on the nation in speeches and interviews. He was on top of his reading of the latest scientific breakthroughs and well read in break out innovations.

This interest in modernisation was only matched by his love for nature. As the country and the world became richer and consumed ever more, Philip warned of the impact on the environment, well before it was even vaguely fashionable. As president of the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) in the UK for more than 20 years from 1961, he was one of the first high-profile advocates of the cause of conservation and biological diversity at a time when it was considered the preserve of an eccentric few.

For a generation of school children in Britain and the Commonwealth though, his most lasting legacy and achievement will be the Duke of Edinburgh Awards (DofE). He set up the Duke of Edinburgh award, a scheme aimed at getting young people out into nature in search of adventure or be of service to their communities. It was a scheme that could match the legacy of Baden Powell’s scouts movement.

When Prince Philip first outlined his idea of a scheme to harness the values of his education at Gordonstoun by bringing character-building outdoor pursuits to the many rather than the fee-paying few, he received short shrift from the government of the day. The then minister of education, Sir David Eccles responded to the Duke’s proposal by saying: “I hear you’re trying to invent something like the Hitler Youth.” Undeterred he pushed on until it came to fruition.

I’m so glad that he did. I remember how proud I was for getting my DofE Awards while I was at boarding school. With the support of great mentors I managed to achieve my goals: collecting second-hand English books for a literacy programme for orphaned street children in Delhi, India with a close Indian school friend and her family; and completing a 350 mile hike following St. Olav’s Pilgrimmage Trail from Selånger, on the east coast of Sweden, and ending at Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim, on the west coast of Norway.

It continues to be an enduring legacy. Since its launch in 1956, the Duke of Edinburgh awards have been bestowed upon some 2.5 million youngsters in Britain and some eight million worldwide. For a man who once referred to himself as a “Greek princeling of no consequence”, his pioneering tutelage of these two organisations (alongside some 778 other organisations of which he was either president or a patron) would be sufficient legacy for most.

4. Prince Philip’s character

It may surprise some but what I liked most about Prince Philip was the very thing that helped him achieve so much and leave a lasting legacy: his character.

It is unhelpful to the caricature of Prince Philip as an unwavering but pugnacious consort whose chief talent was a dizzying facility in off-colour one-liners that he was widely read and probably the cleverest member of his family.

His private library at Windsor consists of 11,000 tomes, among them 200 volumes of poetry. He was a fan of Jung, TS Eliot, Shakespeare and the cookery writer Elizabeth David. As well as a lifelong fascination with science, technology and sport, he spoke fairly fluent French, painted and wrote a well received book on birds. It’s maddening to think how many underestimated his genuine intellect and how cultured he was behind the crusty exterior.

He didn’t have an entourage to fawn around him. He was the first to own a computer at Buckingham Palace. He answered his own phone and wrote and responded to his own correspondence. By force of character he fought the old guard courtiers at every turn to modernise the monarchy against their stubborn resistance.

Prince Philip was never given to self-analysis or reflection on the past. Various television interviewers tried without success to coerce him in to commenting on his legacy.But once when his guard was down he asked on the occasion of his 90th birthday what he was more proud of, he replied with characteristic bluntness: “I couldn’t care less. Who cares what I think about it, I mean it’s ridiculous.”

All of which neatly raises the profound aversion to fuss and the proclivity for tetchiness often expressed in withering put-downs that, for better or worse, will be the reflex memory for many of the Duke of Edinburgh. If character is a two edged sword so what of his gaffes?

There is no doubt his cult status partly owed to his so-called legendary gaffes, of which there are enough to fill a book (indeed there is a book). But he was no racist. None of the Commonwealth people or foreign heads of state ever said this about him. Only leftist republicans with too much Twitter time on their hands screamed such a ridiculous accusation. They’re just overly sensitive snowflakes and being devoid of any humour they’re easily triggered.

There was the time that Philip accepted a gift from a local in Kenya, telling her she was a kind woman, and then adding: “You are a woman, aren’t you?” Or the occasion he remarked “You managed not to get eaten, then?” to a student trekking in Papua New Guinea. Then there was his World Wildlife Fund speech in 1986, when he said: “If it has got four legs and it is not a chair, if it has got two wings and it flies but is not an aeroplane, and if it swims and it is not a submarine, the Cantonese will eat it.” Well, he wasn’t wrong.

Philip quickly developed a reputation for what he once defined, to the General Dental Council, as “dentopedology – the science of opening your mouth and putting your foot in it”. Clearly he could laugh at himself as he often did as an ice breaker to put others at ease.

His remarking to the president of Nigeria, who was wearing national dress, “You look like you’re ready for bed”, or advising British students in China not to stay too long or they would end up with “slitty eyes”, is probably best written off as ill-judged humour. Telling a photographer to “just take the fucking picture” or declaring “this thing open, whatever it is”, were expressions of exasperation or weariness with which anyone might sympathise.

Above all, he was also capable of genuine if earthy wit, saying of his horse-loving daughter Princess Anne: “If it doesn’t fart or eat hay she isn’t interested.” Many people might have thought it but few dared say it. If Prince Philip’s famous gaffes provoked as much amusement as anger, it was precisely because they seem to give voice to the bewilderment and pent-up frustrations with which many people viewed the ever-changing modern world.

A former royal protection officer recounts how while on night duty guarding a visiting Queen and consort, he engaged in conversation with colleagues on a passing patrol. It was 2am and the officer had understood the royal couple to be staying elsewhere in the building until a window above his head was abruptly slammed open and an irate Prince Philip stuck his head out of the window to shout: “Would you fuck off!” Without another word, he then shut the window.

The Duke at least recognised from an early age that he was possessed of an abruptness that could all too easily cross the line from the refreshingly salty to crass effrontery.

One of his most perceptive biographers, Philip Eade, recounted how at the age of 21 the prince wrote a letter to a relation whose son had recently been killed in combat. He wrote: “I know you will never think much of me. I am rude and unmannerly and I say things out of turn which I realise afterwards must have hurt someone. Then I am filled with remorse and I try to put matters right.”

In the case of the royal protection officer, the Duke turned up in the room used by the police officers when off duty and said: “Terribly sorry about last night, wasn’t quite feeling myself.”

Aides have also ventured to explain away some of their employer’s more outlandish remarks - from asking Cayman islanders “You are descended from pirates aren’t you?” to enquiring of a female fashion writer if she was wearing mink knickers - as the price of his instinctive desire to prick the pomposity of his presence with a quip to put others at ease.

Indeed many people forget that his ‘gaffes’ were more typical of the clubbish humour of the British officer class – which of course would be less appreciated, sometimes even offensive, to other ears. It’s why he could relate so well to veterans who enjoyed his bonhomie company immensely.

But behind the irascibility, some have argued there also lay a darker nature, unpleasantly distilled in his flinty attitude to his eldest son. One anecdote tells of how, in the aftermath of the murder of the Duke’s uncle and surrogate father, Lord Mountbatten, Philip lectured his son, who was also extremely fond of his “honorary grandfather”, that he was not to succumb to self-pity. Charles left the room in tears and when his father was asked why he had spoken to his son with so little compassion, the Duke replied: “Because if there’s any crying to be done I want it to happen within this house, in front of his family, not in public. He must be toughened up, right now.”

But here I would say that Prince Philip’s intentions were almost always sincere and in no way cruel. He has always tried to protect his family - even from their own worst selves or from those outside the family ‘firm’ who may not have their best interest at heart.

In 1937, a 16-year-old Prince Philip had walked behind his elder sister Cecile’s coffin after she was killed in a plane crash while heavily pregnant. The remains of newly-born infant found in the wreckage suggested the aircraft had perished as the pilot sought to make an emergency landing in fog as the mother entered childbirth. It was an excruciating taste of tragedy which would one day manifest itself in a very princely form of kindness that was deep down that defined Philip’s character.

When about 60 years later Prime Minister Tony Blair’s spin doctors in Downing Street tried to strong arm the Queen and the royal household over the the arrangements for the late Prince Diana’s funeral, it was Philip who stepped in front to protect his family. The Prime Minister and his media savvy spin doctors wanted the two young princes, William and Harry, to walk behind the coffin.

The infamous exchange was on the phone during a conference call between London and Balmoral, and the emotional Philip was reportedly backed by the Queen. The call was witnessed by Anji Hunter, who worked for Mr Blair. She said how surprised she was to hear Prince Philip’s emotion. ‘It’s about the boys,” he cried, “They’ve lost their mother”. Hunter thought to herself, “My God, there’s a bit of suffering going on up there”.’

Sky TV political commentator Adam Boulton (Anji Hunter’s husband) would write in his book Tony’s Ten Years: ‘The Queen relished the moment when Philip bellowed over the speakerphone from Balmoral, “Fuck off. We are talking about two boys who have just lost their mother”. Boulton goes on to say that Philip: ‘…was trying to remind everyone that human feelings were involved. No 10 were trying to help the Royals present things in the best way, but may have seemed insensitive.’

In the end the politicians almost didn’t get their way. Prince Philip stepped in to counsel his grandson, Prince William, after he had expressed a reluctance to follow his mother’s coffin after her death in Paris. Philip told the grieving child: “If you don’t walk, I think you’ll regret it later. If I walk, will you walk with me?”

It’s no wonder he was sought as a counsellor by other senior royals and especially close to his grandchildren, for whom he was a firm favourite. His relationship with Harry was said to have become strained, however, following the younger Prince’s decision to reject his royal inheritance for a life away from the public eye in America with his new American wife, Meghan Markle. For Prince Philip I am quite sure it went against all the elder Prince had lived his life by - self-sacrifice for the greater cause of royalty.

This is the key to Philip’s character and in understanding the man. The ingrained habits of a lifetime of duty and service in one form or another were never far away.

In conclusion then....

After more time passes I am sure historians will make a richer reassessment of Prince Philip’s life and legacy. Because Prince Philip was an extraordinary man who lived an extraordinary life; a life intimately connected with the sweeping changes of our turbulent 20th Century, a life of fascinating contrast and contradiction, of service and some degree of solitude. A complex, clever, eternally restless man that not even the suffocating protocols of royalty and tradition could bind him.

Although he fully accepted the limitations of public royal service, he did not see this as any reason for passive self-abnegation, but actively, if ironically, identified with his potentially undignified role. It is this bold and humorous embrace of fated restriction which many now find irksome: one is no longer supposed to mix public performance with private self-expression in quite this manner.

Yet such a mix is authentically Socratic: the proof that the doing of one’s duty can also be the way of self-fulfilment. The Duke’s sacrifice of career to romance and ceremonial office is all the more impressive for his not hiding some annoyance. The combination of his restless temperament and his deeply felt devotion to duty found fruitful expression; for instance, in the work of Saint George’s House Windsor - a centre and retreat that he created with Revd. Robin Woods - in exploring religious faith, philosophy, and contemporary issues.

Above all he developed a way to be male that was both traditional and modern. He served one woman with chivalric devotion as his main task in life while fulfilling his public engagements in a bold and active spirit. He eventually embraced the opportunity to read and contemplate more. And yet, he remained loyal to the imperatives of his mentor Kurt Hahn in seeking to combine imagination with action and religious devotion with practical involvement.

Prince Philip took more pride in the roles he had accidentally inherited than in the personal gifts which he was never able fully to develop. He put companionship before self-realisation and acceptance of a sacred symbolic destiny before the mere influencing of events. In all these respects he implicitly rebuked our prevailing meritocracy which over-values officially accredited attainment, and our prevailing narcissism which valorises the assertion of discrete identities.

Prince Philip was Britain’s longest-serving consort. He was steadfast, duty driven, and a necessary adjunct to the continuity and stability of the Queen and the monarchy. Of all the institutions that have lost the faith of the British public in this period - the Church, Parliament, the media, the police - the Monarchy itself has surprisingly done better than most at surviving, curiously well-adapted to a period of societal change and moral anarchy. The House of Hanover and later Saxe-Coburg and Gotha (changed to Windsor), since their arrival in this country in 1714, have been noted above all for their ability to adapt. And just as they survived the Victorian age by transforming themselves into the bourgeoise, domestic ideal, so they have survived the new Elizabethan era (Harry-Meghan saga is just a passing blip like the Edward-Wallis Simpson saga of the 1930s).

There was once a time when the Royal’s German blood was a punchline for crude and xenophobic satirists. Now it is the royals who are deeply British while the country itself is increasingly cosmopolitan and globalised. British society has seen a greater demographic change than the preceding four or five thousand years combined, the second Elizabethan age has been characterised more than anything by a transformational movement of people. Prince Philip, the Greek-born, Danish-German persecuted and destitute wanderer who came to become one of the Greatest Britons of the past century, perhaps epitomised that era better than anyone else. And he got through it by making a joke of everything, and by being practical.

I hope I don’t exaggerate when I say that in our troubled times over identity, and our place and purpose in the world, we need to heed his selfless example more than ever.

As Heraclitus wisely said, Ήθος ανθρώπω δαίμων (Character is destiny.)

RIP Prince Philip. You were my prince. God damn you, I miss you already.

Thanks for your question.

#question #ask #prince philip #duke of edinburgh #queen elizabeth II #the queen of spades #monarchy #britain #british #royalty #politics #history #culture #europe #crown #icon #great briton #society

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nothoughtsonlynat · 3 years

Text

Resurrect Me (N.R.)

Warnings: swearing; death; Hell/the Underworld; cliff jumping lol

Word Count≈ 3.1k (yikes lol my bad)

Hecate一 the goddess of magic, witchcraft, the night, the moon, ghosts, and necromancy. Known to be an intricate mosaic of good and evil, destruction and beauty. Capable of granting wishes, summoning the dead, resurrections, teleportation, warping realities on unfathomable scales, mind control, energy manipulation, and any sorcery or magic known to the Gods. Second only to Zeus himself.

I am the human embodiment of Hecate. I am not Hecate; she merely resides in the depths of my soul and provides me guidance. We do not communicate through words; she speaks through dreams and gut feelings, and sometimes even through signs in the outside world. I have not mastered the powers she’s granted me, nor have I reached my full potential. In addition to the Goddess’ powers, I hold the basic Olympian powers, such as superhuman speed and stamina. I have no recollection of how I merged with Hecate or the life I lived before this point, and she has provided me with no answers, but I do not question her motives.

Agent Phil Coulson came across me in my temple in Turkey. Apparently, he had discovered strange energy readings coming from the temple. When he arrived, I used the power of energy manipulation to blow the concrete off of me, and that is the first thing I remember一 emerging from underneath Hecate’s temple.

I joined the Avengers during the Battle of New York. Agent Coulson had recommended me to Fury when he was piecing together the Avengers Initiative. In the three years between my awakening and the invasion, I practiced my sorcery mercilessly and studied Hecate deep in the Greek countryside. I’ve stuck with the Avengers throughout the years, fighting every battle alongside them. Through the ups and downs, I’ve fallen head over heels for Natasha Romanoff. One would assume that with so much power, I’d be confident and have any mortal begging at my feet. That couldn’t be any more inaccurate, however. As I’ve said, I am not Hecate; I am simply the human embodiment of the goddess. And as a human, I turn into a blushing, stuttering mess whenever the levelheaded assassin is near. Consequently, there have been many years of pining, but I’ve yet to muster up the courage to ask the woman on a date.

In our most recent war, we’ve gone up against a mad titan一 Thanos. We lost terribly. Half of all living things inhabiting the universe were snapped away. I can’t help but ponder whether things would’ve gone differently if I had better mastered my powers. I potentially hold all the capabilities of the goddess of magic; aside from Zeus, I hold more power than any being to ever exist. I’ve practiced my sorcery every day for the past five years on the off chance that we ever get a rematch一 a chance to bring everyone back. I’ve improved significantly, but Hecate has been oddly quiet for the past few years. It’s driving me crazy. I know she’s still there, but she hardly provides an ounce of guidance.

And so, that is where I find myself now一 practicing sorcery in the room specifically designed to isolate me when I use dark magic. Everyone who has access to the training section of the compound knows that they should never enter this room. It is far too dangerous for regular mortals. As I warp the room’s reality, a dark mist envelops me. When it clears, the room has changed into a 50s ballroom. I look down to see an elegant maroon ball gown covering my body, and I scan the empty area. I hear a pair of heels clicking toward me, and I spin around, already panicking. In order for someone to be here with me, they would have to be an inhabitant of the location’s true reality. My eyes land upon the woman I’ve grown to love, dressed up for the event. She is wearing an extravagant light blue ball gown, and her hair is carefully done up.

“Natasha? What are you doing here?”

“Why I came to dance with you, of course.” She steps closer and drapes her arms around my neck, swaying to the nonexistent music. Stay calm. Don’t panic. There’s no way I’m making her do this. I’m not even doing anything! Of course I’m the one making her do this, who else would it be?! Breathe in. Breathe out. My powers don’t control me. I control them. Just breathe. I can do this. I know how to do this.

As I focus on the magic coursing through my veins, a black mist envelops us, and the room returns to its original form一 a basic training room with black padded walls. I immediately take a large step back from Natasha.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Natasha?! You know you can’t come in here! I could’ve seriously hurt you!”

“I...I’m sorry. I thought you’d just be moving shit with your mind. I didn’t realize you could do...that, whatever that was.”

“That was reality manipulation. I didn’t know you were here and I don’t have full control of it, so you got caught up in it. Are you okay? Do you remember it?”

“Yeah, I remember it clear as day. I was still me and I was still in control, it was just...different, I guess.”

“Well, I literally warped your reality, so even if you felt in control, you might not have been.”

“You stopped it, though. I remember when that seemed impossible. You’re getting better.”

“Thanks, I guess.” I awkwardly scratch the back of my neck. “What did you come in here for in the first place?”

“This is gonna sound crazy, but Scott Lang is here. We might have a way to bring everybody back.”

“Wait, what? Holy shit. It’s happening. Okay, come on then!” I eagerly walk past her, grabbing her hand as I pass her, and we leave my training room. I realize that I’m still holding her hand as we make it to the meeting room, and I immediately drop it, clearing my throat. If I wasn’t so familiar with the sensation, then I would swear that my ears and cheeks are on fire.

<//>

We all step onto the platform in matching white and red time-travel suits. “We’re really doing this?”

“Hell yeah, we’re doing this,” Clint answers.

“Alright, then. We bring everybody back,” I say with determination. “Whatever it takes,” Steve adds.

“See you in a minute,” Natasha adds with a smirk. Before I can appreciate how beautiful she looks with the glimmer of hope in her eyes, we’re flying through a flurry of colors. Nebula, Natasha, Rhodey, Clint, and I land on Morag. We all say our respective goodbyes before Nat, Clint, and I get on a jet to head to Vormir.

<//>

“A soul for a soul.”

“What? That’s insane. Look, no offense, Mr. Bloody Tampon, but why should we just trust what you’re saying? Because you know their fathers’ names?”

“I didn’t.” I looked into Natasha’s eyes as she spoke and I instantly wish that I could replace the dull sadness with the bright hope that had filled them before.

“He doesn’t know my father’s name. If he’s some mystical being, then why can’t he tell me that?” I turned to face him as I asked the question.

“I’m afraid you are a mystery. I am meant to know everything about any being who seeks the stone, but I know nothing of your identity.”

“Hm. Seems like a load of bullshit to me,” I deadpanned.

“We need to do this. We need to bring everyone back. I’ve spent the past five years trying to reverse the snap, and now I finally know how to fix it. Let me do it.” As Natasha spoke, she grabbed both of my hands in hers.

“And I’ve spent every day for the past five years training to do this. I wasn’t just practicing sorcery and talking to dead people for fun, Nat. All I wanted was to do better一 to fix this. If anyone is jumping off that cliff, it’s gonna be me.”

“No. Absolutely not. Neither of you is dying for that stone. I’ve done horrible things these past few years. I’ve killed...so many people. It should be me,” Clint says, and Natasha and I turn to face him, but one of her hands remains in mine.

“No way in hell, Clint. And not you either, Nat. Both of you guys have families. You’re not sacrificing yourselves. I won’t let you. And you can’t stop me even if you try.” Nat gives me a questioning look as I mention her family and I speak in her head ‘I know about them, Nat. And they need you. She needs her big sister.’

“What are you saying?” I can hear the anxiety lacing Nat’s words, and it causes a pit to form in my stomach.

“I think you know what I’m saying, Natty.”

“Then you don’t leave me much of a choice.” She shoots a Widow’s Bite toward me, but I stop it using energy manipulation without even having to lift a finger.

“You can’t beat me, Nat. Please, don’t fight me on this.”

“I call bullshit.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Clint running toward the edge while we’re distracted, and I teleport in front of him, throwing him backward. I use mind control to force him to stay down. I sense Natasha running toward the edge behind me, and I teleport in front of her. I use energy manipulation to keep her in place, and I grab onto her biceps.

“I’m really sorry, Nat. I hate that I’m doing this to you, but I can’t let you throw yourself off a cliff for some stupid stone. Your life is worth so much more than that. You’re an amazing person, and your ledger was cleared of its red so long ago. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.”

“This is sounding an awful lot like a goodbye.”

“You can be sarcastic all you want, but I’m not walking out of this one, Natty.”

“Don’t do this. The team needs you.”

“No, they don’t, Nat, and we both know it. They need you.”

“And what if I need you?!”

“Well if that’s the case, you’ll figure it out, just like you always do. Don’t let something like this hold you back. Goodbye, Natasha Romanoff.” I kiss her cheek before turning around. I start walking towards the edge, but it quickly turns into a sprinting pace as I hear Nat screaming for me to stop. Just before I reach the edge, I lift the mind control from Clint and I release Nat, just in case it doesn’t automatically lift when I die. I push myself off the cliff, turning mid-jump so I’m not facing the ground. As I’m falling through the air, I see Clint holding Nat in his arms as her screams fill my ears. I hit the ground and everything goes black.

<//>

“Hello, y/n. It’s good to see you again.” I sat up and一 what the hell is that smell? “Ah, yes. That would be burning flesh. Welcome to Hell, darling.”

“Uh...what? Who are you?”

“Yes, I suppose I should explain, hm? I am Hecate, Goddess of一”

“Yeah, I know what you’re the goddess of. How did I get here?”

“I thought you were smarter than this. You died, obviously.”

“And went to Hell? Damn.”

“Oh, relax. Hell isn’t what the mortals think it is. This is the Underworld. All of the dead reside here. The bad people get punished, the good people don’t. Simple as that. We don’t have a lot of time, so I need to explain. I am cursed; I cannot leave the Underworld. However, my human embodiment can, and that is where you come into play. You hold all my power, and I can see you’ve been practicing, but you’ve never lived up to your full potential.”

“Hey! Rude!”

“Don’t interrupt. I didn’t allow you to live up to your full potential, not until we met, anyway.”

“And I had to die in order for that to happen?”

“Yes. I’m giving you all of my power, but I can still stop you if I ever need to. I know you don’t want to risk hurting the people you love, especially the redhead, but you need to trust yourself. Trust your powers. Have a little faith. You are a goddess, remember. Don’t let people forget it. That purple thumb is nothing compared to you, even with his colorful rocks. Your family needs you now. You must help them.”

“That’s it? Why do they need help? How will I know what to do?”

“I will always be there to help you, Y/N. You can handle this. This is nothing. You are part of me, just as I am part of you. You are my daughter, after all. I should know your capabilities better than anyone.”

“Wait, daughter?!”

“Oh, did I forget to mention that part? Oh well, it doesn’t matter right now, anyway. You need to go.”

“Go where?”

“Home, darling.”

The earth above us cracks open and I can hear faint sounds of fighting on the surface. I look at Hecate as she nods. Before I even realize I’m doing it, black mist surrounds my body and lifts me through the crack. I step out of the mist onto the ground and a staff appears in my right hand. I tap it once on the ground and my white suit is replaced by an all-black leather outfit that’s definitely made for a goddess. I smirk and make eye contact with the titan across the battlefield. His sickly creatures race toward me as they notice the new threat on the field. I summon an army of ghouls from the cracks in the earth. As the aliens and the undead clash, I teleport in front of Thanos.

“And who might you be, dear?” He acts confident, but I can sense his fear.

“I am Y/N, daughter of Hecate.” He tilts his head in a questioning manner. “Oh, did someone not study mythology? Hm, then let’s be blunt, shall we? I’m a goddess, ass-chin.” I throw my staff at his throat, but he catches it. He moves to swing his large sword at me, but I capture his arm in black mist. When he tries to move the other arm, I restrain that one, as well. “Well, that surely can’t be all you’ve got, hm? Pity, I thought it’d be more exciting than that.” If I were to look in a mirror at that moment, I would’ve noticed my ghostly pale skin, black eyes, and the raw power spreading through my veins like a black road-map.

“It’s not over yet, my dear child.” Before I can question the meaning of his words, an alien tosses him the gauntlet. It slides on his exposed hand, but I hold it open with dark magic. I look around and notice that the army of the undead is nowhere to be seen. My teammates are pinned down, even with the help of those who were snapped. There is a feeling in my gut and a voice in my head that tells me what I must do. I pull the gauntlet off his hand with black mist and slide my hand inside. I feel the power surging into my body. “What are you doing? That power will kill you!” Thanos sounds truly desperate.

“That’s cute. Truly, it is, but you can’t kill someone who’s already dead.” I close my hand and snap my fingers. His army fades to dust and he slumps to the ground before floating away with them. I drop the gauntlet to the ground and look around. Natasha runs toward me and throws her arms around my neck in a firm hug.

“Wha一what happened to you? How are you here? I thought you died!”

I wrap my arms around her waist and rest my chin on her shoulder before saying, “I did die. I am dead.”

She pulls away and looks at me from head to toe. “Well that explains why you’re so damn pale, but now I have so many more questions.”

“I am Hecate’s daughter, so I am technically a goddess, like her. I’m not sure if I was technically resurrected or not, but I can probably一”

She cut me off with a gentle yet passionate kiss. She pulls away and searches my eyes. “I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time,” she admits.

“Me too,” I breathe out.

“Yeah, I picked up on that. You’re not very discrete.” I laughed and a smirk spread across her face. “As sexy as this whole ‘powerful goddess’ thing is, am I going to get the old you back? You know, the one who blushes whenever I look at her? The one who’s, like, alive?”

I smile at her and glance down at her lips as a thick black mist appears behind me. I step backward into it as her face morphs into a look of confusion. She disappears from sight as a wall of black fills my vision, and a surge of power spreads throughout my body. I fall to my knees and the black cloud disappears. Natasha rushes over and kneels in front of me. “Are you okay? What the hell was that?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but I think I’m alive again.” I lift my head and meet her eyes.

“Your skin isn’t crazy pale anymore, and your eyes are their normal color again.”

“Sweet.”

“Cool.”

We both crack up and I lean my forehead against hers as our laughter fades.

Tony interrupts our moment of peace. “This is all good and dandy, but does someone wanna explain what the hell just happened?”

I raise my head and look at my teammates一 my family. “I kicked the purple thumb’s ass. That’s what happened.” I can feel a warm presence in my heart, and I know that my mother is with me.

“Yes, yes, I noticed. I also noticed a bunch of demons. Care to explain that one?”

“They weren’t demons...they were just...the souls...of dead people. I can summon the dead. You knew that.”

“Uh, I definitely didn’t know that.” I laugh and shake my head at the eccentric man.

I stand up, pulling Natasha with me, and bring her into another embrace. “I’m really glad you’re okay, Natty,” I whisper in her ear before pressing a delicate kiss to her temple.

A/N: I literally had this completely finished and edited over a month ago and I hadn’t posted it yet soooooo... idk here it is

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff fic #natasha one shot #black widow #black widow x reader

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rekrappeter · 4 years

Text

looking at the moon, but seeing you

pairing: draco malfoy x fem!reader

summary: you find yourself drawn to draco malfoy, an october evening welcoming something you never expected

warnings: mention of feeling numb, swearing, typos

notes: please let me know what you think of this, feedback would be amazing thank you - if there’s an inaccuracy of the wizarding world in this, please don’t let me know, I’m not interested <333

I had originally started writing this for @bricksatanakinswindow ‘s wc and had a prompt in mind, but then I went on a tangent and finished it forgetting to use the prompt oops but anyways, I hope y’all enjoy it either way <3

It was your favorite time of the year. Orange and brown leaves scattered the grass, the sound of them crunching when students trampled over them to get to class, and it was always dark before the final class ended. The ghosts seemed to be more present during mealtimes and the flickering of the crimson fires above the four tables created shadows around the dining hall. There was an eerie, yet wholesome atmosphere that Hogwarts welcomed during the month of October. But the thing you loved most about October in Hogwarts was the Annual Halloween Feast.

You were staring wide-eyed at the mounts of food that appeared in front of you, your mouth watering at the sight of the freshly trimmed turkey and the pumpkin pies that were making your stomach grumble with hunger. It took everything in your power to not reach out for your first servings, knowing that everyone was waiting for Professor Dumbledore to finish up his annual Halloween speech. The moment he gave you permission to start eating, your hands reached out for the first bowl of vegetables closest to you.

“Calm down there,” Ron chuckled, his red hair brushing across his forehead, “It won’t disappear right away.”

“You’re one to talk,” you snapped back, a playful smirk tugging on your lips as you eyed his plate already half-filled with chicken wings and mash potatoes.

Ron scoffed, his cheeks turning red, “Quidditch practice makes me hungry.” You rolled your eyes as the boy rambled on, trying to plead his case but as you looked over his shoulder towards the Slytherin table, his voice was just a mere whisper amongst the eyes staring back at you. Cold, dull blue eyes were on your figure from across the room, his porcelain face rested in the palm of his hands and his pink lips were a spark contrast from his snow-white hair.

“Is Draco Malfoy staring at me?” you whispered softly to Hermione, ignoring the confused glances from the red head boy that thought he was having a conversation with you. Hermione peaked over Ron’s shoulder strategically, pretending to scratch her nose in the process. The creasing of her fluffy brows confirmed your suspicions and you both stare at Draco, it wasn’t until the taller boy beside him, Blaise, nudged his shoulder with his that Draco was pulled out of what seemed to be a daydream. His eyes widened for a second, his tongue darting from his mouth to wet his lips as he raised a brow in your direction.

‘What?’ you mouthed to him, and he shot you an annoyed, almost hateful, glare your way before tearing his gaze from you. A scoff passed your lips, it was so typical of Draco to make it seem like it was your fault that he was staring at you. “That was weird,” you murmured, shrugging your shoulders and the grumble of your stomach remembered that you had forgot to feed it all day.

When the Feast had come to an end, the magically thundering and lightening lit up the Great Hall causing students to erupt into discussions of thrill and excitement. The tables disappeared from underneath you, as the room transforming into it’s annual Halloween afterparty. Pumpkins that Hagrid grew himself were huddled in the corners, big enough to fit three full adult males in them, and orange and black streamers were dangling from the ceiling. The table that the teachers occupied was gone and replaced with a stage, instruments scattered around on top and you could spot a skeleton tuning a guitar.

A grin was unfaltering on your face, the excitement bubbling inside you. You glanced at Hermione, seeing her face in complete awe at the sight in front of her and you hated the fact that your eyes found themselves travelling across the room to the platinum blonde. Despite his foul demeanor throughout the entirety of the feast, an amused smile was rested on his lips as he watched the band of skeletons take the stage. As the music started, people began shuffling onto the makeshift dancefloor, still draped in their house robes. Your stare constantly kept finding it’s way to Draco, and no matter how much you scolded yourself, you couldn’t get him out of your mind.

This started towards the end of last year, these growing unwanted feelings that you held for the Slytherin Prince. The summer break couldn’t have come quick enough, Hogwarts was a big place but you kept finding yourself bumping into him or walking in the same empty corridors as he did. Throughout the summer, you hadn’t thought about him once - you labeled it as a stupid crush, the inevitability of falling for the ‘bad boy’ of your year. Of course, he had ladies falling all over him, but you’d never seen him with anyone other than Pansy Parkinson and even at that, you weren’t sure if they were exclusive. You tried not to dwell on it much, the thought of the two doing things together in the dungeons brought a wave of nausea each time. You thought the feelings that developed were gone, but the moment he walked onto the platform at Kings Cross, time stopped and it was just him there amongst the bustle of people bidding goodbye to their families. You scolded yourself the whole train ride, feeling yourself falling into daydreams and fantasies of what could be. But you were a Gryffindor, and he was a Slytherin. It wouldn’t work.

“You’re staring this time,” Hermione smirked, an amused glint in her eyes. She twirled you around so that your back was to Draco, and you silently thanked her. You had confided in Hermione about your little crush on Draco, hoping she’d be able to smack some sense into you and help you remember all the cruel things he’s said to you in the past but the thing was… you remembered all those things, you repeated them in your head but it still wasn’t enough to stop you from wondering where he was and letting your eyes linger after him.

The night was drawing to an end, a night filled with endless laughter and dancing. You were on your way to the common room, arm linked with Harry as he swayed with you, drunk on happiness. Passing the courtyards, somehow your eyes spied a figure making it’s way to the black lake, and if it wasn’t for the hair that gleamed under the moonlight, you wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But you detangled yourself from Harry, him giving you a puzzled look. “I-I think I forgot my bookbag by the lake earlier.”

“Do you want me to go down and look for it with you?” Harry asked, his hair tousled and sweat beading on his forehead from the amount of dancing he was forced to do.

“No, I’ll only be a second,” you said, stepping backwards onto the grass, “I’ll follow you up.” Harry was hesitant to leave you behind, Ron calling his name from inside the castle but he nodded reluctantly. Hogwarts was after all the safest place you could be. You scurried down towards the bed of water, your eyes adjusting to the darkness until you spotted his figure sitting underneath a tree that was naked of leaves.

“Following me, y/l/n?” you could hear the ennui in his voice, and it made you halt your steps. Maybe it was the glee from the October evening that led you to follow him, or maybe it was the dissatisfaction of not knowing how it felt to feel his lips on yours that made you come down here. Pursing your own lips, you took a step back hearing the crinkle of leaves under your foot as you twirled to march back up the hill you practically ran down. Draco sighed, “you can stay.”

You were thankful that it was dark outside, the grin on your face practically glistening at his words. You sat crossed legged in front of him, feeling the October chill kiss your cheeks as his eyes gazed at the stars above you. While his eyes were lost in the nature that surrounded you, your eyes were on his face, taking in every fraction of it up close. How the eleven year old boy with an innocent smirk you met a number of years ago had morphed into the exhausted looking seventeen year man sitting in front of you. His pale face was separated with dark circles hoovering beneath his eyes, his pink lips were chapped and the speck of blood on his bottom lip indicated that he must have been nibbling on them recently.

When the oddly comfortable silence became too much for you, your fingers digging into the grass underneath you, you breathed out a sigh gaining his attention. It was as if he forgot you were there. “Did you have fun tonight?” you asked.

Draco scoffed, his eyes rolling, “I hate Halloween.”

“How can you hate Halloween?” you questioned, your jaw dropping, “It’s practically a holiday dedicated to us!”

“It’s a holiday dedicated to pretending to be someone you’re not, how incredible,” Draco drowned sarcastically.

“Have you never wanted to be someone that wasn’t you?” Draco was stunned at your question, and he so eagerly wanted to scoff and question why would he want to be anyone else, but when he caught sight of your curious eyes, he became speechless. He stared at you like he did in the Great Hall previously, but instead of the lifeless stare that you were accustomed to at this point, his eyes were filled with sorrow and sadness. Of course he wanted to be someone else, the more he thought about it, he’d began to accept the fact that he wanted to be anyone but him. At the mere age of seventeen, he had so much responsibility resting on his shoulders, missions and tasks that he wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone about. He felt as if he was drowning.

“Draco..” you breathed out, your breath fogging underneath the moonlight. Draco barely heard your face, he only came back to reality when he felt your soft, warm hand rest on his cheek and he jumped back in fright. “Hey, it’s just me..” you whispered, wiping the stray tears that were leaking from his eyes without him realising.

Draco scrambled away from you on the grass, and you let your hand drop from his face. The spot you touched tingled as he stood up from the ground, fixing his robe that was draping off his shoulders. “W-why are you here?” he spat at you, his eyes twitching.

You remained on the grass, looking up at his worried expression. You wanted to have an explanation as to why you were suddenly drawn to him, but you didn’t even know. “I-I don’t know, Draco.”

Draco. Draco. Draco. His name that barely passed his ears lately felt like butterflies and fireworks falling from your lips. All he heard these days were Malfoy, no one addressed him as Draco anymore and he didn’t realise how much he needed to hear it, it grounded him. “Say my name again,” he mumbled, barely audible but from the raise of your brow, he knew you heard him.

You stood up from the grass, taking a hesitant step towards him and you waited for him to jump away from you but he didn’t. You closed the gap between your bodies, his breathing racing as he watched every move you made. Lifting your hand to his face again, he let himself relax underneath your touch and his eyes fluttered closed. “Draco,” you said softly, the twitching of the corner of his lips motivating your next move. His stature was slightly taller than you, making you put all your weight on your toes as your lips touched his cheek, “Draco,” you repeated, your lips moving down to his jaw, “Draco..”

You gasped as his hand suddenly gripped the wrist of your hand resting on his cheek. He opened his eyes, a confused look swirling beneath the blue but you never got the chance to see beyond the confusion before his lips crashed against yours in a breathtaking kiss. You stumbled back at the impact, but he wrapped his arms around your waist to steady you. Your lips moved in sync, the kiss rapid and intrusive. He pushed your body up against the large tree trunk, your head hitting the bark and your breath hitching in your throat. “D-Draco,” you stuttered against his lips, trying to push him off you to catch your breath, “What are you doing?”

“I… I just wanted to feel something,” Draco mumbled, almost feeling guilty for kissing you and his eyes casted downwards. He tried to step away from you but you clasped your fingers around his wrist and stopped him. He glanced up at you, the swollen lips a reminder of seconds before.

“How did it feel?” you asked, a smile twitching at the corner of your lips.

The overly confident and obnoxious man that you once knew was nowhere to be found, seemingly lost in the October breeze. When Draco resulted in silence as his answer, you closed the gap again and connected your lips in the second kiss of the evening. This one was more delicate and you could tell he wasn’t expecting it, it took him a moment to kiss you back. Your hands slipped into his, your fingers intertwining as you lost yourself in his touch. He broke the kiss, his head nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he breathed in your scent, “It feels like a new life,” he finally answered, his heart hammering against his chest, “but please answer this, will you forget about it in the morning?”

“Never.”

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy x reader #draco #malfoy #harry potter imagine #harry potter fanfic #draco malfoy fanfic #fanfiction #draco malfoy oneshot #draco malfoy fluff #draco malfoy angst #tom felton #draco malfoy blurb #draco malfoy headcannon #brickswritingchallenge

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headoverhiddles · 3 years

Text

The Romance Of A Yellow Rose - Dr. King Schultz x Reader [Smut]

Words: 5.6k

Synopsis: You and King get married, and celebrate your first night together by consummating the marriage.

Commissioned by a friend! Enjoy.

Your eyes open on the rugged planes of the Southern state the three of you had found yourselves in. As you roll over to stretch the sleep out of your body, you find a single yellow rose, native to this area. A smile grows on your face. It’s King’s way of saying good morning to you, as it had been for many months.

For years now, you had been tagging along with Schultz and Django. Having attached yourself to their travels three hot summers ago, the two men had become quite fond of your travelling company; King in particular. Over time, your relationship had evolved from a companionship, through friendship, to having romantic feelings for one another. You were the first to admit to them; King hadn’t wanted to say anything, as he still held a fruitless hope that one day he could return you to the pleasantries of the normal life you once knew, before it had been uprooted. But as the months passed, you getting more and more comfortable and (dare he say) suited to the lifestyle of a bounty hunter, it was becoming apparent that you were going nowhere. Not without him, anyway.

Hildy had decided to stay with some friends in the North while the three of you travelled the country on business. Texas Jack, Turkey Creek and Jack’s wife Camarilla were more than happy to keep her with them. It had put Django at ease at least, knowing they had one less person they had to worry about with them catching a bullet. Hildy was even teaching Camarilla different things she had learned over the years at their home, and the four were getting on fine from what Django took from her letters to him. King wished you had enough sense to stay with them, but where the older bounty hunter went, you went. You had made that quite clear.

Today, a warm day in mid October, you, King and Django were headed to visit a plantation in Conroe, Texas. There an outlaw by the name of Amos “Sly Eye” Little had been posing as an overseer for 3 months, flying under the radar on the small eastern Texan plantation. He wasn’t a particularly dangerous outlaw, only wanted for his habit of skipping out on poker games before paying up. Three months ago, he ended up double crossing the wrong man which led to legal involvement, and now to deter trouble in peaceful towns he was wanted dead or alive by the state. King and Django had discovered upon visiting this plantation that the family who owned it had been dodging the law for a while as well.

After the slaves had been freed by King and Django, this outlaw family just so happened to get in the way of a few bullets. The last man left alive on the property is now Amos.

“Back here!” you call. King dashes toward you, swiping you out of the way as a bullet whizzes by your ear. You sit in shock for a moment, King’s arm still around you. For a man who isn’t very dangerous, this Amos sure is trigger happy.

“Django!” King shouts, but his partner is already far ahead in pursuit. “Never listens,” the doctor mutters, loading his shotgun and aiming. You watch as Django dodges a couple more of the outlaw’s bullets before grabbing Amos by his collar, lifting him up a few feet. The man tries to scramble for his gun, but Django of course is faster. Just as he’s about to fire at close range, King clucks his tongue, looking through his target. “Bullseye.” Your eyes shut briefly as the snap of the bullet leaving the gun jolts you closer to the older man. He pulls you out of sight once more as the bullet hits Amos through the side of his head, out the other side in a bloody deluge. Django jerks his head up your direction, dropping the corpse into the carnage at his feet.

“I was handling it!” he mutters.

King comes out from behind the tree, helping you up with one hand. You brush off your pants as you both approach the other man. “You were being hasty again,” King says.

“I was handling it,” Django insists with a look. You two nudge arms amiably, and King gives you a disapproving look.

“You are encouraging him.” He turns to Django. “And you’re encouraging her.”

“What’s wrong with a little congratulations?” you giggle. “You got your dead cowboy.”

“I would trade a thousand dead cowboys to keep both of you alive. You’re the best things that have ever happened to me, do you know that?” King gives you a meaningful look, before brushing off Django’s jacket and squeezing your hand. “Forget this place. We’d better get the horses and get out of here.”

Taking the initiative, you go off in search of Tony, Fritz and Ida, your mare. Django approaches King, taking off his bloodstained gloves. “You talked to her yet?”

“She doesn’t know, no.” King looks down, nervously stroking one side of his moustache. “I was waiting for the right time.”

“You wait any longer, she’s gonna be burying her husband to be.” King doesn’t bother taking offense—he knows Django is right. He’s much older than you—not one foot in the grave as Django likes to tease, but older. That had been another source of insecurity for him during the burgeoning relationship, but you had made it clear that you didn’t mind; in fact, you liked the difference in age. King’s fellow bounty hunter interrupts his thoughts. “Y’all should get married here. Nice place, no one left in it now.” Schultz looks around the grounds. It is pretty, and it would be nice to marry you in such agreeable weather... but King shakes his head.

“No Django. This place was built on treachery and suffering. It would be not only tasteless, but bad luck to get married here.”

When you three make it to the next town in the state over of Arkansas, something is waiting for King at the inn.

“You Doctor Schultz?” the innkeeper asks, spitting tobacco into a spittoon. King nods, taking out his billfold. The innkeeper sizes him up. “Yep, man who sent this said fella looking like you’d be coming through here. This’s for you.” He takes a letter out from behind the desk in one of the cubbies, and slides it across. King expects it would be from Texas Jack, but it instead it’s from a different friend in the North; a sheriff acquaintance he had written to before about his situation with you. Thanking the man, you all head upstairs, and when King gets to a desk, he slips on his reading glasses.

Thought you’d make your way through this here town, Schultz-

Sounds like a hell of a woman, the one you’ve told me about. You softie. Knew you wanted to settle down, and it’s about damn time, too. What the hell are you doing with her down in the South then? She oughtta be up here. Maybe I’m biased, but there’s a lot more law n order up here. Better people too. I am biased, spose.

You asked me what I thought about asking for her hand. Why wait to marry her? Hell, bring her up, we’ll have a ceremony here! I’m not only a sheriff, but an ordained minister too. Bet you didn’t know that. Wouldn’t kill you to ask. Anyway, no reason why I can’t make things look good, clean up the place nice and host your happy union. Got some more birthday cake here too, for someone to eat. Pretty good.

Come on up when you finally convince yourself she won’t say no.

- G. A.

“You got a letter back from Sheriff Snowy Snow?” Django smirks. King stares at the letter in his hands for a long while, before looking up at him with a smile.

He could do it. He could finally ask for your hand.

“Django, my boy. We’re going to Nebraska.” You overhear, and turn back with the bags.

“Up North? What for?”

“To see an old friend of mine, fraulein,” King says, taking the bags from you to carry inside. “Sheriff Gus Arnett.” You smile. It’ll be nice to get out of all this heat and around some likeminded people—people who King can relax and be himself around.

You had all stopped off to pick up Hildy in Boston after travelling by train through the Southern states and switching back to horsepower as you made your way up through the wintery landscape of barren northern land. It was worth it, of course; King and Django had insisted Hildy come too, and you had been happy for female company.

“Has my troublemaker been behaving himself?” is the first thing Hildy asks you, kissing your cheek in greeting.

“About as much as mine has,” you laugh.

“Coming from the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. It is you who has been the naughty one,” King chastises you right back.

“Maybe one day, you can teach me a lesson for it.” King blushes as Hildy lets out a loud laugh at the connotations of such a taunt. He knows you’re still virginal, waiting for marriage as you’ve told him before. Once united by matrimony, that’s another wall that could be knocked down between you, if you decided you still wished to give yourself to him.

It was no secret you wanted King, and he had made it plain he would wait for you—he’s a gentleman in every sense of the word. Still, men have needs, and some late nights it had been hard. Many evenings by the fire had ended with you in his lap, grinding down as you kissed him with feverish intensity. It had always ended the same way however, with you heading off to sleep alone and leaving him with nothing but his mind to picture what the next hour may have felt like. This time, King feared he wouldn’t last once he finally got to feel you as he’d wanted to for so long. Either way, he had a silver tongue, and experience in the art of pleasuring a woman. He wouldn’t leave you wanting; whatever you needed he would give you.

Arriving at the snowy lodge some days later, Sheriff Gus Arnett comes out the front door. A couple of minks and rabbits are hanging from the roof over the porch, and two pairs of boots caked with snow are drying outside by a wooden rocking chair that had been collecting frost no doubt since September.

“King Schultz and Django Freeman, in the flesh! Come on in with your little ladies!” he says, opening his arms. You approach first, and he shakes your hand with the assurance of a man who’s not used to gentle handshakes. “I don’t believe we’ve met, ma’am,” he says softly, “But any friend of King’s is a friend of mine. Especially a friend like you.” He winks at you and smirks over at King, who ushers you in out of the cold quickly. Gus tips his hat at Django and Hildy, closing the door after they come in.

“Like I said,” he sighs, “We got some cake. Y’all want some?”

“Perhaps we wait until after dinner?” Schultz proposes.

“I wouldn’t mind some,” Django speaks up, giving King a look. King just chuckles.

“Go ahead, my boy. I was a dentist, remember. Old habits remain, I suppose. Would you like some, (y/n)?”

“I’ll have the piece you didn’t want,” you tease. You lean closer to him to brush your lips against his ear. “When it comes to you, I want everything.” The former dentist swallows. This proposal couldn’t come at a better time, as things between you two are heating up.

That night after dinner of rabbit stew and some leftover cake for dessert for everyone but your beloved, everyone had retired to bed a few hours after the sun had gone down. In your own room, you set your satchel on the bed of clothing you had been travelling with in the South, and just as you’re about to unpack, a knock at the door distracts you from your task. King slowly pushes the door open—he’s dressed in his white shirt and grey vest, his hair freshly combed back. It seems counterproductive to groom that well before bed, but to be fair, you had never personally witnessed King’s nocturnal habits in a place that allows such a luxury. He offers his arm, and when you take it in curiosity, he leads you out the back porch of the lodge home. The wind isn’t too cold tonight, but he still wraps his arm around you. The mountains are beautiful out here, and the snow has stopped for the night to allow for a crystal clear view of the surrounding landscape, snow white on the bottom and starry black on top.

“It’s been a while since we’ve been able to sit together like this,” King says. “Just sit and enjoy one another’s company alone. It’s very rare we get time just the two of us without our faithful hero.” You lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Mm. We’re usually around a campfire, with Django snoring behind us.”

“At least we don’t have any of that to score our evening. I think Django’s gone to bed with Hildy in there.”

“You should be in bed too,” you fret. “I’ve noticed you haven’t been sleeping well.”

“I never have been very good at that. I’m a light sleeper, fraulein. Especially when I have lots on the mind.”

“You know what helps me when I can’t sleep?” You smile. “Something I learned from you.” King turns to look at you, a soft chilly breeze blowing the silver blonde hair from his eyes.

“What’s that?”

“A story.”

King ducks his head, and pulls you closer to him. “I think that would do the trick. Go on then, my love. Will you regale me?”

“I know a story of a deep running love, where a woman slowly developed feelings for one who she learned to depend on.”

“A common story, no?” King teases.

“Shhh. She loved very freely, but this was different. She not only loved this man, but worried about him when he wasn’t around, yearned for him, desired him in ways that drove her crazy sometimes.” King’s breath audibly quickens.

“And what did our heroine do about this tumultuous situation?”

“Oh, she took care of things. But not like she knew he could.” His breath hitches. You bite your lip as you go on. “The two had been together so long... learning one another’s quirks, laughing at little things and sharing moments others wouldn’t understand. They knew what scared them, what made them smile. At the end of the day, she told the man a million times how she adored him. But she was afraid he still didn’t know how much.”

King rubs down your finger, eyes trained on it before looking up at you. “I think I do.” You forget whatever you were going to say next as King rubs his rough fingers over your knuckles, bringing them up to his lips to kiss them. His beard grazes your skin pleasantly as he opens his mouth. “Will you be my wife?” Your heart skips a beat.

“Truly?”

“True as my love for you.”

“Tomorrow?”

“If you wish.” You lean in to kiss him.

The door bangs open, Gus tosses a pail of water out all over you two. He realizes where you two were sitting, and his eyes widen.

"Gott verdammt."

“Oh, hell. I’m— what are the two of you doing out—?” He can’t even finish his sentence—you’re laughing too hard. King tries to keep up a grumpy facade at the fact that you had both just been drenched in ice water in this weather, but he can’t help it. Your laughter is infectious.

“Please tell me there is enough boiled water for a bath,” he sighs, and you shiver. “For the fraulein, at least.”

Django and Hildy had been up to witness the commotion from the noise of it all, no doubt committing the sight to memory for future teasing. They returned comfortably to bed with one another, which was a comfort you and King couldn’t currently afford in your state.

You get to work drawing the bath as Gus passes you each pails of hot water. King comes in, shedding his dripping fur coat and tugging at his tie. Your eyes drift down to his chest, then back up to his face. King subsequently tries to distract himself so as not to focus too hard on you. You had stripped down to your slip, which was stuck to every curve of your body from the water. The temperature hadn’t done much to help any other evidence of the cold, around your breasts. He tries not to look too long.

“Would you take me out of this?” you ask. It’s a harmless question, but King’s thoughts run wild. He could simply refuse you, but what reason would he give then? That he couldn’t control himself around you, so close to your wedding night?

“Of course,” he sighs softly, and approaches. He takes the back of the slip and undoes the buttons, helping you pull it over your head. He inches it up, the wet material dragging along your skin. He turns to go as you’re revealed, and to his dismay, you don’t stop him. Only one more night, and he could have all of you.

As you step out of the lodge, it’s as if you’ve stepped out into a painting. A light dusting of snow is falling over you, snowflakes catching in your eyelashes and melting tracks down your cheeks like tears of happiness. King is standing there at the end of the pathway shovelled out, just by the small lake. It’s frozen over, reflecting the light of the moon through every little icicle hanging from the branches of trees hanging over top of it. Mountains soar around the group of you, boasting the most beautiful landscape you’d ever seen.

King takes your hand as you approach. Beside him, you see Django dressed in a handsome green winter’s jacket, black leather gloves pristine. On your side, Broomhilda is wearing a beautiful green dress under layers of a form fitting brown jacket. You’re in a beautiful snow white dress with furs covering your shoulders and a fur hat. King is also wearing his grey fur coat. The two of you join hands, and recite vows.

“I know I’m a considerable number of years older than you,” King tells you softly, “But I promise to make up for this. I promise to protect you with my life, cherish you, and support you in every endeavor you wish to pursue.”

“I will stay by your side no matter what,” you tell him, “I’ll be brave when you can’t be. I’ll be strong when you need me to be. I’ll love you as long as my heart beats, and oppose anyone who tries to take you away.” Kindness in his eyes, King smiles down at you, crow’s feet crinkling. He lifts your hand up to kiss.

“Do you take this man?” the sheriff asks.

“I do.”

“Do you take this little lady?” King sighs out through his nose, thumbs rubbing over your knuckles.

“I certainly do,” he breathes.

“Well hell, you may kiss the bride then!”

When King leans forward, you surprise him by taking a step forward and wrapping your arms around him, deepening the kiss. It lasts for an eternity between you, and when you part, King brushes the snow off your rosy cheeks and presses his lips to your forehead.

“Ich liebe dich,” he whispers into your hair, and you slide your arms around his middle in embrace.

Inside the bedroom upstairs, a fire crackles in the hearth. The curtains are open to the snowy view outside, and the frost on the glass only makes you savour the warmth inside. King pours you some bourbon, and comes to sit down beside you in front of the fire. As you cuddle into him, he puts a hand on your back and draws you in for a kiss, his beard pleasantly tickling your face. Bourbon forgotten, the kiss deepens, and you feel his tongue slip into your mouth as you part your lips for more. You pull away, smiling.

“Can I ask you something?”

He looks at you. “Of course. What are you thinking about?”

“How does it feel?”

King looks at you. “You will have to be a little more specific.”

“How does it feel to finally consummate a marriage?”

He stares into the flickering fire. “We don’t have to do it if you’re nervous.”

“I didn’t say that,” you say, crawling over to straddle him. King welcomes you into his lap. “I just wanted to know. You’ll show me?”

“I would love to.”

“You know I’m inexperienced.”

“I do,” King nods.

“Isn’t that undesirable?” King seems offended that you would even suggest such a thing, at the very least ruffled by the idea of it.

“My dear, of course not. Being inexperienced merely means I can show you how to do things.” He hums against your neck, grazing his lips down.

“I’m not completely clueless,” you breathe as you tilt your head back to give him better access. You stand in one smooth movement in front of the fire, leaving King sitting and gazing up at you. “I know what fucking is.” You hear his exhaled breath.

“Yes. I would assume you wouldn’t be entirely in the dark about that.”

“But I’ve never felt it,” you whisper. “I wanna feel it, King.” He doesn’t get a chance to respond. You undo your dress, lace by lace, letting your fingers twine slowly between the hooks. You sigh his name as the corset comes free, recalling how you’d longed for him to do this last night, and you hook the straps of your dress under your thumbs, sliding it down to reveal the slip beneath. You hear his breath hitch, but he doesn’t make a move.

You run your hands down over your ass, letting out a soft noise. You hear him readjust where he’s sitting, and you work now on the cream coloured pants beneath the white gown, sliding them down ever so carefully.

“(y/n),” King whispers.

You let out a moan. “I’ve been wanting to get out of this the entire ceremony just to see how you would look at me, seeing me like this for the first time.” You swing your hips a little, arching your back, and finally wiggle some more as you drop your pants to the floor. King’s breathing is heavier now, and you stretch your arms above your head, sighing again as you let your hair free. “Like I said. I may not have done this before, but I know a lot more than you think I do.”

“I’m not certain I believe that, my feisty little one,” King huffs, averting eye contact. Oh, no. Not tonight he doesn’t. You’re only in your chemise now, and you turn to reveal smooth skin he’s never seen before, bunching the fabric up just enough to give him a peek of the v of your hips.

You can see the visible outline of his hardened cock in his pants, straining against the tight confines and desperate for some kind of relief. You put one leg over his lap to straddle him.

“Touch me?” you whisper, and reach down. He doesn’t stop you, just watches closely as you bring your hands to his pants, untie them, and reach in to take his cock in your hand. He does as you say, returning the touch with his hands up your back, taking the straps of your chemise down. He takes a shallow breath as your fingers come in contact with his warm cock. You grin wickedly, swiping your thumb up to spread his precum around a little. He meets your eyes as you pull him fully out of his pants.

“Oh,” he huffs gently, head falling back a little as you stroke him once.

“Is that good?” you ask softly, pressing a kiss to his ear. “Am I doing it right?” King stutters a little, gasping for air when you swipe over his swollen cockhead again.

“You are doing just fine,” King whispers, lips parting.

“Mmm,” you mumble, pressing a trail of wet kisses down his face and lazily taking his lips between your teeth, leading into a dizzying kiss full of tongue and one another’s slow breath.

“Stop. Wait my love,” King mumbles, stalling your wrist with his hand. You pout.

“What’s wrong?”

He opens his eyes to look at you, pupils blown with lust. “After a show like that, I am at your complete and ready service, not the other way around. Tell me exactly what you want me to do,” he whispers gently, and you get off of him, lying back on the floor like a princess awaiting a treat.

“Could you pleasure me with your mouth?”

Your cheeks heat, but King nods with a smile, dispelling any nerves you might have for such an intimate display of sensuality. He lays you on the floor, pressing kisses down your neck, over your collarbone and across the top of the soft skin of your breasts. His hands come up to gently hold your hips down as they circle upward—he moves your legs so he can brace himself between them, pressing more kisses down over your stomach to the impressions on your hips he’s left with his fingers.

“I want you to have me,” you whisper. King strokes one hand along your thigh.

“It takes time to discover each and every spot that will make you weak for me, lieb,” he mumbles, mouthing at your panties with a practiced finesse. “Be a good girl now for me. Be patient. There is more to come.” The bounty hunter takes the panties down with deft fingers, sliding the fabric down your legs until you’re bare to him. Your cheeks heat, but he reassures you with a starstruck gaze, looking over your body like a lovesick man. He dips his head back down with a soft kiss to your thigh, reaching up to hold your hips as if he’s predicted your body’s reaction already. He presses a reverent kiss to your clit, and his tongue takes a sweep of your folds, making you quiver as his beard scratches the soft skin of your thighs. His prediction proves correct when your hips jerk up as he gives his first lick between your lips. You reach back to grab the carpet, before deciding instead to grip onto his blonde and silver locks where his mouth works between your legs. It’s a surreal pleasure—unlike anything you’ve felt before, and you want more.

“Does that feel good?” King asks. All you can do is nod, but he encourages you to tell him exactly how you feel. “Use your words, fraulein.”

“Yes. Don’t stop,” you sigh.

“My good girl.” King dips back down, swirling his tongue around your bud until you’re shaking. Taking care to hold you close to him, he moves himself up until he’s grinding himself against you. “I want nothing more than to be inside of you,” he whispers.

“Take me as you wish then,” you groan.

“Tonight is about you,” he murmurs against your skin.

“I want it.”

Unbuckling himself, he takes his time slowly working a finger inside of you. He adds another and gently curves them up, before gauging your reaction. Going by the desperation in your face, he slowly replaces his fingers with his cock, pausing every inch to check and see if you’re still alright. You can tell how he’s exercising his restraint—you’re so tight, and all he wants to do is take you until both of you are sweaty and screaming, but he must make this last. You can feel him sliding into you, and his hand comes up to hold yours. Your eyes screw shut as he finally bottoms out, and he presses a kiss to your chest. “Tell me when it is okay to move.” You nod.

“Please.” He starts up a slow pace, covering your body with his as he takes his time with you. Too desperate to take the time King might have in mind to teach you patience, you push your lips harder against him, and roll over on top of him. You kiss the bounty hunter, again and again until your lips are swollen and King is painfully hard inside of you.

“Lift up your shirt for me,” he whispers, his voice gentle. “That’s it.”

“Have me,” you mumble.

“What was that?” King asks, “You must use your words if you would like something, hm?”

You blink up at your older lover. “Please take me King,” you raise your voice, and he smiles.

“Hm.” He gives you an affectionate smile. “I have no choice but to oblige my lady love when she asks as nicely as that. Very well. As you wish.”

He pumps in harder, ripping a groan from you. You’d dreamed of what this would feel like, and it turned out better than you had imagined, King’s soft sighs and the rocking of his body against yours heightening every touch he grazes your sensitive skin with.

A moment later, he pulls out and flips you over gently. He then positions himself between your legs and brings his mouth back down between your legs, suckling around your clit again. “King,” you whisper, breath hitching.

“Louder,” he encourages, and goes back to masterfully taking you apart with his tongue. He soon encourages you to sit on his face, and you do, feeling him lick you perfectly as the pleasant feeling of his beard returns to tantalize your skin. He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue as you reach down to touch his cock. It’s a foreign feeling in your hand, but you soon get the hang of the motions, twisting your fist and using his precum to slick your strokes.

“King... don’t stop,” you groan, his tongue delving just barely inside of you. He moves off of your pussy as you moan, and licks his lips.

“I must admit, I wanted nothing more than to do this all day,” he groans as he moves back up your body, “But I am a gentleman.”

“Too much of one sometimes.”

As if in challenge, he picks up his pace and starts to grunt your name, leaning down every now and then between thrusts to press a kiss to your breastbone as his face scrunches up. You love how uncharacteristically possessive King is getting– it turns you on beyond belief. Your moans grow loud as the bounty hunter’s cock fills you over and over again, satisfying your need for him as your noises blend together into the creak, groan, gasp of making love for the first time.

“K… King…” you groan, breasts bouncing with every thrust. His breath is hot on your neck, and he presses an open mouthed kiss there.

“You are astonishing,” he whispers, “You’re perfect… oh, bitte, bitte Fraulein, you feel so nice… you are my everything.”

“King, just like that, oh god–” you groan, and he makes a noise at your slutty display, reaching up to massage your breasts. You feel your orgasm approach as he continues to touch you, and his hand quickly comes down to rub your clit.

“Ah,” you moan, and clutch his shoulders. King sighs, feeling your pussy squeeze him, and with a stuttered thrust he cums as well, spilling inside you. Soon, you’re crying out his name, and he squeezes your hand tighter as you both finish at the same time, the love you share burning at the height of its passion as your bodies become one. You both rock together to ride out your orgasms until you’re satisfied. Panting breaths mingle as you snuggle close to him.

“Is that what all the fuss was about?” you tease. King frowns at you, and you laugh into his chest.

“Into bed before I take full offense to your jokes, beloved,” he murmurs. You nod, smiling as he helps you up with one hand and carries you bridal style over to the bed covered in furs for a warm night’s sleep together—finally together.

"I am lucky I have such a pretty creature warming my bed tonight," he jokes, "A plucked chicken like me should be very grateful." You huff another laugh, rolling over beside him to finally tuck in with your love.

"I've only ever wanted you. That'll never change, no matter what." You grin. "Tonight only helped solidify that fact."

"So you are with me for my talents in the bedroom, ah!"

"NO--"

"I understand it now."

"King!"

"Shh. Let's sleep now. We will argue like an old married couple in the morning."

The next day, Hildy and Django are already in the living room of the lodge. Gus is in the kitchen making up some breakfast.

“You look radiant this morning,” Broomhilda says, smile wide.

“Yeah. You do look pretty good. Different,” Django nods, narrowing his eyes as if to try and decipher what could have changed about you. Hildy just rolls her eyes, turning back to you from her own husband.

“So. Where’s your significant other?” You grab yourself a cup for the coffee that’s brewing, settling in across from them at the table.

“He’s still sleeping. He worked hard last night.” Tucked in the pocket of your nightgown is a single perfect, yellow rose he had saved you from the South, one King had left his new wife to find upon waking.

#dr king schultz #dr king schultz x reader #king schultz #king schultz x reader #django unchained #quentin tarantino #christoph waltz #christoph waltz x reader #django #django fanfiction #tarantino fanfiction #dr schultz #reader x dr king schultz

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puckinghell · 4 years

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Meet The Family | Elias Pettersson (drabble)

This was born out of a conversation with @hockeyboysiguess about Elias having nice hands and Thanksgiving dinners. But I’m not American so we’re turning it into Christmas. Not proofread we die like men and I’m in 4 g&t’s. Enjoy.

“You seem nervous,” Elias states, eyes fixed on the road and hands loosely wrapped around the wheel. “More nervous than me.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and you can’t help but feel slightly annoyed.

It’s not that he’s wrong, it’s just that you really hoped you wouldn’t have to tell him beforehand.

“It’s nothing bad,” you answer. You toy with your bracelet, that Elias gave you as an early Christmas present. Your quiet voice and constant fidgeting probably doesn’t fortify your statement, because Elias glances over at you now, just for a few seconds, before returning his attention to the traffic around you again.

“Are you worried they won’t like me?” he asks. It’s casual, but the kinda faux-casual that you can see straight through.

“Quite the opposite, actually.”

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Elias can’t go home for Christmas, not all the way to Sweden. And after three months of dating - and a few months of friendship before that - it doesn’t feel like too soon, for him to meet your family.

He was excited, when you asked him to come to your family gathering. Every year your entire family meets at your parents’ house; siblings and nieces and nephews and aunts and uncles, even a few family pets. And you were excited too. Elias, well, you’ve known he’s the one for you since the day you met him, and there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s going to be in your life for a long time. So why not introduce him to your family?

But now doubt is starting to set in.

Elias frowns at your words. “The opposite? What does that mean?”

But there’s really no way to explain. And anyway, you’re almost there.

“You’ll see,” you say, and it sounds more omnious than you wanted it to.

The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you walk up to the front door, Elias trailing just a step behind you. You reach blindly behind you and instantly his hand grabs onto yours, squeezing tightly before letting go just as you step into the house.

Noise welcomes you. There’s happy chatter and Christmas music in the background; a kid is yelling and someone laughs. It’s warm and there’s lights everywhere and it feels so much like home that a wave of nostalgia hits you.

“Who is it?” a familiar voice calls, and before you can answer your mom appears in the door to the hallway, where you’re still stomping the snow off your boots.

“Hey, mom.”

Your mom’s smile remains intact when her eyes fall upon the tall Swede behind you, but her widening eyes don’t do well to hide her surprise. Neither, to be fair, does the: “Oh my God honey she brought Elias!”

Elias’ eyebrows shoot up and you can’t stop the groan from escaping as your mom completely ignores your existence, simply speedwalks back into the living room, where all the chatter has suddenly died down.

“I thought you told her I was coming,” Elias says, the question clear in his voice.

And you were supposed to, but…

“I just kinda didn’t wanna deal with all the questions,” you admit. You take Elias’ coat and hang it together with yours, before taking a deep breath in. “I’ll try to protect you, okay?”

If his eyebrows could get any higher you’re sure it would’ve happened, but instead Elias just continues to look slightly baffled as you take his hand and pull him into the living room, where many pairs of eyes are already fixed on you.

The silence is deafening.

“Hey guys,” you smile, letting your eyes travel over the attendees. The only one that’s moving is your dog Bella, tail wagging as she gets up to go say hello. “This is my boyfriend, Elias.”

Everything happens very quickly, then.

Before you know it, your boyfriend is swarmed by family members, some of whom seem to have magically conjured up some sort of Canucks merch for him to sign. Your cousins are screaming their heads off, jumping up and down at his feet, and your sister is taking pictures of it all with an enthusiasm you haven’t seen from her in years.

Over the crowd, Elias’ eyes frantically search for yours.

Sorry, you mouth, shrugging your shoulders. This was exactly the thing that you were afraid of.

When you told Elias your family are lifelong Canucks fans, you might’ve neglected to tell him just how much.

But to be fair to him, Elias takes it in stride. You know he’s not a big fan of crowds of people, nor of people he doesn’t know. Your family speaks in too rapid English, leaving Elias looking a little bewildered. Well, to you anyway; to any other person he’d look completely fine, stoic and unbothered, but you know him well enough to recognize the tight set of his jaw.

It gets better once the adults have gone back to their conversations. Your aunt is telling you about her pottery class when your eyes find Elias through the window, out on the lawn.

He’s surrounded by all your cousins, ministicks in hand. Every time one of the kids bats a ball his way, Elias blatantly misses it, then pretends to be upset about it while the kids scream with laughter.

Your face must’ve spoken for you, because your aunt cuts herself off midway through her story.

“He’s good with kids,” she smiles, gaze traveling to the scene you’re focused on. “I think he prefers them to us old guys.”

You laugh. “I’m sure he’ll love you when he gets to know you. There’s just a lot of you right now, and I think dad is embarrassing himself.”

Considering the fact that your dad is now wearing a signed Pettersson jersey, that might even be putting it lightly.

Outside, Elias squads down next to one of your nieces. He covers her tiny hand with his large one, carefully moving it so she’s holding her stick in a more comfortable position. He says something and she laughs, little eyes shining with delight.

“You really like him,” your aunt states, and she’s not asking but you answer her anyway.

“I love him, yeah.”

It’s hours later when you walk into the kitchen, getting a glass of water, that you find your boyfriend again.

The kids have long gone to bed but it seems that Elias has found another small creature to befriend. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the fridge with a glass of red wine in his hands, quietly feeding Bella pieces of turkey.

“Bonding with the best member of the family?” It’s a joke but there’s a genuine question in it too and Elias seems to be able to tell, a gentle smile on his face as he pats the floor next to him.

You go easily, pressing your body against his. He’s warm and his cheeks are slightly flushed, although the red wine might have had something to do with that too.

“Trying to find some peace and quiet,” Elias muses, tearing off another piece of turkey that Bella happily accepts. “Since my girlfriend left me to fend for myself.”

Now you’re blushing, and it has nothing to do with the wine.

“I didn’t want it to seem like I was surveiling you,” you admit a little sheepishly. “Figured you would come find me if it got too much.”

Elias laughs. It sounds bright in the quiet kitchen, the background noise from the living room suddenly very far away. “I can deal with it.”

“I know.” And you do; it’s the only reason you dared to bring him here in the first place. Elias might not be the most extraverted person in the world, but he’s very good with people when he wants to be. You let your head fall against his shoulder. Tiredness is settling in your body, after a night catching up with everyone.

“I’m sorry if it was too much. They can get very overwhelming, even for me, and they’re not even your family, so…”

“They’re your family, though,” Elias interrupts, voice soft. “And that means that one day they hopefully will be mine, too. So it’s okay. It’s good, even.”

Your chest feels strangely warm at his words; you knew you felt like that, but to hear him say he feels it too is a whole different level of amazing.

“But,” Elias hums, and you can tell from the switch in his tone of voice that he’s gonna say something cheeky, “if you would like to thank me for being the source of entertainment tonight I can think of a few things.”

You laugh, letting your hand travel to his thigh and rest there. “I can think of some things too,” you tease, “but none that are acceptable in my parents’ kitchen.”

Elias’ eyes darken slightly. “Maybe it’s time to go home then,” he says, and he doesn’t even remotely sound like he’s kidding.

This time when you laugh you bury your face in his neck, pressing a kiss to the skin there. “Not yet,” you tell him, “but if you can refrain from beating my dad to death with the hockey stick he’s surely gonna ask you to sign, I might make it worth your while later tonight.”

The groan that falls from Elias’ lips rumbles in his chest.

You might be getting out of there quicker than originally anticipated.

#elias pettersson fic #elias pettersson #nhl fic #one shot

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with-my-murder-flute · 4 years

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Initial sketch notes of my historical research on Islamic experiences of the Siege of Jerusalem during the First Crusade, posted August 6, 2020. This is the long version of “Why might Yusuf al-Kaysani, who is from the Maghreb, have been fighting at Jerusalem in 1099?”

Trigger Warning: Graphic violence, slavery, and genocide

Notes taken from reading Paul M. Cobb’s The Race for Paradise: An Isamic History of the Crusades and supplemented by Dr. Google. I’m reading Cobb’s book partly because it’s on audiobook (though it is a fricking Audible Exclusive) and partly because it’s written for Western non-Muslim audiences, which helps get me up to speed.

The Old Guard Through History video says Joe and Nicky met during the Siege of Jerusalem in 1099, so I’ve focused most of my research on that.

Historians generally agree that in the 11th century the Islamic* world did not have a “Muslims vs Christians” worldview like the one Christians were beginning to develop. Their experience led them to expect Christians to be allies as often as enemies. Around the 1060s Christians began a new paradigm of religious war against Muslims, which Muslims didn’t really realize at the time--they responded to times when Christians would choose religious affiliation over clear strategic gain as shocking and bizarre, a departure from the status quo

(*Islamic: Society predominantly defined by Muslim rule and culture, but containing people of many different religions)

The Islamic response to the First Crusade was decentralized and diverse. There were a lot of different groups in the Levant*, many of whom had deep divisions, rivalries, and feuds. They mostly saw the Crusaders as a new factor that might affect their existing rivalries with other Islamic states, and were used to being able to broker deals or treaties with Christian groups to turn local warfare to their advantage.

(*Levant: A term used to describe countries in the Eastern Mediterranean, especially those with traditional religious significance to the Abrahamic religions - modern-day Israel, Palestine, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, and parts of Egypt and Turkey. Comes from the French word for “rising”, in the sense of “where the sun rises”)

Additional term I’m going to be using a lot: “Frank”. It’s the Islamic term for, basically, “Western European” (of both the pagan and Roman Catholic varieties). It’s easier than saying “the Roman Catholics” or “The Crusaders” (which is putting a later cultural construct on people who didn’t call themselves that)

The biggest division of Islamic society in this area is, roughly, the Seljuq Turks and the Fatimid Caliphate.

In the year 1000, the Fatimids were riding high: They ruled Egypt and North Africa stretching across to the Atlantic, much of the Levant, the island of Sicily, and bits of the Arabian Peninsula around the Red Sea.

Then in the mid-11th century the Seljuqs came BLASTING OUTTA NOWHERE like holy shit calm your jets and conquered a lot of Fatimid and Byzantine territory (we’re talking the yellow parts of the map, they’ll destroy the Byzantines entirely later)

In addition to losing land to the Seljuqs, the Fatimids also lost Sicily to the Normans (who don’t even GO THERE but anyway), and North Africa through?? Independence movements?? Sheer carelessness??? I’m not quite certain.

The Seljuqs were Sunni, the Fatimids were Shi’ite, I... am not gonna try to explain that whole thing. Here’s a video.

(Small note for Yusuf character reasons: A big motivation behind the move of Ifriqiya [modern Tunisia and parts of Algieria and Libya] out of Fatimid control was that most of their populations were also Sunni)

So the Franks left Constantinople and travelled through what is now Turkey but was at the time the Byzantine Empire, and then moved into Seljuq lands. Most of the fighting in the First Crusade was against Seljuqs--mostly against tribes who fought for themselves, I think? Although in Damascus (which was a huge city the Franks just breezed by in favour of historically significant ghost towns) there was a general jihad preached like “Hey somebody should do something about all these Europeans”, so some of the people fighting were like... random people from Damascus.

While the Seljuqs were distracted, the Fatimids thought they could win some land back from THOSE UPSTARTS, so they snuck in and grabbed Jerusalem. As Peter Konieczny reports, there are scholars who think the Fatimids thought, partly because they had a lot of experience ruling Egypt’s Coptic Christian population, that they could reach a mutually satisfactory alliance with the Franks, especially since it seemed like most of the Franks didn’t intend to settle in the area, but return to Europe once they ensured pilgrim access to Jerusalem, which had mostly been hindered by banditry in Seljuq-controlled areas.

When I read stuff just generally about the Fatimid army, it’s described as being composed of two groups:

Berber tribesmen (Kutama and Sanhaja) (I’m struggling to find more info about them)

Mamluks, who are... a cross between slaves and mercenaries? Basically, they were captives from non-Muslim territory (in the Fatimids’ case, mostly Circassia in central Asia) who were brought to Muslim lands and trained as soldiers, but once active as soldiers, were paid and hired by different groups, able to achieve freedom, often gained important government posts, and occasionally toppled the government they served and ruled the roost.

This next bit is based on fairly standard histories of the Siege of Jerusalem that rely a lot on Western sources, like this article by Michael D. Hull and this article by Michael Cartwright. Which... have to be taken with a grain of salt, because medieval military histories don’t tend to line up super well with archaeology or plain logistics. Generally, it isn’t wise to take medieval European sources at their word when they say “the army had 10,000 people” or “they killed every last person”. They’re often written after the fact and with clear biases, and, when it comes to the Crusades, with an imperfect understanding of the culture they’re describing. I’d like to have better sources, but this is where I’m starting from, especially since I have limited access to academic sources during the summer.

So, the standard history says that Jerusalem was taken in 1098 by Emir al-Afdal Shahinshah, but by 1099, governor Iftikhar al-Daula was in command of the defenses. and that he had a “garrison of Arab cavalry and Sudanese archers.” Cartwright reports it as “perhaps several thousand infantry and an elite cavalry corps of 400 Egyptians.” I currently have no way of knowing which of these troops were Mamluks and which weren’t.

According to Hull, when the Fatimids in Jerusalem realized they would have to face a siege, they expelled all Christians of any denomination from the city, as well as all Jews “except for those of a sect for whom it was mandatory to reside in the Holy City”. Cartwright reports it as “...all Christians were kicked out if the city. In contrast, the Jewish population were allowed to stay”. Cartwright reports that Jerusalem’s population, 70,000 at the beginning of the year, was lowered to 30,000 by the expulsions (though some people were also coming into the city to take refuge from the oncoming Frankish army). Additional preparations included poisoning wells outside of Jerusalem to deny the Frankish army water, and emptying the land around the city of livestock and people.

The Fatimids were also expecting the arrival of an army marching north from Egypt to help them out relatively soon, which explains why their strategy was mostly “hunker down and wait” with very limited attacks outside the city.

The Franks came southward down the coast to Jaffa, where they took the nearest port to Jerusalem, and then approached the city.

June 7, 1099: The Frankish army shows up at Jerusalem with about 15,000 people total and less than 1,500 armed knights. They split into two camps, one attacking from the south, one from the north. They were in rough shape and didn’t have any siege weapons, so the Fatimid defenders were able to sit up on the walls, taunt them, and shoot arrows. They enlivened the tedium by sending cavalry units outside the walls to harass Franks who were scavenging for food and water.

June 13, 1099: Some Franks on the north side of the city managed to scrabble together siege ladders and try to climb up and assault the walls; they were repelled pretty easily by the defenders.

June 17, 1099: English and Genoese ships land at Jaffa, carrying siege equipment and fresh supplies. Hull reports that the Fatimids dispatched troops, 400 Arabs and 200 Turks, to attack the supply chain between Jaffa and Jerusalem; Hull reports that the Franks only lost 5 of the force of maybe 150-200 knights, and “all of the archers” (about 50?)

It takes about three weeks to transport the supplies to Jerusalem and for the siege towers to be built; the Genoese played an especially large role in building the siege equipment, and their chief engineer is named as William Embriaco.

On July 10 the siege engines were finished and wheeled to the walls. That night everyone inside the city and out sat over campfires, showing each other pictures of their families and trying to humanize themselves for the audience to make their impending deaths more impactful

(I kid)

(mostly)

June 13-15: Almost continuous fighting between the Franks, who are trying to move their siege engines close enough to make it onto the walls of Jerusalem, and the Fatimid defenders, who were trying to fight them off and burn their towers down.

June 15: The Franks breach the walls and begin pouring inside, killing and looting its inhabitants. There is well-documented destruction of Muslim and Jewish holy places, where Muslims and Jews fled for refuge and were killed. This part is. Sickening. Tens of thousands of people dead; the streets running with blood.

The Fatimid governor and various others (possibly the remainders of the army? Possibly important citizens? Some Jews appear to be in this group?) took refuge in the Tower of David, and were able to negotiate to leave Jerusalem safely. The Fatimid soldiers who left the city that way joined the advancing Fatimid army at Ascalon, southwest of Jerusalem.

It’s unclear who the survivors were--the sources mention people left aside being made into slaves, being allowed to leave the city, or being ransomed by rich relatives outside the city. The fact that we have Jewish and Muslim accounts of what happened during this time means there were survivors

But let’s face it: The survivors were the minority. The majority of people, thousands of them, were slaughtered by the Franks as they took over the city.

Epilogue: The Fatimids tried to take Jerusalem back a month later, and failed. Jerusalem was in Crusader hands.

It’s taken me three days to write this up and I’m ending it feeling really blah and drained by the enormity of this shit. I...

The Race for Paradise has this bit that talks about two Western ways of talking about the Crusades:

The Traditional paradigm, where this was a great moment for Christianity, whew we kicked those guys’ BUTTS!

The Lachrymose (Latin for “full of tears”) paradigm, coming to popularity since the Enlightenment, where this was horrific mass slaughter caused by religious zealotry and it was bad and everything was bad

But the thing is, we can’t actually stop there. Or, that is: It’s not actually useful for our only narratives about the Crusades to be either “Christians kill everyone and it’s awesome” or “Christians kill everyone and it’s terrible”. It’s not true; it feeds into the overall false narrative of “European Christians only interacted with [Muslims/Middle Easterners/People of Colour] very rarely, and only when there was an atrocity happening.” It means we fail to acknowledge all the cross-cultural contacts that happened without an atrocity, and fail to realize that a lot of these atrocities came out of the context of incredibly warlike countries whose economies depended on warfare and conquest.

Another element is... during the 11th century, when all of this happened, the Normans also invaded England. Their conquest was absolutely brutal. England was ethnically and linguistically divided for centuries between a French-speaking colonial upper class, and the English-speaking peasantry. But over the centuries, these two groups came to live together peacefully and build a distinctly new society. Most peoples’ narratives of medieval England are not “a land of massacre, genocide, and ethnic strife”, even though those things definitely happened. We just have much stronger associations with medieval English art, literature, culture, fashion, and architecture than its slaughters.

So basically: The challenge for us in the 21st century is to develop a richer understanding of the past. We know a hell of a lot about battles and armies; we know way less about merchants and farmers, and about the long decades between battles and armies. Military history tells us about waging war, but if we can look past that, we can find out about waging peace.

Now I’m going to go collapse into my bed, and in a day or five I’ll write up a TL;DR version about what I think the likeliest backstories for Joe are (Briefly: probably a Fatimid cavalry soldier or an ordinary person who thought it was safe to be in Jerusalem at the time, and had to defend himself and his servants etc when the city fell)

#medievalism #my stuff #the old guard #nicky/joe #yusuf al-kaysani

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alexalbonbon · 3 years

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Drive to Survive is less documentary and more Keeping Up With The Formula 1 Drivers. And that needs to change

When Netflix first announced Drive To Survive in March 2018, the show was promoted as an “attempt to immerse the audience inside the cockpits, the paddock, and the lives of the key players in Formula 1 racing. The series will have exclusive access to the world’s fastest drivers, team principals and owners, as well as Formula 1’s own management team.”

The announcement was a clear statement from new owners Liberty Media: attract new fans to Formula 1. And what better way to do this than by collaborating with the biggest streaming platform in the world? Drive To Survive was supposed to become a 10-episode documentary series for both new and established Formula 1 fans and would cover the 2018 season.

The show did a decent job in its first season, it did give a fresh look behind the scenes of the sport, with some drivers also allowing the camera crews in their personal lives. It introduced us to (most of) the teams, drivers, and team principals and gave an insight into the traveling, multi million dollar circus that is Formula 1.

But how are you going to cover a racing championship if you’re not allowed access to the two major teams fighting for that championship? You can’t, and the producers decided to take a page out of the Keeping Up With The Kardashians manual and thought it would be fun to give a show that was supposed to be a documentary show about the pinnacle of motorsport a reality series makeover in post production instead.

While we did see some of Daniel Ricciardo’s family and life off-track, this was completely overshadowed by the producers’ excessive need to dramatize his inter-team rivalry with then-teammate Max Verstappen. Any person who followed Formula 1 and especially Red Bull at the time knew that, although Daniel indeed was struggling with his position within the team, the two were not the enemies the show makes them out to be and are actually good friends. And rather than learn from the first season and the feedback given by both fans and drivers, the producers decided to up the drama even more for the next two seasons. Meanwhile, all of us are sitting here wondering why. If you spend some time following the sport, there’s plenty of drama already.

Going forward with seasons two and three, it was apparently decided that the show needed more of a Hollywood feeling and plenty of episodes were given the hero versus villain treatment. This reached its peak in the Red Bull focused episodes in both seasons two and three. Take the difficult (to say the least) work environment of the “big” team, mix it with some weird crap said by Christian Horner and top it off with the commentary by Will Buxton literally nobody asked for and you have yourself a Pierre Gasly versus Alex Albon rivalry. Where in season two Gasly was portrayed as the person keeping Red Bull back in the World Championship and Albon came in to save the day, season three decided to reverse Uno that narrative and made Albon (one of the only three people of color on the grid) the one in this role, while Gasly thrives at AlphaTauri. Albon is made look weak, stupid and slow. All things people who have looked beyond his Red Bull stint know are not true. Not once is it suggested that Albon was put under immense pressure by being moved to the “big team” in what was only his first season of Formula 1. Nor would Horner ever take responsibility for the clear favouritism shown to Verstappen.

And then there is what might be the biggest crime in the entire show: the lack of presence of record race winner, seven-time World Champion Lewis Hamilton in season three. There are no good words for whoever was in charge of production and decided that this man, one of the greatest, if not the greatest, Formula 1 drivers of all time, was not worthy of an entire episode dedicated to his story, his racecraft, and his activism. The only black driver on the grid, Drive To Survive gave him five minutes at the end of the very last episode to touch on the Black Lives Matter movement Hamilton has been a vocal supporter of for years. His record equalling 91st win at the Eifel Grand Prix was briefly touched upon, but his record equalling seventh World Championship in Turkey was apparently too much of an effort to include. It only enhances the fact that the We Race As One campaign Formula One Management ran last year was nothing more than a PR stunt. It is time to take Lewis Hamilton seriously, he has a platform and he wants to use it and Netflix not giving him that opportunity is shameful. Yes, a big part of the demographic of Formula 1 consists of straight, white men who absolutely refuse to look at the world outside of their bubble. But Netflix promotes inclusivity, so why should this show be any different? It is a Netflix original show, which gives them no way to point at anyone else being the final part of production responsible. By showing the (graphic) clip of George Floyd’s death and letting Hamilton say three sentences about the BLM movement, you’re not promoting the inclusivity the streaming service wants to stand for. Formula 1, Netflix, and Box To Box Productions all need to do better, and they need to start doing better now.

So how does the show move forward? Let’s start by throwing out the terrible “scripts”, including those terrible one-liners Lance Stroll throws out in the first couple of season three episodes (I like Lance, but this made me cringe so hard, my eye is still twitching). Several drivers, including Max Verstappen, and more recently George Russell have spoken out against the framing the show chooses. This should be a clear sign that things need to change, especially if one of the drivers above called the show “cringey” in front of the Netflix cameras. Is there absolutely nobody in the producing team who has any real knowledge of the sport and the regulations itself? We need less Christian Horner, less Will Buxton and less forced drama and rivalry. If you put twenty men who get paid hundreds of thousands of euros in a paddock and drive around the fastest cars in the world for a living, the drama will write itself.

Formula 1 loves reminding people that it’s the “pinnacle of motorsport”, so why not show that? Why not show that the world of Formula 1 has some of the brightest minds out there that came together in the fight against COVID-19 in Project Pitlane? Or how they were one of the first major sports that returned to their competition, setting up a huge logistical challenge and managing to create a calendar with seventeen races in twelve different countries, while keeping COVID infections to a relative low? But they also should focus on the parts the teams may not always want to show. Why does Red Bull seem to have a curse on that second seat? Why does Haas have to take on a driver who didn’t manage to finish in the top 3 of the Formula 2 championship, while the vice-champion was left without a seat? Why did we have to say goodbye to the Williams family and why weren’t they given a proper sendoff in the show? Especially with Williams having the only female team principal in the paddock. And why aren’t we shining a light on what’s important: a black man standing alone in his fight for equality.

Drive to Survive should give us what it promised: an exclusive behind the scenes look of one of the most exciting sports out there. The drama will write itself, we just want the good, the bad, and the ugly. And these are things the Netflix crew can achieve, even with the current COVID restrictions still in place in the paddock.

#i kinda started rage writing this last night and ended up with 1300+ words #danielle writes stuff #f1 #formula 1

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guigz1-coldwar · 3 years

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'A better tomorrow' : the epilogue of "Fighting Spirit of a Once Innocent Girl" is out !

"A Better tomorrow"

Chapter Summary : Samantha is finally feeling free two days after the events at Solovetsky in her new home with the others.....

To read it on AO3, click here !

Words : ~2000

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We.....we did it ! After all these years, Monty was no more. I fullfilled my old promise to kill him after he slaugthered my father in front of me. I killed the monster that were trying to come back as a god and to envelop this world and maybe the Multiverse inside the Dark Aether dimension. We stopped him to use the Purplelight bombs to achieve his goals. By doing that, we have finished the work of Ultimis & Primis : getting rid of Monty once and for all. We won that battle, we did it.....but at what cost ?

Eddie decided to sacrifice himself to kill Monty's soul inside of his body by destroying the Agarthan Device, fatally wounding himself in the process. I did find Eddie back but I never wanted this to happen. I hoped that there were other choices but he.....he knew that this choice was the only one to do. It was so painful to think and to look Eddie leaving slowly his world for a better place as we couldn't do anything to save him even with our powers.

I lost too many friends : Lazar.....Ravenov....and now, I lost Eddie. He was the only friend I had in my childhood in my time in Monty's House. We were playing together, laughing together, thinking of an innocent life but with Monty, w lost our own innocence when my father send us away from the House. Primis...Ultimis, they put their lifes for us to give me & Eddie a better world, away from all of that but nothing worked as intended : I lost Eddie when I arrived in his world and the Dark Aether was infiltrating the world.

At this moment, I knew that I will have to be the one that will fight when I discovered the Dark Aether threat coming when I joined Requiem. Two months ago, the powers I thought to have lost came back, saving me that day in Turkey and it was the resuming of the old fight Primis & Ultimis was leading. Thanksfully, I wasn't alone : Helen...Greta....Yirina.....and Nikolai. They stood up by my side against the Dark Aether, against the Omega Group....against Requiem and we stayed strong on that fight even with everything that happened to us.

After we left Solovetsky behind thanks to Nikolai who created a portal just before the Requiem bombers took the place apart, we were back at Nikolai's House who became our new home to everyone since we had nothing holding us back to leave : Yirina was disawowed by the KGB, Greta was no longer a part of the BND and Requiem after what happened before Cuba as Helen lost her MI6 agent status when we were on our way to Solovetsky. Me.....they were the only people I can count on my life and having them on my side was keeping me well.

I took Eddie's body with us as I didn't want to left him on the island and Nikolai decided to hold a funeral for Eddie. We buried Eddie along with the others and I was holding back my tears during all the funeral, knowing that now, he will be maybe in a better place, probably laughing and talking at that fireplace with the two versions of Dempsey, Takeo and Richtofen and the Ultimis Nikolai. I wish....I wish things were differents but what was done can't be undone....Rest in peace, Eddie !

2 days after the funeral, we installed ourselves in Nikolai's House, ready to live a new life away from the CIA's grasp....from Requiem. I've got the same room we first woke up with Helen and today, Nikolai was able to found an old picture of me & Eddie in our young that I decided to put in the room.

"I wished that things would have been different, Eddie." I said in a low voice, holding the encadred picture in my hands before I put it back on the dresser as Helen was coming inside the room.

"Sammy." She started, slowly walking towards me

"Sapphire." I still looked at the picture as Helen wrapped her arms around me, trying to recomfort me after she saw my sad look.

"It's going to be okay." She whispered next to me, having her eyes on the picture.

"That picture is the only thing where I could see his face." I sniffed before getting my arms around "Where we were both innocent." I added with an little grin

"You will still have him in your heart." She put her hand above it, feeling her lovely touch on my skin "You know that he will watch you from the skies and saying that you're a good woman." She then put her hand on my face "And I'm with you until the end."

"I know you will." I exclaimed before I leaned to give her a kiss on the lips, getting my hands on her face and we started to lose ourselves in our moves until we withdrawed at the same time to catch our breath, still holding each other. "I love you, Helen."

"I love you too, Sam." She smiled before taking my hand in hers "You're coming ? Greta & Yirina is awaiting for us outside." I nodded as she know that I will always stay with her and then, she started to walk with me outside the room to join the others outside in the middle of the night at a fireplace created by Nikolai for us. We go down the stairs and ready to leave the house when Nikolai stepped in from the same room we first met him.

"Samantha." He called me out as Helen opened the door

"Nikolai." I said, surprised by his appearance

"I need to talk to you for just 2 minutes." He looked at Helen, giving her an good look "Don't worry, I will be fast." Helen nodded,

"We're waiting for you." She whispered before giving a quick kiss on the cheek before she fully opened the door and getting out, leaving me with Nikolai, wondering what he want with me.

"Something to talk about ?" I asked before he ordered me to follow him inside the room.

"Yes, about something you could be interested." He closed the door behind me before with his powers, he recreated the Multiverse map in front of me "Do you remember the woman you talked with in the other universe ?" He asked, looking at me

"Mmhm.." I started, thinking around "Yirina Grigoriev, right ?" I said not sure before he nodded.

"When you discover where Monty was, I was finally able to discover about her and the others individuals that are sharing that nickname....'Bell'." He showed on his face an concerned look "It went bad for everyone of them."

"What do you mean ?" I said, worried

"Taking the example of Yirina Grigoriev, after her mission at Solovetsky...." He took a deep breath "She was disposed off by Adler." He showed me a picture of that exact scene : the two drawing their guns but Adler was more faster, killing her with an bullet in the head.

"No...." I whispered, she didn't deserve that at all....

"It's the same thing for everyone : Adler brought them to that cliff and left them for dead." He added, showing me the same scene but with differents people and still with Adler.

"They didn't deserve that." I exclaimed "They can't be killed like that, that woman, Grigoriev.....she wasn't looking as a monster. Those people too."

"I know." He said, raising an eyebrow

"But we can save them, becoming their hidden protector, help them maybe.....to find their way in." I suggested, causing Nikolai to start thinking, looking at the Multiverse. "As long as we're dealing with the Dark Aether's threat, we can also help those people."

"It could work." Nikolai told, nodding at me "Since we can go back in time and travelling in those universes, it will be possible." He started to check some universes in details "Of course, the events will be changed if those peoples stayed alive but since after Solovetsky, all the universes take a different direction."

"We have to give a chance to those peoples." I repeated, looking at him

"I will check how you and the girls can do it." He looked outside where the fireplace "You should join them, we have all the time in the world to save those peoples and the Dark Aether." He removed everything before walking to open the door back for me "Be with your friends, stay with them." He gave me a friendly tap on my shoulder as I walked out of the room, smiling before he closed the door behind him, leaving him alone.

I breathed a little before I stepped outside of the House to join the girls at the fireplace. All around me, it was getting dark, giving me the feeling like it was like in the Forest and I smiled about it all the way to get to that new fireplace. Greta & Yirina were usually sitting together, an arm behind each other's back.

"Guess who finally arrived !" Greta said, smirking at me as I arrived near Helen.

"Greta....good to see that you didn't lost your sense of humor." I exclaimed, sitting next to Helen, keeping my smile, thinking about the future.

"Thank me for that." Yirina told, getting Greta closer from her

"So, what Nikolai wanted to talk about to you ?" Helen asked to me

"Something that he will talk to all of us tomorrow." I replied before I put my left arm behind her back "A special mission for us, he will tell more but now, it's better that we all getting relaxed."

"After weeks of work, it's sure that relaxing is the only thing we can do now." Greta admitted, making Yirina rolling her eyes lovely to her "Isn't right, Yiri ?"

"Of course, you're right." Yirina said to her before she looked at me "I'm glad to be friends with you, Samantha."

"We all glad to be at your side, Sammy." Helen exclaimed...I was feeling so happy right now, knowing that I'm now surrounded by my very close friends.

"I was thinking..." Greta started "We should have a name for us now." Hearing this caused everyone to look at her with wide eyes, curious "You know....like Primis or Ultimis. What do you think ?"

"Not an bad idea." Helen said before she looked at me "Why not Maxis ?"

"That's my last name and I don't know if....." I stopped myself before looking at her with lovely eyes "We should talk about this to Nikolai tomorrow." I suggested

"Maybe that Maxis is your last name but it can be used as our new group name !" Yirina affirmed.

"We will think about it." I replied to her, taking a breath "Let's just enjoy the moment peacefully and....in calm." I then took Helen in my both arms "We will sure secure a better tomorrow...together !

We then started to enjoy ourselves at the moment, finally feeling a little bit of freedom inside each one of us. I was thinking to everything good that happened inside my life and I was hoping that these types of moments will happen frequently to us. I wanted just to forget the bad things and trying to moving on, working along my friends for the future of the Multiverse....for my future with Helen...

It's sure that our next work will be maybe complicated between preparing ourselves against the return of the Dark Aether at any occasions and saving all those peoples who were killed off by Adler but right now, it's just me...enjoying the place we are now calling Home, feeling more happy to no longer sleep in a safehouse and finally in Helen's arms without anyone to disturb us. I was finally happy to have some sort of a normal life, getting started. I'm sure that I have a fighting spirit inside of me and I will make sure to make it living on....

For an better tomorrow !

-----------------------

This was it ! The endgame !

After 30 chapters, it's time for me to close the book of the reinterpretation of the Cold War Campaign mixed with the Dark Aether story. During 30 chapters, you were able to see how Samantha will get along with the events, replacing 'Bell' as the main character of the story and giving a new view about the events of the Campaign....

I was so happy to share with you, this story with Samantha as the main character. She is so lovely to write on along with Helen Park, 'Bell' and countless of others characters (Greta Keller, Yirina Portnova, etc....). This is the end of this story and Samantha's adventures against Perseus/Monty.

Some surprises will come a day in a sort of one-shot....but I don't tell you more about it...it's a surprise !

Thanks you for all the support you gave me during the writing of the story and I'm impatient to find you again on the other story I'm making at the moment ! Thank you again !

GuiGZ1

#black ops cold war #bocw #call of duty cold war #cod cw #cod black ops cold war #cod cold war #fanfic #samantha maxis #helen park #yirina portnova #greta keller

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the-silvertonguewitch · 3 years

Text

Some thoughts, now that I’ve finished my re read of TSC

-When Lyra reach the Blue Hotel, she finds Nur Huda already there and waiting for her, but Pan, who’s been travelling with Nur Huda, isn’t. Nur Huda seems to know her way around the Blue Hotel. If Pan isn’t waiting outside with her, it could be because, while humans might come and go as they please in the Blue Hotel, once daemons get inside, they – technically – can’t leave. That would explain why so many people who go there don’t return (they’d rather stay there with their daemons than leave without them) and why people that do return from there appear “diminished” (TSC, 609). Wild guess: It’s possible that in order to leave with Pan, Lyra will have to hide him inside of her, make him invisible, like people’s daemons from Will’s world. That way she’ll trick the zarghuls there into believing that she’s leaving the Blue Hotel alone. The alchemist Agrippa also predicted that Lyra would find her daemon again, but not in the way she’d expect (i.e., that Pan would become an “internal” daemon, perhaps).

-On her way to Seleukeia, Lyra meets a man with two apparent purposes in the story: to give Lyra a set of stories telling cards called a “Myriorama”, and to warn her that Seleukeia isn’t safe. The story he tells the little boy and his mother sharing their cabin involves two soldiers, one wanting to shoot a giant bird that stole their horses, and the other convincing the first not to shoot, since killing the bird would also kill the horses. Wild guess: this is another warning intended for Lyra. She’s the bird. The first soldier is Olivier Bonneville. The second one is Abdel Ionides. The man with the Myriorama is akin to those fairies in disguise (undercover fairies, you know which ones) in children’s stories. These fairies test people, often travelers, asking them for some food and rewarding them if they accept to share, or punishing them if they don’t. Lyra, who shares her food with the little boy and his mother, is rewarded with an honest warning and a useful magical item.

-After being shot in the leg, Malcolm takes a train to Aleppo. The train makes an unexpected stop somewhere in order to board someone important, or several important people. This is a direct parallel to the events of chapter 18 (“Malcolm in Geneva”), where another train is highjacked by the newly appointed President of the High Council of the Magisterium and his suite. That president is assassinated soon after and replaced by Marcel Delamare. Not so wild guess: Malcolm just passed out on a train that’s getting filled with members of the High Council of the Magisterium. Delamare is among them and he knows about a burly, ginger “Matthew” Polstead working against the Magisterium, so Malcolm could find himself in a pickle when he wakes up.

-Abdel Ionides knowns an awful lot. Either he is an alethiometrist himself, or he has his own Myriorama pack, or he’s extremely observant and knows about the Lyra/Rukhsana thing – because he’s aware that she’s headed for the rose garden in Karamakan, even if Lyra never told him. He wants gold (or some sort of other treasure), like Chen, the camel herder who guided Dr. Hassall and Dr. Strauss into Karamakan, did, and he believes that only Lyra can get it for him. Wild guess: he thinks that Lyra, and no one but her, can get in and out of the red building. Maybe because she’s “Rukhsana” and special rules applies to Rukhsana, who knows.

-The poem Lyra quotes in “Little stick” is titled Le cor, by Alfred de Vigny. It alludes to the hero Roland, from La chanson de Roland (“The song of Roland”). Roland and another soldier are surrounded by enemies and the soldier urges Roland to surrender, to which Roland reply “only when the mountains roll down into the river below” (I’m roughly translating). Somehow that’s exactly what happens, and Roland and his friend are precipitated down the gulch and into the river, where they’re both crushed by falling stones. A knight named Turpin finds them some time later and declares that Roland’s soul blew the horn twice before going to Heaven. Funny detail: the soldier standing with Roland is a man from the desert and his name is “Olivier”.

(Going further into the chapter, it’s easy to see where and how Lyra is meant to parallel Roland.)

-In our world, Aleppo would be in Syria and Smyrna would be “Izmir”. I was curious so I googled it. Lyra’s journey would look a bit like this:

1 (Oxford) 2 (Amsterdam) 3 (Paris) 4 (Prague) 5 (Istanbul/Constantinople) 6 (Izmir/Smyrna) 7 (Seleucia/Seleukeia). And Aleppo is circled in red. Lyra traveled by ferry twice: once going from England to Amsterdam (the ferry with the loud, annoying guy and the welsh miners) and once from point 5 (Constantinople) to point 6 (Smyrna). That’s the one where the boat crash occurred. The Blue Hotel would be located somewhere between Iraq and Syria.

If the Blue Hotel wasn’t a place, but a person, it would be a person without a daemon. Maybe that’s why daemons are attracted to it.

EDIT:

The place called “Seleucia”/Seleukeia is a bit confusing. Wherever it is, or was, it refers to the ruins of a very old city. Actually, It looks like there’s two places called “Seleucia”, both ruins, now (in our world, that is): the ruins of Seleucia in Baghdad, also called Seleucia-on-Tigris, and the ruins of Seleucia in Antalya, Turkey. The second one is also called/pronounced “Seleukeia”, and is located on the coast of Pamphylia. I couldn’t find it on the map.

Most pictures of Seleucia I can find on Google are of the second one. It looks like this:

When I google Seleucia-on-Tigris, I get black and white pictures and photos of old maps from the Seleucid Empire. I’m guessing there isn’t much left of it. If our friend Wiki is to be believed,

“The city eventually faded into obscurity and was swallowed by the desert sands, probably abandoned after the Tigris shifted its course.”

You know what this reminds me of? The Blue Hotel.

EDIT:

ACTUALLY, THERE ARE SEVERAL PLACES CALLED (OR WHO USED TO BE CALLED) SELEUKEIA! 😱

*Deep breath*

Ok, let’s check further. Our world’s equivalent of the Karamakan desert is the Taklamakan desert and it’s located in North West China. In TSC’s last chapter, Ionides tells Bonneville that the “treasure”, which I’m guessing is in Karamakan/Taklamakan, is 3000 miles from their current location, i.e., the Blue Hotel.

The distance between Baghdad (Seleucia-on-Tigris) and Taklamakan, in our world, is approx. 2127 miles.

The distance between Antalya (where the Seleukeia from the picture above is) and Taklamakan, in our world, is approx. 2768 miles.

The distance between Silifke (previously known as Seleucia on the Calycadnus - this is getting complicated isn’t it) and Taklamakan, in our world, is approx. 2612 miles.

The distance between Antakya (previously the Seleucid Capital, also known as Seleucia Pieria, phew) and Taklamakan, is approx. 2498 miles.

The Blue Hotel is about a day’s walk on camel back from Lyra’s Seleukeia, so it’s not very far. If we try to go by the 3000 miles indication, we can probably eliminate Seleucia-on-Tigris in Iraq (sorry, I was wrong!)

Lyra’s Seleukeia is a coastal town. The book tells us that much. (Ok, it definitely couldn’t have been Seleucia-on-Tigris.)

Antalya’s Seleukeia, also known as “Lyrbe” (sounds a bit like Lyra?), is located here:

While Silifke is located here:

And Antakya is here:

So they’re all coastal, kind of. For a very general view, you’ve got:

From left to right (in yellow): Seleukeia/Lyrbe, Seleucia on the Calycadnus/Silifke, Seleucia Pieria/Antakya, and Aleppo. The puzzle is to decide which of the first three is Lyra’s Seleukeia. They’re all under 3000 miles from Taklamakan but I wouldn’t discount any of them because of it (the distance is probably calculated from the starting point to the border of Taklamakan, and the “treasure” is in the “heart” of the desert, so way further).

I’m guessing that the one Lyra went to was the third - Seleucia Pieria/Antakya. It would explain why it’s a dangerous location (it’s located on the Syrian borders). It would make more sense to use the expression “between Seleukeia and Aleppo” to indicate where the Blue Hotel might be (since that Seleukeia and Aleppo are geographically the closest to one another).

So let’s say Antakya. What does the place look like in our world?

More ruins, unlike the Seleukeia of Lyra’s world, where people still live and do trade. It’s all very curious. I really do wonder if Pullman got the idea for the Blue Hotel from all these seleucid ruins, or if there’s another place in Syria that would match more.

#his dark materials #lyra belacqua #lyra silvertongue #the secret commonwealth #hdm meta #my ramblings #Abdel Ionides #malcolm polstead #my metas

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caitlesshea · 4 years

Text

if you close your eyes

Happy (1 day) early birthday @themoonwhenimlost! I promised a Coffee Shop AU with a happy ending, so the happy ending will be posted on your actual birthday. Sorry not sorry? I love you!

Chapter 1/2

“Will you stop?”

Joe pauses his attempt at pacing a hole in the floor to glare at Booker.

“You’re just going to keep working yourself into a frenzy.” Booker tsks at him.

“I’m nervous.”

“You’ve done this before.” Booker points out unhelpfully.

And the thing is, is that Joe knows he has. He’s nine hundred and fifty four years old, and he died his first death nine hundred and twenty one years ago, leaving him forever thirty three.

His first death. Stabbed by a long sword at the hands of one Nicolò di Genova, but not before Joe was able to stab him first. Only, Joe gasped awake and Nicolò stayed dead.

Or so he thought. Thirty years practically to the day he sees Nicolò looking every bit the same, minus the ridiculous chain mail, working in Cairo.

At first he thought that Nicolò had survived that fateful day, like Joe had, but over time he came to realize that wasn’t the case. This Nicolò was not from Genova, even though his family hailed from there. He was born thirty years earlier.

Over the years they traveled together, became lovers, and when Nicolò had started to age, Joe told him his secret.

After his Nicolò passed, it became clear that history was repeating itself.

Ever since that second meeting, Joe will meet Nicolò one way or another, spend however long they have together in that lifetime, and then thirty years after he inevitably loses Nicolò, he’ll find him again.

Nicolò isn’t always the same. He’ll have different hair, different styles, even different names. But he always looks at Joe like he’s the sun.

Joe gets to fall in love with every version of Nicolò he meets.

Nicolò never remembers Joe or the lifetimes they’ve lived. Something Joe has spent his long life cursing the universe for.

Now, he’s pacing his apartment floor, thirty years after he last lost Nicolò to old age. He never knows why he gets an inkling to do something or go somewhere a year or two before the thirty years is up, but he always follows his gut and does what his heart tells him.

This time he knew he needed to be a university professor. Booker ever so kindly forging documents for him and now that he’s been at the university for two years he’s getting anxious.

With technology how it is he knows he could’ve looked up Nicolò. He knows he’ll have some variation of the name he had all those years ago when Joe was still Yusuf and Nicolò was still Nicolò.

But, he doesn’t want to. Well, that’s not true. But he feels like that’s cheating destiny.

So far they’ve always met organically. Joe never seeks him out and once he gets comfortable enough to let his guard down and share their past with Nicolò it always goes over as smoothly as it can.

“Too many times.” Joe answers Booker solemnly.

“Joe.”

“No. No, I’m being melancholic.”

Booker snorts but then softens. “Hey.” Booker stands and grabs Joe’s shoulders. “This is always the worst part but once you meet it’s like he never left.”

“I know. I know.” The thing is Joe does know. Even though Joe always goes through thirty year periods without Nicolò he always gets him back.

Reincarnation.

Or, that’s what Copley, Booker’s husband, had called it when he first became immortal and joined their family.

“Alright enough of this.” Booker walks over to the front door to put on his shoes. “I want coffee, we’re getting coffee.”

“I have coffee here.” Joe mutters weakly as he puts on his own shoes.

“I want to try that new place on Charlie.”

“Cup of Joe?” Joe groans even as he says it. He hates coffee shops close to the university because he always seems to run into students.

“Yes that one! I like the name.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too, mon chéri.”

Joe laughs as Booker blows him a kiss as they make their way to the coffee shop.

“I’m telling James you said that.”

“You wound me, Yusuf.”

“You’ll get over it.” Joe mumbles as he pushes open the door to the coffee shop with an entirely un-unique name.

He’s about to let Booker walk in first when he turns and runs into someone. The moment they touch Joe knows it’s Nicolò.

Joe’s breath catches and they lock eyes, only Nicolò doesn’t have the usual look of wonder when they meet, no. This time he’s scowling.

“Scusi.” Nicolò looks at him and scurries away but not before shooting a glare back at Joe.

Booker shrugs and a woman wearing an apron behind the counter quickly apologizes for Nicolò’s behavior.

“Sorry. Nicky’s not normally so rude to customers.” The woman glares at Nicky and Joe smiles at the name.

Nicky.

He’s never gone by Nicky before but Joe immediately loves it.

“It’s alright. Maybe he didn’t see me.”

Booker snorts and Joe elbows him in the side.

“Maybe.” The woman looks at Nicky and turns back to them. “I’m Nile, what can I get for you?”

“I’ll have a large soy chai with extra whip cream.” Booker cuts in and Joe rolls his eyes at his drink choice.

“I’ll take a coffee please, two sugars.” Joe says and Booker elbows him now and points to a sign.

First coffee is free for customers named Joe.

“Oh! Free coffee?”

“Is your name Joe?” Nile asks as she pulls out two punch cards for them.

“Yes.” Joe answers at the same time Nicky says, “That’s not his name.”

“Nicky.” Nile hisses and turns around. “Frankie! Come get your boy.”

Another woman comes out from the back of the counter and takes one look at everyone and then grabs Nicky who starts muttering something that suspiciously sounds like his name is Yusuf in Italian.

Joe's staring stock still and Booker’s looking at him like he’s worried Joe’s going to start freaking out.

“I am so sorry. Coffee’s on the house. I promise he is not like this.”

Nile’s worried voice breaks him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“It’s okay. I’m a professor at the university so my real name is in my bio. It’s Joseph.”

“Presumably most people named Joe have a full name.” Nile mumbles and looks back to where Frankie is forcing Nicky to sit down.

“Anything else?” Nile asks as Joe stares at the bakery case.

“No thanks.” Joe answers and they take their coffees to go.

“That was weird.” Booker mutters when they get outside.

“You think?” Joe scrubs a hand over his face. “He’s never been hostile towards me.”

“Except the first time.” Booker points out unhelpfully.

Joe glares at him.

“C’mon, we’ll come back tomorrow after your class. Maybe he’ll be in a better mood.”

~~~

Turns out, Nicky is not in a better mood when they head back to Cup of Joe.

Nile shoves him into the back as they order and Joe’s heart sinks.

Booker looks like he’s about to say something when Joe spots baklava in the bakery case.

“Baklava?”

“Oh yes. Nicky loves it, loves to travel, so he bakes different versions from around the world. If you put in some money and guess the ingredients we’ll give you one on the house.”

Joe looks up at a sign that says:

Place your bets!

Booker snorts and Joe is transported to the last time Booker and Nicolò bet five hundred dollars on Andy guessing the flavors of an Eastern Turkey baklava.

Joe can hear Nicolò’s voice in his head.

“Five hundred, Booker?”

Joe turns to look at Booker and can tell he’s reliving the same memory.

“Alright, five dollars Joe can guess that one.” Booker points to one on the top shelf and places a five dollar bill in the bowl.

“Okay!” Nile scoops up the baklava and hands it to Joe on some parchment. Before he takes a bite, Nile's yelling for Nicky and Frankie.

“Nicky! Frankie! We’ve got a guesser!”

A crash sounds and then giggling and Joe’s breath catches at the sound of Nicky’s laughter.

“Honestly, introduce my wife to my best friend once.” Nile mumbles and Joe chuckles.

He understands that sentiment, the first time he introduced Nicolò to Andy, Quynh, and Booker, and every time thereafter, they’ve all become fast friends.

“Who’s guessing?” Nicky asks and then pauses when his eyes lock with Joe’s.

Nicky turns away too quickly for Joe to notice anything so he decides to take a bite of the baklava and moans at the flavor.

“Mmm. Hazelnut, not walnut.” Joe takes a bite as Booker starts counting the ingredients off on his fingers. Nile smiles at him.

“Black Sea.” Joe smiles and takes another bite. “Rose water, pomegranate.”

Joe can see Nicky tensing and Joe takes another bite.

“Mmm. Eastern Turkey.”

Joe opens his eyes in time to see Nile clapping and Booker smirking.

But Joe only has eyes for Nicky, who’s covering his face in his hands as he turns and heads back behind the counter. Frankie pats Nicky on the back and looks at Joe and Booker.

“You’re the first one to guess that flavor profile.” Then she turns on her heels to find Nicky.

“That was amazing!” Nile’s still smiling and Joe shrugs.

The flavors are familiar because it’s the last piece of baklava they bought Andy together, on their last trip to Turkey, the one Nicky bet Booker on.

Booker shrugs at him and orders another coffee.

“Do you want your free pastry now or rain check?”

Joe thinks about it for a moment. “Rain check.”

Nile nods and pulls off a coupon from a little booklet and hands Joe a coffee. He thanks her for both as he wanders over to the wall of books and smiles at the little stand to drop off used books.

“This was Nicky’s idea.” Nile says as she comes up beside him.

“The books?” Nicolò always did love books. Joe smiles at the warm memories.

“Mm. My wife and I wanted to open a coffee shop, and Nicky agreed to partner with us if he could bake and bring his books.”

Joe feels warm all over at the very Nicolò like thing that was to do. Nicolò was always reading and feeding people.

“These are his?” Joe looks over at the books.

“Some of them, yes. He thinks they should be shared with the world, which is why if you leave a book.” Nile points to the stand. “You can take a book.”

“I love that.” Joe says honestly.

“So did we.” The bell at the front door jingles to indicate a new customer and Nile smiles as she goes to help them.

“How very Nicolò.” Booker mutters as he walks up to the books.

“I know.” Joe stops suddenly when he sees them.

His books. His poetry. Nine of them, the very first volume One Thousand Sixty Nine is the only one missing.

“Joe.”

“He has my poetry books.” Joe whispers, looking at the volumes, all written under various cover names. Except the first one. Which hasn’t been in print for a long time, the remaining copies sitting in a trunk at his house.

“He has good taste.” Booker tries to joke but Joe isn’t convinced.

“He’s never.” Joe shakes his head. “He’s never had any of my things before.”

Booker turns back to look at where Nile and Nicky are whispering with a look of great concentration on his face.

“What?” Joe snaps and then immediately apologizes. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. C’mon, you can come back tomorrow.”

“I don’t…”

“Joe.” Booker grabs his shoulders after they get outside. “I know this is different but when has any of this ever made sense?”

“No, you’re right.”

“I usually am.” Booker says smugly as Joe rolls his eyes.

“Don’t push it.”

~~~

Joe changes up his tactics the next day, heading to Cup of Joe without Booker.

He’s waited thirty years to see his Nicolò, hopefully he can manage a single conversation with Nicky that doesn’t involve glaring.

No such luck.

“Morning Nicky.” Joe says brightly and Nicky, ever the professional, sighs with his whole body and gets Joe’s coffee.

That he doesn’t even have to ask Joe what he likes to drink makes Joe smile.

“Did you want your free pastry?” Nicky asks him and Joe smiles at the first real words Nicky has spoken to him.

“Surprise me?” Joe smirks and some of the tension Nicky’s carrying eases.

Nicky picks a pastry that Joe finds vaguely familiar and when Joe takes a bite he actually can’t help the moan that escapes.

“Oh my god, this is my favorite.” Joe says around a mouthful of a desert he hasn’t had in years. His mother used to make a variation of this and Nicolò always replicated it when he would learn that fact.

“I know...I’m glad you like it.” Nicky curses in Italian and Joe can only look at him inquisitively.

Before Joe can say anything else another customer walks in taking Nicky’s attention.

Joe walks over to the bookcases and discretely pulls his own book out of his bag, the first volume that Nicky’s collection is missing. He places it on the Borrow a Book shelf and turns back to speak to Nicky.

“Ci vediamo domani.” Joe waves, pleased at the look of shock on Nicky’s face.

Joe’s about to go to class when he sees a text from Booker.

[Book: you gave him the book didn’t you?]

[Joe: how did you know that?]

[Joe: did you break into my place again?]

[Book: I have a key]

[Joe: I’m taking it back]

[Book: no you aren’t]

Joe sighs, Booker’s right. He isn’t taking his key back. They all have keys to each other’s place, privacy long since passed between all of them. It’s more enter at your own risk now. But still.

Joe wanted a little more time with his decision to essentially out himself as himself with this prickly version of Nicolò before everyone else knew about it.

And everyone else would know about it because Booker likes to gossip.

He pockets his phone, resigned to spending hours with ungrateful students before he can see Nicky again.

~~~

Joe thought when he walked into Cup of Joe the next morning he would be met with a shy smile and a ‘how did you find that edition?’ of his book that he dropped off.

What he did not expect was for Nicky to grab him by the arm and bring him right back outside in such a flurry that Joe nearly falls down.

Joe takes a moment to steady himself as he takes in the anger and fear on Nicky’s face.

It’s something Joe hasn’t seen in centuries, although this Nicky is already so different than the Nicolò’s of the past, from his longer hair curling around his ears, the beard around his face, and two gold earrings, but also the fact that he seems to remember is enough for Joe to know this time is different.

“Where did you find this?” Nicky scowls and shakes the book Joe dropped off the day before in front of his face.

“I…”

“Yusuf.” The sound of Joe’s real name jolts him back into awareness. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I had it in my collection. Thought I could complete yours.”

“Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani.”

Joe sucks in a shaky breath.

“Tell me how I know that’s your name.” Nicky snarls. “Tell me.”

“How? I don’t - ”

“He’s the moon when I’m lost in darkness and warmth when I shiver in cold.”

“Nicky.”

“Tell me, Yusuf, how I didn’t have to read a single line in this damn book to know what it said.” Nicky shoves the book into Joe’s chest and he clutches it to him.

“I - ”

“Better yet. Tell me how I remember you writing this. In Malta, in our cottage by the sea with the windows open while I laid in bed. ‘Nicolò, habibi, stay just like that.’ ‘Are you sketching again, amore mio?’ ‘No, writing about our love.’ Because it is a memory, isn’t it?”

Joe feels like he’s been sucker punched.

“You...you remember?”

Nicky groans and grabs at his hair. Joe doesn’t know how this is possible. So many things in his life haven’t made since but Nicolò, even though they go years without each other, has always been his constant.

“Tell me how this is possible?”

“I can’t, I…” Joe feels like he can’t breathe and the incoming panic isn’t helping. “I have to go.”

Joe turns quickly and walks away from Nicky as fast as he can even though Nicky’s shouting after him.

“Yusuf!”

Joe feels like running but he’s already struggling to breathe so he doesn’t, thankful that Booker and Copley live close to the coffee shop.

He gets to their door and knocks, barely able to stand. He could use his key but that would require effort. He hears someone’s footsteps, Copley’s probably, and braces against the door as it opens.

“Joe? Why didn’t you use your key?” Copley asks him and then frowns at him.

“James.” Joe croaks out and Copley immediately knows that something is wrong because Joe has called him James exactly one time, and it was when Copley and Booker got married.

“Okay. C’mon. Can you walk?”

Joe nods and he can tell Copley is checking him over to see if he’s injured.

“‘M fine.”

Joe sinks down onto their plush couch as Copley calls for Booker.

“James? Was someone at the door?” Booker takes one look at what Joe is sure is the most pathetic he’s ever looked before Booker’s running over to him.

“Joe? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Booker’s frantically checking him over and Joe just shakes his head.

Joe looks up at the sound of more footsteps and cringes when he sees Andy and Quynh.

“What? You didn’t think we remembered what year it is?” Andy asks as she sits on the coffee table.

Joe gives her a weak smile as Booker grabs his hands to stop them from shaking.

Copley hands him a glass of water and Joe’s grateful for the cold, as he takes a couple of minutes to get his breathing under control.

When he’s finally able to take a true breath he looks up at the people he’s called family for longer than anyone should ever live and cries.

“He remembers.” Joe says brokenly.

“Who?”

“What does he remember?”

“What happened?”

“Nicky?”

Joe ignores the rapid fire questions from everyone and just looks at Booker.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Someone tell me what’s going on.” Andy uses her no nonsense voice and Joe cringes.

“He met Nicolò the other day.” Booker sighs after a moment when Joe stays silent.

Andy and Quynh gasp, which Joe supposes is nice, that Booker didn’t let the cat out of the bag until Joe could tell them himself.

“He goes by Nicky this time.” Joe smiles at the memory of finding out that Nicolò uses a nickname in this lifetime.

“He owns a coffee shop with two of his friends, it’s called Cup of Joe.”

Andy snorts and Quynh swats at her arm.

“He, well there were signs the last couple of days that he knew things about me, about us, that he shouldn't have. But I just assumed it was me overreacting.”

“I take it the book didn’t help?” Booker holds up the book to show everyone and Joe nods.

“I dropped it off yesterday and today before I even made it inside Nicky was grabbing me and bringing me outside to tell me he remembered every line of poetry.”

“Well, that would make sense if he read it yesterday.” Copley sits down next to Booker, who immediately grabs his hand.

“He didn’t just remember the poetry. He remembered what we were doing when I wrote it.”

“Gross.” Booker gags and Joe shoves him while everyone laughs.

“No. We were in Malta. He told me word for word the conversation we had.”

“And you remember it?” Andy asks and Joe glares at her.

“Of course I do.” Joe snaps and then reaches out to squeeze Andy’s hand in apology.

“What do you want to do?” Andy asks him and Joe shakes his head.

“No, it’s not just about me or - ”

“Joe. If he’s remembering you need to tell him. You always do anyway.” Booker says quietly.

“He was just so confused.” Joe puts his head in his hands, ashamed at himself for leaving Nicky there when he was clearly freaking out.

“Hey.” Booker grabs his shoulder and Joe looks at him.

“I just left him. He’s all alone and I left him, probably wondering what’s going on.”

“It’s too late now to do anything. You can go to the coffee shop tomorrow and see him.” Booker suggests as Copley stands to make dinner.

“Tomorrow.”

Joe wants to go now. Wants to comfort Nicky or at least be an outlet for his frustration. Joe’s never had to explain their history to Nicky with Nicky already having a head start.

“Fine. Copley better be making croque monsieurs.”

“I am!”

Booker laughs and claps him on the back and Joe nods, resolute to fix this, so he doesn’t lose Nicky this lifetime.

~~~

Joe shows up at Cup of Joe right as it’s opening, a small bushel of lavender, Nicolò’s favorite, in his right hand, and his poetry book in his left.

Nile takes one look at him when he gets to the counter and scowls.

Joe takes a step back and holds his hands up. Nile notices the lavender and softens immediately.

“Is that for Nicky?”

“Yeah.” Joe swallows. “How is he?”

“He’s...been better.”

Joe nods and looks to the side, wondering just how much Nicky disclosed to his friends. They’ve had mortal friends throughout the years, if only because Nicky was mortal as well. A few they’d let in on their secrets but not in a long time.

Nile sighs loudly and he turns his attention back to her.

“Look. I don’t know what happened between you two, but he was pretty shaken up yesterday.”

“I didn’t…” At Nile’s scowl, Joe amends his statement. “It was a misunderstanding. I have no intention of hurting him again.”

Nile takes a moment, sizes him up, and must come to some conclusion that he’s telling the truth because she nods and hands him a brown paper bag and a to go cup.

“What’s this?”

“His favorites.”

Joe smells the bag and smiles. “Vanilla latte and blueberry scone.”

Nile smiles at him and Joe’s thankful she doesn’t ask how he knows that.

“He lives upstairs. That.” She nods to the bag. “Will let him know I sent you.”

“Thank you, Nile.”

“Don’t make me regret this!” Nile shouts after him as he goes to leave.

“I won’t!”

Joe finds the stairs leading to the second floor and smiles at the hanging plants and welcome mat that says ciao at the front door.

Nicky opens the door before Joe even knocks, almost like he was expecting Joe to stop by.

Joe smiles and holds up his offerings. “Hi. I think we should talk?”

Nicky holds the door open further so Joe can walk inside and as he takes a look around he smiles warmly at the apartment that is so very Nicky.

“Nile gave me these.” Joe hands over the coffee and scone. “And I brought you these.”

Nicky takes the lavender and brings it to his nose to smell. He smiles a little, even though it’s sad.

“I guess I don’t have to tell you they’re my favorite, do I?”

“I’d love to learn everything about you.” Joe blurts out instead of the answer Nicky really wants.

Nicky takes that for what it is as he puts the lavender in a vase and then opens the brown paper bag and moans when he sees the scone.

Joe chuckles. “You like your own baking that much?”

Nicky looks at him oddly and then shakes his head as he takes a bite. “I don’t make these, Frankie does.”

Joe pauses and then smiles as he remembers that he always made Nicolò scones, an old family recipe that puts…

“Brown sugar in the batter.” Nicky finishes and Joe realizes that he said the last part out loud.

Joe smiles, sheepish, and holds up the book instead.

“I wanted you to have this.”

“Why?”

“Well, frankly, it’s yours.”

Nicky nods and hands Joe a glass of water and Joe is grateful for something to do with his hands as he waits for Nicky to answer.

Joe hands it to Nicky who runs his hands over the cover like it’s something special and precious.

“This was the only one I couldn’t find. The others, they’re not a true collection, different authors.” Nicky grins. “But I knew they were all by the same person.”

“Did you?”

“Know it was you before the other day?”

Joe nods, wondering if Nicky’s been remembering his past lives his entire life.

“No. And before you ask I didn’t start...uhh, the, uhh, un riccardo, how do you say in English?”

“Memory.”

“Right, the memories didn’t start until we met the other day.”

“When we touched?” Joe remembers the jolt he felt, unfamiliar and familiar at the same time.

“Sì.”

“I’ve had these feelings my whole life, inklings, I think. Like with the books, the scones, things like that, but never actual memories before.”

Joe looks around the apartment and notices the tapestries and rugs that match the ones they have in their home in Malta. The artwork on the walls, reproductions of both Booker’s and Joe’s art. The same nine books of Joe’s that he has in the coffee shop. Little pieces of their lives together and Nicky had no idea.

“It’s all familiar to you?” Nicky asks him quietly and Joe nods.

“Will you tell me about it?”

“About what?”

“Our life...lives.”

Joe looks shocked for a moment. “I thought you?”

“I want to hear it from you, if you’re willing?”

“Yes. Yes of course.” Joe smiles, pleased that Nicky’s willing to hear him out. “Where do you want me to start?”

“The beginning.”

“It’s quite a long story. I’ve been alive a long time.”

“I’d like to hear it. I need to...make sense of everything.” Nicky points to his head and Joe smiles.

“Alright. I’m pretty sure you killed me during the Crusades.”

Nicky laughs and Joe can’t help it, he laughs too. A thought occurs to Joe and he gasps.

“Is that why you were so cold to me when we first met?”

Nicky’s cheeks turn a bright pink as he ducks his head and Joe warms at the sight.

“I didn’t know what was happening. I was confused. Seeing things that couldn’t have been real, in languages I didn’t know I knew.” Nicky shrugs.

“You know I don’t blame you, right? We’ve long since worked it out.”

Nicky gasps and Joe’s glad that he can read this version of Nicky.

“The love of my life was of the people I’ve been taught to hate.” Nicky recites and then shakes his head and Joe steps closer, raises his hand to telegraph his movements.

Nicky nods and Joe squeezes his hand, gasps as the buzzing returns but then settles.

“I love you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“You’re right, I don’t know this version of you, but I know your heart. I know the pain you still feel about what happened, but I’m telling you, the Nicolò I love has grown to realize the mistakes he made when he marched on Jerusalem.”

Nicky squeezes his hand before he steps back and Joe lets him go, stepping back a little himself.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you about our lives together, and you tell me about you.”

“You want to know about me?”

“I want to know everything.”

Nicky smiles and turns to put on a kettle. Joe warms at the thought that Nicky still loves tea even though he owns a coffee shop.

“Chamomile? I think we’ll be up a while.”

Joe nods and takes a sip of the tea when it’s done, smiling when he realizes it’s just the way he likes it.

Joe walks over the couch and settles with a blanket as he gestures for Nicky to join him. Nicky chuckles softly and goes to sit down.

Joe immediately shares the blanket as they settle in.

“I think I’d rather hear about you first, especially if you remember a lot of our lives.”

“I’m not that interesting.”

“Nicolò.” Joe waits until Nicky looks at him. “You are the most interesting person to me, always.”

Nicky blushes again and Joe’s enamored. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, he can’t wait to learn everything about this Nicky.

~~~

When he leaves Nicky’s apartment the next morning, he’s smiling from ear to ear, with a spring in his step, even though he didn’t sleep.

They spent the rest of the day and all night talking, trading story after story. He knows they didn’t learn everything but he feels closer to Nicky than he ever has before, not realizing he was missing a partner that just knew things about him.

He also managed to get Nicky’s number and plans for an actual date tomorrow night, since all they ended up eating was leftovers.

He’s giddy with the thought of dating Nicky. Of learning about all of the little things that make this Nicky decidedly his own.

Joe doesn’t know how he does it but he makes it through all of his lectures and office hours. He even makes it through dinner with the family, overjoyed to tell them about his night and plans for the next day.

He wakes up happier than ever, eager for the day to end so he can take Nicky out on their date.

“I’ve never seen you like this.” Booker comments as they make their way to Cup of Joe the next morning.

“It’s all so new, we’ve never dated like this before.”

“You’ve dated.”

“But not like this. Not where he knows.” Joe knows he’s practically bouncing as they walk down the street, smiling from ear to ear.

Booker chuckles and he shoves his brother lightly when he sees Nicky, Nile, and Frankie setting up their patio outside the coffee shop.

Joe also knows he has a besotted look on his face because Booker gags and then groans.

“Oh god, it’s like that already?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Joe says innocently and Booker smiles.

“It’s good to see you like this, brother.”

Joe smiles warmly at Booker before he looks back at the trio outside the coffee shop. They’re just crossing the street and he calls out for Nicky.

“Nicolò!”

But just as Nicky turns to smile at him, a car comes barreling down the road, completely out of control, and Joe can only watch in horror as the car hits the curb right in front of the coffee shop, flipping and careening right into the patio in a sickening crunch.

“Nicolò!” Joe screams as others nearby scream and he and Booker run towards the wreckage.

“Nicolò!” Joe slides to where Nicky was standing and sees him lying lifeless on the patio. He briefly touches Nicky’s forehead and looks around and sees Nile and Frankie lying at unnatural angles.

Nicky’s body is shielding them like he tried to push them out of the way.

“Nicolò.” Joe croaks as Booker tries to pull him away.

“No. No!”

“Joe. We have to call for help.”

“I can’t leave him!”

“Joe. He’s gone.”

“No! No!” Joe sobs as he cradles Nicky’s head. “No.”

“Yusuf.”

“No.” Joe knows he’s not breathing right, the hiccuping sobs making it harder to think.

“Nicolò, destati.” Joe sobs as he brushes Nicky’s shoulder softly.

“Destati.”

#the old guard #joe x nicky #reincarnation au #mentions of car accident #canon temporary character death

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awesomerextyphoon · 4 years

Text

Charred Briar Roses - 3

Curse’s Broken, Now What?

Summary: The title speaks for itself.

Parings: Orc!Bucky x Black!Reader, Orc!Steve x Black!OFC, Orc!Sam x Black!OFC

Word Count: 4,136

Warnings: Implied Smut and Some Violence

A/N: This was longer than I anticipated. Also, the princesses would be a US size 14/15. I totally forgot to mention that earlier. Sorry about that. Enjoy!

Back to Masterlist

Instead of spending 600 years in total darkness, you communicated with your sisters in a pretty well constructed dream version of the palace. You thought of new inventions and fighting moves, reconciled with Ghada about your fight the day of the curse, and kept analyzing what happened in the north west tower.

If felt like you were in the dream world for about a month.

You were talking with your sisters about trivial childhood memories when all of you felt arms around your bodies. Your surroundings started to fade and so did your sisters.

You felt chapped yet soft lips kiss your neck and lips. It was surprisingly nice, like a dream.

You opened your eyes and realized three things: Someone was actually kissing you, you weren’t in the tower, and the person kissing you wasn’t the prince that your mother had all but assured you but an admittedly hot (albeit ruggedly, your core notes) orc-human hybrid.

You and your sisters screamed.

You immediately try to push him away but he wouldn’t budge. That scared you because both you and your sisters could bench about five tons thanks to Doireann, the war fairy who blessed and trained you in combat since the age of three.

You punched him with a right jab once he broke for air. Couldn’t even get him off the bed.

He chuckled and rubbed his strong jaw and said what seemed to be a compliment in Orcish as you nursed your knuckles.

“I said that you’re quite feisty for a human princess.” He repeated in Common Tongue.

You saw that your sisters had similar reactions to their kissers. Fumnanya even threw a shoe at the one that would be later called Sam. The others got a laugh out of it.

After everyone settled down, we shared our names while you were trying not jump Bucky, the warrior who kissed you.

“So, I was wondering, do you know what year it is?” Fumnanya inquired in a mousy tone that she uses with strangers.

Steve was it, yeah Steve rubbed the back of his head, “How to put this. You’ve been asleep for 600 years. Just about everyone thinks you’re a myth. Hell, we wouldn’t have believed it if we weren’t right in front of you.”

He then provided updates on what happed after your birthdays, but you were only half listening. Your dumb fight with Ghada and your damn curiosity cost you and your sisters your friends, family, and life.

You wanted to cry, but Ghada motioned you to join her and Fumnanya in a huddle. You spoke in Nephrashim as to not alert the warriors.

The three of you knew that Sophronius was up to no good and it was odd that he was still alive since the average lifespan was 300 years due to the Nephrashim Crystal.

“We need to convince them to take us outside of the city since I’m guessing the spell Etna put on us to keep Y/N from skipping class is still in place.”

You rolled your eyes at Ghada snide comment.

“We take what need in whatever storage device Y/N has in her ‘secret workshop’!” Fumnanya chimed in.

“Hey-“

“We all knew where it is, sis. You’re not fooling anyone.” Ghada deadpanned while you huffed in frustration.

With that, the three of you rejoined the group and offered to show them around after you changed your clothes.

–––––––––––––––––––––

The warrior trio was waiting outside the room for 20 minutes when you and sisters finally emerged from behind the doors. The three of you wore much more comfortable clothing than the extravagant kaftans you wore in your sleep. The clothes also showcased more of your curves and sleek muscles they noted.

“What would you like to do first?” You asked. No sooner had you finished the question that the warrior trio’s stomachs growled like a lion’s roar.

Ghada giggled and together, you led the trio to the main banquet hall.

You and your sisters had a hunch that the food from your 18th birthday celebration was still good. Your hunch was right.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––

The hall was filled with food for 900 people. The tables were packed with: huge slabs of Gararagator Steak, roast beef and pork, fried chicken, smoked turkey, grilled and baked fish in sweet brown sauces, curries, pastas, thick stews, enticing side dishes, rich pastries/desserts, and caskets of mead and wine.

The warriors were drooling at the sight and aromas of the feast. So, when Ghada casually said to dig in, they devoured ALL of the food in record time.

You and your sisters managed to get some of the food before it was gone. None of you would admit it, but the three of you were turned on by the ferocity at which they ate and drank.

Once they finished the food and drink, the warrior trio leaned back in their chairs and sighed while they rubbed and patted their bellies followed by a couple of loud, brassy burps and belches.

Fumnanya asked them some trivial questions about life since the curse was activated which they answered in kind, but they got tense when she asked about their mothers.

Ghada, ever the politician, quickly changed the subject by asking if they would like a bath and one of the guest rooms to sleep in for the night.

Bucky was about to respond when you suddenly challenged him to a duel.

A couple of things happened: Fumnanya put her head in her hands, Ghada groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose, Sam and Steve burst into laughter, and Bucky accepted with a chuckle.

You led the group to the sparring grounds on the western end of the palace grounds.

Ghada set the ground rules: each combatant may choose a weapon from the low-level, non-lethal weapons closet and the fight could last no longer than 30 minutes.

You both chose Bo Staffs and bowed to start the spar. It took a few minutes of sizing each other up before making the first move. The duel consisted a flurry of punches, kicks, precision strikes with your Bo Staffs, and near hits/misses.

It ended when Bucky spotted a weakness in your left mid-section and landed a hit right above left hip causing you to fall. He then pinned you down before you could grab your weapon with his face two inches above yours.

The two of you were so engrossed in your own little world that Steve had to clear his throat a few times to get your attention.

–––––––––––––––––––

Sensing the, ahem, tension in the area, Ghada suggested that you all finally head over to the baths.

Except for you and Bucky, you took him to your ‘secret workshop’. Something about the way he examined some of the weapons fascinated you and you wanted to explore that.

Bucky was quite dazzled by your variety of inventions like your solar battery, your new hover bike engine, and your 5th attempt at your waning swan (a cross between a scythe and a machine gun). He was examining a pair of your laser blasting gauntlets when you asked if he’d seen some of them before.

“Is there something you like?” you asked while he picked up an old prototype for a flash grenade.

Bucky chuckled, “It’s just that I’ve never seen so many inventions in one place before. When I was an orcling, there was these traveling ‘magician’ who performed feats of wonder for the kids in the village near our settlement. In reality, he was a con artist, but we didn’t care. He would always make our lives seem a little bit brighter. One day, the three of us went behind his tent and found all these contraptions in boxes or on the ground. Tuns out, they were relics of the long gone Nephrashim people. Well, maybe not so long gone now.”

He chuckled to himself again almost bitterly. “I was always entranced by what he would show us and, when he finally fessed up to using relics instead of magic, the contraptions he would use to perform such acts. Sometimes I would wonder what it would’ve been like to live a different life; one where I could’ve been a tinkerer instead of a warrior. Don’t get me wrong, I like being one. It’s just that-”

“You wished you had more options.” You finished noticing how delicately he was holding one of your mithril tools. He held it in a deftness that most of the artisans you’ve met couldn’t match.

His confession of sorts gave you pause.

You always hated how almost everyone gave your sisters praise for their interests and demeanor while you were usually belittled when your parents and Fae tutors weren’t around. They always complained about you not being as sociable as Ghada or as ‘sweet’ (quiet, but not really) as Fumnanya. You were always seen as causing trouble, but you just saw the world differently.

Some days you actually hated being a princess and wished you had a different lot in life.

Maybe this warrior understood you.

Taking another look at him, you realize that underneath this ruggedly delicious beef cake was someone who might’ve been something else altogether. Sure, he seemed proud of his accomplishments when you both were in the dining hall, but part of you wondered what could’ve been his path if he had someone who would’ve taken the time and maybe given him an apprenticeship or something.

You bit your lower lip as you mustered up the strength to ask, “I was wondering, I think I have something I was working on before the curse was cast. Would you like to help with it? I mean, you don’t have to-”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

The two of you spent the next two hours working on a few prototypes. Bucky asked you questions about engineering and mechanics especially and you were more than happy to answer. It was nice to have someone outside your sisters, parents, and Fae tutors actually give a crap about what you liked. Neither you nor Bucky realized the distance shrinking in between the two of you until all you could think about was how inviting his lips and neck looked.

Unfortunately, your slowly intimate moment was dashed when Ghada interrupted them via communication mirror telling them to take a bath and go to bed already.

With an annoyed tsk, you took off your work apron, your goggles, and your gloves and motioned Bucky to do the same.

You led him to the baths, a wide yet indoor place with vast pools, man-made hot springs, and an indoor waterfall.

Looking at Bucky your feelings of embarrassment and shame arose once again. Did your ancestors really had to be this obnoxious in flaunting their wealth?

You offered to assist Bucky in washing his hair, but really you wanted to run your hands over his exposed skin.

With his nod of acceptance, you took him to changing rooms and you changed into a Soft Wrap Halter Bikini Top and Rene Fold Bikini Bottom in pale gold, the one that caused a prominent lord to walk into a compost cart due to how well it showcased your curves. Hopefully, it would work on Bucky.

You felt bad using your looks to get Bucky to make a move, but you were so sure that it would be a disaster if you moved first.

The slight shame you felt with your bathing suit quickly faded when you saw Bucky emerge from his changing room.

You cursed yourself because he was only in a loincloth, and DAMN he looked fine! Part of his long hair was pulled back in a high man bun, his shin was a beautiful smooth muted yellow-green with aqua undertones, he was powerfully built with massive shoulders (you thought the lightweight armor did most of the heavy lifting), chiseled pecs, abs, and thighs that you could’ve sworn the finest of Fae craftsmen had a hand in creating all wrapped in someone that actually engaged you both intellectually and emotionally.

You know your mother said that you and your sisters would most likely married princes, but you were glad that she wasn’t here to see you shamelessly lust over an orc. You still missed her, but both she and half of your tutors would have a conniption if they saw what you were doing right now.

It would seem that Bucky was sizing you up as well judging by the way his eyes were beginning to blow out with lust.

He must have pushed his naughty thoughts aside. “Are you still gonna wash my hair?” he queried with a smirk that showed off his tusks. They would’ve been intimidating, but now they look endearing and sexy.

You let out an uncharacteristic giggle and told him to wait right there while you went to the closet where the servants kept the washing items and got him silver spruce, lemongrass, rosemary, and orange scented shampoos and oils.

You returned to find Bucky trying and failing to put a towel tower that one of maids used to construct. Stifling a laugh, you took his hand and guided him to one of the hot springs.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Bucky groaned upon sinking into the refreshing warm spring, glad to not have to was in a stream or river for a change (the tubs back home were nice, but they’re nothing compared to this). The water eased his tense muscles and joints in all the right places. Plus it didn’t hurt that the spring was deep enough for him to completely submerge himself which, at 8’ 3”, is no easy feat.

The engineering princess was getting ready to wash his hair like she offered and Bucky couldn’t wait. She had to know what she was doing to him. Lesser men would’ve jumped her on sight, but not him. His stepmother and sisters made sure of that.

She poured some of the argan and peppermint shampoos into a bowl and grabbed a towel to rest her shins.

“Lay your head on top of this bowl while I wash your head. Okay?”

Bucky did as directed and she started to work her magic on him. She started slow, working front to back, appreciating the way she gently massaged his scalp. At times he would let out low groans of pleasure at her ministrations, craving more from her.

Once she was done with the shampoo, she carefully lifted his head, emptied and refilled the water basin, and steadily poured the warm water over his head while trying not to get water up his nose.

Bucky turned around to see her beaming at her work. He smiled coyly at her pride, “Aren’t you coming?”, while motioning his right hand in a ‘come hither’ gesture.

She shook her head while biting her lower lip, probably not wanting to hair wet or some other prissy princess thing that was engrained into her.

Bucky decided to help ‘break’ her of that mindset by quickly grabbing her arm and gently tossed her into the spring in front of him. She jumped out of the water with a gasp and playfully punched his left shoulder.

“What was that for?!”

“You were too prideful and uptight!” Bucky chortled while she looked away failing to hide her embarrassment. He stopped laughing when he saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes.

He then reached out and softly lifted her head with his fore and middle fingers. She looked a bit anxious when he closed the distance between them.

“May I?” he pleaded, desperate for her to say yes.

“Please,” she whispered.

That was all Bucky needed to hear.

He started slow as to make up for this afternoon, but he almost lost it when she grasped his hair and licked his canines/tusks. He growled as her petite tongue entered his near monstrous mouth, her light moans and whimpers goading something that Bucky thought he would never feel: love, lust, and passion.

Ever since he and his best friends achieved their goal, Bucky felt like he was missing something. None of the women in their community really excited him or really engaged him beyond his physical needs. Sure, there were plenty orc, human, and even elf females who would warm his bed, but none of them cared to stay and listen…except for you, the woman who was now struggling to take off her bikini top after talking machines and engineering with him without getting annoyed by his antics.

You were so eager — and so was he — but he didn’t want to have sex and then have you disappear on him like the others, not when he was finally making a connection. No, he would make this last a little longer, even if this meant disappointing you.

“We should go sleep.” He mumbled as his hand halted your efforts.

——————

With a heavy sigh, you relented, got dressed, and waited for him to get his things. Your eyes were downcast as you escorted him to the chambers he would be sharing with his kin.

Bucky tried to give you a goodnight kiss, but you rebuffed him with a curt “good night” and returned to you and your sister’s shared room.

You were greeted to Fumnanya gushing about Sam and his interest in the library. Part of you was happy for her. Fumnanya rarely got out of her shell and getting with a guy that was even remotely interested in books as much as she was exceedingly rare.

You wanted to say that you were excited for her, you really did, but you were still a little sullen and bitter about what happed with Bucky at the baths.

“So, you and Bucky sure took your time.” Ghada remarked as you were putting on your night clothes (a short tunic and mid-calf pants).

“You’re one to talk! Sam and I caught you and Steve making out in the changing rooms at the baths!” Fumnanya snapped. Great, even Ghada was getting more in the romance department than you were.

You gave Fumnanya a grateful smile while you settled into bed hoping that tomorrow would bring better fortunes.

——————-

You awoke with a slight start and a knock at the door. Grabbing your robe, you raced towards the door thinking it was Bucky only to find a letter floating in a glowing rosy pink sphere. As soon as you reached out to touch the sphere, it disappeared leaving the letter to slowly descend into your hands.

By this time, your sisters joined you in reading the letter. It was written by one of your favorite tutors, Aoife.

It read:

Dearest children,

If you are reading this, then this means that I am either dead or completely unable to reach you. I hope you weren’t asleep for too long, but something tells me you have. For that, I am sorry.

I wish I could be there to hug you and your matches, but I’m guessing you know of your uncle by now. He has been after you for years now. My wards were successful in keeping him at bay, but now, I’m afraid you’re on your own.

The mist surrounding the capital will fade in three days time. By then, you will need to go into hiding in order to not fall into Sophronius’ clutches.

Have faith, be brave, trust in yourselves, and be kind my dears. Also, trust in your matches, okay?

Warm Regards,

Aoife

Aoife was one of the few people who actually liked all three of you the way you were. Finding out that she could be dead was the straw that broke the camel’s back for the three of you.

When the orc hybrid trio found you, you were huddled on Ghada’s bed with the letter on the floor in front of you.

Steve gently coaxed the three of you out of your beds with the suggestion of showing them around the capital. It didn’t get you or your sisters completely happy, but it was a start.

The tour consisted of you and Ghada butting heads over where to take the guys (the theatre district is NOT better than the artisan market), Fumnanya pointing out prominent buildings and statues.

You could’ve sworn that the guys sneered at one of the monuments to one of your ancestors, but you let it slide.

But then, Bucky made an offhand comment about what was must have went into making this place and the sacrifices that was probably made.

You have thought about what must’ve went into making the capital, but never in a negative light. No one in the capital or in the surrounding cities, towns or villages were poor on dire straits. You made sure to get the truth through your little excursions out of the palace before Etna cast that infernal spell on you.

The thought was pushed aside when you and your sisters returned to your room that night. You needed to think of a plan and quickly because Aoife’s spell was going to fade in two days and Sophronius was hot on your tails.

“Perhaps the guys would let us stay with their community for a while.” Ghada put forth as you were getting ready for bed.

“That’s a possibility, but what do we have to offer? I doubt that a semi-nomadic community of mostly orcs would take on three enhanced human princesses for free” Ghada countered as she put on her nightgown.

“Are you serious?!” you exclaimed. “We have tons to offer! Look, Fumnanya is a great medic, you’re awesome diplomat and negotiator, and I’m good with machinery. Plus we can cook and take care of ourselves, so I doubt we would be a huge burden.”

“Also, we can give them some of the treasure that’s laying around the palace for them to use.” Fumnanya chirped.

“Exactly. We’ve got this!” You declared not realizing that the guys were having a similar conversation.

——————

“So, what should we do about the girls? I mean, they’re great and all, but can we bring them back with us?” Sam inquired as stripped down to his loincloth.

“I don’t see why not. They’ve actually got skills the group could use, unlike a lot of the females that first become part of our tribe.” Steve stated as he gnawed on the turkey leg from dinner.

“Maybe we could bring the tribe here! The city is completely deserted except for the girls and they certainly won’t mind us living here.” Sam offered.

“I don’t think that would be the wisest course of action. Like the girls said, the spell that keeps the mist in place will fade in two days. It won’t be long before Sophronius’ horde will crawling all over the place.” Bucky voiced thinking about last night’s interaction.

“Alright, we’ll see what the girls think tomorrow and go from there.” Steve concluded and the three went to sleep.

———————

Both parties began packing for their journey the next day once the guys agreed to take the three of you back with them.

You gave everyone three travel sized storage units. Ghada packed all of her notes on trade, language books, and art supplies. Fumnanya packed all of the medical supplies she could fit into her storage unit, her language, history, science, and geography books. You packed most of your tools, a couple of your inventions (including waning swan), and any materials you might need.

All three of you made sure to pack clothes, cooking supplies (especially spices since the guys were surprised at the variety), personal hygiene supplies, and some of the treasure/objects that would most likely fetch a good price without leading anyone back to them.

The time to leave came soon enough.

“You three ready?” Sam asked as you were making the final adjustments to your traveling clothes.

“As ready as we’ll ever be.” Fumnanya replied as she gave Sam a hug. It surprised you how quickly she warmed up to him.

“Perhaps you should give Bucky another chance.” Ghada advised.

Maybe, but not now.

You made your way to the courtyard taking in everything. The dire wolves nuzzled your cheeks as you made your way to mount them.

Steve gave both Sam and Bucky a nod and you began your journey out of the only home you three knew.

Perhaps this new chapter will be a good one.

—————

If you had looked up at the third tree closest to the thorn bushes, you would’ve seen a solitary raven, a raven with four red eyes. The raven was a scout for Sophronius and it was recording you.

Video of your departure was being transmitted to a crystal ball in the throne room of Sophronius’ main headquarters.

“It seems the bitch Aoife was able to keep them young after all.” Sophronius remarked, taking in the princesses’ features.

“Alert the princes. We have work to do.”

Taglist:

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teacherunicorn · 4 years

Text

Delores Theadosia Hargreeves

Chapter Fifteen

Italics = memories

@tomisbaeholland

A/N: I am aware of Elliot Page coming out as transgender and am fully supportive of it. With the future of his character still in the wind however, I will be using she/her pronouns for Vanya for my writings at least for the time being. If rumors are true and the character will be transitioning as well, I will wrap it into my story accordingly. For now, I'm just following the plot of season one.

Diego was one of two Hargreeves children left in the city, and was the first to arrive back at the manor. The place had always been too big for comfort, but it still seemed strange seeing it so empty.

Not for the first time, he wondered what Delores' life here had been like before they'd come into it.

Traditionally, boxing was a more serious sport. The kind that attracted harsher people, under the counter bets and the like. Then again, Delores Theadoisa Hargreeves had never been traditional.

She stood just outside the fighting ring jumping up and down, and waving a handmade sign over her head. "Go Diego! Boo everyone else!"

Diego's opponent of the night; a burly man with full sleeve tattoos, looked between him and the tiny blonde.

"Your girl's got a lotta faith in ya."

Diego smiled but didn't drop his guard. "Wouldn't wanna disappoint." he said before throwing a heavy right hook into the man's jaw.

“Diego my boy.” Pogo’s voice broke him from his memories. “Good to see you.”

“Hey Pogo.” Diego smiled and hugged the chimp. “Anyone else turn up yet?”

“You are the first, but I expect your siblings shall be along shortly.”

“Delores?”

“The news got to her rather late, but she assured me she’d be on the first available plane.” Pogo informed. “Till then, she’s tasked me with keeping the rest of you in line.”

Number Two laughed. “Yeah, good luck.”

******

Next to arrive was Alison. Getting the news about Reginald’s death via paparazzi hadn’t been pretty, and frankly if it hadn’t gone down that way she probably wouldn’t have come. She had enough of her plate as it was.

“Onward to desert!” Delores ran across the large backyard, a then one year old Claire ridding piggyback. Patrick, who had been manning the grill for the barbecue, laughed and held the package of oreos over their heads. He was taller than Delores, so even with Claire on her back they couldn’t reach them.

Things had been a lot simpler when ‘Gammy Lori’ could be called any hour of the day. Having raised seven kids, Delores was much more capable of dealing with Claire than Alison was. It was hard sometimes not to take advantage of that.

It was even harder to stand by the lessons Delores had taught her and not take the easy way out.

“I want Gammy Lori!” a three year old Claire whined.

“Gammy Lori is working sweetie. She’s in Pennsylvania.”

“Where’s that?”

“A really long way away.”

“Can we go get her?”

“No, we can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s busy.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s very smart and works with smart people.”

“Why?”

“I heard a rumor that you stopped whining.”

******

Klaus tumbled in through one of the back doors and was immediately skimming the place for valuables.

"Really?" Ben's spirit said over his shoulder. "Didn't you tell Dede you'd keep at least a two month period between troubles with the law?"

"Hey, it's not like the old man is around to report anything stolen anymore. "God knows DT isn't gonna miss any of it; she hates this gaudy shit."

Every remaining member of the Umbrella Academy had a key to Delores' condo in the city. As such, it wasn't uncommon for her to come home to find one of them on her couch.

It was usually Klaus.

Number Four groaned as he blinked back to consciousness. His blurry vision focused in on the figure sitting on the coffee table. "Oh, hey DT. How long have you been here?"

"Couple hours. I came to check if you were alive again. You've been kinda in and out." While she didn't approve of Klaus' drug habits, Delores was the only one -- apart from Ben -- who understood why he had them.

"I didn't say anything stupid, did I?"

"You don't need drugs for that, Klausy."

"She's right, you know." Ben chimed from where he leaned against the couch's armrest.

Klaus threw a glare at the spirit over his shoulder before turning back to his caretaker. "Sorry, shady asshole must've mixed something in with the product. It's usually not that heavy...."

"Haven't I told you stay away from those types?"

"Com'on DT, I am one of those types!"

"Those are the rock bottom types that end up in a ditch somewhere." Delores flicked him in the head, making him wince as she rattled his hangover.

"Thank you!" Ben exclaimed.

"The type that don't have their big sister to push them into rehab. Speaking of, didn't you just get out of it like a week ago?" She continued, unaware that Number Six was even there.

"Maybe...." Klaus muttered. "But I'm not really the cold turkey type; you know that."

"There has to be something better." Delores sighed. "If you would stick around for more than a few days sleeping off a bender, you and I could figure it out! I've been riddling out your powers since you were born."

"No." Klaus said firmly. "Alright, I may be a deadbeat addict, but you are the one person who I refuse to mooch off of."

"Klausy --"

"Klaus --"

"Non!" He cut off both of them. "It took you way to long to get out from under dad's ass. You've finally got a life for yourself! Majority rules; you were out voted. No more mother henning!"

*******

Having the furthest to travel, it wasn't surprising that Luther arrived late to the mansion.

He had been the last of the Umbrella Academy, chasing the heroics dream Reginald kept feeding him. He and Delores had gotten into more than one argument regarding this, but she had always been there when he really needed her, wether she was angry with him or not.

Unfortunately, he had been out voted and she had left too.

Logically he knew it was good for her. She sounded so much happier on the phone than she had living here. The stubborn part of him that believed in the Academy's roles however knew her place was with them, even if they weren't kids anymore.

Delores hadn't been informed of his mission gone awry; his near death experience, what had brought him back, and the side effects of it. Reginald had done something or another to keep that out of the media, and Luther himself certainly wasn't looking to tell her.

The real kicker had been the moon mission. Reginald had sprung it on him so suddenly that he hadn't had the chance to call Delores beforehand.

He stood hunched in the doorway of her old room, eyes drifting over the relics she had left behind. Since Delores traveled so much, she hadn't taken everything with her when she first left. The majority of her things were now in her condo in the city, but there were still a few dusty pictures on the walls.

Moving forward caused his fingers to brush against the scritches on the doorway. Carved into the wood with one of Diego's knives were a series of dashes and dates marking the life of the Umbrella Academy.

Luther strained to stretch as straight as he could, resisting the urge to get on his tiptoes. He'd tried sneaking that past Delores and she'd smacked his head with the ruler.

The flat of a blade cut into the wood behind him and he immediately jumped forward to see her scratching the day's date next to it with a practiced hand.

"So?" He asked eagerly.

"Hmm." Delores held the ruler between an older mark and the mark she'd just made. "One and a half inches."

"Yes! I'm still the tallest!"

"Second tallest." Delores said, leaning her elbow atop his head.

"I told you to stop doing that!" He swatted at her, taking a step back to be out of reach.

"But you make such a good armrest!"

"Just you wait Dee; some day I'm gonna be even taller than you and you'll be the armrest!"

"Whatever you say squirt."

*******

Hesitant to come at all, Vanya was the last of the siblings to walk through the front door.

Ever quiet as a mouse, she stepped into the entry hall in near silence. Her sister was less so however.

"Vanya." Alison said in surprise as she came through the doorway of the living room. "You came."

"Hey Allison." Vanya smiled and accepted the hug offered to her.

Her flicker of confidence evaporated when Diego walked through the room and glared at her. "What's she doing here? You don't belong here, not after what you did."

"Diego now is not the time for fighting. And way to dress for the occasion by the way!" Alison called to his retreating back.

"At least I'm wearing black!"

"H-He's right, I shouldn't be here..." Vanya shook her head, wondering why she'd bothered. It wasn't like Delores would leave the country again without coming to see her -- she was the only family member who was still talking to her after all.

"No, hey." Alison cut her off. "I want you here."

The smile Vanya gave her sister was small and somewhat forced. The sentiment was kind, but patronizing. Everyone had been mad at her after her book had been published; even Delores.

Vanya unlocked her apartment door and jumped out of her skin at the sight of Delores sitting on her couch. She shouldn't be surprised at this point really, the older woman had mad it a habit since she'd been given a key.

"You should have locks on your windows." the caretaker commented idly.

"I live on the second floor."

"Rapist can climb."

"You are so weird." Vanya shook her head as she locked the door behind her.

"Oh now that's a simpleton word. You got much more creative as I recall. What was it? Apathetic, obtuse, and desperate to keep control?"

"M-my editor didn't like me making you a good guy when everyone else --"

"Oh will get to everyone else; you had no right to say what you did about them either. Airing out the dirty laundry for all to see....I'm really disappointed in you, Vanya."

*******

Vanya was the last of the Hargreeves siblings to walk through the front door, but certainly not the last to arrive.

After a very tense conversation about their father's death -- Luther was convinced it was murder, and while he didn't accuse anyone outright it was clear he didn't put it past them.

Everyone had split off to different areas of the house, and Luther thumbed through the records on the shelf in his room. The group really didn't do well as a group without Delores, but maybe he could at least minimize the hostility while they waited for her.

Finding the one he was looking for, he set it onto the player and turned the volume up as high as it would go. Soon enough, Delores' favorite song was echoing through the manor halls.

I think we're alone now

There doesn't seem to be anyone around

I think we're alone now

Alone now

The beating of our hearts is the onl-

The music was cut off rather abruptly as the walls and floor began to shake. Everything metallic went flying, and a large wave of something was glowing a familiar blue color in the backyard.

#tua #tua imagine #tua fanfic #umbrella academy imagines #umbrella acedmy #ben hargreeves #deigo hargreeves #vanya hargreeves #allison hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #number five imagine #five hargreeves

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hutchhitched · 4 years

Text

Social Commentary in The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, Part III

Part 3. Yeah… There’s a whole lot going on in the last third of the book, and I may have had to put it down a few times because I got really excited about how she wove the new book with the original trilogy. I know some people thought Part 3 was over the top, but I found it purposeful and deliberately on the nose, and I think that’s why it works. If you want to see my thoughts on the rest of the book, here are the links to Part 1 and Part 2.

Major spoilers below:

Tagging some who asked me to and/or are interested: @the-tesseract-wrinkling-time, @shesasurvivor, @everlarkedalways, @xerxia31, @infinitegraces, @panemposts, and @endlessnightlock. Some others are tagged throughout.

Before we move on to Part 3, I have to backtrack to something from Part 2 I forgot to include in the previous meta (I blame being up till 7 am and only getting four hours of sleep for that). In Chapter 18, Reaper stabs and rips the Panem flag and then uses it to cover the fallen tributes. The reaction of the mentors is shock and horror that the flag has been treated in such a manner. There’s a lot to unpack here. First, desecration of the flag in the US (and I’d guess most other countries, too) is almost always guaranteed to get a reaction. There have been attempts to pass a constitutional amendment to make it a federal crime to burn the flag. Others argue burning the flag is something protected as freedom of speech. Yet, official guidelines for how to treat the flag are broken all the time by letting it touch the ground, not lighting it, not taking it down during inclement weather, and turning it into a massive symbol of patriotism by holding it horizontally on a football field. I saw someone make reference to the outrage against NFL players kneeling during the national anthem as being disrespectful to the flag (even though that was a suggestion of a military veteran, as opposed to sitting during the anthem instead) rather than being outraged at the actions those players were protesting (police brutality against African American men). So, who is it that rips down the flag? Reaper, the tribute from District 11. Rue and Thresh were District 11, as were Chaff and Seeder. All were portrayed in the movies by African American actors. It’s fairly clear in the books that it’s a predominately black district. In other words, it’s likely Reaper is also a black man who tears down the flag of a country that oppresses him so he can provide cover and give dignity to the dead tributes. Now, think about it from a “rebel” perspective, and imagine that’s a Confederate flag that was ripped down. I know in the books that the Districts are the rebels and the Panem flag is more connected to the Capitol, but still. The debate over the (mostly successful) removal of the Confederate flag from former slave states has raged in the US in the past decade. Probably the most famous image of that debate is when a black woman climbed the flagpole at the South Carolina Statehouse and ripped down the flag. Remove the flag of the government that oppresses you, which is what Reaper does.

Something I find really interesting is the lack of technology in this book. Panem obviously has advanced technology, but it’s not nearly as present as it is in the trilogy. I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume that’s a result of the depressed economy, and by the time we get to the 74th Hunger Games, the economy in the Capitol has recovered and been used to develop new technologies and products that make life easier for citizens. That’s a post-World War II/1950s consumerism analogy if I’ve ever seen one. Post World War II affluence in the United States was a major factor in the development of new weapons and technology. Because American workers were making more and had savings and wages rose 100% between 1945 and 1968, Americans spent more, bought more, and paid more income tax. The solidification of capitalism as America’s economic system helped the US “win” the Cold War against the Soviets. Because Americans made more and were subsequently taxed more, the government had more money to develop new weapons and technologies. The first computer, the hydrogen bomb, vaccines for polio and smallpox, NASA, and the development of ICBMs all took place during this era. A strong economy typically makes people think the nation/government is strong. Not coincidentally, an early counterculture developed during the 1950s that protested against increased consumerism and senseless spending. The Beats/Beatniks/Beat Generation disliked that Americans spent so much money on frivolous things while others (African Americans, the rural poor, and so on) suffered. Sounds a lot like the Capitol citizens who spent lavishly and didn’t care about the districts. As a slight aside, Allen Ginsberg, one of the Beat Generation’s poets, wrote Howl, which calls out capitalism and repression. I wrote The Cry for @promptsinpanem’s prompt Howl in homage to that. Someday, I might actually expand it.

In Part 2, I wasn’t sure who had the power, and I really couldn’t figure out Highbottom. That’s mostly cleared up for me by the end of the book. I was intrigued by Pluribus Bell’s (many bells, I love it!) story about Highbottom and Snow’s father before Snow left for District 12. It was the seed that let me hope we’d get more information, and we did. Crassus Xanthos Snow is Snow’s father. Crassus was a member of the First Triumvirate (Julius Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus) and helped transition the Roman Republic to the Roman Empire (from pre to post Hunger Games). He also gained power and influence as a soldier during the slave uprising of Spartacus (became a hero during a rebel uprising). Also, Xanthos is a city in Turkey that’s been conquered repeatedly but always recovers (Snow lands on top!). Highbottom’s first name is Casca, who was one of Caesar’s best friends, but he ends up being the first person to stab Caesar during his assassination. The break in the relationship between the two men is clearly why Highbottom turns on (young) Snow, and the explanation about how the Hunger Games come to be is a pretty big allegory to the betrayal of Crassus (Caesar) by Casca. Also, that explains why Highbottom didn’t ever really seem to be supportive of the Games, even though he was credited as their creator. ( @everlvrks)

There are a lot of references to Roman names and places in this book and the trilogy. The Capitol seems pretty obsessed with the Classics and wants to reflect that type of lifestyle and elitism. During grad school, one of the books I had to read discussed the obsession America’s Founding Fathers (Washington, Hamilton, Jefferson, and so on) had with the Classics. They emulated Greek and Roman ideals. The District of Columbia (Washington, DC) is named after the Roman goddess of Liberty. Jefferson’s and Washington’s homes use classical architecture like domes and columns and many of the federal buildings (the Capital and White House) reflect that. Add on the Washington Monument (an obelisk—which are found all over in the ancient world) and the columns of the Lincoln Memorial and the dome and columns of the Jefferson Memorial, and well… The Founding Fathers were Deists who revered the Classics, which is why I (a religious historian) always laugh when people tell me the US was founded on religion. Yeah, and the Civil War wasn’t fought over slavery, either.

Before this book, I would never have thought about Snow having a history with District 12 or a stint as a peacekeeper. I even looked ahead to the title for Part 3 and still didn’t realize that was going to happen, but it makes sense. First, Snow seems to have known Katniss much better than can really be explained. Her hunting outside the fence and her escapes to the Lake were never really solitary because he knew the area. He’d been there before. He’d visited Lucy Gray in the Seam, been to the meadow, and so on. Some people may see that as too much, but it absolutely fits with the draconian oversight of the Capitol during Katniss’ time, and it indicates why Snow was so intrigued and obsessed with her. Second, Snow’s experience in the military would have worked wonders for his political career. He won the Hunger Games, served as peacekeeper, visited the districts, became the youngest person to qualify for officer training, and went to the university. That’s a stellar resumé for a budding politician. Clearly, he was exceptional. Terrible, but exceptional (which is said about super-villain Voldemort in Harry Potter, too).

I had to stop and put the book down and wiggle with glee when the tree appeared in the distance. I didn’t think we’d get the actual Hanging Tree in the book, but that might have been the most thrilling part for me. It wasn’t overt. She didn’t name it. She just set the scene, but I knew what it was. And then to have the hanging and the man yell out to his “love” and the mockingjays pick up his cry and for Snow to see a mockingjay and immediately hate it… Oh, good night, nurse. It’s just too much. That’s when I made this post. I’ll admit, I have a thing for lone, massive trees. My dad has one on his farm, and there’s a huge, very old Burr oak that’s a local tourist attraction close to where I went to college. I felt like I was driving down the road and seeing it rise from the distance, which I did way too many times during undergrad and grad school.

References to the Covey having traveled and planning to again travel north were clear indicators that District 13 was alive and well (sorry for the on the nose pun) even back then. It seems obvious to me that Snow kept that information in the back of his mind as he took power and anticipated an eventual attack from there. The fact that his family’s fortune was destroyed in District 13 makes it even more appropriate that the final rebellion came from there, too.

I didn’t like Lucy Gray in the first two parts of the book, and I’m still not completely taken with her. There’s just something about her I don’t quite trust, and I’m not convinced she was completely in love with Snow. Sejanus thinks she is, but I’m also not sure I trust him to be the most perceptive person either. I’ve discussed this briefly already with some others, but I’m still on the fence about her. I acknowledge that she doesn’t have the same power as Snow does, so it’s not possible by definition for her to play him, but I do think she’s manipulative. Peeta is, too, so that’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it does indicate she’s not exactly who she says she is. Lucy Gray’s job as a performer gives me even more pause because her living is made by putting on a show, by performing, by convincing an audience that what she’s doing is authentic. For lack of a better way to put it—If Lucy Gray is a performer, how would Snow ever know what’s real and what’s not real? Sound familiar? (This part’s for you, @lovely-tothe-bone.)

The songs:

Deep in the Meadow—It’s a lot disconcerting that Katniss’ lullaby to her sister is a song Snow’s heard before out of the mouth of the woman he once loved. Equally disturbing to know that he’s been in the meadow, and I really thought that the song was going to be about Lucy Gray and Snow together there. I’m glad it stayed a lullaby and not a love song. I think it’s fabulous that Katniss and Peeta reclaim the meadow for themselves as a place where their daughter dances. It’s a little bit (a lot) poetic.

The Hanging Tree—Well, now that we know where that story comes from, I like it even more. The only part of the book I didn’t really like was Snow thinking he had something figured out and then rethinking and then changing his mind and so on. There was a little bit too much of that as he tried to decipher song lyrics, and particularly with this song.

The public domain songs—I grew up singing these songs (although with some slightly different words), so they all brought a smile to my face. Probably my favorite rendition of Keep on the Sunny Side is from the movie Oh Brother! Where Art Thou? The entire soundtrack is very bluegrass, and good bluegrass is delightful. And it’s nice to know what the Valley Song really is.

Unnamed—Okay, so my favorite was the first one at the Hob (pp. 362-364). I’m no songwriter, but I could hear the tune, and it was very Lumineers (maybe crossed with the Dixie Chicks?). Upbeat and peppy and feel good, all the way. I also find it interesting that music and concerts are outlawed in District 12 once there’s a new base commander. An allegory on the tendency to cut art programs first? On the power of art as a motivation for action? Both?

Which brings us to the star-crossed lovers of District 12, or something. Obviously, this brings up images of Katniss and Peeta, but probably the most famous reference is in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet with the star-crossed lovers taking their lives. That’s often read as them being fated to die, which is something Snow seems to follow. He mentions his destiny and fate many times and doesn’t do a very good job of recognizing his choices. There’s one time during the Games when he resolves to do the right thing, but otherwise, no. Shakespeare does also say in Julius Caesar that the fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves (which John Greene used in his book title). Snow doesn’t want to take responsibility for what he does. He chooses to follow the rules instead of what is right. He’s legalistic instead of ethical. There’re a lot of philosophical and religious undertones to that, but I’ll let that float for a while.

On page 386, Lucy Gray tells Snow, “You’re mine and I’m yours. It’s written in the stars.” I’ll be honest, I almost dropped the book when I read that. In Catching Fire, Katniss says the same thing about Gale, but she doesn’t end up with him. They aren’t fated. She ends up with Peeta, who she chooses to love. I should have known from that point that Lucy Gray and Snow would not end up together, but I still wasn’t sure how that was going to happen. I really did think she was going to break up with him or betray him somehow because that was the only thing I could think of that would make him stop loving her and turn into what he becomes. A broken heart is a really good reason for revenge, but what actually happens so much worse. ( @mtk4fun and @norbertsmom )

Snow and Lucy Gray decide to run away together, just like Katniss and Gale were going to in the original trilogy. Lucy Gray is worried the mayor’s going to kill her, and Snow doesn’t want to live without her. Except he realizes really quickly that he doesn’t like life on the run. It’s beneath him. He deserves better. He’s entitled to and fated for more, he thinks. On top of that, he’s passed the officer’s training exam, and suddenly there’s a way out of the pit into which he’s fallen. And then he lies to Lucy Gray.

Lucy Gray’s said all along the most important thing to her is trust, and then he lies to her. He doesn’t tell her he had a hand in turning in Sejanus. He doesn’t tell her because he’s afraid of losing her, which is a selfish reason, not one to spare her feelings or to protect her. He lies to protect himself. By the time they get to the cabin at the lake, he’s decided he’s not going with her, and she’s realized he’s lied to her. And then the weapon he used to commit murder (for her or him?) is there. Snow snaps quickly after that. There’s a metaphor, I’m sure about him losing his hold on reality and self-control when he’s past the boundaries of civilization, but he falls really, really quickly. He goes from wanting to tell her he’s changed his mind to attempting to murder her. The only thing that really stops him is the snake bite, which is not fatal, but reminds me why I didn’t trust Lucy Gale. Was it deliberate? Did she leave him on purpose? Does she escape him, or does he manage to cut her down? Either way, he doesn’t choose love. Love, which is a selfless act, isn’t his end game. He chooses himself. He chooses being selfish and looking out for himself instead of others. He doesn’t like being vulnerable. He clinically plans to marry someone he doesn’t love, so he never feels exposed again. In short, he makes the opposite choice Katniss does, and that makes all the difference.

A few other things because this is way too long at this point:

Peacekeepers: Boot camp for peacekeepers was interesting and strongly resembles the process of the military stripping down differences and making each soldier part of a machine. Haircuts, uniforms, routines, and so on are all about stripping away his identity, and he hates every second of it. He’s too good for that, and there’s entitlement all over the place. That’s very different from the peacekeepers from the districts who join the military as a way out of poverty. I mean, Snow does, too, but only because he’s forced.

Betrayal: Recording Sejanus and Snow justifying it was hard to read. It was harder to read about the execution. And then to have the Plinths take Snow in after he returns to the Capitol is absolutely the worst. Despicable behavior.

Poisoning Highbottom: It doesn’t surprise me, and it’s exactly what the rumors in the original books were. Snow kills his rivals to ascend.

Snow’s role in the Games: The Hunger Games change dramatically between the 10th and the 74th. It’s clear Snow has a significant role in how and why that happens. The tributes aren’t caged and are housed in luxury. The cattle cars are replaced with a high-speed train with lots of food. The tributes get stylists and prep teams instead of being unwashed and dirty. In other words, the treatment of tributes becomes more humane, which becomes even more problematic. At least Lucy Gray knew she was being offered up as a sacrifice. No one lied to her about what she was. The implementation of these ways to fatten the lambs up for slaughter is horrific and cruel and very Snow.

Finally, the purpose of the Hunger Games changes for Snow by the time we get to the end of the book. They are no longer just a way to punish the districts. They’re a way to exert controlled warfare instead of a messy war between the Capitol and the districts. It’s still kids being forced to kill kids. The tributes are still kids in cages. They’re still “not from here.” The Capitol kids are to be protected, but the parents in the poor areas aren’t able to take care of their own. It’s all deliberate. Collins doesn’t pull punches about the treatment of migrant children in cages or the murder of schoolchildren. What she does is point out that we don’t really mean what we say about protecting children. We’re only outraged for our own, not for those who are different. Suzanne Collins doesn’t have time for white privilege, American elitism, tyrannical government, excessive capitalism, or excuses, and her book reads that way. I loved every word of it.

#tbosas #tbosas spoilers #balladspoilers #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #meta #hunger games meta #spoilers #book spoilers #really #long post

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l0chn3ss · 4 years

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l0chn3ss update

I feel like the last time I ever really active on tumblr was in the year 2016, so i want to address my absence between 2017-2020. Part of it is because I feel like I owe it to my friends and mutuals who I just basically left on read and another part is because I’ve always treated this blog as a personal blog that documents my life and my growth. I put off writing this for a long time but now that I have a huge paper due, now is definitely the time.

You are welcome to skip but I will address a few hard hitting questions I feel should be answered, especially since I feel like I departed like an anti-hero of a bad tv show.

Where I am currently: I am in grad school to obtain a master’s in library and information science. I have a full time job at different middle school libraries, though I work from home now. I also tutor kids on the side to pay for my tuition because I basically make minimum wage. Quarantine messed with my head at first, but now I’m feeling much better and I’m trying to reconnect with friends and close a lot of loose ends.

TLDR: I took an extended break because tumblr mobile sucks and my laptop needed serious repairs. I made a huge migration away from social media in 2018. I prioritized my education and in-person connections, which fell to shit because of my fandom involvement in the past. I did not like the direction of the main fandom I participated in and knew that many of the people I once respected did not respect me in return/ Us versus them mentality. I recognized that I treated my life on tumblr too seriously and took petty drama personally. I am sporadically on tumblr now because I genuinely enjoy the social connection and because I still like running fandom events.

Yes, you can reblog this. I’d love for this narrative to be heard.

Long version: To preface this, this post is being written to give myself closure and because I really am procrastinating on my final big paper of this semester. I’ll be tackling on the points in the tldr in a longer narrative that will appear to be in an expository fashion, which I recognize will be a source of contention, but my intentions are to throw it onto the table so that I can be freed. I can let it go and move on. I’m no longer a 20 years old who cared too much of what other people think and will think; I think differing perspectives are important and I want to give myself a chance to say my piece. That and I recognize that I lost the audience that I once had, so I doubt this will be an issue at all. It’s been 4 or what ever years, let’s just not.

Back in 2015-2016 there was a huge back and forth between three groups of people in the SE fandom. The reason why I’m not listing out the name is because I don’t want this to show up in the tags. I’d say that the three groups could be seen as quite literally the soma shippers (mostly white, demi sexual girls), lgbt centric bloggers (very kid or star oriented, very fed up with soma), and the people who were deemed as alright to soma shippers (c r ona, ste inm arie, jac k im centric people). There was a constant (and understandable) tension between the first two groups while the third was like the weird cousin that everyone in the social circles liked because they sprinkled in soma for the masses. Don’t argue with me on this-- this was literally how the fandom was in 2015 and you know it.

The main issue was that one group felt that they were being inclusive towards identities and sexualities while the other felt that they were not. I remember that one of the arguments was that soma WAS an LGBT ship because people headcanonned the members to be demisexual. However, the other side of the argument was that it wasn’t good representation of a gay pairing. Now that we can look back at this 5 years later, I have two things to say: 1, I now very much understand why the argument broke out because of how heated the topic is, and I do believe that I lean more towards the “other side” now that I’m not wearing rose tinted glasses, but 2, I need to make it clear that demi people are lgbt, but a headcanon is not fact and ship diversity was the main question at hand, not the ship itself. This argument lasted for weeks, destroyed my friendships, and no matter what I felt I did in the moment (which was to mend the fandom), it was taken as an insult.

(Side note: Somethings that I remember was being in someone’s DM’s to encourage them to participate in the large fandom events more, but once they twisted my intentions and rallied their friends, I became their enemy. I also became the mods’ enemy but then again, when was I not? I was made fun of for saying “queergender,” a term that is now currently being widely used, quite openly by someone I wanted desperately to be friends with. I was outwardly mocked by popular users who only apologized behind closed doors but didn’t bother to clear things up with their followers. Adults who were in their 30s quite literally attacked a 19 year old. It was in that moment that I realized I would never become friends with either side, and not because I didn’t want to.)

I bring this up because as I begun to stop writing soma fics, I also begun to see and understand why people moved away from it. It wasn’t the ship itself, it was the culture surrounding it. However, on tumblr we have the ability to connect intensely with the content we produce. Therefore, the ship itself began to be connected with the shippers and their attitudes towards outside pairings-- that attitude being tied into elitism.

I say this with every ounce of love I can because I once had the exact same mannerism. When you become so tied into one pairing to the point where other ships appear to threaten the existence of it and you react negatively towards it, you become rancid. The popular tag “everything is soma” takes a very dark turn. Even if readers consume another pairing’s work, they will be obliged to say “I ship soma more BUT that was cute.” They will read an entirely different topic and wonder why soma wasn’t inserted into it in the background. They will reject pairings that separate the two as if breaking them up is sin and an insult.

The only reason why I stopped writing my soma fics in 2016 was because I saw a real need to fill in the gaps of other pairings. I took what people were saying to heart and I wanted to change my ways and my perceptions. I saw the animosity of the ship culture and rejected it. I wanted to use what little influence I had to make the fandom just a bit more accepting. In 2016, I don’t think the fandom was ready for it. In 2017, they still weren’t ready for it. In 2020, I see hope, but I wonder sometimes if it’s masqueraded pity because of previous treatment.

In the middle of it all, I went from being the soma angst master to becoming the weird person everyone once knew. I was the friend that people excluded from group chats and I just “wasn’t the same.” Cliques grew extremely large in power in 2017 and exclusion hurt like a bitch.

The straw that broke the camel’s back and completely shut me down was in 2017 when I was graduating as a bachelor. There was a fandom event that I decided to go all in to. For context, there used to be a huge debate on how many times a person should enter in an event, but in my mind, the more exposure the better. My graduation and the event took place at the exact same time, which was cool, but what hurt me was what happened after.

I was lucky enough to be accepted into field school (when you travel to do outdoor excavating) for my major. I’m an anthropologist-- it was an honor. I didn’t plan in advance for it, and if anything, I thought that I would be committed completely to the events and my 5 or what ever entries at the time. I’ve always prided myself in communicating with others, so I made sure to let my partners in the event know what was going on. I was so excited to be going on my first ever excavation and no one at the time said anything otherwise, in fact, they all seemed incredibly supportive.

What I didn’t know was that I would be called out by name in the event feedback response by one person who felt that I didn’t take the event seriously enough and that I should’ve prioritized my time accordingly. Two of the mods let me know because it referred to me directly, though the name of the submitter was not included. It was not only a slap in the face, but a dumbfound moment that reminded me that wow, fandom content really is someone’s life out there. My enforced silence because of lack of internet in the woods actually upset someone and made them believe that I wronged them, because I put my real life ambitions first before a fandom event.

It was then when I woke up and I remember very clearly thinking to myself: I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to treat my fandom life seriously. I want to participate in fandom for fun, not out of duty. I don’t want to prioritize this life because in the end, if I am hated for putting my work and education first, then I don’t want it.

(For context, I suspect that it was the same person who made a 200 note call out on me during the fandom tension. I respected this person immensely, but I also treated them like the flawed person I believe everyone is. I’m sure because of this, I’m pretty much trash in their eyes, which is totally fine. They have really cute cats so they can’t be all too bad. Don’t look into it too deeply.)

Once my month long field school was up, I was already used to not being on the internet or any of my social media accounts. I didn’t play my mobile games for a month. I didn’t read the news for a month. It was like going cold turkey on the internet, which reshaped my habits entirely. The only time that I had online within that time span was during the weekend, but I spent my time working on my projects and catching up with friends instead of being on apps.

I was also completely fed up with tumblr’s mobile app at the time, so one by one, I deleted my apps. Good bye to tumblr, snapchat, what little I used of instagram, twitter, everything. The only thing I kept was facebook, which was because it is the main platform that I use to message my boyfriend. That meant that any friends I retained from the fandom (who I still contact now) were also friends who had the chance to add me on facebook.

This was the cause of my 2 or 3 year hiatus on tumblr, and therefore the fandom. I occasionally checked back every 6 months to do a few fandom events, but I have several unopened messages and notifications that I haven’t been able to get to. I open my instagram for a few days once a year, and I only go onto twitter if my friends tell me (through facebook) that they dm’d me a post there.

When I left my online persona behind, I quickly strengthened my in person connections. New drama that erupted every other day became replaced with starbucks and boba runs. Reality TV shows replaced fanfiction. Text messages replaced the tumblr activity feed (which still doesn’t work on mobile BTW). I study at cafes unironically with friends instead of typing alone in my room. Overall, it opened my world considerably.

I still like making fun of myself and I try not to take myself seriously. I still make self depreciative memes to send to friends but then double up with kermit heart pics. I’m still a plot bunny, I still write my fics, I still watch my anime, I still play video games, I still sleep at 4am, I still take my depression medication, I still love potatoes, I still use my voice for people who can’t find theirs yet. But I think I’m in a much healthier mindset now, even if I still make stupid shifty posts calling out bad behavior.

Nowadays, I’m working on my Master’s degree in secret. My parents don’t know about it because my mom doesn’t like that I want to go out and do unladylike things like getting an education. I tutor kiddos and I’m really good with younger children, but I’m not going to do anything with kids because I just don’t want to. Instead, I want to work at an archive or a museum to bring my library interests and my anthropology background together. If I had my dream job, I would be a marine archaeologist; however I love my boyfriend of 8 years whom you probably all remember and I really came to terms with my grandeur dreams. I’m extremely happy with living in a small town with loved ones now, and I don’t need to move somewhere far away from my parents to be content. It’s a huge realization.

From 2018 to 2020 I got into actual drama in person while I was job hunting. Adult people suck and honestly it’s kind of embarrassing how ill equipped some people are. Even so, I currently work in middle schools as a media assistant. One of those realms is the library, and honestly it’s like fulfilling a prophecy. As much as I love the social aspect, public schools are an absolute train wreck.

I’m going to wrap this up now. This post is meant to help me close the past and move forward because the fandom culture feels different now. Things from several years ago don’t need to resurface. I want to enjoy my life fully, and fandom life is one of those aspects that I truly did enjoy. I’m going to keep using my voice and act like a fool, but I’m also not going to be losing sleep because of this. People are going to talk about you no matter what, whether positively or negatively, and it’s important to not take it personally.

Idk, go enjoy yourselves. Do things for yourself. It’s more fun that way.

#nessingaround #this was cathartic #huge thank you to my friends who stuck by me and to my friends who welcome me back with open arms #big shout out to my disney girl gang and another big shout out to 'ma girls'#another thank you to my sweethearts on google hang out #and thank you especially to the group of se lgbt users from 2016 who truly did open my eyes to the severity of the fandoms actions #even tho u still hate me and have me blocked hahaha i consider this growth

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